There's Cake in My Future (23 page)

We are instructed to open the first test tube, and sniff.

It smells like honey. Not surprising—there’s an amber goo on the bottom that I assume is actual honey. Then we smell the first test tube of Scotch. I’ll be damned, the Scotch smells like honey. Who knew?

We open the next test tube, which smells like oranges. Also not a shock, as there is an orange peel at the bottom of the tube. I smell the corresponding Scotch, and it does indeed smell citrusy. I wouldn’t say it smelled exactly like oranges, but it smells of fruit.

Next we were onto the lavender test tube. “What do you think?” Jim asks me as we smell the corresponding Scotch.

“Smells like bubble bath,” I say happily (and a bit flirtatiously).

The next test tube is easy, since I can see the vanilla bean inside. But I open the tube and take a giant whiff of my favorite scent. Smells like ice cream.

Finally, we open and inhale the scent of the peat test tube.

Ick. Ew. This is supposed to smell “smoky,” but I think that’s a Scotch drinker’s version of what wine tasters call “dung.”

I brace myself, then open the last test tube of Scotch. Ick. Ew. Repeat.

“I think that one’s my favorite,” Jim tells me. “What do you think?”

“I think I don’t want to be licking the bottom of a fireplace anytime soon,” I say, then stick out my tongue for emphasis. “Ew. Ew. Ew. You like that one?”

“I do.”

“You have no taste,” I jokingly argue.

“Maybe not in booze,” Jim admits. “But my taste in women is excellent.”

I smile at him, not knowing how to take that. “Really?” I say, almost giggling. (Is it okay to giggle when you’ve just met someone?)

“Well, if the last half hour is any indication, then absolutely,” he assures me, flashing me a masculine yet subtle smile.

For the next part of the class, the ambassador encourages us to become master blenders, like the guys in Scotland who blend forty different kinds of whiskey to make the blend this company is most famous for.

We are instructed to take our favorite scented Scotch and pour it in the first glass, thereby making it the base for our personal blend.

I immediately dump all of the vanilla Scotch test tube into my glass, and sniff.

“What do you think?” Jim asks me as he pours the honey Scotch test tube into his first glass and puts his nose to the top of the glass.

“I think it’s perfect,” I say, sniffing happily.

“Next,” the ambassador says with this thick Scottish brogue, “add a bit of any of the other flavors you liked, swirl it around in your glass, and have another sniff.”

“What are you going to add to yours?” Jim asks as he opens his smoky test tube.

“Nothing. This is perfect. Are you using your vanilla test tube?” I ask him.

As Jim starts to say, “I’m not sure because…” I quickly reach over him, take his vanilla Scotch test tube, and dump it into my glass. Jim gives me another sexy smile. “You know how a guy knows a woman is comfortable enough with him to sleep with him?” he asks me.

“No,” I say, smiling back.

“She takes food off of his plate.”

I turn away, blushing a bit.

Then I continue the mating dance. “What if she takes his test tube?”

“Oh, well, I think that at least means she’ll give him her phone number.”

We spend the next half hour or so drinking our blends, then comparing them to blends from the company. I’ll admit, their twelve-year-old blend was smoother than mine.

Jim couldn’t get any smoother, but he got even more charming and fun.

When the tasting is over, George, Jim, and I walk out of Sound Stage Nine and into the night air.

“So, now that we’ve had our booze, who’s up for dinner?” George asks us as he pulls out his phone. “There’s an amazing steakhouse just down the street. Let me make a call.”

Jim smiles at me as he says to his friend, “That sounds great.” He turns to me, “Are you free? Or have we already taken up too much of your evening?”

“No, that sounds wonderful,” I say shyly. The truth is, I would have preferred having dinner with just Jim. But one man in my hand is worth more than two men in a bush without me.

“Perfect,” George says, then calls his favorite steakhouse for a reservation. Jim and I continue to make “I want to kiss you” eye contact while George gets off the phone. “We have a reservation for three as soon as we can get over there,” George says. I notice he types in a text as we walk toward the exit of the studio. “So Mel, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a physics and math teacher at Cornwell High School. How about you?”

“Oh, I own this place,” George tells me as he gestures around the studio with his hand.

“Good night, Mr. Gideon,” a security guard calls out politely to George as we walk out of the main gate.

Both George and Jim respond, “Good night Hank.”

Several pieces of information just zipped past me. I do a slight double take. “Wait, are you guys related?” I ask them.

“That’s my dad,” Jim says.

“Oh,” I say, now wildly embarrassed. A girl is normally on her best behavior when it comes to meeting the parents. Instead, I have already shown this man both that I’m a drunk and a slut who flirts with men by suggesting a bubble bath of Scotch. Damn it.

The other bit of info that hits me—this is George Gideon.
The
George Gideon. The guy who owns a movie studio, a baseball team, and probably half of the LAPD. (Just kidding.) And I’m flirting with his son. How the Hell am I going to impress George Gideon enough for him to approve of me for his son?

George’s text beeps. He checks his phone. “It’s your mother,” he says to Jim as he reads the screen. “I’m going to have to take a rain check.” He looks up at us. “You guys will still go, though, right?”

“Um … sure,” we both say, rather awkwardly.

“Wonderful,” George says, suddenly pulling away from us and heading toward a Mercedes just pulling up to the curb. “Mel, it was lovely to meet you. Jim, we’ll see you tomorrow morning for brunch.”

I say, “Nice to meet you as well.” At the same time, Jim flashes George a suspicious look and says, “Okay, Dad.”

And George opens the door to the Mercedes, where I see a beautiful blond woman who doesn’t look a day over forty driving. She smiles and waves at Jim, who forces what can only be called a smirk, and waves back. The two pull away.

“Was that your mom?”

Jim nods. “Indeed.”

“Wow,” I say, audibly impressed. “She looks good for her age.”

“She had me at sixteen.”

“Really?”

Jim snorts a small laugh. “No. She just has a good dermatologist.” Jim turns to me. “So … that was my ride home. Subtle, aren’t they?”

I smile. “Well, I could give you a ride home.”

Twenty-eight

Nicole

There are currently over seven billion people on the planet, and they all have one thing in common.

They are all at Disney World today.

I am so tired, I think as a writer I need a new word for tired.

Exhausted, drained, worn out, bushed.

Nope. I got it: motherhood.

Seriously, at one point in the day, between the thirty-minute line to take a picture with Cinderella and the ninety-minute line for the “It’s a Small World” ride, I almost stopped a pregnant woman who was pushing a stroller, being tugged by a toddler on a kid leash, and telling a manic three-year-old to quit tackling her hyper five-year-old brother so that I could ask her “Why?”

And if she didn’t answer immediately, I planned to grab her by the collar, look at her with crazy eyes, and reiterate my question with a very desperate “Seriously! Why?!”

What the Hell am I doing in Orlando today?

Paying for something bad I did in a past life. I mean, I don’t think I was Hitler or anything, but maybe I jumped the line early during the Oklahoma land rush. Or invented the stiletto heel.

What no one tells you on these cruises is that six nights means just that—six nights. Not seven days and six nights, like a normal vacation. Six days and six nights. As in, we did get a sixth night: our departure time from the boat was at 8:00 fucking
A.M.

And no, I did not use that expression in front of my lovely new bonus daughters. But honestly, on your honeymoon, anything that happens at 8:00
A.M.
that doesn’t involve the horizontal hokeypokey is just wrong. (Oh, God. Did I just use the word hokeypokey?)

Our flight home to Los Angeles isn’t until late Sunday night. This was done intentionally: we thought we’d give the girls a day at Disney World and Epcot, so that we could see both Disney World and a fake rendition of Italy. Only now we’re giving them two days.

Yup. I get to spend the last few days of my honeymoon at Disney World. On Labor Day weekend. You can imagine my unbridled excitement.

Cost of two adult and two child tickets for two days: over seven hundred dollars.

Cost of two adjoining hotel rooms, with reservations made last minute, on Labor Day weekend: at least two pairs of Christian Louboutin shoes. And a lunch at Le Cirque.

Total time spent on first day at the first park: twelve hours.

Total time waiting in line in ninety-four-degree heat and a billion percent humidity: I’m guessing ten hours.

Seeing your two bonus daughters happy and (much more importantly) asleep after a ridiculously long day: priceless.

Taking advantage of your first night alone as a married couple, only to emerge from your bathroom in a sexy red lace bustier to see your new husband out cold and snoring (snoring!) on the bed: ridiculous.

He didn’t even get naked to wait for me: he’s still in his clothes from today.

So much for my magical kingdom.

I sigh, walk over to the silver champagne bucket, and open the bottle of Dom Perignon I ordered from room service while he read the girls their bedtime stories. The loud pop of the cork makes Jason stir. Hoping he’ll get a second wind, I immediately pose in my negligee.

Nope. Nothing. Slightly angry yet resigned, I pour myself a glass of champagne. I take a sip and stare at my lump of a husband.

“What? This old thing?” I say playfully, pointing to my lacy lingerie and pretending to talk to Jason. “I had it made especially for our honeymoon. Only had to diet for six weeks to get it to fit. Thanks for noticing.”

“Daddy?” Malika says, walking in through our (what I thought was locked) connecting door.

“Ah!” I scream, immediately putting down my champagne flute and throwing the curtain around my barely there lingerie.

Malika turns to me. “I had a nightmare. Can I sleep with you guys?”

I look over at Jason. He is snoring so loudly, he sounds like he just oinked. There will be no joy in Mudville tonight.

“Knock yourself out,” I tell her.

Malika’s face lights up. “Yay!” she yells, as she runs to our bed and leaps onto it. “You’re the best bonus mom ever.”

“And you’re the best bonus kid,” I tell her from behind the curtain. “Now could you do me a solid and go get me one of the hotel robes from the bathroom?”

Twenty-nine

Melissa

An hour later, Jim and I are in the middle of dinner at one of the city’s premier steakhouses, and the conversation is flowing even easier than the bottle of Opus One cabernet Jim has chosen for us. I’ve learned that Jim helps run the studio his father owns, in that he handles all of the money. He plays hockey—as in ice hockey—on Saturdays in a league, loves to travel, and has a wonderful sense of humor.

If I’m not in love, at the very least, I’m in heat.

“So, where do you see yourself in five years?” Jim asks me, as he tops off my wineglass.

“Wow. I’ll take ‘conversation killers’ for a thousand, Alex,” I say.

“Why?” Jim asks, taking a sip of his wine. “I can tell you where I see myself in five years.”

“You’re a good-looking man with a ton of money,” I point out. “You can see yourself wherever you want in five years.”

“I don’t have a ton of money,” Jim corrects me. “My parents have a ton of money.”

“Now see, that’s something only rich people say. Although I do appreciate it. My ex-boyfriend used to brag about his money all the time. It was so…” I search for the perfect word. “… degrading.”

Jim tilts his head to the side. “Degrading? How so?”

“Well, for example, where he lived. He used to tell people he owned a house in Brentwood. In reality, it’s a very nice condo south of Wilshire. But that’s not Brentwood, and it’s not a house. Or he used to name-drop the kind of car he had, but he’d say it was a 2010, when it was a 2008. Little things like that.”

“Okay, so he wasn’t trustworthy,” Jim says, taking a small french fry from his plate. “But why is that degrading?”

“Because it means that whatever he had was never enough. Therefore, I was never enough.”

Jim reaches over and takes my hand. “I think you’re enough.”

I smile and squeeze his hand.

“Well, isn’t this rich?!” I hear a woman snarl next to me. I turn to see a voluptuous dark-haired beauty with a body and an attitude that could make Eva Mendes feel like a skinny fifteen-year-old wallflower.

“Sarah!” Jim stammers, immediately pulling away from me and standing up. “What are you doing here?”

“Having drinks with friends,” Sarah hisses. “We’ve only been broken up for two weeks. How could you be dating already?”

“Dating? Sweetie, this is Mel. I just met her tonight.”

Waiter, check please.

“Is that true?” Sarah barks at me.

“Huh?” I say, surprised she’d address me directly. My experience with this kind of situation is that the slut who’s trying to break up the relationship (Shit! This time, I’m the slut, aren’t I?) doesn’t ever actually speak to the girlfriend. “What?” I say. Then I trip all over my words. “No. I mean, yes. What? You thought I was with
him
?! Lord no. He’s soooo not my type.”

Sarah eyes me suspiciously.

So I finish my word jumble with, “I’m gay.”

“Wait a minute!” Jim says to Sarah, suddenly growing a backbone. “Why does it matter anyway? I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

“I never said that,” Sarah tells him quickly. “I just said I didn’t want to marry you.”