Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts (27 page)

It’s a few days after our second book group meeting at Elizabeth’s house (featuring our non-discussion of
The Lovely Bones
). My re-education with Leslee and the Ivy & Elite Book Group is depressing me.

And Dr. Ted isn’t improving the situation much.

But I notice that Dr. Ted has changed physically.

It seems that he has that disease endemic to transplants, especially East Coast transplants, which causes them to think that being in L.A. made them have a skin peel, cheek implants, lasex, botox and porcelains put on their teeth. That if he had only stayed in Ohio, he would have been a brother to his five sisters, listening to their problems with boyfriends, helping them move out of their apartments, taking them to brunch.

He would have been a son, asking his father for advice, going to Sunday dinners, helping his parents with their house. He would have been a member of the community, volunteering in a free clinic, mentoring fatherless boys in the church, contributing to Doctors Without Borders.

As if living in Los Angeles, like claiming you’re a victim of a dysfunctional family, is a justification for who you should have been and aren’t.

“You should know I’m sleeping with six women. Six women. And they’re all better looking than you are,” said Dr. Ted.

My second cup of roast concrete was beginning to taste good.

“So like I said,” he continued, “there’s—hmmm—number one, a star of her high school play, out here with her headshots, from the Midwest, getting a little long in the tooth, she serves me breakfast. Number two, an Ivy League Grad actress who loves Chekhov, here for pilot season, usually serves me drinks—you know, the actress-waitresses types.”

“I’m familiar with them.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ted. “Then number three, my personal trainer, loves to run, a college athlete who did the 100 meters. Umm, number four, a friend of my sister’s, her first trip to Los Angeles. She was so excited. I’m supposed to show her around town.”

“A friend of your sister’s?”

“You’re interrupting me,” said Ted. “Number five, a nurse, a really good nurse, who works with newborns. And six, the receptionist who works in my office.”

He looked at me.

“I told them, every single one of them, ‘You’re special.’ And they ate it up.”

He looked at me again.

“I guess I could still sleep with you too,” said Dr. Ted. “If you want.”

The roast concrete was going cold. I got a warm-up.

I think I could understand how it could happen. When you were almost ten years out of high school and no longer the star.

When the only opinion anyone wanted was when their order would be ready, not what you thought of
The Cherry Orchard
, or
Uncle Vanya
.

When the only guys who paid attention to you were guys who hung out in gyms, creeps who said they knew agents and agents who had no connections.

When you were in a new town and didn’t know how to get anywhere.

When, “OK he’s not good-looking, but at least he actually does something, I mean he’s a professional—a doctor,” sounded better than being alone.

When you really needed that job and the boss knew you came in late sometimes and didn’t say anything, and he told you that you were special and wants to take you out for pizza and a beer.

And then I thought about these women, what they trained for, what they hoped for, and where they found themselves. And how they thought that this doctor, Dr. Ted, might help them, or even be the answer to their L.A. nightmare, or maybe just show them a little kindness.

“Well, that’s very gracious of you, Ted. But here’s the thing.”

“What?” said Dr. Ted.

“We’ve never slept together.”

“What? How’s that possible? I’ve nailed everyone.”

“I dunno. It just didn’t happen. But here’s what I want.”

“You want to do it now?” said Dr. Ted.

“No. Whatever we have… and I’m not sure that I could call it a friendship… it’s over. Don’t call me, email me, instant message me. If you see me, pretend that you don’t know me.”

“Oh… You got it all figured out,” said Dr. Ted, his voice a little too loud and a little too agitated. Our volleyball Viking waitress looked over at us.

“You know that’s not true,” I said.

Dr. Ted’s face began to get red.

“You think you’re too good for me,” said Dr. Ted.

“You must be joking.”

“Who are you to say this to me? I’m not even attracted to you. I get to say when it’s over. Not you. Me. I do that.”

“What’s
it
, Ted? And what’s over?”

I picked up my bag and walked toward the door.

“Take care of yourself, Ted.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” he yelled. “You don’t get to walk out. I do.”

The Viking volleyball-player waitress in the UCLA shirt looked at me with concern.

“You OK?” she said.

“Yeah, I’m OK.”

I walked out the door and didn’t look back.

Low Love

When I got home it was 8:30 p.m.

One email. It was from Leslee.

“You’ve probably heard about Hobeck. I’m attaching my resume as a PDF. Can you send it around? Thanks.”

Leslee’s law firm, Hobeck, Berman, had dissolved. The firm had been open for over 100 years. Leslee no longer had a job. Harvard Law grad June, from the Book Group, had already sent me her resume.

Five calls from the Breather on cell and voice mail.

Message six on my voice mail. “Group needs your fi… engaging spirt. We’d… all right, I’d… like you to come back next week,” said Roberta. “Will you call me?”

I wondered if Roberta’s checking account was running low.

The phone rings. I had given up answering my phone because of the Breather’s calls. The caller I.D. was no good. No matter who called, it always said anonymous.

Oh, why not take a chance.

“Courtney.”

“Yeah…”

“It’s Aaron.”

“Aaron?”

“Remember. We met at that speech you made for California Lawyers for the Arts.”

Now I remember why I never pick up my calls.

“Did I give you my home phone number?”

“No. But I found it online.”

“What can I do for you?

“Well, if you ever have any free time, I’d love to meet for coffee and pick your brain. Career advice, you know?”

Aaron. I remembered Aaron. No sickly green skin, no chicken chest, no prematurely gray hair. He wasn’t an attorney. Six foot one. 170 pounds. A college athlete. Cheekbones which reflected the light. Light brown hair, with golden streaks (natural) from his mornings surfing in Malibu. Crystal-blue eyes. Flirted with me after my speech, so I hoped. A beautiful smile, glistening white teeth. Placed one hand on my back. “Great Speech…” “Really?” Hand on my shoulder. “Well yeah, and you were so much fun.” I did remember Aaron.

“What are you doing right now?” I said.

“Now?”

“C’mon over. Bring some wine and a bathing suit. I have a hot tub. I’ll give you all the career advice you ever wanted. Where are you coming from, anyway?”

“Close to you.”

“How do you know that?”

“I got your home address online too.”

A tiny red flag.

I acknowledge that I knew this is the way you meet Ted Bundy.

Thirty minutes later with wine.

“You are close by.”

“Hey.” A hug. Lasting long enough so that I could smell his toothpaste.

“You look great,” he said. Yes, I always had the shirt, the one shirt, which made me look like I had boobs, and one pair of jeans with strategically placed rips in it.

“Vino?” he said.

“Ab-so-lutely.”

I had tidied up (I hid Abyss’s second box). I managed to clean the water stains off two wine glasses. Fortunately, there were two matching wine glasses that were not broken. I had even located some cheese—
cheese
—not Velveeta (a little too early to spring this on him) to serve: brie. And I had opened my emergency can of smoked oysters to serve on the emergency box of fancy British too expensive pepper crackers which I had in reserve. I even sliced my reserve emergency pear, more like an apple, because pears were never ripe when I needed them to be.

Of course, I hid the Hostess Ding Dongs. The creamed corn. The Fritos. And the baloney, a little bit of a problem because if Mr. Yum stayed too long the baloney, hidden outside the refrigerator in a dish underneath my sink, might begin to sweat.

A girl never knew when she was going to need to be swanky.

I remembered the dates—especially Andre—the ones who had needed to search my refrigerator “just to see what kind of wine I was drinking.” Where the cheap wine used for cooking, OK maybe for drinking, was always located. “You’re drinking this? This?” Too loudly, in front of guests. The one who had found the Ritz Crackers—“Ohmygod, you
eat these
? Nobody eats these.
No-bo-dy
.” Holding up the box like a dead rat. The one who had found the creamed corn. “How sweet, you’re eating creamed corn? I didn’t know that you could still buy creamed corn. Did you get it from your Grammy?”

As if buying food that was not stocked by Whole Foods Market instantly eliminated you from the eligible dating pool, this generation’s declaration of a class stigma.

It just wouldn’t do in West Los Angeles.

Of course I hid the Velveeta.

If it had been up to me I would have served a ground beef noodle casserole, broccoli with mayo topped with crunched Cheese Nips and Jell-O, tri-colored—with a pile of Cool Whip on top.

And I would have been nice. No attitude. Genuinely Interested. A Stimulating Conversationalist.

I placed the swanky food—smoked oysters, the brie, and the hard pear—on my recently (20 minutes ago) cleaned glass coffee table. Mr. Yum walked over to the couch with the wine. Pale Yellow. Interesting nose. Was that the wine, or had Abyss done her bi-monthly spraying of the place before Mr. Yum, Aaron, had arrived?

“What are we drinking?” I said, sweetly, smiling. In the background I can hear Abyss scratching at her box, the beginning of a compulsive 20 minute process ensuring that she covers her recent deposit. And I smell… Abyss, or is that the baloney, getting ripe?

He can hear her, too.

“I have two cats,” said Aaron, “The Captain… and Tennille.”

“A little before your time,” I said, “and even mine.”

“My mom had some of their albums.” Bringing the wine bottle over. A California Chardonnay from the Russian River area—that was nice. “The guy at the store told me this was good.”

Sitting down next to me. “Prost,” I said, taking a sip. “Not bad.”

“So what can I do for you,” I said. He moves in close to me and places his hand on the rip at my knee and slips his hand through the rip so that it is on the skin, his hand on my bare skin, just above my knee, sliding up my thigh, slightly bunching my jeans up.

“Uhhhhhhhhh…” I said.

Abyss is still attacking her plastic cat box and I’m beginning to wonder if I really didn’t wish that I had a big ol’ attack dog, maybe a German shepherd, named Peetee, or a Rottweiler named Bruiser.

“You know that I didn’t come here, now, to get career advice,” said Aaron.

“You could’ve. People always want career advice in this town.” Trying to convince myself.

“Yeah, but you know when I met you at your speech, I could tell that we had a connection.”

“We did?”

“Don’t deny it, you felt it too and you want this…” Leaning in for… his lips brushing my…

“What is that smell?”

I jumped up, suddenly aware of ripe, ripe, baloney like—cat box—smells. “You know, I think it’s time to move to the hot tub portion of tonight’s program.”

“OK,” said Aaron, “that could be fun.”

“Why don’t you go into the bathroom and put on your bathing suit.”

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Oh no—I think the baloney was attempting to make a break from the cupboard beneath the sink or…

“What’s that knocking sound?” said Aaron.

“I don’t know.”

I knew what it was—Abyss had discovered the baloney. Aaron—thank you Lord—graciously disappeared behind my swanky French doors and hopefully went into the bathroom.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

“There it is again,” said Aaron.

“Thanks for telling me.” Like thank you for telling me, “that skirt makes your hips look enormous.”

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Abyss… Abyss.”

There she was, attempting to open the cabinet below the sink with her paw and letting the door bang shut.

“You silly fool, leave the baloney alone.”

Abyss looked up from the cabinet and let it bang shut again.
Bang
. I went to the refrigerator and got her special treat.

“Here,” I said, putting some in her dish and moving her away from the baloney-hiding cabinet. Honey-baked ham. The emergency stash. Six months ago, when Frank had left and Abyss had started her bi-monthly spraying of my apartment I had hired a behavior specialist for cats who thought Abyss had a bad relationship with her box. To turn this around and create a positive cat box experience he had me place bits of special food on the rim of her box. Turkey, she sniffed at and wouldn’t touch. Roast beef, she knocked off and ran away. Honey-baked ham, she jumped in her box, ate every piece, and sat in her box, meowing, until I put more ham down. She was not Kosher.

“I’m ready,” said Aaron. He was wrapped in a towel.

“I’m hoping that there’s a bathing suit in there.”

“Who needs a bathing suit.”

“Me. I’m not ready for show-and-tell tonight.”

“Sorry. Forgot to bring one.”

“OK. Ready to go.” I picked up some towels. “I put mine on under my clothes.”

“Leave the baloney alone,” I whispered to Abyss. We walked up the stairs to the roof, opened the door and walked to the hot tub. I prayed that the tub had been recently cleaned. Did the water temperature really kill all of those germs? I looked around. Not a lover of heights, it was slightly disorienting seeing L.A. from this angle, four stories up. We got in the tub.

“Why so far away,” said Aaron.

“I’m fine over here.”

I was sitting across from him next to a jet. I was beginning to feel a little nauseous. Cheap wine, height, heat, and oysters. Aaron moved next to me and started rubbing my back.