The Gift Bag Chronicles (15 page)

“This is why you only date twenty-eight-year-olds. Too young to pick out lawn furniture. Too young to fight back.”

“Oh, they have their ways,” he says, eyeing me.

I shake my head. “You’re no different than Mickey Delano and the other ninety percent of the men in this town — successful powerful guys who just date down the food chain because it’s so much less risky. In fact, you should use the algebra symbol — that sideways
v
— to describe your relationships. You’re not ‘dating’ or ‘seeing’ or even ‘sleeping’ with someone. You’re ‘greater than’ the woman. Guys like you are terrified to use the equal symbol.”

“And you’re just as scared,” he says, leaning forward, his hands on the table. “You think men are the only ones with control issues? Think again.”

“I don’t have to think again,” I say, realizing we’re all but shouting, given the heads that have swiveled in our direction. I am
not
scared, and I do not have control issues. Jennifer has control issues. Patrice has control issues. I have a responsible, demanding job, weigh within five pounds of what I weighed when I graduated high school, and am seriously pondering buying a house — okay, I just thought of that, but I am. All as a single woman. “If you think I or any woman is scared,” I say, leaning back in my chair, “well, how can you blame us when men have controlled women, economically, politically, even artistically, for centuries? I mean, I have history on my side.”

“Yes, you do, and you also have syrup on your chin,” he says, reaching across the table and wiping my chin with his fingers. “There. Now, do you really want to keep arguing about the male-female power dynamic, which is a valid topic, I’ll concede, or do you want to watch a Dodgers playoff game?”

“Actually, I’m thinking of going to Saks,” I say, checking my watch. I’m only half-serious, but I
could
use a new suit and a graceful — if pointed — exit after all that. Besides, it’s only 2:30. I could even make it home in time for the bath, in which case my day off has turned into a twofer — shopping and relaxing.

“You’d rather go to Saks, spend all that energy trying on clothes and doing the math about whether you can/should buy another pair of two-hundred-dollar jeans or whatever you think
you need than go down the block to my favorite bar in L.A. and watch the Dodgers game over a beer?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” I say, realizing I may have overestimated my energy levels for a full-scale shopping assault. “But seriously, we can’t just go from waffles to beer.”

“I can. And you should.”

I sigh, feeling myself starting to cave against my better judgment. “I’m going to feel terrible in about an hour, when all this sugar in my bloodstream starts to collapse.”

“Don’t women know anything?” he says, getting up and handing me my bag. “What do you think beef jerky’s for?”

“So what, you were sitting there watching the game, and he just gets up and leaves?” Steven says.

“It was a little less abrupt than that,” I say. Or rather I muffle, given that I have a cold washcloth draped over my face while the rest of me is submerged in the tub.

“What?”

I pull the cloth from my face. “No, he didn’t just leave. Elsa or Amber, whoever he’s ‘seeing,’ called him on his cell. Then he left.”

“But before the game was over?”

“Yeah, but it was the bottom of the eighth and the Dodgers were losing, so it was hardly a big deal.”

“Then why are you telling me about it?”

“Because I ate waffles and drank beer and watched a stupid baseball game when all I wanted to do was stay home and watch a movie and take a bath.”

“And you blame Oscar for that?”

“I blame myself. He talked me into doing what he wanted to do and then, when he found someone else to play with, he just bolted. I feel used.”

“Over waffles?” Steven snorts, and I hear the sound of crashing in the background. “Some people put years into a relationship before they figure out they’ve been used. I think you got off easy.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” I say, annoyed. “Where are you?”

“Lucky Strike. We’re bowling for dollars, and I’m ahead. Come on down and try your luck.”

“Thanks, I already did that today and lost,” I say, slipping farther down into the tub.

“Look, it’s my turn,” he says, moving so the crashing sounds grow louder. “But let me leave you with this final thought.”

“What, Dr. Phil?”

“Seems to me you’ve got enough things to work out with Charles — like why you guys can’t be in the same place for more than five minutes — without throwing Oscar into the mix. Unless, of course, you’re actually using Oscar to try and figure out how you really feel about Charles. I mean, in a way, it kind of makes sense. You work with Charles, you work with Oscar, so there’s a kind of symmetry—”

“I’m not using Oscar to figure out what I think about Charles,” I say, sitting up so fast I splash water over the side of the tub.

“If you say so.”

“I do. Say so. Look, I’m just annoyed that I let my day get hijacked. That’s all,” I say, sinking back into the water.

Steven says something, but it’s drowned out by more crashing sounds and laughter.

“Look, just go,” I say. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“What? Sorry,” he says, raising his voice over the noise, “but someone here thinks he can challenge the master.”

“Will you
go?”
I say, practically yelling.

“You’re going to regret that,” I hear Steven say to waves of laughter.

I close my eyes, tempted to just click off.

“Okay, I’m back,” he says. “Now, where were we?”

“Look, we’ll just talk tomorrow,” I say, realizing how stupid I sound. How stupid I am to get worked up about nothing.

“Look,” Steven says, plowing on. “You ate waffles on a Sunday with a friend. You blew five hours and a couple thousand calories. What’s the big deal? Unless you want Oscar to be more than a friend?”

“Now you do sound like Dr. Phil.”

“All I’m saying is, I don’t know what you’re so scared of,” he says. “You’re in a three-year relationship with the man of your dreams. Or he was the man of your dreams. Or has the potential to be the man of your dreams. Concentrate on that. As for Oscar, God, it’s not like you slept with him and then he left you for Elsa.”

“Okay, okay, we can stop talking about this,” I say. “I don’t know why everyone keeps saying I’m scared.”

“Who else says you’re scared?”

“No one,” I say, slipping farther into the water. “No one.”

I attack Monday determined to put everything behind me
. Oscar, Jennifer’s wedding, the goats, Patrice and her weird call to Charles, Charles and our weird call, and God knows everything that transpired yesterday at Hugo’s and Barney’s Beanery. Enough of this Nick and Nora nonsense with Oscar. My life with Charles may not be perfect, but it’s not going to get solved by hanging around with Oscar, who clearly has his own issues with women. With commitment. Besides, who needs a personal life? DWP. It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.

Of course, the fact that the painters my landlady finally hired show up two hours late slows the implementation of my Marine Corps battle plan a bit. 8:00
A.M.
the phone goes. Louise, with the news that the painters are on their way. This is never a good sign. Not with workmen and especially not with Louise, who is a diehard lady of the canyon, one of those once stunningly beautiful women who came west to find their fortune and wound up with
Jim Morrison or Frank Zappa between their legs. Now an ex-groupie whose biggest claim to fame is actually owning a house — my rental house — in Laurel Canyon, Louise’s only just become cognizant the sixties are over. Time is not her strong suit.

“Okay, but they are still planning to be here by eighty-thirty?” I say, checking my watch, coffee in hand. I’ve got a planning meeting scheduled at the office for 9:30 to lay the groundwork for
C
’s Christmas party, along with the dozen or so other events we’ve got coming up in the next three months. It will go on for hours in any event, and if I have to push it back, it will just wind up eating the day.

“Oh, yeah,” Louise says, with the kind of conviction one might expect from someone who lives in a depressing rental complex in North Hollywood and survives largely on the rent I pay her each month. “I mean, I’d drop by myself to let them in, but I’ve got to get out to Malibu to look at some horses and then —”

“No, no,” I say quickly. The last time I left it to Louise to let workmen into the house, I came home to find everyone passed out in the living room, a bong in the middle of the floor. Like she was channeling Woody Harrelson. “No, I’ll wait for them here,” I say, clicking off and dialing the office. I leave a message for Caitlin that I’m running late and she needs to cancel my Monday morning conference call with Oscar and Steven to go over Jennifer’s wedding, and to push the staff meeting to 10:30 just to be safe. I leave the same message for Steven, just to be safe. I ponder calling Charles, but the weirdness of our Sunday call is still fresh in my mind and I decide to wait to call him until after my staff meeting. Brief him with details of my plan for
C
’s big gala.

I check my watch again — 8:15—and consider my options. Not many when you’re under house arrest, even with a Black-Berry and a high-speed Internet connection. Oh well. I pour another mug of coffee and head into the office, where the
Today
show’s still on — muted, which is the only way I can take Matt and Katie on a daily basis — and turn the computer back on.

Two hours, three dozen e-mails, and all the trades read online later, the painters actually show. The fact that they are Louise’s nephews or nephews of a friend or something, dark of hair, sunny of disposition, in their late twenties, and good-looking enough to pose for
GQ
only slightly ameliorates the fact that I have lost most of my morning waiting for them.

“So you’re sure you’re okay here on your own?” I say, my hand on the doorknob, clock ticking in my brain. I have to raise my voice over the boom box they’ve plunked down — like a dog spraying his territory — that’s already thumping out KROQ or one of those stations I never listen to. They’ve been here less than thirty minutes and the house is already chaos. Canvas drop cloths everywhere. Ladders. I can only imagine the week ahead with my frat houseboy painters. Maybe I should consider moving into the Chateau.

“We’re cool,” Brad says — or maybe it’s Steve, but anyway the lighter-haired one — poking his head out of the kitchen, one of my mugs in his hand. I notice he has already dispensed with his T-shirt and is now dressed in paint-spattered cargo pants and a set of abs every guy in town would kill for. “Have a good one,” he adds, hoisting the mug in my direction.

“Yeah, okay,” I say, glancing with some effort at the mug. “Well, you have my cell and office numbers if there are any problems.”

I call Caitlin from the car and tell her to have everyone in the conference room at 11:00. No, 11:30, given the traffic on Sunset.

“Is this going to go into lunch now?” she asks in a tone of voice like I’ve just taken away her favorite dolly.

“Probably, so we’ll order in.”

I hear her sigh. “Fine, I’ll let everyone know,” she says, clicking off. I ponder calling Steven, but given the traffic, I toss the cell phone aside to concentrate on the drive. Midmorning and it’s like rush hour. What is the deal? Not only is it still ragingly hot with the Santa Anas, but L.A. has turned into one big construction site.
It’s either that or another location shoot for some movie. In any event, Sunset is down to two sun-glazed lanes.

It’s a good forty-five minutes until I pull into the garage down on Wilshire. I grab my bag and run for the elevator before I catch myself and slow to a dogtrot. It’s like that sometimes. I have to remind myself that I’m a boss, and if I’m running late, then I’m running late. No one’s going to keep me after school.

“So the workmen, on a scale of one to ten?” Steven says, sliding in next to me as I race down the hall.

“Ten,” I say. “If workmen are your thing.”

“And they are,” he says. “So will you be setting up a webcam to monitor their progress from the office?”

I shoot him a look.

“Or I can,” he says. “I have a great tech guy who can set that up in no time.”

I stop midstep. “You know, I miss our little chats,” I say, “but we have a meeting to run in about five minutes.”

“Correction,
you
have a meeting to run,” he says, peeling off and heading back to his office. “I’ll be in as soon as I finish my conference call with Kia.”

I fly by Caitlin’s desk, grabbing the fistful of messages she’s holding out.

“Oscar’s called twice wanting to go over the Hawker wedding,” she says, following me into my office.

“Yeah, I’m sure he has,” I say, tossing my bag to my desk. If I’m in no mood to talk to Charles, I’m really in no mood to talk to Oscar. Especially when we could have —
should
have — spent at least some of yesterday going over the wedding. At least we would have gotten some work done. Oh well, too late. I tell Caitlin to get everyone in the conference room, flip on my computer, and take a fast look at my e-mails. All thirty that have rolled in during the past hour. Oh, God. I scan the list quickly. The usual. Clients, sponsors. Assistants of clients and sponsors. Everyone needing something from me, and half of them marked urgent with that
annoying red exclamation mark! No wonder I need five college-educated women to keep this flock of birds fed. There are also the morning e-mails from the girl gang. Rachel, still in New Zealand on a shoot. Maude, reminding me futilely, as she does every week, about yoga classes. Evelyn. No doubt some new crisis with her latest surgeon. Nothing from Charles, I see. Or Oscar for that matter. Well, he hates e-mail. Besides, no time to ponder these tea leaves.