The gift bag chronicles, p.16
The Gift Bag Chronicles, page 16
I pretend to study the menu. Eating is the least of my concerns. It’s up to me to bring this meeting to order. Timing is everything.
“So, Andrew,” I say, raising my voice a little, putting my menu aside. “How’s the December issue looking? I’m hearing you have Charlize for the cover?”
Andrew says something I can barely make out. But it’s enough to cause Amanda to break off speaking to Charles. Her radar is on her boss now. Neither of us is fast enough.
“Charlize is an option for us,” Patrice says, leaning forward. “They’re screening the movie for us on Thursday. We’ll decide after that.”
Andrew smiles nervously, adjusting his tie, murmurs something about sophomore slump, Oscar curse. Amanda nods. Well, it’s not her call. But I am stunned. It’s incredibly late to still be deciding the December cover, and worse, C has a shot at Charlize but they’re holding out to see if the movie’s any good? I can’t believe PMK or whoever reps her now is going along with that. Not with Vogue and InStyle happy to take her off their hands. Something isn’t right. Either C’s committed to Charlize — with both the studio and her publicity agency assuming it’s a lock — and it will be an earthquake if they bail, or Patrice is lying. Either way, it’s a problem.
“Well, I was going to say, if you had the cover, we could start there in discussing the guest list,” I say.
“We’ll have to talk about that,” Patrice says, leaning back to study her menu, her territory firmly established now. “We’re rethinking the whole C cover concept.”
“Not a model?” I say. You don’t blow your December cover with a model. January, but not December.
“Britney,” Jay says, waving his breadstick. “I’ve got first dibs on interviewing her.”
I shoot Amanda a look. Her face is unreadable, but we both know this is insane — the timing, the indecision. Charlize is the answer. Britney is death. Over. Cold. Wrong. Wrong for the magazine and really wrong for hosting an A-list party. On the other hand, an Oscar winner with another shot at Oscar will be on the meet-and-greet campaign the minute the film opens. A big magazine party is right up her alley. More important, the studio’s. With Charlize, we have the world. The list becomes one of dreams. Not that we won’t have to work it. Limos, hair and makeup. Gifts. The usual graft/arm-twisting/pleading. But with the Diamond Council as the lead sponsor, that won’t be too much of a problem. Where is Lucienne anyway? Six-foot-tall bottle blonde in her late fifties, still married to her first husband, amazingly, she dispenses diamonds for the council with the touch of a career ambassador. Too bad her title is so vulgar: Celebrity Relations.
“Lucienne?” I say, arching my eyebrows at Amanda.
“London,” she says. “She’s back next week, and I’ll meet with her then.”
The waiter rolls up, and everyone bows their heads behind the menus. At least here it’s just like L.A. Fish, water, fish, water, fish, water. Greens all around. Except for Jay, who orders the lamb chops. “And I’ll have the fettuccine with mussels and cream sauce,” says Patrice, smiling, handing the waiter her menu. “And the cream of tomato soup.”
Yes, cream sauce for the bulimic. Google, the little engine that could.
Andrew says something again that I can’t hear. Amanda’s head turns like a radar dish. That’s what I want in my next life. An interpreter. So I only have to murmur and flinch and my needs are met.
“Perhaps we can start there,” she says, turning to the rest of us. “If we go with the third Thursday in December,” she adds, pulling out her BlackBerry and scrolling down. “What are our venue options?”
And we’re off. Or I am. Trotting out my list of places that Steven, Oscar, and I hammered out. There are the usual hotels, restaurants. A few off-the-wall spots. The center courtyard of LACMA. The Getty. Even Disney Hall is available for the right price. Maybe even the cathedral, for all I know. God knows, the church could use the money.
“I heard they hold high school proms at the Getty now,” Amanda says, rattling her bracelets.
“They do,” I say, “but not in December.”
“I think our list of private venues is actually stronger,” Charles says, coming alive now that I’m firmly in the lead. He may have been a prick to insist on my attending this confab, but his instincts in the room are fabulous. “Alex and her team have found a few virgins. Homes that have never been rented before.”
Actually, I did come up with a good list. Or rather Oscar did, since that’s technically his job. I’ve arranged them by neighborhood — Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Trousdale, Hancock Park, Sunset Plaza, and Los Feliz. Pick your style: old money, new money, funky, arty, retro, moderne, and just plain vulgar.
“What about something near the ocean?” Jay says. He would. He’s lived in L.A. for two months now, and his concept of it is still a cross between Miami and Phoenix, when San Francisco can be closer to the truth. Like how every out-of-towner used to flock to the Mondrian, all those billowing white curtains and bleached floors. One endless beach house on the Sunset Strip, tucked in among the coffee bars and tattoo parlors populated by tongue-pierced club crawlers. As if. That’s New Yorkers for you. Think they know L.A. No good trying to talk them out of it. They just think you’re running for cover in Sodom-by-the-Sea.
Before I can shoot Jay’s idea down, the waiters roll up with salads, and everyone leans back as the plates, mounded high with what looks like grass cuttings, are presented. All except for Patrice, who ordered the cream of tomato soup.
“I wish I could eat like you,” Amanda says, her fork poised over the cuttings. I’m surprised. Why lob her that softball pitch? If I had to guess, Amanda is just as ripped about Patrice as I am. If my job is harder, hers is harder times twelve. But then again, with Andrew on hand, it pays to play nicely with others.
“It’s just my metabolism,” Patrice says, lifting a spoon to her mouth. “Mummy always said I burned it off.”
Yeah, in the loo.
Andrew spears his greens, says something.
“Do you have any shots of the houses?” Amanda interprets.
“Not with me, but we have JPEGs that I can forward to you,” I say, adding that, personally, I think the Trousdale house offers the best of what they need. Style, seclusion, a pool with a large deck and yard. And the neighborhood is just outside the Beverly Hills city limits, so there’s much less hassle with permits, parking.
Amanda and Andrew nod. I talk on. Picking up speed, rhythm as I go. Everyone is nodding now. It’s like winning at poker; the table starts to slide in my direction. Jay keeps burbling, but even Patrice quiets down. She’ll be trouble later. But for now, with her boss at her side, she’s a quiet little cobra. Smiling. Collaborative. Charlize and the cover was her power card, and she played it, and now she’s letting me have my time.
The cuttings consumed, the plates are whisked away, replaced with larger plates with the perfect poached fish, the size of a pack of playing cards. Jay’s chops arrive, the size of walnuts. Still, probably bigger than his balls. Patrice’s fettuccine is a bowl of gold ribbons topped by mussel McNuggets. She smiles, inhaling. I picture a good half hour in the ladies’ room back at the office, the one off the mail room, where she won’t be so noticed.
I press on, making my case. It always boils down to the same four things at this stage — date and venue, theme, sponsors, and the beginnings of the list. Of these, we need to hammer out only the first two today. And after an hour, we’re pretty close. The Trousdale house, pending review of the JPEGs, on the third Thursday in December. We even have the beginnings of a theme, a black-and-white party, an homage to Truman Capote’s fabled gathering at the Plaza Hotel. This was Andrew’s idea. And a good one. The rest of it — the other sponsors, the problems with the budget, the colors, the flowers, the candles, the furniture, and the list — will come soon enough.
“What about the gift bag?” Jay says, wiping his plate with a piece of bread.
The gift bag. The prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. Someone should write a dissertation on this icon. “The Meaning of Swag: Then and Now.” Thirty years ago, I made party favors for Amy’s sixth birthday. Paper dolls I meticulously cut out after school for five days running. Each with two outfits. I left them blank, for the girls to color themselves. I put them in envelopes with each child’s name written in my best handwriting. In the frenzy of the party, Helen forgot all about them and sent each girl home with an extra piece of cake. It drove Amy to tears when she discovered her birthday cake had been gutted for others. I never cried. Just took the dolls. Stored them in my desk, vowing to color them all myself. A whole family of dolls. Later, home during college one summer, I found them while cleaning out my desk for a yard sale. Paper fossils, still in their shells. The tiny white shapes, as uniform as gingerbread men. Valentines to a different time. Even then I couldn’t bear to throw them away.
Now gift bags are an end unto themselves. It takes a shopping cart to hold all the graft, the bulging bags, the presenter boxes at awards shows, huge as trunks. I like free stuff as much as the next guy, but if there’s meaning here other than marketing and greed, I’ve yet to find it.
“Maybe we should keep the bag simple,” Jay says, smirking, pleased with himself. “Diamond studs and a copy of the magazine?”
Everyone smiles. We have work ahead of us.
10
Workmen’s Comp
“You want to know what I think?”
“No.”
“I think you should tell your landlady that every day the painters are still there you’re going to withhold a day’s rent.”
“You want to know what I think?”
“No, but you’re going to tell me anyway?”
“That you’ve never had to deal with painters.”
Pushing 10:00 A.M. on Wednesday, and I’m home, on the phone with Steven. I’m home, because the week after New York, which is, more to the point, two weeks since Brad and Steve took over my house, I’m spending another morning waiting for them to show. Actually, I’m only waiting for Brad. Steve disappeared somewhere after the first week. Off on another job. Or moved back east. Or back in with his girlfriend. Whatever it is that happens to workmen who just wander off jobs, never to be seen again. Now I’m down to Brad. At least he shows. About three hours after he says he’s going to. Which means I’ve spent every morning since I’ve gotten back from New York working from home until Brad and his abs wander in and I am sprung.
“Of course I’ve dealt with painters.” Steven snorts. “How could you forget Manuel?”
“Oh, right, cruising the Dunn-Edwards paint store was one of your more inspired dating schemes,” I say, one eye cocked on the TV as I toggle among Matt and Katie, GMA, and Good Day L.A., all on mute. Depending on your client base, this actually counts as work.
“At least he repainted the upstairs bath before we broke up.”
“‘Broke up’ is such a cute euphemism,” I say, turning from the TV to my computer and my BlackBerry to check my e-mails. And they wonder why publicists have ADD. “Why can’t you just say ‘before we got sick of screwing each other’? So much more honest.”
“Because a girl has her pride.”
“Well, I no longer do. I’d do anything to get this guy here,” I say, clicking off the BlackBerry and checking my watch. I have less than half an hour before I’m to meet Oscar at his office. Today is our day to play tour guide for Patrice and Jay — guided walk-throughs of every one of the possible venues for C’s Christmas party. Talk about a time suck.
Actually, it’s a command performance, and Oscar’s even more pissed about it than I am. Usually when planning events, we give clients two or three venue proposals. At most. JPEGed photos with square footage detailed, entrances marked, et cetera, and budget breakdowns including catering, parking, permits, security. But for whatever reasons, Andrew and the rest of the C team have insisted on proposals for all six houses Oscar found. And they couldn’t just go with our recommendations and a fast visit to the most likely site — the Trousdale house. No, thanks to Patrice, who insisted on walk-throughs of all six houses before signing off, we have a field trip in our future. It had taken Oscar more than a week to get them all lined up, and as payback, he insisted I come along. God knows, hitting six houses from Bel Air to Los Feliz will take most of the day. And the capper is, we have our walk-through this evening with Kia at the PDC.
“Look,” Steven says, “if Brad doesn’t show soon, you should just bail. Serves him right.”
Given my day, I’d sooner bail on Patrice. “If Brad doesn’t show soon, Oscar’s just going to have to deal with Patrice on his own,” I say, reaching for the remote to turn up the TV. Matt’s interviewing some Hilary Duff wannabe, or maybe it is Hilary Duff, about her latest movie. Gotta keep these blondies straight. If you lose track, it’s almost impossible to catch up.
Matt’s just asking her about her latest boyfriend when I hear voices outside. “Great, I think he’s finally here,” I say, clicking off the TV. Definitely a male voice somewhere. “Okay, look, I’ll call you from the road, but if we miss each other, Oscar and I will meet you and the Kia guys at the PDC at five-thirty.”
I grab my bag and head into the hallway. Through the frosted-glass door, I see the shadowy blur of Brad on his cell phone. Apparently the guy can call everyone but me, and after I’ve left him about a million messages?
“Hey, traffic bad again?” I say, yanking open the door. I could kill him, but I keep my voice happy, happy. Workmen are like bears, I’ve realized. Move at their own pace, eat everything not nailed down, leave trash everywhere. But mostly, you can’t show fear or especially anger, or they will kill you where you stand.
“Ah, no, man,” Brad says, clicking off and shoving the phone in his jeans. “I got tied up at this other job,” he says, heading into the kitchen, dropping his backpack to the counter and reaching for the coffeemaker. Sure, dude, help yourself.
“‘Other job’?” I say, handing him a mug.
“Yeah, I was over at your neighbor’s.”
“My neighbor’s?” I’ve been cooling my heels here for more than two hours and he’s at one of my neighbors’?
“Yeah, that actress chick, Christy? She wanted me to price out painting her bedroom.”
“You were at Christy’s this morning?” In the two years I’ve had the pleasure of living next door to Ms. Former Sitcom Star turned American Idol hopeful, I’ve never actually met Christy. I’ve heard her talking on her cell on the deck, singing on her deck, fighting with some guy on her deck. I’ve even seen her nude on her deck during the wee morning hours after one of her especially exuberant parties. But never actually met her. Brad is here, what, all of two weeks? and now he’s spending the morning over there?
“Yeah,” he says, breaking into a grin. “She left me a note on the truck last night, asking me to come by this morning and look at her bedroom walls.”
Oh, great. I’m late for work because of Christy.
“But I don’t think she really wants any painting done,” he says, shaking his head. “I think she just needs a lot of attention.”
“You got that right,” I say briskly. No point in going down this road. No time either. “Well, you’re here now, and I’ve actually got to run this morning,” I say, dumping the last of my coffee in the sink and putting the mug in the dishwasher. I turn and practically collide with Brad’s T-shirted pecs as he reaches past me for the sugar.
“Sorry.”
“Sorry,” I say, ducking under his arm. Maybe Christy isn’t the only one who needs attention.
“Yeah, well, I’ll stick around tonight to make up for the time over there.”
“Whatever,” I say, grabbing my bag and my jacket. “Or just come early tomorrow. By the way, do you think you’ll be done by the end of the week? Louise was asking me.”
“Yeah, should be,” he says, raising his T-shirt and scratching his abs.
Oh, God, there they are again. Maybe Oscar has the right idea. Date down the food chain. No muss, no fuss. Okay, what am I saying? I have to get out of here.
“Okay, great,” I say, fleeing for the door. “End of the week is good.”
By the time I make it down Laurel Canyon to Oscar’s office, a converted bungalow just off Melrose, I’m a good fifteen minutes late. At least I don’t see Patrice’s Jaguar or Jay’s Mustang when I pull in the driveway.
“Unless you have to pee, just get right in the hearse,” Oscar says, coming out the front door and waving me toward the Jeep.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, grabbing my bag. “My painter showed up late again.”
“You want me to run that job for you?” he says, climbing into the driver’s side. “First thing I’ll do is fire that guy and get you a real painter.”
“Oh, Rhett, you would do that for me?” I say, aping a bad southern accent as I slide in next to him.
He shoots me a look. “I’m just offering my services as a project manager, Scarlett.”
“Well, next time, I’ll seriously consider it,” I say, buckling my seat belt. “Speaking of that, I’m letting you run this dog and pony show today. I think Patrice just lives to disagree with me. By the way, where are they?”
“Patrice is meeting us at the first house, but she may have to take off. Something about a screening. Jay will hook up with us later.”
“Oh, great, and after they insisted we set this up.”
“After I set it up,” he says, pulling out of the drive.
“After you set it up,” I say, leaning back in the seat. Outside it’s a gorgeous fall day for once. Perfect for a road trip. Away from the office. From painters. From Patrice. “What do you say we bag it and just go to Santa Barbara?” I say suddenly. “Have lunch at this great outdoor restaurant I know.”
He looks over at me. His face is unreadable behind his sunglasses. “Don’t tempt me,” he says, pulling into traffic.
Patrice’s Jaguar — leased and one of those it’s-really-a-Ford-they-couldn’t-give-away — is already in the drive when we pull up to the Bel Air house. It’s a 1970s ranch, west of Roscomare and closer to the 405 than one might like, but it’s got a great open floor plan and a fabulous view from the backyard.
“So, Andrew,” I say, raising my voice a little, putting my menu aside. “How’s the December issue looking? I’m hearing you have Charlize for the cover?”
Andrew says something I can barely make out. But it’s enough to cause Amanda to break off speaking to Charles. Her radar is on her boss now. Neither of us is fast enough.
“Charlize is an option for us,” Patrice says, leaning forward. “They’re screening the movie for us on Thursday. We’ll decide after that.”
Andrew smiles nervously, adjusting his tie, murmurs something about sophomore slump, Oscar curse. Amanda nods. Well, it’s not her call. But I am stunned. It’s incredibly late to still be deciding the December cover, and worse, C has a shot at Charlize but they’re holding out to see if the movie’s any good? I can’t believe PMK or whoever reps her now is going along with that. Not with Vogue and InStyle happy to take her off their hands. Something isn’t right. Either C’s committed to Charlize — with both the studio and her publicity agency assuming it’s a lock — and it will be an earthquake if they bail, or Patrice is lying. Either way, it’s a problem.
“Well, I was going to say, if you had the cover, we could start there in discussing the guest list,” I say.
“We’ll have to talk about that,” Patrice says, leaning back to study her menu, her territory firmly established now. “We’re rethinking the whole C cover concept.”
“Not a model?” I say. You don’t blow your December cover with a model. January, but not December.
“Britney,” Jay says, waving his breadstick. “I’ve got first dibs on interviewing her.”
I shoot Amanda a look. Her face is unreadable, but we both know this is insane — the timing, the indecision. Charlize is the answer. Britney is death. Over. Cold. Wrong. Wrong for the magazine and really wrong for hosting an A-list party. On the other hand, an Oscar winner with another shot at Oscar will be on the meet-and-greet campaign the minute the film opens. A big magazine party is right up her alley. More important, the studio’s. With Charlize, we have the world. The list becomes one of dreams. Not that we won’t have to work it. Limos, hair and makeup. Gifts. The usual graft/arm-twisting/pleading. But with the Diamond Council as the lead sponsor, that won’t be too much of a problem. Where is Lucienne anyway? Six-foot-tall bottle blonde in her late fifties, still married to her first husband, amazingly, she dispenses diamonds for the council with the touch of a career ambassador. Too bad her title is so vulgar: Celebrity Relations.
“Lucienne?” I say, arching my eyebrows at Amanda.
“London,” she says. “She’s back next week, and I’ll meet with her then.”
The waiter rolls up, and everyone bows their heads behind the menus. At least here it’s just like L.A. Fish, water, fish, water, fish, water. Greens all around. Except for Jay, who orders the lamb chops. “And I’ll have the fettuccine with mussels and cream sauce,” says Patrice, smiling, handing the waiter her menu. “And the cream of tomato soup.”
Yes, cream sauce for the bulimic. Google, the little engine that could.
Andrew says something again that I can’t hear. Amanda’s head turns like a radar dish. That’s what I want in my next life. An interpreter. So I only have to murmur and flinch and my needs are met.
“Perhaps we can start there,” she says, turning to the rest of us. “If we go with the third Thursday in December,” she adds, pulling out her BlackBerry and scrolling down. “What are our venue options?”
And we’re off. Or I am. Trotting out my list of places that Steven, Oscar, and I hammered out. There are the usual hotels, restaurants. A few off-the-wall spots. The center courtyard of LACMA. The Getty. Even Disney Hall is available for the right price. Maybe even the cathedral, for all I know. God knows, the church could use the money.
“I heard they hold high school proms at the Getty now,” Amanda says, rattling her bracelets.
“They do,” I say, “but not in December.”
“I think our list of private venues is actually stronger,” Charles says, coming alive now that I’m firmly in the lead. He may have been a prick to insist on my attending this confab, but his instincts in the room are fabulous. “Alex and her team have found a few virgins. Homes that have never been rented before.”
Actually, I did come up with a good list. Or rather Oscar did, since that’s technically his job. I’ve arranged them by neighborhood — Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Trousdale, Hancock Park, Sunset Plaza, and Los Feliz. Pick your style: old money, new money, funky, arty, retro, moderne, and just plain vulgar.
“What about something near the ocean?” Jay says. He would. He’s lived in L.A. for two months now, and his concept of it is still a cross between Miami and Phoenix, when San Francisco can be closer to the truth. Like how every out-of-towner used to flock to the Mondrian, all those billowing white curtains and bleached floors. One endless beach house on the Sunset Strip, tucked in among the coffee bars and tattoo parlors populated by tongue-pierced club crawlers. As if. That’s New Yorkers for you. Think they know L.A. No good trying to talk them out of it. They just think you’re running for cover in Sodom-by-the-Sea.
Before I can shoot Jay’s idea down, the waiters roll up with salads, and everyone leans back as the plates, mounded high with what looks like grass cuttings, are presented. All except for Patrice, who ordered the cream of tomato soup.
“I wish I could eat like you,” Amanda says, her fork poised over the cuttings. I’m surprised. Why lob her that softball pitch? If I had to guess, Amanda is just as ripped about Patrice as I am. If my job is harder, hers is harder times twelve. But then again, with Andrew on hand, it pays to play nicely with others.
“It’s just my metabolism,” Patrice says, lifting a spoon to her mouth. “Mummy always said I burned it off.”
Yeah, in the loo.
Andrew spears his greens, says something.
“Do you have any shots of the houses?” Amanda interprets.
“Not with me, but we have JPEGs that I can forward to you,” I say, adding that, personally, I think the Trousdale house offers the best of what they need. Style, seclusion, a pool with a large deck and yard. And the neighborhood is just outside the Beverly Hills city limits, so there’s much less hassle with permits, parking.
Amanda and Andrew nod. I talk on. Picking up speed, rhythm as I go. Everyone is nodding now. It’s like winning at poker; the table starts to slide in my direction. Jay keeps burbling, but even Patrice quiets down. She’ll be trouble later. But for now, with her boss at her side, she’s a quiet little cobra. Smiling. Collaborative. Charlize and the cover was her power card, and she played it, and now she’s letting me have my time.
The cuttings consumed, the plates are whisked away, replaced with larger plates with the perfect poached fish, the size of a pack of playing cards. Jay’s chops arrive, the size of walnuts. Still, probably bigger than his balls. Patrice’s fettuccine is a bowl of gold ribbons topped by mussel McNuggets. She smiles, inhaling. I picture a good half hour in the ladies’ room back at the office, the one off the mail room, where she won’t be so noticed.
I press on, making my case. It always boils down to the same four things at this stage — date and venue, theme, sponsors, and the beginnings of the list. Of these, we need to hammer out only the first two today. And after an hour, we’re pretty close. The Trousdale house, pending review of the JPEGs, on the third Thursday in December. We even have the beginnings of a theme, a black-and-white party, an homage to Truman Capote’s fabled gathering at the Plaza Hotel. This was Andrew’s idea. And a good one. The rest of it — the other sponsors, the problems with the budget, the colors, the flowers, the candles, the furniture, and the list — will come soon enough.
“What about the gift bag?” Jay says, wiping his plate with a piece of bread.
The gift bag. The prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. Someone should write a dissertation on this icon. “The Meaning of Swag: Then and Now.” Thirty years ago, I made party favors for Amy’s sixth birthday. Paper dolls I meticulously cut out after school for five days running. Each with two outfits. I left them blank, for the girls to color themselves. I put them in envelopes with each child’s name written in my best handwriting. In the frenzy of the party, Helen forgot all about them and sent each girl home with an extra piece of cake. It drove Amy to tears when she discovered her birthday cake had been gutted for others. I never cried. Just took the dolls. Stored them in my desk, vowing to color them all myself. A whole family of dolls. Later, home during college one summer, I found them while cleaning out my desk for a yard sale. Paper fossils, still in their shells. The tiny white shapes, as uniform as gingerbread men. Valentines to a different time. Even then I couldn’t bear to throw them away.
Now gift bags are an end unto themselves. It takes a shopping cart to hold all the graft, the bulging bags, the presenter boxes at awards shows, huge as trunks. I like free stuff as much as the next guy, but if there’s meaning here other than marketing and greed, I’ve yet to find it.
“Maybe we should keep the bag simple,” Jay says, smirking, pleased with himself. “Diamond studs and a copy of the magazine?”
Everyone smiles. We have work ahead of us.
10
Workmen’s Comp
“You want to know what I think?”
“No.”
“I think you should tell your landlady that every day the painters are still there you’re going to withhold a day’s rent.”
“You want to know what I think?”
“No, but you’re going to tell me anyway?”
“That you’ve never had to deal with painters.”
Pushing 10:00 A.M. on Wednesday, and I’m home, on the phone with Steven. I’m home, because the week after New York, which is, more to the point, two weeks since Brad and Steve took over my house, I’m spending another morning waiting for them to show. Actually, I’m only waiting for Brad. Steve disappeared somewhere after the first week. Off on another job. Or moved back east. Or back in with his girlfriend. Whatever it is that happens to workmen who just wander off jobs, never to be seen again. Now I’m down to Brad. At least he shows. About three hours after he says he’s going to. Which means I’ve spent every morning since I’ve gotten back from New York working from home until Brad and his abs wander in and I am sprung.
“Of course I’ve dealt with painters.” Steven snorts. “How could you forget Manuel?”
“Oh, right, cruising the Dunn-Edwards paint store was one of your more inspired dating schemes,” I say, one eye cocked on the TV as I toggle among Matt and Katie, GMA, and Good Day L.A., all on mute. Depending on your client base, this actually counts as work.
“At least he repainted the upstairs bath before we broke up.”
“‘Broke up’ is such a cute euphemism,” I say, turning from the TV to my computer and my BlackBerry to check my e-mails. And they wonder why publicists have ADD. “Why can’t you just say ‘before we got sick of screwing each other’? So much more honest.”
“Because a girl has her pride.”
“Well, I no longer do. I’d do anything to get this guy here,” I say, clicking off the BlackBerry and checking my watch. I have less than half an hour before I’m to meet Oscar at his office. Today is our day to play tour guide for Patrice and Jay — guided walk-throughs of every one of the possible venues for C’s Christmas party. Talk about a time suck.
Actually, it’s a command performance, and Oscar’s even more pissed about it than I am. Usually when planning events, we give clients two or three venue proposals. At most. JPEGed photos with square footage detailed, entrances marked, et cetera, and budget breakdowns including catering, parking, permits, security. But for whatever reasons, Andrew and the rest of the C team have insisted on proposals for all six houses Oscar found. And they couldn’t just go with our recommendations and a fast visit to the most likely site — the Trousdale house. No, thanks to Patrice, who insisted on walk-throughs of all six houses before signing off, we have a field trip in our future. It had taken Oscar more than a week to get them all lined up, and as payback, he insisted I come along. God knows, hitting six houses from Bel Air to Los Feliz will take most of the day. And the capper is, we have our walk-through this evening with Kia at the PDC.
“Look,” Steven says, “if Brad doesn’t show soon, you should just bail. Serves him right.”
Given my day, I’d sooner bail on Patrice. “If Brad doesn’t show soon, Oscar’s just going to have to deal with Patrice on his own,” I say, reaching for the remote to turn up the TV. Matt’s interviewing some Hilary Duff wannabe, or maybe it is Hilary Duff, about her latest movie. Gotta keep these blondies straight. If you lose track, it’s almost impossible to catch up.
Matt’s just asking her about her latest boyfriend when I hear voices outside. “Great, I think he’s finally here,” I say, clicking off the TV. Definitely a male voice somewhere. “Okay, look, I’ll call you from the road, but if we miss each other, Oscar and I will meet you and the Kia guys at the PDC at five-thirty.”
I grab my bag and head into the hallway. Through the frosted-glass door, I see the shadowy blur of Brad on his cell phone. Apparently the guy can call everyone but me, and after I’ve left him about a million messages?
“Hey, traffic bad again?” I say, yanking open the door. I could kill him, but I keep my voice happy, happy. Workmen are like bears, I’ve realized. Move at their own pace, eat everything not nailed down, leave trash everywhere. But mostly, you can’t show fear or especially anger, or they will kill you where you stand.
“Ah, no, man,” Brad says, clicking off and shoving the phone in his jeans. “I got tied up at this other job,” he says, heading into the kitchen, dropping his backpack to the counter and reaching for the coffeemaker. Sure, dude, help yourself.
“‘Other job’?” I say, handing him a mug.
“Yeah, I was over at your neighbor’s.”
“My neighbor’s?” I’ve been cooling my heels here for more than two hours and he’s at one of my neighbors’?
“Yeah, that actress chick, Christy? She wanted me to price out painting her bedroom.”
“You were at Christy’s this morning?” In the two years I’ve had the pleasure of living next door to Ms. Former Sitcom Star turned American Idol hopeful, I’ve never actually met Christy. I’ve heard her talking on her cell on the deck, singing on her deck, fighting with some guy on her deck. I’ve even seen her nude on her deck during the wee morning hours after one of her especially exuberant parties. But never actually met her. Brad is here, what, all of two weeks? and now he’s spending the morning over there?
“Yeah,” he says, breaking into a grin. “She left me a note on the truck last night, asking me to come by this morning and look at her bedroom walls.”
Oh, great. I’m late for work because of Christy.
“But I don’t think she really wants any painting done,” he says, shaking his head. “I think she just needs a lot of attention.”
“You got that right,” I say briskly. No point in going down this road. No time either. “Well, you’re here now, and I’ve actually got to run this morning,” I say, dumping the last of my coffee in the sink and putting the mug in the dishwasher. I turn and practically collide with Brad’s T-shirted pecs as he reaches past me for the sugar.
“Sorry.”
“Sorry,” I say, ducking under his arm. Maybe Christy isn’t the only one who needs attention.
“Yeah, well, I’ll stick around tonight to make up for the time over there.”
“Whatever,” I say, grabbing my bag and my jacket. “Or just come early tomorrow. By the way, do you think you’ll be done by the end of the week? Louise was asking me.”
“Yeah, should be,” he says, raising his T-shirt and scratching his abs.
Oh, God, there they are again. Maybe Oscar has the right idea. Date down the food chain. No muss, no fuss. Okay, what am I saying? I have to get out of here.
“Okay, great,” I say, fleeing for the door. “End of the week is good.”
By the time I make it down Laurel Canyon to Oscar’s office, a converted bungalow just off Melrose, I’m a good fifteen minutes late. At least I don’t see Patrice’s Jaguar or Jay’s Mustang when I pull in the driveway.
“Unless you have to pee, just get right in the hearse,” Oscar says, coming out the front door and waving me toward the Jeep.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, grabbing my bag. “My painter showed up late again.”
“You want me to run that job for you?” he says, climbing into the driver’s side. “First thing I’ll do is fire that guy and get you a real painter.”
“Oh, Rhett, you would do that for me?” I say, aping a bad southern accent as I slide in next to him.
He shoots me a look. “I’m just offering my services as a project manager, Scarlett.”
“Well, next time, I’ll seriously consider it,” I say, buckling my seat belt. “Speaking of that, I’m letting you run this dog and pony show today. I think Patrice just lives to disagree with me. By the way, where are they?”
“Patrice is meeting us at the first house, but she may have to take off. Something about a screening. Jay will hook up with us later.”
“Oh, great, and after they insisted we set this up.”
“After I set it up,” he says, pulling out of the drive.
“After you set it up,” I say, leaning back in the seat. Outside it’s a gorgeous fall day for once. Perfect for a road trip. Away from the office. From painters. From Patrice. “What do you say we bag it and just go to Santa Barbara?” I say suddenly. “Have lunch at this great outdoor restaurant I know.”
He looks over at me. His face is unreadable behind his sunglasses. “Don’t tempt me,” he says, pulling into traffic.
Patrice’s Jaguar — leased and one of those it’s-really-a-Ford-they-couldn’t-give-away — is already in the drive when we pull up to the Bel Air house. It’s a 1970s ranch, west of Roscomare and closer to the 405 than one might like, but it’s got a great open floor plan and a fabulous view from the backyard.
