A Total Waste of Makeup (7 page)

“Charlie has to wear silver,” Jamie informs her.

Jenn turns to me with an “Oh my God” look of disgust just as my sister rushes in.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Andy says, breathless. “I’ve just had the most hideous fight with Hunter.” Yes—Hunter. That’s her fiancé’s real name. We were so relieved to find out his last name wasn’t Green. “He’s just being horrible. And on my birthday, too!”

Jamie and I exchange glances. None of us want to know, but we can’t help but ask.

Sigh. I guess I’ll take the bomb. “What happened?”

“I asked him to come today, and do you know what he said?” Andy’s voice is getting high enough to rival Minnie Mouse, and she looks like she’s about to burst into tears.

“I’m sure whatever you want will be fine,” Jamie says.

“I’m sure whatever you want will be fine!” Andy says at the same time, although in a much more frantic tone. “Like this wedding isn’t important to him at all.” She pulls out a tissue and dabs her eyes.

“Well…,” I begin, trying to calm her down. “You should see that as a compliment. It means he trusts your taste.”

“And that’s just the beginning!” Andy nearly screams at me. “Do you know what he did when I took him to register last night?!”

“What’s ‘register’ mean?” Jamie leans in to ask Jenn.

“It’s when you pick out a bunch of presents you want people to buy for you,” Jenn tells him.

“Cool! You mean like a letter to Santa Claus?” Jamie asks, beaming as he turns to Andy. “Can you register for an Xbox?”

“No!” she exclaims, then turns to me. “Anyway, we were looking at linens, and he picks this revolting maroon duvet…”

Jamie looks at me questioningly. “Blanket,” I tell him.

“…that just screams, ‘Hi, I’m a bachelor, and I don’t want to get married.’ So naturally, I’m appalled and I tell him so. Only I don’t want to be rude, so I just say, ‘Honey, I don’t think there’s a dust ruffle to match that.’ And he actually says to me—”

“What’s a dust ruffle, and why do you need one?” Jamie asks.

For this, Andy slaps him on the arm. “That’s exactly what he said.”

“I was just asking,” Jamie tells her, then looks over to me inquisitively.

“It’s something you put on the bed that hangs over the space underneath the bed,” I enlighten him.

“Oh. So, like, you can hide your dirty clothes under there?” Jamie asks.

Andy’s eyes widen. “If you’re in a fraternity, yes! For most people it’s to keep dust bunnies out from under your bed.”

“But if they’re under your bed, and no one can see them, who cares?” Jamie asks.

Andy slaps his arm again. Jamie rolls his eyes, but takes it like a man. Or should I say, a little brother who knows her wrath could be so much worse.

“Anyway, Hunter’s taken no interest in anything about the wedding. It’s like it’s become all my job.”

“Didn’t you quit your job just to—” Before I even finish the sentence, I know I’m toast.

“Whose side are you on?!” Andy screeches at me. I can tell from her body language, she’s thinking about swatting me, too. But I’ll hit back, and a bride and maid of honor rolling around on the floor of the bridal salon pulling each other’s hair out would be tacky.

“Sweetie, calm down,” Jenn says. “Let me explain how this works. If men were interested in planning weddings, there’d be subscriptions to
Modern Groom
magazine. There aren’t. You do the math.”

Andy is about to slap her on the arm, but Jenn puts up her dukes. “Look, I have no shame in my condition. I’ll sit on you.”

Andy sighs heavily, then pulls a folded magazine page from her purse. “Look at this. It’s how to deal with various types of groom personalities.” Andy unfolds the paper and gives it to Jamie to read. Then she looks at me. “I’m thinking of calling it off.”

Knowing she does not mean that for a second, I provide the reassurance that she needs in her moment of insecurity and crisis. “And give up the one-and-a-half-carat ring?”

“If he really loved me, he’d show interest in the thing I was interested in,” Andy says, then points to the article Jamie’s reading. “Look at this one: ‘The “Take Charge” Groom.’ This is a man who is so excited about his wedding, he is planning every detail, to the exclusion of his lovely bride.”

“This is a man who hasn’t come out yet,” my brother says.

To which my father yells from the doorway, “Will you guys stop it with that! I’m not gay!” I look over, and there are my parents. My father is holding a big silver wrapped box, which I’m going to guess is Andy’s first wedding gift.

He hands it to her as I ask, “What are you doing here?”

“Your mom wanted to get a man’s opinion of what you’re wearing. Plus, she offered to buy me lunch afterwards.”

Andy opens the present. It’s a maroon dust ruffle. My father beams. “I found it at Bloomingdales! Now you don’t have to fight about it anymore!”

Andy bursts into tears. The day went downhill from there. Which led me to my final word of advice for my descendant:

If heredity is real—we’re both screwed.

Five

No one should have to wake up if the small hand is still on the left side of the clock.

I awaken at four
A.M
. Monday morning (the right side of the clock—which is even worse) to start my day. Bleary-eyed, I slam down the button on my alarm clock, then pick up the phone to call Drew.

He answers on the first ring with a frantic, “I’m up!”

“Good,” I say, suppressing a yawn and lighting a cigarette. “The P.A. is going to pick you up at four-forty precisely.”

“Got it. Call me back in fifteen minutes,” he orders, yawning, then hangs up on me.

I hang up the phone, putter over to my shower, quickly do the morning washing routine, then walk back to the phone and dial him at 4:20.

“I’m up!”

“I gave you five extra minutes,” I tell Drew.

“Christ, I need water.”

“Are you hung over?” I ask as I rub moisturizer into my face.

“No,” he says indignantly. “Maybe. What’s it mean when a woman says she’s not looking for a relationship?”

“It means, ‘Talk me into it.’”

“Damn, that’s what I thought. So much for a port in Maui.”

I light another cigarette, and jot down in my book:

There’s no such thing as free sex. Eventually you pay for it.

A woman pays for it differently than a man—we wait by the phone, and fill ourselves with self-loathing—but it’s still a universal.

“Which P.A.’s picking me up?” Drew asks, cutting into my thoughts.

“Madison, I think.”

“Is that a guy or a girl?”

“Guy.”

“Then five more minutes,” Drew says, and hangs up.

Three calls later, and we’re all on our way to Stage 8 of the 20th Century Fox lot.

I love being on sets. It’s like being at Disneyland. There’s something about walking into an old haunted house, or a Park Avenue walkup, or a Christmas village—complete with snow and glittery ice—that reminds me of the sense of magic and wonder I had as a kid.

On this particular set, for the movie
In My Heart,
there’s fake snow and glitter everywhere. It’s a romantic comedy, and the stage is decorated to look like Christmas in an East Coast sea village.

As I walk on the set, I am dusted with glitter—literally. It rains down from above.

“Sorry Charlie!” I hear one of the art department guys yell.

“No problem, George. Good morning!” I say brightly as I step over some wide cables and head to Craft Service to pick up my morning coffee.

This is where I see Jordan Dumaurier sipping a coffee with several of the crew guys.

There’s no such thing as a perfect man.

Jordan is perfect. Have you ever seen a young Parker Stevenson in old
Hardy Boys
reruns? Jordan looks so much like him, that on the first day of the shoot, several girls on set checked the call sheet to make sure his last name wasn’t Stevenson. (This is Hollywood. You never know. I remember years ago telling this actor named Ty that he was a dead ringer for Tyrone Power. Turns out Ty’s full name was Tyrone Power Jr. Oops.)

Anyway, Jordan’s last name was Dumaurier—no relation to anyone famous. Jordan Dumaurier. Hmm. Charlize Dumaurier. A bit “character from
All My Children,
” but you know, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

Jordan’s the film’s still photographer, which means he takes pictures of the actors during rehearsals. Those pictures are then used for press kits and the DVD box. It also means he has lots of time to talk throughout the day. Which is what he is doing at this very moment.

“Man—you’re wrong! Magic Johnson is the best player of all time,” Jordan says as I pour myself a cup of coffee, eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Dude,” Keenan, a beefy grip, argues, “wrong MJ—Michael Jordan. Five MVPs and six championship rings. And if he hadn’t taken time off to play baseball, he’d have eight rings instead of six.”

I sneak over to them with my coffee. I stare at the ground and try to remember how to breathe. It’s stupid, I know, but every time I get around this guy, I feel like a geeky little teenager with braces and bad skin.

“You’re both wrong. What about Wilt?” Jeff, the focus puller, vehemently disagrees. “One hundred points in a single game. He
averaged
fifty points a game one year.” Jeff turns to me. “Help me out here, Charlie.”

Reminds me to write in my book:

Most women have no interest in sports. Don’t apologize for it.

“Um…,” I say, looking down at my shoes nervously. Damn it! Say something witty, something really clever….

“Charlie’s got my back on this,” Jordan says brightly. “She knows Magic could’ve led the league in scoring if he’d wanted to. He made everybody on the team better. Plus, Magic played against better competition. How many rings did Michael win before Magic and Bird retired? Just one. And Wilt only won two his whole career.” I look up timidly to see he’s smiling the most gorgeous smile, and looking
right at me
. (Yikes!) “That’s what you were going to say, right?”

“Uh…I think Johnson was quite good,” I say weakly.

“Charlie! How can you agree with him?” Keenan lays into me. “Michael never had big-time players around him in the early days. He wasn’t just a big scorer, either—Rookie of the Year, Defensive Player of the Year, thirteen All-Star games—and he was still a star at age forty.”

Okay, when guys start quoting sports statistics, all I hear is “Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, blah.” But to point that out right now might not be clever and cute, so instead I nearly whisper, “Well, you make a valid point, too.”

“Check back in five years and you’ll all be wrong.” I hear Drew next to me as he puts his arm around my shoulder. “Check back in five years and, one word, LeBron.”

There’s a round of “Hey Drew”s and “How’s it going?”s.

“Splendid,” Drew tells them. “Had a sweet weekend in Maui
and
this really hot girl called me from out of the blue. I’m thinking of taking her to the wrap party next week.”

Uh-oh. “What girl?” I ask nervously, hoping to God it’s not Dawn.

“Cool,” Keenan says. “Is she J. Lo hot or Britney hot?”

“She’s ‘makes Halle Berry look like Hattie McDaniel’ hot.”

Shit.

We get one “cool” from Jordan, a “sweet” from Jeff, and a “daaammmnnn,” from Keenan, followed by an appreciative high-five for Drew.

“Thanks,” Drew says as he high-fives Keenan. “I’ve got to get to Makeup. But Jordan, I have a question for you. I’m having a little dinner party this Thursday night after work. Are you available as a photographer for some candids?”

I can tell from the look on Jordan’s face that he thinks the question is a bit odd, but he’s not about to say no to the film’s star. “Yeah, sure.”

“Great. It’s at my house, seven o’clock. There will be an hors d’oeuvres hour, followed by a three-course meal—should be over around midnight. A thousand dollars enough?”

Jordan’s eyes nearly bug out. “Are you kidding? That’s great.”

My eyes, on the other hand, have narrowed into suspicious little slits. I stare at Drew as he leads me away, yelling over his shoulder to Jordan, “Charlie will give you the address. Dress up a little—I want you to be a guest as well, so the other guests feel relaxed enough for pictures.”

When we’re far enough away, I say under my breath, “What dinner party? I don’t have anything scheduled for you.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna need you to arrange a dinner party for me,” Drew says cheerfully. “Come with me to my trailer.”

We get to Drew’s trailer, and Drew walks in ahead of me. As I enter, a palm frond smacks me in the face.

“Careful,” Drew warns me a second too late.

I instinctively grab my face to check for blood, then step into Drew’s trailer, newly decorated to look like a native Hawaiian hut from the 1800s.

“Aloha,” Drew says, smiling wide as he puts a purple pikake lei over my head, and kisses me on the cheek. “Do you like what I’ve done with the trailer? Pretty cool, huh?”

I put my hands on my hips and look around. The walls are adorned with palm fronds and flowers, grass mats cover the floors, old koa wood rocking chairs replace his plush purple couches, and slack-key guitar music is being piped in from God knows where.

“It’s very…striking,” I say delicately. “What did you do with your old couches?”

Drew opens a small refrigerator and hands me a premade Mai Tai. “I moved them to my house. Why? Do you want them?”

“Yes,” I say immediately. They are $10,000 dark purple velvet couches that he had made when he found out his chakras were purple, and decided to redo his trailer all in purple in order to have his surroundings be more in harmony with his chakra. That would be two weeks ago. If it weren’t for Drew’s constant quest for spiritual fulfillment (always accompanied by a frenzy of redecorating), I wouldn’t have any furniture in my house. That’s another benefit of working for a movie star—all the free castoffs.

Drew turns on some electric tiki torches and little plastic tiki dancers that remind me of the Brady Bunch visiting Hawaii. He stretches his arms out wide, basking in his new surroundings. “Oh, I love the feeling you get when you’re in Hawaii. It’s so spiritual!”