Bicoastal Babe (27 page)

He’s a bad influence.

•   •   •

“Retro leather sneakers.”

“What about them?”

“Do you have them?”

“Um… no, but there’s a pair in the window of Macy’s that I totally want.”

I’m doing my interviews on a bench in the middle of the Hollywood & Highland outdoor mall, a hot spot for both tourists and L.A. insiders alike. I’ve snagged a true Cali girl, with alternating blond and pink streaks in her hair, enormous fake boobs, diamond-crusted flip-flops, and a T-shirt that says, MRS. PITT.

“Okay. Soymilk boxes. You know – like juice boxes but with soymilk?”

“Yep – totally. The strawberry ones are delish. I was at Tropicana Bar the other night and they were everywhere.”

“People were drinking them at a
club
instead of alcohol?”

“Totally. I mean, between Red Bulls. You know.”

“And why do you think they’re so popular right now?”

“Because they’re different! I don’t know. Maybe because they’re good for you? But… you know. Because everyone likes them.”

I glance over my shoulder to the patio of Vert, the cafe where I’m supposed to meet up with Lorenzo, one of the designers from Versace. He’s not there yet, so I press on.

“One more. DVR-ing sports.”

She looks skeptical. “That one I’m not sure about. My boyfriend insists on watching sports live. So does my brother, come to think of it.”

“So you haven’t noticed anyone DVR-ing a game lately? Like, as a new thing that people didn’t do before?”

She shakes her head. “If that’s a trend, then I haven’t heard of it yet.”

“Hmph,” I say, and look up to see Lorenzo swishing toward the cafe in a pink scarf, bright blue bowling shoes, and a yellow diamond ring on his marriage finger. He’s so pastel, he looks like an Easter egg. I thank the girl and quickly run after him. “Lorenzo!”

“And there she is.” He throws a couple air kisses my way and points toward a table. “By the way, you look very edgy. Very city,” he says as he looks me up and down. “Not like the little suburb ferret who came sniffing into my office three months ago.”

I blush.

“Seriously, darling. You’re practically one of the Trendsetting Elite.”

I look up, surprised that he’s using one of my and Liz’s terms from the newsletter.

“Yes, I’ve read it. Don’t look so naive. It’s splendid, by the way.”

“How did you get it?”

“Your bitchy little partner quoted me on page eight of last month. I figured that warranted a complimentary copy.”

“Of course! I remember now. You said that the tweed skirt will be as useful this fall as a maxipad on a G-string.”

“You girls all love that period humor.”

“Actually, it’s pretty gross, Lorenzo.”

“So what do I know? I’m just an over-the-hill couture hag.”

“You’re thirty-four.”

“Bite your tongue – that’s animal cruelty.”

“How so?”

“I’m wearing leopard-print pantaloons, darling.”

I laugh. I love Lorenzo. “I stand corrected.”

“So what’s with the fashion makeover? Did you get dolled up just for me, or should someone alert the
Glamour
‘Do’ patrol?”

“That’s what you get when you research trends all day.”

“Ah, yes. So let’s talk about trends.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

“You tell me, I’ll tell you, we’ll throw back a couple of zing bombers and pretend this never happened.”

“Perfect.”

“But you will be at our catwalk show next Sunday, right?”

“Uh… that’ll be Jen.”

“Fabulous.” He sighs. “I’ll send my gas mask to the dry cleaner.”

•   •   •

I race back into the apartment and slam the door. I got so caught up with Lorenzo that I forgot I have the teen panel coming over in ten minutes, and I have nothing prepared for it – no snacks, no questions, nothing. I tear through the fridge for remnants of potential teen food, but all I find is a bag of stale peanuts and a half-empty bottle of flat Diet Pepsi. Plus all the pool towels are dirty and there are three Mexican workers painting the wall outside my apartment (and calling out “Mamalicious!” every time I walk past the window).

I frantically rip off my outfit, scrub off my mascara, and pull my hair up into a ponytail, so as to look as young and non-authoritative as possible. And then the doorbell rings.

“Hey, city girl.” It’s not the teen panel. It’s Danny, holding up a box of cupcake mix, a jar of frosting, and a tub of Marshmallow Fudge Swirl ice cream.

“I love you!” I exclaim.

No, I didn’t. Did I just say that?

“I mean…” I can feel an instant breakout of hives threatening to explode on my neck.

“It’s okay.” he smiles. “It’s the cupcakes. They have that effect.”

“But… but…” I’m so flustered I don’t know what to say. “What are you doing here?”

“You said to come over at four-thirty.”

“I did? When?”

“Last week on the phone. When you were in New York.”

“Shit!”

He steps inside the apartment, puts down the cupcakes and ice cream, and swoops me in for a kiss. Mmmm, I love that kiss. It makes me want a cupcake.

“Is that a problem?” he asks.

“Well… uh… not if you like kids.”

“You want my children? So you do love me.”

“No! No, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is… can you run a video camera?”

“I don’t think we should be so kinky if we’re trying to conceive a baby, Lindsey.” He’s laughing as he rips open the cupcake mix and pours it into a bowl.

“Danny!” I giggle as the doorbell rings again. “So, do you? Like kids?”

“Sure, love them. Why?”

Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting with five teenage boys, trying to make sense of a heated debate between the merits of Xbox versus Sony PlayStation. I look up toward the kitchen, where Danny is surrounded by my girls, frosting cupcakes and laughing as they flirt and vie for his attention. Once again, he’s saved the day by making a run for things that crunch, fizz, and rot the teeth – then picked up my video camera and played movie guy as my teens gave me the rundown on the latest fads and fashions.

“Lindsey!” McKenna is motioning for me to follow her into the bathroom. I politely excuse myself from the videogame dispute.

“What’s up?” I ask her.

“Danny is
so
hot – is he your boyfriend?” she whispers.

“Easy there.” I laugh. “What’s with the labels?”

“So he’s not your boyfriend. He’s your California fuck buddy.”

“Again with the labels!”

“You can tell me! Come on, Lindsey. Fess up.”

“Get out there and do your job.” I drag her back over toward the group. “Make me one with chocolate frosting and blue sprinkles.”

After the teens are gone and I’m physically and mentally drained, Danny offers to give me a shoulder rub. Normally this would reek of a cheesy seduction approach, but Danny’s the kind of guy who probably really does want to rub my shoulders.

“What a handful.” He whistles. “But definitely fun.”

“I think my girls had a little crush on you,” I tell him. “You should be flattered.”

“Do you have a crush on me?”

“Big-time.”

“Then I’m flattered,” he says.

Because he’s not making the first move here, I pull him down for a kiss. He still tastes like frosting.

You know what should be a trend? Making out. Pure, old-fashioned making out that lasts for hours and hours and hours. On the floor, hands groping, hormones raging… and Danny and I are getting good at it. Really good at it.

But the problem is, once you’ve reached a certain age and level of sexual experience, you’re not struggling with moral dilemmas and quandaries of decency. Loss of innocence is a vague memory, and it’s a lot easier to proceed with what the birds and the bees both know comes next.

“I can’t,” I whisper in Danny’s ear, even though it’s
my
hands that are fumbling all over
his
jeans, and not the other way around. “Don’t let me,” I say desperately as I pull down his zipper.

Danny pushes me away gently. “Okay.” He zips back up. “But can I ask you something, just out of curiosity?”

I nod, scowling at my own frustration.

“How come, Lindsey? Why won’t you let yourself?”

I can’t answer. So I just shrug.

Danny holds up the video camera. “You sure?” He grins, and I can tell he’s trying to make me feel more comfortable.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a twinge of wistfulness. “Just not yet, okay?”

He pulls me in for a big bear hug and I feel happy, because he truly does make me feel like it’s okay.

“I’m going to go freshen up,” I tell him.

“Sure thing.” He taps my nose. “I’m gonna grab some air. I’ll be out on the patio.”

In the bathroom I splash cold water on my face and think about this dilemma. I want to be honest with Danny, but I somehow just can’t. I can’t tell him the truth. But Victor was right. There’s something that’s stopped me just short of having sex with Danny, because I haven’t been able to wrap my head around the idea of taking the two-guy thing all the way. At least not yet.

I pour a couple of Diet Pepsis and put the last two cupcakes onto a paper plate. When I step out onto the patio, I can see Danny sitting over by the pool, his back to me. He always looks so calm and peaceful. There’s nothing tense or stressed about him. Sitting on that patio chair, he looks like the axis of the universe, completely strong and still as the world spins around his—

Wait a minute. Is that
smoke
rising up from in front of his body? It can’t be. I squint to see more clearly. It is smoke!

I stomp over. “What the hell are you…”

I step back in surprise when Danny smiles up at me with a lazy grin and holds out a half-smoked joint.

“You smoke
pot?”

“Yeah, why not? You want some?” he asks casually.

“I can’t believe it!”

Danny looks confused. “Do you not… Is that not cool with you?”

“No!”

“Really?” Danny looks surprised.

I shake my head. It’s not that it’s not cool with me. Actually, I couldn’t care less. I used to smoke pot in college. But I never really got it right. I’d take a few hits, then spend the first fifteen minutes howling with laughter at every random thing, then the next four hours dizzy and sick to my stomach. Plus the paranoia. And the dry mouth. So eventually I decided to lay off the doobage in favor of cheap wine and beer bongs. In adult life, the menu was elevated to slightly less-cheap wine, beer in actual bottles, and a divine variety of fun and delicious cocktails.

But every once in a while, I do question the logic of my choice. Pot might’ve been the smarter decision. No hangovers and, even more important, no calories. It’s probably cheaper too, if you’re out spending eighteen dollars on one raspberry cosmopolitan after the other.

“Lindsey? I’m really sorry about this. I guess I thought… I mean, I didn’t realize you would be so…”

“I’m not
so
anything! I don’t care if you smoke pot, Danny. Really, I don’t. What I’m having trouble accepting is the fervor and fury with which you made me feel like a complete
ass
for smoking cigarettes, when you’re out here tugging on a fatty like that isn’t just as bad!”

“It’s
not
just as bad,” he protests. “A little bit of weed here and there is nowhere near as bad as a regular cigarette habit.”

“I just find it ironic, that’s all.”

Danny gets up, puts out the joint, and tosses it into the trash. Then he pulls me down to the pool chair and puts his arm around me.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “If it bothers you, I won’t do it around you anymore.”

I give him a little grimace. It does bother me. But again, it’s not the pot. It’s the irony, for lack of a better word that one could argue might start with an H. And it’s the sudden death of whatever it was that Danny did to me that truly made me not want to smoke anymore, because now I do again. And most of all, it’s the moment when something happens to make you first realize that the person you’re with is not perfect after all. I hate that moment.

“O
kay Miss Missing. Where the hell have you been?”

Carmen and I are walking up to the swanky entrance of Avalon for a record-launch party that I was invited to through the agency.

“I’ve been around.”

“Around everyone but me – I feel neglected!”

“Lindsey Miller plus one,” I tell the doorman, who runs his pen down a list. He nods and pulls back the velvet rope.

“Carmen, I’m sorry. I really am. After
The Pulse
came out, everything just kind of exploded.”

“I told you so. You’re the It girl. People who know people. The woman to invite!”

“Ha! Yeah, for about… oh, say, fifteen minutes? Most of which are probably used up. And only among the advertising and marketing crowd.”

“Don’t knock it. It’s about ten million miles away from where you were when I first met you.”

We approach the bar and order two mango mojitos.

“So tell me. What
have
you been doing?”

“Well, you know. The survey, the interviews, the teen panel…”

“No, Obvioso. The
fun
stuff.”

“You want a play-by-play?”

“And a blow-by-blow. If you know what I mean.” She winks and offers me a cigarette. I hesitate, then take it. I hold it for a second, then place it carefully on the table for maybe later. Carmen gives me a funny look.

Okay, so what have I been doing? I go through the list in my mind.

“Well…Wednesday night in New York I went to a screening at Miramax for some new indie movie. And then to the after-party at the director’s loft in the meatpacking district.”

“Ew.

“I know. Kind of strange to think about. All these glamorous places surrounded by garbage bags of cow guts and pig entrails.”

“Did you bring Victor?”

“I always do. Except for the nights he has his own functions.”

“But yours are more fun, right?”

I nod and glance around to survey the scene. Why does everyone seem so young in here? And that girl was right – there are soymilk boxes everywhere.

“So what else?”