Hollywood Punch (2 page)

Love you, too.

Jack Solomon

Gilson, Hecht and Trattner

425 Park Avenue

11
^th
Floor

New York, New York 10022

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I can barely contain my smile as the cab lurches uptown and we arrive at my apartment building. I just know that the second Jack picks me up in a cab, he'll flash his baby blue eyes at me and say, “I am the luckiest man in the world. Never leave me, Brooke, for without you, I would surely die,” or something as equally heartfelt and romantic.

I rush up to my apartment, turn on the radio and march into the bathroom. That's it—freshening up with a little “getting ready” music will put me in a good mood. The radio begins to blast an old Madonna song from the 80s and I dance around the bathroom, mood lightening. After all, when Madonna tells you to “get up and dance and sing,” you listen.

Throwing my head upside down, I give it a few good shakes. Flipping my hair back and standing upright, I look at my reflection in the mirror. Ever since I cut eight and a half inches off of my signature locks, I've also taken to wearing my hair with more of its natural curl in it. This past summer, I even let it dry naturally on days that I wasn't appearing in court (for those days, I resorted to my old tried and true classic bun), and with the Indian Summer we were having this September, I'm still doing the same.

I pull out the bathroom mirrors so that I can see myself in 3-D.
I look okay,
I tell myself.
I look fine.
After all, it's just a casual dinner at a local French restaurant with some friends. One of whom happens to be one of the biggest movie stars in the world. Who is married to my ex-boyfriend.

I must go get my hair blown out. Letting my hair dry naturally and frizz ever so slightly is okay for an evening at home with my fiancé who already gave me a ring and asked my father for permission and all that—he's already stuck with me—but it just won't cut it for dinner at Pastis with a real, live movie star.

What if the paparazzi is there? I wouldn't want to embarrass my friends and family by being photographed with frizzy hair. I really am a very considerate girl.

And anyway, it's really not all that uncommon to get your hair professionally done. I heard once that Marilyn Monroe used to wash and set her hair up to three times day when she was on a movie set. I mean, if Marilyn Monroe in her
heyday
had to constantly wash and set her hair, what hope do we normal gals have, anyway?

Oh please! As if
you
wouldn't get your hair washed and blown out if you were going out to dinner with your ex-boyfriend and his movie star wife!

From:
           
“Brooke Miller” <
[email protected]
>

To:
                
“Jack Solomon” <
[email protected]
>

Subject:
       
Re: Re: Re: tonight

on second thought, why dont you pick me up at the cheap hair place on the corner of lex and 62
^nd
? i want to get gorgeous for you….

Brooke Miller

Sent from my wireless handheld

From:
           
“Jack Solomon” <
[email protected]
>

To:
                
“Brooke Miller” <
[email protected]
>

Subject:
       
Re: Re: Re: Re: tonight

of course you do.

Jack Solomon

Gilson, Hecht and Trattner

425 Park Avenue

11
^th
Floor

New York, New York 10022

*****CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE*****

The information contained in this e-mail message is confidential and is intended only for the use of the individual or entity named above. If you are not the intended recipient, we would request you delete this communication without reading it or any attachment, not forward or otherwise distribute it, and kindly advise Gilson, Hecht & Trattner by return email to the sender or a telephone call to 1 (800) GILSON. Thank you in advance.

Perfect! I have just enough time to change into my newest little black dress, get to the hair place and get my hair washed and blown out straight. And, maybe if there's time I can get a manicure. And have my make-up done, too. But, only if there's time.

What? I wouldn't want to keep the paparazzi waiting.

Chapter Two

“You had your make-up done, too?” my fiancé Jack asks as I slide into the town car. “How much did getting ready for this dinner set you back?”

“I just wanted to look beautiful for you,” I say, giving him a peck on the lips.

“Well,” he says, “I'm just glad to see that this has nothing to do with the fact that we're having dinner with your ex-boyfriend and his movie star wife.”

“No,” I say, laughing, “of
course
not!”

“Yes,” he says, putting his hand on my leg, “of course.”

Fifteen minutes later, we're down in the Meatpacking District, pulling up to Pastis. Ah, Pastis—a restaurant which
would
be considered a casual French bistro, but for the fact that it is a huge celebrity hangout and has a three month waiting list for a reservation. The second my foot hits the cobblestone street, I hear my ex-boyfriend, Trip, call out my name. He and his wife, Ava, are already ensconced at one of the outside tables. Getting a reservation at Pastis is hard enough, but getting an outside table is nearly impossible. Of course, within the first five minutes of conversation, Trip drops the fact that this is their regular table.

You know those celebrities who go out to restaurants at odd hours and take tables in the corner, facing inside, desperate not to be seen or recognized? Trip and Ava are not those kind of celebrities.

“So, I said to DiCaprio,” Trip says, making no effort at all to lower his voice, reveling in the fact that this causes all of the nearby tables to turn and look at him, “if you don't do it, you're insane!” To which he and Ava laugh hysterically and Jack and I merely smile politely.

Eating with Trip and Ava is incredibly difficult. Every so often, you see the flash of a bulb go off and you just know that a papparrazo somewhere out there has just taken your picture. You feel the constant glare of camera phones on you as you try to take a bite of your steak sandwich. I'm desperately trying to eat in an attractive way, which is no easy feat, I assure you.