Apron Anxiety (21 page)

As I start to clear the plates and prepare for dessert, Christopher Wagner makes his entrance. He’s my height, but burly and handsome, with a presence so strong and silent that it’s almost mystical. A shiver runs down my spine as I clumsily wipe my hands to shake his. We conspicuously check each other out and then I duck into the guest bathroom to inspect myself. I look in the mirror and it occurs to me that I just cooked for twelve strangers without breaking a sweat.
I did it
. My hair comes down and I dot my cheeks with pink blush. As I look at my reflection, I notice a little glow. For the first time in months, I feel pretty.

Back in the living room, the group has gathered to eat my vintage ivory coffee cake and smoke some jungle green marijuana. I’m already a little drunk, so I quietly decline. The room is collectively joyful from the combination of weed and sweets, and since no one is really listening, now seems like a good time to tell Dara and gang that I’m staying two weeks longer than planned to cover the Emmys. No one responds—which is to be expected from a bunch of stoned, self-obsessed showbiz types—and I don’t take it personally.

Christopher, who’s not even that high, then says, “Maybe you should stay another two months and rent out my place? I’m heading to New York till mid-October for work.” While I’m stunned at the prospect of sharing
anything
with someone so connected to my favorite series, and thoroughly enticed by
the prospect of shacking up at the exquisite El Royale, I’ll never be able to afford some famous screenwriter’s apartment. Predicated by the acknowledgment that it’s definitely out of my price range, I say I’d love to see it. And just like that, Christopher kills the rest of his cake and quickly jumps to his feet.

As we walk to his apartment at the opposite end of the hall, he stops in his steps and takes a long look at me. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I’m very attracted to you.…”
Ah, shit! He’s just trying to shag me?
This is not exactly the
hard
sell that I had in mind. I point to my engagement ring, shrug my shoulders, and suck back any sexual energy that I might have put out into the air.
No chance
.

He gets the point, and welcomes me into his big, beautiful two-bedroom apartment like nothing ever happened. It’s dreamy inside—arty and vast with Juliet balconies, high ceilings, crown moldings, and an eternity of rare books and black-and-white photography. It’s the apartment of a rich bohemian and a legit bon vivant. From his endless windows you can see a posh golf course, rows of charming bungalows, far past the canyons, and beyond the famous Hollywood sign.

And the kitchen! Pristine slate tiles, rows of copper pots, and a six-burner Viking stove. He has all the tools I’d ever need to advance as a cook. Watching me delight in his ramekins of Maldon salt and Italian olive oils, he calls from across the room, “So, you’re into cooking?” I tell him about my blog, and how, ironically, a chaotic life with a chef led me to a peaceful one in the kitchen. “I like that,” he says. “I’m a budding foodie, too.” Then we both agree we can’t stand that word.

As I relish every inch of the apartment, not just the stainless-steel skillets and saucers, he apologizes for a few scattered things that belonged to the last guy, “Paul,” whom he shared
the apartment with. He says the first and last name and my ears tweak. I fix my posture, raise an eyebrow, and flip my hair to one side. Wait. No. Is he talking about the star of the show he wrote, and easily my favorite actor? He is. Apparently, they had been roommates while Paul’s house in the Hills was being built. If I were to rent the place, I’d actually be sleeping in Paul’s bed. All I can think is that life is one big, amazing mindfuck.

“By the way, who’s your favorite food writer?” Christopher says with intensity, after the tour.

“Hmm, good question. Maybe Gael Greene? Did you know she slept with …”

“Okay, if I give you my apartment till fall, will you read some M. F. K. Fisher for me?”

“Yes,” I say, confused. “But I don’t think you realize just how broke I am.”

He seems too savvy to be one of those rich people who thinks everyone around them is cash happy, too, so I’m not sure what’s going on here.

“Well, what can you afford?”

“Like seven hundred dollars per month, at the most. And I’m sure this place is
much
more than that,” I say.

“Why don’t we sleep on it?”

“Okay.”

“Together?” he asks with a wink.

“No.”

By the time I get back to Dara’s, most of the guests are gone, including Shelley, who snuck off to a movie premeire after-party. Dara’s boyfriend is doing the dishes and convinces me to crash in the guest room. I’m now definitely drunk from a few glasses of dinner wine and a sherry at Christopher’s, and very tired, with no cash left for a cab back to Shelley’s anyway. I hate
to be an imposition, but I hate leaving the El Royale even more, so I comply.

As I draw a bath in the guest bathroom, I reflect on everything that happened tonight. I can’t believe how easy and breezy my first dinner party was. Maybe I do have a little bit of Jennifer in me after all. But now, I have some serious decisions to make. Subletting at the El Royale would mean extending my trip to three months. That’s a long time to be away from my life back in D.C. I’m already getting e-mails from my neighbors on C Street saying that since Chef has been away filming, our car has begun to drown in parking tickets and our garden is starting to rot. A depressing thought, but what can I do?

I haven’t even told Chef about the Emmys, and now our separation could last even longer. But I’ve made no progress in deciding what to do about my future with him. I want answers, but my mind won’t go there. It’s so difficult for me to compute that I’m in love him, yet I’ve lost faith in our future together. How can those two truths fight each other? All I know is that I still don’t know. I have so much to think about that the system has crashed.

Soaking in the tub, I close my eyes.
What is going on here? Dinner for twelve?
New York
magazine? Christopher Wagner? A six-burner Viking? My head on actor Paul’s king-size plush pillows?
I go straight from the bubble bath to the bed. My hair is wet, my skin smells like citrus, and after just two weeks in L.A., my body feels rounder, healthier, and more womanly. If there is anywhere in Hancock Park where one should sleep in the nude, pressed deep into bed, it’s at the El Royale.

When I wake up, the house is empty. Dara is off doing early-morning downward dogs; her wonderful boyfriend has left for the office. The house is once again spotless. On the dining-room
table sits the
Los Angeles Times, New York Times
, a pot of tea, my leftover coffee cake, a couple of crumbs, and an envelope addressed to me from Christopher Wagner. “The apartment is yours for the next few months. Cook a lot. Bake like crazy. Freeze me some! Pay whatever.”

And just like that, the script is written.