I'm with Cupid (6 page)

Corliss shook her head and threw her hands in the air. “Uncle Ross, you're impossible. You think the answer to all life's problems can be found in the perfect martini!” She stormed out of the room.

“Excuse me, where are you going, young lady?”

“I'm giving up,” she called from down the hall. “I'm going to take to my bed with a stack of
CosmoGirl
s, regret every decision I've made in my life, and maybe come down in an hour to eat a pint of Chunky Monkey.”

“Corliss, that sounds like a terrible idea. Especially when I just had the Bentley detailed.” Uncle Ross smiled his devilish smile. The one that said,
Let's be naughty.

Uncle Ross's Bentley was the most gorgeous car Corliss had ever seen: cream-colored with a classic chrome grill and a sinfully soft buttermilk leather interior. It was only taken out for the specialest of special occasions, and Corliss had been allowed to ride in it exactly once—when Uncle Ross had taken her to see Justin Timberlake in concert at the Staples Center. “What do you say, Corliss? She's sitting out front. We can hit Beverly Hills, window-shop for things only rich people like me can afford, then get a Kobe steak at that fabulous restaurant Cut?”

Corliss's eyes opened wide. She hadn't had an “Uncle Ross” date in weeks. She was supposed to read over the latest
'Bu
draft and tell Max what was in it first thing tomorrow morning, but she thought a night on the town might do her a world of good . . . change up her attitude. Which is exactly what she needed. She couldn't help but smile a naughty smile back. “Uncle Ross, you totally know how to fly with style.”

“Is that a yes?” he said with a hopeful look as he downed the dregs of his martini and dangled the keys of the Bentley in front of her.

“Is this the face of a girl saying no?” said Corliss as she reached for the keys to the Bentley.

Corliss beheld the sleek Richard Meier interior in awe. The curved wall of windows that looked out to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. The long blond teak bar. The soaring ceiling. And the celebrities! Across the room Leighton Meester was digging into a sirloin the size of her head. To Leighton's left were Victoria and David Beckham, feeding each other Austrian oxtail. Inches from the stunning couple sat Eva Mendes, polishing off a porterhouse. Corliss had had some glam experiences since arriving in L.A., but sitting in this white-hot restaurant watching big stars chow down on cow ranked at the very top of the list.

“Corliss,” said Uncle Ross, perusing the menu, “shall we order the bone marrow flan as an appetizer?”

“What?!” Corliss was not about to eat anything that had the words
bone
or
marrow
in it. Especially if the word
flan
was anywhere nearby. “Um, I think I'll pass, Uncle Ross. You keep forgetting, I'm kind of a meat and potatoes girl.”

Uncle Ross wagged his finger. “Corliss, when in Rome . . .”

No way
, thought Corliss, who was still recovering from the strange poached egg pizza he'd made her eat at Mozza. “Yes, Uncle Ross, but we're not in Rome. This is Beverly Hills, remember? What about a good old-fashioned sirloin? Trimmed of fat, of course. I'm still trying to get down to my fighting weight.” She momentarily put down the breadstick she'd been chomping on. She didn't want to look less than chic in this place—especially with all the superskinny women slathered in bling and couture sitting near her.

“Corliss, there's nothing wrong with your weight. Besides, you look adorable lately. You've somehow managed to combine a kind of down-market Indiana chic with a kind of up-and-coming west coast aplomb.”

“Thanks, Uncle Ross!” she said, beaming at one of his rare—if not backhanded—compliments. “I knew there was a reason I accepted this date with you.”

Uncle Ross cleared his throat. “Which reminds me, Corliss. Just exactly
when
is the last time my adorable, accomplished niece had a date.”

Corliss immediately grabbed three breadsticks and crammed them in her mouth. “You know what? Maybe we should order that bloody bone pudding thingy,” she said, trying to get off the dreaded dating topic. “Bone and blood is always a good combination,” she continued, hearing how ridiculous she sounded but unable to stop her babble. “I mean, two great tastes that go great together, right? And then there's the pudding aspect, which sounds so yummy and—”

“Corliss,” said Uncle Ross, leaning in to whisper, “you're blathering. Is dating a topic you'd rather not discuss?”

“No, not at all,” she said, trying to swallow a mouthful of bread carbs. “But what's to discuss? Everyone dates, you win some, you lose some, blah, blah—dating, right?”

“Corliss, this is Uncle Ross you're talking to. I understand all. Which is how I've been able to put up with Jurgen's shenanigans all these years. You don't have to be evasive around me. I have a sense it's been a rather long time since you've had a proper date. Is that right?”

Uncle Ross was practically licking his lips. Corliss had to be careful. She knew whatever info she conveyed to him about her personal life might come back to haunt her later. The fact was—she'd
never
been on a date. Ever. In her whole life. And while she was just
dying
to unload about all of this to
someone
, she was reluctant to choose loose-lips Uncle Ross. “Come on,” he said, devilishly. “If you can't trust your relatives . . .”

Corliss was so tempted. Her quandary was not something she could discuss with, for instance, Anushka—she'd just laugh. Max, of course, was out for professional reasons. And the only other prominent person in her life at the moment was Legend, the nannyless pygmy.

Corliss sighed and decided—against her better judgment—that honesty was the best policy. She'd give Uncle Ross a chance. Maybe he might be able to help her, even. And with the Emmys coming up, she needed all the help she could get. The thought of going dateless to that event was too painful to bear.

“Uncle Ross, your niece, Corliss Meyers, the girl who sits before you, has a big secret.”

Uncle Ross nearly leaped out of his seat. He
lived
for secrets.

She motioned for him to sit back down. Victoria Beckham was giving him a weird look. “Calm down, Uncle Ross. It's a secret you're
not
going to like. The truth is . . . I've never had a date. Not ever. Not in Indiana-no-place and not in Hollyweird. Not here, not there, and in all likelihood, not to the Emmys, either. There, I said it.” She felt a wave of relief once it was out in the open.

Uncle Ross responded with the strangest look. He cocked his head right, then left. Then right, then left, then right, then left, really fast. “Corliss, I'm—I'm—I'm—cocking my head . . .”

“I can see that, Uncle Ross. Are you okay? Maybe you have a brain disorder? Something neurological?”

“Corliss, no, it's not my brain. It's your confession! It—it can't be true . . . What's happened to you?
Never
had a date? That's like saying you've never taken a breath, drunk a glass of water, peed standing up!”

“Um—”

“Sorry—take back that last one. But never a date?! And you're considering going to the Emmys
stag
? How can this catastrophe be happening to us?” He slumped in his chair like one of her mother's overcooked carrots.

“To
us
, Uncle Ross? I kinda think my lack of a dating life has really nothing to do with you.”

“But it does! It brings our entire family's dating juju way, way down. I mean, I'm lucky I'm in a relationship—but you never know what life holds in store for me down the road.”

“Um—weren't we talking about
me
?”

“I mean,” he plowed on, “what if I one day find myself single again—and afflicted with whatever it is
you
have?” Uncle Ross clutched the piping of his Evan Pique polo and swooned. “We absolutely have to fix this, Corliss. Ideally before we order dinner . . .”

“Too late,” said Corliss, hugely relieved as the waiter arrived in a starched white apron and spiky black hair. She smiled up at him, trying to pretend everything was okay. “I'll have the twenty-one-day-aged rib eye and my uncle will have the pink Nebraskan sirloin.” The waiter nodded and went away.

“Corliss, I don't know how I'm going to eat . . .”

“You know what, Uncle Ross?” said Corliss, now completely regretting ever embarking on a conversation about her absent love life. “I'm not so hungry myself.” The fact was, she suddenly felt so sad. What
was
she afflicted with? Would she ever be like the other girls? Sure, she'd managed to pull
some
kind of acceptable look together since coming to L.A. She'd also wrestled her skin condition to the ground, got some very flattering highlights, and the occasional pumpkin-colored tan. She was, in fact, looking pretty good! Still, she remained dateless and
would
remain dateless on one of Hollywood's biggest nights—unless something happened soon. The thought cut into her like a steak knife.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Would you be really upset with me if we just went home, Uncle Ross? This place is great, but I've got a lot of reading to do for Max.”

Uncle Ross frowned and nodded. “I understand, Corliss.”

Corliss and Uncle Ross peered through the glass windows of the closed store. The awkwardness of their restaurant conversation had completely evaporated in the face of the spectacular case of diamond necklaces they beheld just beyond their reach. “I can't believe people actually
touch
those things,” said Corliss, “let alone wear them around their necks!” Uncle Ross rapped his knuckle on the glass door. Corliss laughed. “As if they'd let us in after closing time . . . you're too much, Uncle Ross.”

A devastating blond gentleman in a crisp Armani three-button suit appeared inside the store and opened the door. “Mr. Meyers,” he said in the smoothest man-voice Corliss had ever heard. “Thank you for calling ahead.” He waved them in. Corliss looked back and forth between the two men in astonishment.

“Thank
you
, Jeremy,” said Uncle Ross with a wink. “And you're looking very snappy, I might add.” Jeremy made a slight, appreciative bow, then vanished.

Corliss stood in silent awe for a full moment. “Uncle Ross, being with you is like watching Matt Damon in
The Bourne Trilogy
: I never know what's coming next.”

“What can I say?” He shrugged and moved to a display case. “I have ex-lovers in high places.”

Corliss joined him to see what he was looking at. “What are we doing here, Uncle Ross . . . ?”

“We are at the ultimate jewelers, Corliss, looking at the best jewels in the world. Kings, queens, presidents—and the ladies of
The View
—have come through this door. As for what we are
doing
here . . . take a look at this a moment.” He pointed at an exquisite blue diamond set in delicate white gold. The gem seemed to hover above its setting, like something from an ethereal realm.

Corliss was entranced, bewitched, bedazzled. “That's the most beautiful engagement ring I've ever seen in my total entire life, Uncle Ross.”

“Exactly, Corliss,” he said, giving her a level look. “And wouldn't you like to have one of those on your hand one day?”

Now
Corliss knew what they were doing here. Uncle Ross was going to shame her into talking about her lonely life. His tactics sometimes made her so mad! She decided to hit him where he lived—the great generational divide that existed between them. “Uncle Ross, I don't mean to play the age card, but women of my generation have zero interest in being seduced by diamonds given to them by prospective husbands. First of all, we know these gems are quarried by underpaid South African workers and we protest that!”

“Listen to Little Miss Liberal,” Uncle Ross said, moving to look at other diamond rings. “Corliss, I'm not saying you have to possess a sixty-karat brilliant cut with tons of gem fire to declare your worthiness as a woman, I'm just saying you
might maybe
want to get married someday. And to get married you need a fiancé. And to get a fiancé you have to—last time I checked—have a boyfriend. And to have a boyfriend you have to go on a freakin' date!” Uncle Ross never raised his voice like this. Or said the word
freakin'
. “Sorry, Corliss, I'm all worked up. You've shaken me to the core. We really have to fix this situation you're in.”

Corliss looked to the heavens and wished she prayed, because if she did, she'd pray to God to shut Uncle Ross up about her love life.

“Can I be of help?” said Jeremy, silently appearing at the display case.

“Yes,” said Corliss. “You can help see us out, thank you.” With that she turned on her heels and left the store.

Uncle Ross drove in silence. Corliss wasn't about to break it. She knew he was right: It was high time she dove into the dating pool. But she didn't know how to swim! The whole idea of dating was what initially kicked her skin condition into high gear junior year of high school. The thought of small talk, flirting, and splitting the check threw her into a hives tailspin. But she also knew being a dateless wonder in Indiana-no-place was one thing and being a dateless wonder in Los Angeles on Emmy night was a catastrophe that bordered on the pathetic.

“Okay, okay, okay!” she finally blurted. “I'll admit it. I'm a total social loser! I'm eighteen years old, my skin finally cleared up, and I live in Los Angeles—where people are dating left, right, and center. I need to start dating, too—you're right, Uncle Ross. Even though I kinda hate you right now because you're right.”