I'm with Cupid (13 page)

“Um,” continued Corliss, smiling at Olga as if there wasn't a man in emotional freefall standing in front of them, “I do have some good news, Max. This is Olga Rachmoninoff—Legend's new nanny.”

Max looked at Olga strangely. And then, bit by bit, the color came back into his face, and he stood up tall and began to smooth his hair out. He went from a stark raving madman to the picture of serenity in about a minute. Once again, Corliss was amazed at the effect Olga had on people.

Max then extended his hand, and in his dreamiest, most low and resonant and not-girly voice—and with what looked to Corliss like a twinkle in his eye—he said, “Charmed to meet you.”

Anushka sat just outside the front door of the café in Hummer blackout shades, dangerously short cutoffs, and an old Johnny Depp T-shirt she'd bought on Melrose. She was twirling an unlit cigarette. She didn't smoke anymore, but she was still addicted to twirling them. It's what she did when she didn't know what else to do. And since she wasn't in any of the scenes they were shooting today, she was trying to keep herself out of trouble. That's why she'd called Corliss to come into town on her lunch break.

Several photographers flew by in their cars, grabbing shots of her with their high-powered lenses while leaning out of their windows on Beverly Boulevard. A few feet away, a waiter pretended he didn't know who she was, but Anushka sensed he was actually the person who'd alerted the paparazzi. She stuck her tongue out at them as they sailed by. Of course, she knew her manager would call her up when the photos appeared and yell at her for not letting them take some flattering pics, but Anushka didn't care. Not today. She was several iced teas down and in a foul mood. She'd been text-messaging Rocco's cousin Patrizio for the last two hours and he hadn't gotten back to her. This never happened. Boys
always
got back to Anushka.

She wanted to stuff her face with a chocolate chip muffin, she was so angry. But she didn't. She crumpled the cigarette and ordered another iced tea refill. When it arrived, she looked at her phone. Corliss was supposed to have been there over a half hour ago. It wasn't like her to be late. Why was the entire world failing her today, she wondered. Just as Anushka was poised on storming off in a huff, Corliss jogged up to the table.

“I'm
so
sorry, Anushka,” she said frantically. “Legend has a new nanny and I've been filing the paperwork all morning. Max has got a confidentiality clause like you wouldn't believe! If you work for him you're never allowed to say the word
fake
in his presence or point out how many times he looks at his hair in the course of a day.”

“Whatevs,” said Anuhska, “I was fine here by myself being pestered by paparazzi—my only friends.”

“Listen,” said Corliss, “I'm sorry I've been so busy lately and we haven't had a chance to hang out outside of work to do, you know, girl stuff. It's just been one of those nutso periods where work and, um, other things are all mushing together into one great big ball of, um, obligation. Like a cheese ball with too many expectations.”

“Whatevs.” Anushka shrugged and pretended like she didn't care. “Look, I'm just bummed because I met Rocco's totally hot cousin Patrizio at the Emmys and we exchanged digits, swapped a little spit, whatev—and now he won't get back to me? Me! Anushka Peters!” More paparazzi flew by. Anushka tore off her Hummers and crossed her eyes.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Anushka. I saw you two—and he was really gorgeous.” Corliss fanned herself. “What an Italian stallion—phew!”

“Enough about
my
rotten love life. How goes yours? If it isn't
at least
as bad as mine I'm going to be really pissed off. Ha!”

Corliss laughed. “Just as bad—no worries. But I have hopes . . .”

Anushka leaned in. “Tell, tell!”

Corliss bit her lip. “Okay, but this is just between you and me, okay?”

“I swear on Orlando Bloom.”

“Wow,” said Corliss, impressed. “I know how you feel about him so I guess you're serious. The thing is this: I need girl advice—about love. Uncle Ross comes close, but he's not the real deal.”

“I'm all ears, girl. Bring it.”

“Okay, so my thing for JB?” Anushka nodded. “Our not-exactly-a-date thing at the Emmys was a total disaster, but even so, I asked him to go putt-putt golfing with me Friday night!”

“Sounds hot,” said Anushka, sticking her finger down her throat like she was making herself retch.

“Anyway, I don't know if it's a date-date or a friend-hang.” Corliss lifted and lowered her hands like a scale measuring the possibilities of each scenario. “Date-date” she sent the scales up and “friend-hang” she sent the scales down. “And frankly all this mystery is making me a little impatient. What's a girl from Indiana-no-place to do?”

Anushka sat back in her chair and tapped one perfect fingernail on her perfect chin. “Hmmm . . .” she mused. “Here's what I think, Cor. And I want you to listen closely.” Anushka knew she had to be succinct with Corliss, whom she judged to be about middle-school level when it came to dating. “It's very simple: You have to pounce.”

“Pounce?!” Corliss shouted. “I can't pounce, Anushka! It's Corliss Meyers you're talking to here. I never left the house until a few months ago! I didn't even go to my prom—I watched it on Web simulcast from under my covers! I couldn't possibly pounce. Sheesh!”

“Cor, listen to me. These boys don't know
what
they want. And we gotta tell 'em. Ya hear? We give them all this power, pretend they should be the ones to make the moves, but take it from Anushka. After the first date if there ain't nuttin' going on, I
make sure
something's going on. Or I'm outta there.”

“But how? When? And what do I wear!” Corliss was drenched in sweat.

“Calm down, hot pants. The prescription for pouncing can be found in three words: naked, champagne, hot tub.”

“Um,” said a terrified Corliss, “that's four words.”

“Whatevs. Get him drunk, get him dunked, and get the deed done.”

Corliss shivered. “Uncle Ross has a hot tub at the house, but . . .” Anushka thought she heard Corliss's teeth rattling. “ . . . but I don't know if I can do that . . .”

“Suit yourself, Cor. But let me ask you this: Do you want a year's worth of Friday nights spent at putt-putt golf?” Corliss shook her head no. “Okay, then. Do as Mama Anushka says. And tell that waiter dude you want that muffin to go. I've got an appointment at Pat's Tats to get a little star inked behind my ear. I've scheduled an appointment for you, too—as a gift.”

Corliss's eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

“Totally. I even came up with a design for you, too. It's real small, and real classy: a little arrow pointing to your cleavage and with the words THIS WAY TO LOVE.”

“WHAT?!”

“Kidding,” winked Anushka, pushing her boobs together as more paparazzi sailed by, cameras a-blazin'.

“But what does it matter?” pleaded Trent as he speared a fistful of rigatoni slathered in tomato sauce and dripping with squid. “We're getting married anyway, right? One night with me slobbering over your hot, naked body can't be that sinful, Tans . . .”

But lately Tanya wasn't so sure she
wanted
him slobbering over her hot, naked body. Ever since she'd accepted his proposal, he seemed to grow up before her eyes, less and less like a sun-kissed beach boy and more and more like . . . her father. Kind of thick in the middle and jowly. “You sure you should be eating carbs this late?” she asked, crinkling her face, more than a little worried about his waistline. “I mean, we did get the tux measurements and it would be so not hot if you came down the aisle all, like, porkin'. Maybe we should call Jenny Crai—”

Trent slammed down the forkful of rigatoni. “Jeez, Tans, avoid my question why dontcha? And no, we are not calling Jenny! I got ribbed enough for being on that housewife diet. Now I just eat sensibly and make sure my glycemic load is, like, low.” He looked really miffed.

“Sorry,” Tanya pouted, moving some hair from his eyes in a tender gesture, knowing how big his ego could sometimes be. She never forgot that he was once a total player, breaking hearts up and down the coast. That he'd chosen her above all others still seemed miraculous to her. And miracles came from Jesus.

“Look, Trent, we've set the wedding date—and it's only a month away. I know it's hard to wait for this . . .” She opened her arms wide to show him her taut, sinuous body, which at the moment was showcased in a clingy Onna Ehrlich top that hugged her like wet paint. “But just think of how good it will be when you finally get to do me up and down!”

Trent's eyes pulsed with desire. He needed to quell his passion by putting something in his mouth—something with a low carb content. He signaled the waiter, who arrived at their table in a flash.

“Yes, Mr. Michaels, is there a problem?” the waiter said, all butt-kissy and ready to jump into action. “I notice you haven't touched your rigatoni di calamari.”

Trent took three quick breaths to calm himself down—and then adjusted his pants. “Uh, yeah, can you bring me the escargot appetizer and a glass of water and give this rigatoni to someone who, like, doesn't care if they're a porker? Maybe that dude over there?” said Trent, pointing in the direction of Tom Cruise.

“Escargot, eh?” the waiter asked knowingly, looking back and forth between Trent and Tanya. “Escargot are an aphrodisiac.” He gave the couple a sly wink.

“Is an aphrodisiac something that makes your hair all afro-y?” asked Tanya. “'Cause I just had mine straightened,” she said to Trent, “and I thought we were sharing.”

“Um,” said the waiter, looking dismayed, “an aphrodisiac is a food or beverage that stimulates the sex drive.”

“No!” shouted Trent. “I don't need anything that does that, for cryin' out loud! Bring me a PB&J!”

“Trent!” yelped Tanya. “That's all fat and sugar!”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Michaels,” said the waiter, looking suddenly very judgmental. “Our kitchen doesn't do grade-school cuisine.”

“Then whatever you got back there! No food that will get me horny!” The waiter was mystified. Tanya saw they were causing a scene.

“Trent,” Tanya said, leaning across the table to whisper, “you're obviously feeling the strain of my vow of celibacy. I think we need a prayer circle.” She took his hand. Then she took the waiter's hand. “Now you take Trent's hand.” The waiter did as he was told.

“Tans, why is this dude holding my hand?!”

“A prayer circle needs at least three people, Trent. Now lower your eyes and pray!”

“I don't wanna pray, Tanya. And to tell you the truth, the way you've been acting, I'm not so sure about this wedding business anymore!”

Tanya's jaw hit the ground. Sure, she'd been having her own doubts, but never once would she have considered postponing the wedding.

The waiter tried to move to another table, but Tanya wouldn't let go of him. “Trent, how can you say that? It's way too late for you to be having cold feet. I already got free sponsorship for our entire wedding from Virgin America!”

“Ha!” the waiter snorted. “Sorry,” he said immediately. “Um, can we pray now? I've got to serve Salma Hayek at table seven.”

Tanya nodded and looked up to heaven as she spoke. “Jesus, thank you for allowing us to have a prayer circle at the Ivy—which I just know would be one of your favorite restaurants if you weren't in heaven because you died for my sins. Make Trent strong until the day we get married—which is gonna happen!” She raised her voice for this last bit. “He loves me, Lord, but he's a total horndog. Amen.”

“Amen!” said the waiter, winking at Trent. He then scurried off to get Trent something lean and low-carb.

“Ohmygod,” said Tanya, peering into her salad. “Trent . . . do you see what I see in my salad?”

“Um . . . croutons?”

“No! Look at this leaf . . .” She plucked a baby spinach leaf from the bowl and passed it across the table so Trent could see what she saw. “All the little bumps on it form a face. And that face is the baby Jesus!”

Trent pondered the spinach leaf a moment, then turned white as a ghost. His mouth, which usually hung open, was down by his collar. His eyes quivered as if thousands of volts of electricity were coursing through him. “What's the baby Jesus doing in your salad, Tans?!”

“He's, like, looking up at me! And he looks so cute!”

“Tans, I'm really spooked. You know what this means?” She shook her head. “It means, like, you have a direct line to, like, God!”

“Wow . . . like, I've got God's private number or something?”

Trent nodded fearfully. His hay-colored hair grew damp with sweat. He pulled at his shirt as if he were jumping out of his skin. “I swear, Tans, I won't bother you about sex till we're married! I swear on this baby spinach salad where the baby Jesus is! Now let's get out of here. I'm not hungry anymore!” As he took her hand and they fled the Ivy, they were met at the curb by a dozen paparazzi, blinding them with flashes.

“Trent! Tanya!” they called. “Give us a smile! What's wrong? Why the rush?” The valets had Trent's Cruiser waiting, and he and Tanya were able to make a quick escape, tearing down Robertson. As they fled the scene, Tanya looked up to heaven and mouthed a silent thank-you to God.