The Gift Bag Chronicles (12 page)

Trying to remind myself that at least Jennifer is still safely tucked away in the house, I head down the stairs to the tuxedoed, shade-wearing throng milling around on the lawn. It’s heading toward 6:00
P.M.
, but the sun is still searingly bright, and I’m guessing it’s still north of 100 degrees. Coming down the stairs, I’ve lost sight of Patrice, but given how tall she is, she shouldn’t be that hard to spot. I’m picking my way among the crowd, waving off the waiters swirling around with their silver trays, when suddenly she emerges just ahead. I’m trying to keep her in view when some beefy guy in an Armani tux nearly backs into me and I have to leap aside to avoid being crushed. As I glide by, I feel the heat coming off him. Like some huge barnyard animal. At least I’m not the only one who’s dying out here.

By the time I reach her, Patrice, champagne flute in hand, is ensconced in some tight little conversational group with Mickey and two other couples. Great, now I have to shake her down in public.

“Hey, Patrice,” I say, sidling up to her. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

She turns and looks at me blankly.
Ohmigod
. She doesn’t remember me. I’m just trying to decide if this is truly humiliating or actually hilarious when her eyes start to blink. “Umm?” she says, craning her blond pelt in my direction. I have the impression of a giraffe bending down to nibble some leaves.

“Alex. Alex Davidson,” I say brightly.

“Alec?” she says, shaking her head. “Oh,
Alec
. Of course, how
are
you
?” she says, bending even further down and giving me one of those pretend air hugs which are even faker than air kisses. “So bloody hot,” she says, holding her glass to the side as she leans in my direction. “I mean, honestly, when everyone told me L.A. was ‘hot,’” she says, making little quote marks with her fingers, “I had no idea they meant it so literally.”

“I’m fine, fine,” I say, ignoring her how-weird-is-L.A. riff. Had enough of that at our lunch, and it was old then. “So I didn’t realize you were a friend of Jeffrey’s,” I say, trying to edge her away from the group.

“Who?”
she says, giving me another blank look. Maybe it’s just names she has trouble with.

“Jeffrey. Jeffrey
Hawker
,” I say.

Still nothing.

“He’s the
groom.”

“Oh,” she says, startled. “Is that who this is for? I had no idea,” she says, turning back toward Mickey. “I’m actually just here with Mickey, and apparently he’s friends with — who is it, Jimmy? Or he works with him. Or has. Or wants to. I’m still not totally sure how it all works here in ‘Hollywood,’” she says, making those little quote marks with her fingers.

Oh, God.

“‘Right,’” I say, making little quote marks of my own. Obviously, I could leave it here. I should leave it there. Clearly, Patrice is just a guest, and a clueless one at that. Still, the memory of Jennifer railing at me over the headsets and my choice of wedding garb is still fresh. I don’t want any more unexpected explosions if she discovers
C
magazine’s entertainment editor is here. “So, Patrice,” I plunge ahead, trying to sound offhand and not like I’m giving her the third degree, “you’re here as Mickey’s guest and not in your capacity at the magazine?”

Another blank look.

I try again. “I mean, you’re only here as a civilian?”

“Pats! Pats!
I want you to meet an old friend of mine” comes bellowing over my shoulder. I turn. Mickey pushing through the crowd. Great, the sex offender joins the party.

“Look,” I say quickly, turning back to Patrice. “I’m assuming you’re here only as a guest, because there’s no media allowed. I just need to make that clear.”

“What?” she says, pulling back like I’ve struck her. “What are you talking about? And why,” she says, suddenly catching sight of the headset in my hand, “are you wearing a headset?”

“Pats,” Mickey says, pulling up. “I’ve got some people I want you to meet.” Next to Patrice, he’s at least a head shorter. Well, whatever floats your boat. Mickey’s only criteria are blond and prepubescent, although clearly an exception has been made on the sell-by date with
Pats
.

Patrice is still staring at me, so Mickey follows her gaze. “Hey,” he says, turning to me and catching sight of the headset in my hand. “Are you security?” he asks. “You need to have a word with your valets. They’re totally out of control down there, racing over all those potholes you call a parking lot. They practically
ruined
the transmission on my Porsche.”

“You’re security?” Patrice says dumbly.

“No, I’m not
security”
I say. “I’m
publicity
. We’re doing the publicity, which is why,” I say, turning back to Patrice, “I have to make sure you’re here only as a guest.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mickey says, holding up his hands. Hollywood producers hold the land-speed record for going from ignorance to belligerence, and Mickey is no exception. “You’re shaking down my date because you think she’s
covering
this wedding? What the fuck kind of publicist are you?” he says, his voice raising now so a few heads swivel in our direction.

Oh, this is going well.

“Look,” I say, turning to him and dropping my voice, “there’s
no media here except for
InStyle
, and when we saw Patrice’s name on the guest list, well, it raised a question.”

“Well, consider it
unraised”
he says, leaning toward me. “She’s my fucking date, end of fucking story. Besides,” he adds, waving his glass at me so some champagne spills on my dress, “who would want to cover this? It’s a fucking sauna out here.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Steven making a beeline for us. My special teams unit.

“Hey, Patrice, Mickey,” he says, gliding up. They both ignore him. So much for the special teams.

“Look, we’re done here,” Mickey says, grabbing Patrice by the hand. “Next time I see you,” he says, nodding at me, “I want to hear the words ‘I’m sorry’ coming out of your mouth. Jeffrey’s going to hear about this harassment of his guests.”

He and Patrice lurch off over the grass. Well, that went well.

“At least he kept it in his pants,” Steven says when they are out of earshot. “I count that as progress.”

“Sometimes I really hate this job,” I say, turning to him. “The way everyone treats us like we’re idiots. Or worse, servants. Pond scum has a higher profile in this town.”

Steven shrugs. “Look at it from Mickey’s point of view — so much abuse, so little time.”

“You’re not helping,” I say, sighing, pulling on my headset.

“Oh, forget it,” Steven says, looping his arm through mine. “If Mickey made good on all his threats, he’d never have time to actually make movies. Besides, he’ll be grabbing for the gift bag along with the rest of them.”

Like all weddings, there are the criers. You just don’t necessarily expect one to be the groom. But somehow when Jeffrey chokes up
during his half of the vows — a mix of
Siddhartha
, AA, and
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus
— it’s actually touching. “I’m sorry,” he says, and everyone bursts into applause when he manages to go on.

I’m standing at the back of the tent, poised to guide the guests out and into the receiving line while keeping one eye on Patrice and Mickey, when Oscar, dressed now in a black blazer and white tuxedo shirt, slides in behind me.

“So, I hear Mickey Delano was his usual charming self,” he says, leaning forward.

I whip around.

“Relax,” he says, leaning toward my ear. “Some of the waiters were laughing about him. He’s such a dick.”

“Yeah, I just don’t need him being a dick about me,” I say, trying to keep my voice low. “And threatening to go to Jeffrey and Jennifer.”

“Come on, you honestly think she’s thinking about anyone but herself right now?” he says, nodding at Jennifer, who is, at the moment, very theatrically wiping Jeffrey’s tears and holding the handkerchief up triumphantly. Everyone breaks into applause and laughter. Oscar has a point.

“Speaking of weddings,” he says, moving closer. “When are you and Charles getting married?”

Without turning around, I give him a shove with my elbow. “We’re not getting married,” I hiss. “At least not in the foreseeable future.”

“What!”
crackles in my earpiece. Steven, who’s up in the big tent with Hot Fat’s crew setting up. “They’re
not
getting married? What
happened?”

“Not
you,”
I say, cupping my hand over the headset mouthpiece. “I’m talking to Oscar.”

“Come on,” Oscar says, leaning in so close I can feel his breath on my neck. “I thought you had a little engagement party back at your parents’ over Labor Day.”

“Shhh,” I say, elbowing him again.

“I’m only asking because I want to plan it.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep you in mind,” I whisper as a few heads swivel in our direction.

“And now, with the power vested in me by the state of California, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

And then it’s over. Or actually it’s just beginning. Given that there’s the receiving line, more photos, and then the reception with dinner and toasts and dancing for God knows how long, for which Jennifer will change out of her Vera Wang white satin wedding dress with the plunging neckline into a lavender Dolce gown with a plunging neckline. For the next five hours, my job is to make sure it all goes without a hitch. Which it does, more or less. The compressor doesn’t break down, Hot Fat doesn’t break down, and I make Steven play guard dog on Patrice and Mickey, who I’m relieved to see have been seated at the far end of the tent with a bunch of agents. Good, they can all outbelligerent each other. The waiters are just starting to serve the salad and I’m thinking the worst is over when my headset blares to life.

“Jennifer wants to know what happened to her walnuts!”
crackles in my ear. Maurine, who’s taking her turn at babysitting the bride.

“I don’t know what happened to the nuts,” I say into the headset, glancing around the jammed tables trying to get one of the salad plates in view. “Aren’t they there?”

“No, it’s just the quail, baby greens, and pomegranate seeds. She’s very upset.”

“Oscar,” I say, trying to rouse him on the headset. “We have a nut problem.”

The headset crackles. “Tell her it’s a safety issue. They became rancid in the heat.”

“Yeah, that’ll calm her down,” I say. “Maurine, just tell her the
chef made a last-minute substitution for quality. Oscar,” I say, “what happened to the walnuts?”

“It’s on a need-to-know basis only,” Oscar crackles again. “And you don’t need to know.”

“What don’t I need to know?” I say, turning to face the tent wall and cupping my hand over the mouthpiece.

“This is your captain speaking. Please return to your seat and enjoy the flight. I’ll be updating you later.”

“Oscar!” I say, but he’s clicked off. I’m tempted just to forget the whole thing and keep an eye on things here. But when the “Hey, Don” Quartet suddenly stops playing elevator music to lash into their version of Joe Cocker’s “You Are So Beautiful to Me,” I decide to chance a run down to the catering station.

I head out of the tent, squeezing by Jeremy Latimer, who’s got his arms around two of the bridesmaids — typical — and head down the path, sidestepping the waiters ferrying the rest of the walnutless salads up to the tent. Before I even get to the catering station, I hear the voices. A low rumble of Spanish and then, more distinctly, Oscar and Hot Fat.

“What is going on?” I say as I round the small vinyl half tent that serves as the catering station. Whatever I expect to see, it’s not Hot Fat brandishing kitchen tongs while Oscar and a couple of kitchen guys wrestle with three goats.

“Man, I’ll work through anything — bitchy celebs, clients who have no taste, earthquakes — and you know I will, but I will
not
work through an animal infestation,” Hot Fat says, waving the tongs. “They already ate my walnuts and half the bread and were heading for the salad greens. Now get them out of here!”

“Yeah, I get it, big guy. What do you think I’m trying to do?” Oscar says, pulling on the goats, which are starting to bleat in all the excitement.

“Oh, my God!” I say, stuck in my tracks. I’ve handled a lot of event emergencies — rain, flooding, food shortages, electrical outages, headset breakdowns, party crashers, and even closures by the
fire department. But I’ve never handled any animal problems. “How did they get loose? We’ve got to get them back in the pen before anybody hears them.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Oscar says, turning to me. “Why do you think I had the band start playing rock music?”

“That was you? I thought Jennifer had just gotten hold of the playlist.”

“Alex,” Oscar says, gripping the goats by the neck, or as much as he can, given that they aren’t wearing collars. “I need you to come here and reach into my inside jacket pocket.”

“Why?” I say, not moving.

“Just
do it!”

“Okay, okay,” I say, bolting toward him.

“I ain’t helping you guys,” Hot Fat says, stepping out of the way. “My contract don’t call for no animal control. Besides, I got two thousand dollars’ worth of salmon on the grill that needs to be turned.”