Ginny Blue's Boyfriends (22 page)

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Authors: Nancy Kelly

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I ended up working like a Trojan wrapping the Sedona job for the rest of the week. My attention was split because my new snail of a production coordinator wasn’t exactly blazing through pre-pro on the Tuaca job. The truth was she wasn’t worth shit, which put me in a bind. I was forced to complain to Holly, who told me to do whatever I wanted. Thanks a lot, I thought. I tried nicely to fire Barb the Snail but she broke down and cried and promised serious improvement. Softy that I am, I ended up giving her a second chance. By the time I moved my full attention to the Tuaca job, production was in such a state of chaos that it was still in shambles after several twenty-hour days. Barb the Snail turned out to also be Barb the Whiner. By the end of the week I was teetering on the verge of a breakdown.
When Saturday morning rolled around all I wanted to do was sleep. I didn’t think I had the time and energy to meet with my friends. I tried to beg off on the phone but Jill yelled at me that I had promised. I yelled back that it was work, okay? Then, before things turned truly vicious I suddenly capitulated. What the hell. I needed the break. I’d make up the time some other way.
My phone rang just as I was leaving the condo. Debating answering it, I checked caller ID only to see an “out of state” message. I touched the green answer key and said cautiously, “Hello?”
“I caught you at home.” Kristl’s voice was full of happy disbelief. “I was just going to leave a message rather than bother you on your cell.”
Since when had she gotten so solicitous? “How’s life in the Emerald City?” I asked.
“Where? Oh. Seattle. Yeah, that’s true. It always reminds me of
The Wizard of Oz.
It’s going great. I’m working at a bar around the corner and Brandon’s been really busy at the office.”
“What does he do?”
“I don’t know. His company makes widgets of some kind for computers.” She sounded inordinately bored. “I just wanted to check in.”
“Nothing new here, really. Work. Oh. My mom’s coming to stay with me. She’s getting her eyes done in LA.”
“Really? When?”
“Sometime next week, I think, but I’m on another job so I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
We talked along in the same vein for a while, then Kristl said she had to go. I could tell she was wistful. I wanted to ask her about wedding plans but held my tongue. I did manage to tell her Jill and Ian were engaged. She rallied briefly. I think it made her feel good to have someone in the same boat as she was, but by the time we hung up I got the distinct impression things weren’t going well up north.
I arrived at Sammy’s to find Daphne was the only one of my friends already there. Before I could even greet her, she said, “I went to see Dr. Dick! You were right, Blue. He’s sooooo fabulous.”
Instantly I felt threatened. “Told you he was,” I sniffed snottily.
“Oh, my God. He wears these pressed jeans. I’ve never been a really huge denim fan. I mean, apart from a Gap item or two. But then I saw Dr. Dick. Oh, my God,” she said again.
I snatched up a menu and buried my nose in it. I know Sammy’s menu backwards and forwards but I had to feign total absorption or scream. I hate these selfish moments. They’re so juvenile. It seems so wrong to have to school myself into behaving like an adult, but the truth of the matter was I wanted to clap my hand over Daphne’s mouth and stop her from saying one more nice thing about Dr. Dick.
“I’m following the plan,” Daphne went on, oblivious. “No more loser guys. I’m through with Leo. You were all right. I can’t be with someone who sleeps with an ex-girlfriend. It doesn’t matter why. I told Dr. Dick all about it. How we all decided to attack and address some of our worst failings.”
“I thought I was just reviewing the Ex-Files.”
“And fixing them,” Daphne declared, not to be dissuaded. “One by one, you said. How are you doing, by the way?”
“Just peachy.”
“Doesn’t really sound like it, from your tone,” Daphne pointed out.
“It’s going,” I said repressively.
“Dr. Dick commended us for our ‘group therapy’ tactics. Keeping things bottled up or avoiding looking at them or generally running away from them—that’s not healthy. We need to tell each other our true feelings. It’s the basis of communication.”
“Daphne,” I said, leaning forward. “You’re starting to piss me off.”
She blinked her blue eyes.
“I’ve talked to Dr. Dick, too. Maybe we shouldn’t discuss our sessions with him with each other.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” she said, relieved. “Everything I talked about—it’s nothing you haven’t heard. I told him that I always pick the wrong guys. But I told him I’m really paying attention to what’s important in a partner now. In fact, I made a list to keep me focused.” She suddenly snatched up her purse and started pawing through it. “Where is it ...”
“It’s okay,” I said weakly.
“
Voilà
!” She yanked a slip of paper from her purse triumphantly and thrust it at me. I had no choice but to take it, but all this talk of Dr. Dick was making me feel uncomfortable and contrary. I could barely glance at the words, although a few jumped out at me:
emotionally mature, don’t
’t
go for looks, hair is secondary to intelligence, kindness above attitude.
She could have been describing Mr. Rogers.
Instantly I wanted to kick myself. Of course those attributes were important. Did I want her to find another Leo? I was saved from spiraling into a true well of self-loathing by the arrival of CeeCee, and then Jill and Ian.
Ian. The
fucking
asshole.
Is it wrong of me to admit that I’ve never been a fan? The guy’s tall, decent-looking, intense and, to my mind, devoid of all humor. No, that’s not true. He finds those stupid kind of guy-things funny, which seems weird, being that he’s so narrow and sort of self-righteous. This isn’t to say he doesn’t have his moments. He does. It’s just that he and I are polar opposites, and we never seem to find a middle ground.
Ian inclined his head of dark hair my direction. “Ginny.”
I inclined my head back. “Ian.”
He said hello to everyone else and I did a silent, surreptitious inventory of my friends’ reactions. Daphne grinned wildly and said how happy she was to see him again and congratulations and wow, she was so excited for both of them. CeeCee shook Ian’s hand and said, “Nice job,” to which Jill beamed and Ian smiled. The guy does have nice teeth. His set rivals Daphne’s for overall whiteness, which is saying something. Jill gave me a sharp look and I forced myself to lie lightly, “I’m really amazed and glad you’re engaged.”
Ian shot me a look. “Are you?”
The
fucking
asshole. He’s nothing, if not perceptive, damn him. Well, I probably deserved that. I searched my feelings, thought about going for honesty over niceness, caught the thunderous, warning look on Jill’s face and lied again, “You bet.”
Daphne launched into tales about Dr. Dick, and CeeCee started tapping her fingers and looking around, ready for a smoke. The waiter took our order before she catapulted from her chair and headed outside. I wanted to follow and hear the latest on her affairs at the station, but abandoning Jill-Ian on their first public outing since the engagement wouldn’t have gone over well.
So, I suffered. I wanted to be happy for Jill. I really did. And I don’t think this was marriage-envy or anything like that on my part. God, I hoped not. I think I’d just lost the ability to believe that tying the knot will help a dicey relationship. Ninety-nine percent of the time it seems to ruin everything. But even couples who KNOW what their problems are still seem intent on getting to the altar. Marriage above all else.
We all made small talk instead of real conversation; a function of having Ian with us. I watched as Jill made a serious attempt to eat her breakfast of fruit, a poached egg, wheat toast, and black coffee. She managed the coffee and a teensy little bit of fruit. Feeling my eyes on her, she placed a big bite of egg and toast in her mouth and rolled it around awhile. I was afraid to think of what that bite of food looked like by the time she managed to choke it down. She glared at me in a way that said, “Happy now?” to which I started laughing.
“What?” she demanded.
“You know,” I told her, and everyone at the table looked at us askance but neither of us explained.
I tried to engage CeeCee in some conversation about the radio station but she seemed as remote as a distant star. I didn’t take her in-person absence personally; she clearly was just someplace else. I did ask in an aside if she still wanted to chew on her boss’s eyelashes. She managed to engage long enough to state flatly, “No.”
I didn’t take it as a good sign.
I was thinking how Ian’s appearance had taken the fun “girl” thing out of our meeting and wondering if I could vamoose anytime soon when Daphne launched into her session with Dr. Dick to the half-hearted listening pleasure of the whole group. I mumbled an excuse about getting ready for my mother’s visit and lammed out. As much as I love my girlfriends, sometimes it’s just plain hard to be social.
 
 
The Tuaca job started with a bang. Literally. I had barely gotten to set when one of the production trucks backfired so loudly some of the serious security people hit the deck as if we were being attacked. I was on the walkie to Will and froze midsyllable. “What the fuck was that?” he demanded. He was down on the canal, setting up a shot.
“Backfiring,” I told him, though at that point I wasn’t really too sure. My heart was doing a raging gallop across my chest.
“Huh,” he responded and clicked off.
I checked to see that everyone was alive and well and then told one of the PAs to drive that truck back to the rental agency and get another. Nerves tended to get frayed on a job no matter what; I had no time for faulty equipment.
Barb treated me like Beelzebub incarnate though I was trying extra hard to make things work between us. She resented that I’d assigned her the catering duty and she’d hired a group who delivered great food but ran around like Keystone Cops, forgetting everything from plastic forks to cups to chairs. Their disorganization was a thing to behold. PAs were picking up paper plates and napkins all afternoon that swirled around in their wake.
By three o’clock the team was already frazzled and there were days and days of work still ahead of us. I got off about eleven that night and celebrated by cracking open a bottle of Tuaca as I walked to my front door. “To you, to me, Tuaca!” I declared as I took a gulp at the same moment I threaded my key in the door. I didn’t have time for heavy drinking, but a sampling of the product definitely seemed in order.
To my shock the door suddenly flung open from the inside. “Jesus,” I sputtered, the second before I realized it had to be my mother, arriving from the north. She’s the only one who has the key.
A moment later my jaw dropped. Standing in front of me was not the smiling, real estate maven Lorraine Bluebell, but a man about my own age, whose lips were pulled into a smile of greeting behind his neat, reddish-gray beard.
It was Don the Devout. Ex-File Number Five.
“Good God,” I said fervently.
Chapter
14
“S
till taking the name of the Lord in vain?” Don chided me gently.
My initial surprise turned to irritation. Don clearly hadn’t changed one iota since I’d bolted from our relationship, practically screaming. I wanted to point out that it had been
he
who’d howled out the Lord’s name in frenzied, panting lust the last time we’d made love. If that’s not in vain, what is? But I managed to hold my tongue. Barely. After a moment of silence while we sized each other up, I tipped up the Tuaca bottle and swallowed a long draft. Wiping the top of the bottle with my sleeve, I asked, “Want some?”
“No, thank you.” Don was the picture of strained politeness.
Mom appeared from behind him at that moment. “Virginia!” she greeted me in delight, her eyes taking in my bottle of Tuaca and my generally scraggly appearance in one sweeping glance. But she was too happy to see me to comment on it.
She reached out and hugged me close. She smelled great, but she nearly bowled me over with her big-ass purse. A green one. Satiny. With a thick gold lock on the front that worked as its clasp. She explained, “I called Don and he said he was going to be in LA while I was here, so I invited him over.”
“Oh. Goody.”
Don added, “I bought a Jeep dealership in San José. I’m looking around down here, too.”
I scrutinized him some more. The hair on his head had decidedly more gray in it than his beard.
Jesus, are all my exes going gray?
I thought in horror. This could seriously reflect on me. A moment later I dismissed the idea. The problem was more likely that I simply picked the wrong kind of man. Poor genes. Early aging.
Don’s blue eyes regarded me as critically as I regarded him. I said, as an icebreaker, “You’re a used car salesman?”
“Only you would make a comment like that,” he responded on a sigh, turning to look at my mother. They had a pact, I saw. They were the adults; I, the errant child. Well, okay. If that was the game, I was up for it. I tipped up my bottle of Tuaca again, keeping one eye on the two of them as I chugalugged.
“I’ve invited Don to stay with us for a while,” Mom said. “He can have the extra room and you and I can share your bed.”
I choked, sputtered, and spit out half of my last gulp. Eyes tearing, I said in a faint rasp, “I’ll take the couch.”
“You don’t mind?” Mom asked, concerned.
Mind? How could I possibly mind? My mother and one of my least favorite Ex-Files were moving in with me.
I said to Don, “God giveth and God taketh away.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
My mother, bless her soul, looked faintly amused. She coughed delicately into her fist to hide a smile. “I like your hair,” I said. She’d cut it into a pageboy style. It was streaky blonde.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Don demanded again. He really had no sense of humor.
“I’m not the one who knows all about religion,” I said, all innocence. “You tell me.”
I thought it was a good exit line so I headed for the stairs.
 
 
Two days later I watched morosely as the camera arm tilted downward like a loose noodle over the faux Venetian gondola. Faulty equipment. One of our PAs was on his way to the camera rental store for a replacement, but we were already way behind schedule. And the time wasted had put Will in a dark mood, which made it impossible for anyone to talk to him.
This was too bad, as I’d developed a serious crush on him. While I worked in the makeshift trailer-office my thoughts were definitely X-rated when it came to Will. Like Dr. Dick, he wore jeans. They were tight enough across his derriere to warrant drooling; loose enough to allow for the bending and stretching he needed to film. He wore white shirts with sleeves rolled up the forearms and basic sneakers. His dark hair called to me. I ached to dig my fingers through it. I didn’t have any desire to chew on his eyelashes but I had various other things in mind.
Lots
of various other things in mind.
None of it was a good idea, but I’d moved past my own lengthy list of reasons not to get involved with someone I worked with.
Tom was back at the main office and therefore I was short of Jolly Ranchers. I could have used something to occupy my mouth and tongue; watching Will without kissing, licking, and tasting him left me in an overall unsatisfied state that I really didn’t have time for.
“What are you looking at?” Barb asked.
“My past,” I said. I liked to keep our conversation to a minimum.
She frowned and went back to work. My comment had been the truth. Will really did hold a disturbing resemblance to Ex-File Number Six, Mark McGruder. Black Mark. Even though Lang, Mr. Famous Actor, was the Ex-File I didn’t like to count; Black Mark was the one I never wanted to talk about. It was embarrassing for me to admit I’d stayed with him as long as I did. Maybe it was because he crossed my path directly after Don the Devout. Maybe that’s why I needed to be with someone so totally wrong for me. Black Mark drank like a sailor and swore like one, too. He didn’t beat me or threaten me or hurt me in any way, but he was damn scary when he was drunk, which, as I’ve said before, was all the time. I’d just come off a year and a half with Don the Devout, who was the first Ex-File after the Lang fiasco. At first Don had been fine. Like a Holiday Inn: no surprises. But toward the end all his genuflecting and “grateful to God on high” stuff wore me down. I can handle anything—almost—in moderation. But I’m the kind of person who thinks religion matters most when it’s kept personal and private. Don was the polar opposite. He was all about religion all the time. No time off for good behavior. No time off for bad behavior. No time off, period. I found myself looking for excuses to break dates. One time I made an appointment to have my teeth cleaned, just to be busy, and it was well within my six months between visits. My dentist seriously worried I was developing a fetish. He still scrutinizes the dates of my appointments, making sure I’m not coming in too often. Go figure.
Anyway, one day I just broke.
It was while I was cooking dinner for Don and myself. Not that making the “family meal” was a regular occurrence for me. Far from it. But Don had gotten some kind of promotion at work, so it was something of a special occasion. I was using the Cutco knife my mother had bought me the Christmas before and let me tell you, those things are sharp. Early into the evening Don began watching the level of the wine bottle, as he’d become increasingly concerned about my intake. If anyone did that to me now, I’d kick his butt out the door, but at the time I was deeply committed to my dysfunctional relationship and I’d simply learned to circumvent his eagle-eyed observance. It was a game to me, and I learned to sneak extra drinks when his back was turned. Looking back, it’s amazing to me that I didn’t turn into a raging alcoholic during this period. So, while he carefully poured us glasses of wine from one of the two labels of Syrah he would deign to drink, I poured myself generous helpings from a secret, second bottle—one of the cheapest, most unsophisticated Cabernets that Sav-On had to offer—hidden in a lower cupboard. I would mix my Syrah and my Cabernet and smack my lips in satisfaction. Yes, I have no palate. Don and I did not live together, though he made noises to that effect—to the point of hinting of marriage—so I was able to keep up this strange double life for quite a while.
I was already mildly inebriated when he came over that fateful night. And with Cutco knife in hand, I was unprepared when Don suddenly came up behind me and began nuzzling my neck. One accidental swipe and I damn near sliced off my finger. I said, without the proper shock and concern, “I see a trip to the emergency room in my future.”
Don gazed in horror at the blood welling from the tip of my middle finger. Then he looked me right in the face. “You’re drunk!”
“Buzzed,” I corrected.
“You’re drunk. And you’ve nearly cut your finger off!” With rapid, angry movements he yanked off several sheets of paper towels and wrapped them around my hand. He hustled me out to the car. I felt very sheepish and small at first, and it didn’t help when the nurses and staff at the ER gave me sidelong glances. Please note, this was not because they necessarily thought I was drunk. It was because Don
told
them I was drunk. But trust me on this, my little cleaving action had sobered me up like yesterday.
Anyway, the doctor came in, numbed my finger with Lidocaine and stitched me up. Don and I were back at my tiny apartment within the hour. I braced myself for further remonstrations as Don regarded me like a recalcitrant child. He said, “Virginia, what am I going to do with you?”
I don’t know about you, but any man who wonders what he’s going to do with me is asking to have his lights punched out.
I said, succinctly, “I just had a message from God. He thinks it’s time for you to go home.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
I watched him settle himself on the couch, his jaw tight. I headed for my bedroom, threw some clothes in a suitcase, then marched to the door.
Don smiled patiently and said, “You’re not leaving,” as if I couldn’t possibly walk out on him, great guy that he was.
I extended my bandaged middle finger toward him in the time-honored way, then slammed the door behind me. This created a bit of a problem, as I’d slammed out of my own apartment, but Don eventually vacated and I made certain he took all of his belongings with him.
For the briefest of periods I was alone. Boyfriendless. A little scared.
And then I met Mark.
Don had definitely left me questioning my alcohol intake. Was I drinking too much? It was definitely not a good sign to hide alcohol consumption. I mean, that must be rule number one on the deadly signs of alcoholism. Could I be on the path to ruination, so help me God?
Well, I’m here to tell you, after a few months with Mark McGruder I could probably apply for sainthood—in the matter of my alcohol consumption as compared to his—and at least be considered.
The night I met Mark I was out with Jill and Ian. This was maybe five or six years ago. We were kind of into that Lord of the Dance thing and we’d gone to a St. Patrick’s Day party at a local bar that had dancers performing all weekend long. Mark was there with some buddies, drinking Guinness. He made a few sneering comments about the dancers, more amusing than truly horrifying, and I was so happy to be around someone who possessed a sense of humor that I overlooked the fact that he was making fun of them. I took one look at Mark—his dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, and strong biceps—and thought, “Mine.” He was the antithesis of Don. Wild. Sexy. Walking with the devil.
And Black Mark possessed a killer smile. I mean, killer.
Jill and I had started out with green beer; Ian, Irish coffee. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Someone said something about kegs and eggs, and we were suddenly having breakfast with huge glass mugs of Guinness. Jill was struggling with everything. I wasn’t as keenly aware of her eating habits then, and I put her pickiness down to an overall fussiness about food. She was a fledgling caterer at the time, working for a big company that did megaevents. I was a production coordinator/production assistant, which means I was doing two jobs with minimal pay.
Mark squinched himself onto my barstool. We teetered precariously, but I was breathless. Jill-Ian left me alone, though Jill shot me interested looks from time to time. I was just enjoying the hell out of myself.
Mark said, “You have a boyfriend, don’t you.”
“Nope. Had. Over. Completely.”
“Ahhh ...” He picked up my tone and grinned like a satyr. I grinned back over the top of my Guinness. When I set it down he reached a thumb to my lip, wiped off a bit of foam, then sucked that thumb hard, all the time watching me. Overt? You bet. Effective? Darn-tootin’.
We were at his place by one-thirty. My hands were clawing at him as we ground together on his couch, first with all our clothes, and then finally with none. Mark growled and thrust and generally lived out some kind of primal mating ritual. I was right there, digging and yanking with my hands, pulling his lips with my teeth. It was wild. Unabashed. Deeply satisfying. I came over and over again, and so did Mark.
So began our relationship.
So began the daily drinking on his part, the teetotaling on mine.
So began the yelling, shrieking, slamming of doors, and punching of walls.
We lasted five months, two days, and nine hours. It was about five months and two days too long. And maybe a few hours ...
I came back to my apartment one night and fell into bed and slept and slept and slept. I slept all weekend. Then I slept all week. On a Saturday night I lifted my head to the sound of my blasting, ringing phone. Mark was on the other end of the line, drunk, querulous, and horny.
I hung up and slept some more.
Jill told me later that she had a dream about me the first night I met Mark. In the dream, she said, I looked her right in the eye and said, “Don’t tell me. I already know. But I have to do this.”

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