Misery Loves Cabernet (11 page)

“You don’t chew gum,” I point out, frowning, as I go through his expenses. I look up. “Seven hundred dollars for highlights?”

Drew continues his reading. “Really, I’m covering gray. Hairdressers gossip. Four hundred dollars of that is hush money.” His face lights up. “Do I eat shredded wheat?”

“No,” I answer. “Drew, why don’t you just have Vic cut your hair when you’re working?” I say, referring to Drew’s personal hair and makeup guy on every shoot. “Then it’s free.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose,” Drew says offhandedly. “Poor man has a very complicated life without me interfering, begging for a haircut. Has a bipolar boyfriend and an ex-wife with self-esteem issues.”

“The studio pays him about a thousand dollars a day when you’re shooting. For that kind of money, he can . . .” I think about Drew’s statement. “Vic has an ex-wife?”

Drew waves it off. “They dated back in college. Very few women have honed their gaydar in college. What’s probiotic fiber?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I can get a dollar off cottage cheese, as long as I don’t mind that they’ve added probiotic fiber.”

I pull the coupons away from him. “You’re not going to save twenty-five million dollars by saving a dollar on cottage cheese—which, by the way, you don’t eat. We need to get rid of some of your larger expenses. For example, you said you’d sell one of your cars. How about really saving money, and selling five of them?”

“But I have a garage for twelve,” Drew reasons.

“I have China for twelve, that doesn’t mean I’ll ever use it. You could get rid of the Ferrari, for example, not to mention the damn Koenigsegg.”

“The what?” Drew says, his face leaning into mine, trying to decipher the word.

“I may be pronouncing it wrong. The black car you bought in Vegas.”

Drew leans back and whines, “Oh, but that’s such a futuristic car . . .”

“That car cost you six hundred thousand dollars. The only future you’ll have with it is throwing buckets of money at it, and being afraid to drive it in rush hour traffic, or east of La Cienega. It needs to go.” I give him a list of his other cars. “Now I want you to choose five of the cars from this list that you want to keep. We sell the rest. Next up: staff. Who is Gladys?”

Drew looks at me blankly. “I don’t know a Gladys.”

“Well, she’s costing you eight hundred dollars a week.”

Drew furrows his brow, thinking. Finally, he yells aloud, “Gladys?!”

“Yes sir,” I hear from somewhere in his behemoth of a house.

“Well, there you go,” Drew says.

I try to suppress the urge to roll my eyes, but fail miserably. “Do you even need a maid here on Sundays?”

“Do I even need an assistant here on Sundays?”

“Apparently, yes!” I retort.

“Oh, right,” Drew concedes. Suddenly, he gets up and heads to his refrigerator. “I’m bored.”

As Drew pulls a bottle of Ace of Spades champagne from his refrigerator, I continue reading. “Why do you have three nutritionists on your payroll?”

“Each one lets me eat different things.”

I fight the urge to let my forehead fall into the palm of my hand. Again, I fail miserably. “Is that the same reason you have four different personal trainers?”

“One trainer, two masseuses, and Chris, the yoga instructor. You know, your stepdad.”

“He’s
not
my stepdad,” I say sternly.

“By the way, how are he and your Mom doing on the baby track?”

I look up, startled. “You know about that?”

“Oh, he’s been talking about it for months. Poor guy, shooting blanks. Thank goodness your dad is there to pinch-hit, if you know what I mean.”

I sigh. “You leave little to the imagination.”

Drew pops the cork on the champagne. “I’m toying with the idea of buying a castle in Ireland. Any thoughts?”

None that I can say aloud if I want to keep my job.

Two hours, three pieces of Nicorette, and a glass of overpriced champagne later, I have put Drew on a budget he is sure to ignore by this evening, and made my way home.

As I pull up to my driveway, I see a dozen pink roses in a glass vase on my doorstep.

And my heart floats.

I recently wrote to my great-granddaughter:

It’s better to receive a single rose from a man at your door than a dozen roses delivered to your office. The single rose comes from a man who took the time to pick the rose. The other comes from the man’s assistant calling the florist. Always treasure a man’s time more than his money
.

But since Jordan is more than five thousand miles away, I race out of my car and over to the flowers excitedly. I pick up the vase, and smell the slightly budding blooms. Ah . . . bliss.

I rip open the card.

Thank you so much for all your help. I owe you dinner in Paris.

Best,

Liam

Sigh. I’ve been bested. Not that I expected
Love, Liam
or anything. But an
xoxo
would have been nice.

Oh well. I still got flowers from a hot guy. How many women can say that today? I bring the flowers inside, and check my answering machine. My machine tells me, “You have five messages.”

I hit
PLAY
.

“Message one,” the automated voice continues. “Sent at 12:52
P.M.
”

“Hey, it’s Kate. I have big news. Call me back. Bye.”

“I have big news.” Argh. She sent me a text saying, “I have big news,” when I was at Drew’s, but I ignored it. The last time she had “big news,” I dropped everything to call her and find out she got front row tickets to “Former Olympians on Ice.”

“Message two,” the automated voice continues. “Sent at 12:54
P.M.
”

“Damn it! I can’t get ahold of you on your cell. I’ve called and sent you an e-mail,” Kate continues excitedly. “Call me back!”

Well, okay, maybe it is big.

“Message three. Sent at 2:07
P.M.
”

“Oh fuck,” Dawn says. “I just got Kate’s messages. Call me back.”

“Message four. Sent at 2:20
P.M.
”

“I just talked to your parents. Hoped you were there, but you weren’t,” Kate says, her face practically beaming over the phone. “Call me back.”

She called my parents? Shit—I don’t like the sound of that. I pick up the phone to call Kate as I hear the last message.

“Message five. Sent at 2:22
P.M.
”

“Darling,” Mom says excitedly. “Your father just popped some champagne, and lit up the pipe. Isn’t it fabulous?”

By now I’ve dialed Kate, who picks up on the first ring. “Finally! Where have you been all day?”

“I’ve been at Drew’s listening to his thoughts about living on a budget.”

“I’m getting married!” Kate blurts out gleefully.

Uh . . .

I try to think of something to say to that.

I got nothin’.

“Isn’t that great news?!” Kate asks me, so deliriously happy that she obviously hasn’t picked up on my stunned silence.

“Um . . . sure,” I say, thoroughly confused. “Who’s the lucky groom? Jack?”

“No. Will, of course,” Kate says, still not noticing my complete lack of any type of enthusiasm.

“From the party?” I ask, taking my phone up to my room to find my nicotine gum.

“Of course from the party. Okay, now, I know I’m supposed to be seeing you guys Thursday night, but instead of doing the thing we were going to do, could I get you to come to that bridal salon your sister went to so we can pick your bridesmaids’ dresses?”

“The thing we were going to do?” I ask, still confused. “You mean the New Year’s resolutions?”

“Ssshh,” Kate whispers into the phone. “Will doesn’t know about my self-help books. I hid them all in a box when he was taking a shower.”

“What else did you hide when he was taking a shower?!” I ask, ready to lurch into a lecture. “Nine years’ worth of Jack photos? Does he know you just got out of a nine-year relationship?”

“Yes, he does,” Kate says, sounding surprised at my outburst. “Why are you taking that tone with me?”

“Um . . . because you’re telling me you’re marrying a man you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours?” I say in the form of a rhetorical question.

“I’ve known him for fifteen years,” Kate reminds me, with a level, even voice. “That’s half my life.”

“Okay, well then, you’ve been dating him for less than twenty-four hours.”

“I dated him for three years,” Kate says, using that same
don’t fuck with me
voice. “What’s the longest you’ve ever dated someone?”

Ouch. I’m stunned. Not to mention speechless.

Kate uses my silence as an invitation to continue. “We’ve decided on a June wedding—”

“Wait,” I stop her. “June when?”

“June of next year,” Kate answers, her tone of voice making it obvious she thinks that’s a stupid question. “Oh, it’s going to be gorgeous! Will has a ton of money, so I can do whatever I want. And, I can’t wait to show you my ring! We went to Tiffany’s this morning. It’s a two-carat baguette cut with smaller baguettes on both sides, set in platinum . . . . Oh, and what do you think of Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” for a first dance?”

I’m too stunned to speak. Finally, I come up with, “I think you should avoid any song sung by a man married four times.”

“Damn,” Kate says, sounding disappointed. “That throws out Sinatra, too, then.” Her voice perks up. “On the plus side, Harry Connick Jr. is still in contention.”

My phone beeps. “Can you hold on a second?” I say. “It’s Dawn.”

“Okay,” Kate answers cheerfully, not the least bit upset I’ve cut her off.

“Hello.”

“Did you hear?” Dawn asks me without preamble.

“Just now,” I say, popping a piece of gum in my mouth. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I say we throw a sack over her head and lock her up in a hotel room until she comes to her senses.”

I hear Kate’s line click off.

Then I hear a click on Dawn’s phone. “Hold on,” Dawn says.

She clicks off. As I hold, I start thinking about this odd turn of events. Kate’s getting married? To the guy who dumped her for years on end? Why? What emotional hold could he possibly have over her after all these years?

Or am I being cynical? Maybe you only get one true love. She found hers early, but for some reason, she blew it. Now she has a second chance at happiness.

Dawn clicks back. “What the fuck are ranunculus, and why do we want to avoid the orange ones like the plague?”

Oh God. I’m back in Wedding Hell.

Don’t watch more than an hour of television per night
.

Around ten o’clock that evening, as I’m watching my fourth hour of TiVoed television (and trying not to think about the fact that Jordan never e-mailed or called me), Kate calls me, frantic.

“Promise me you’re still coming to the wedding salon Thursday no matter what!” Kate demands, sounding beside herself with anxiety.

“Please tell me you’re not stressing out about the wedding already,” I beg.

“Oh, there’s so much to do,” Kate begins. “We’ve set the date for the third Saturday in June, and I’ve already booked the reception site, which is this lovely estate in Malibu. Thursday, we do the dress thing, the following week we’ll do cakes . . . .”

“Honey, if you’re not stressing out, then why do you sound like you’re about to burst into tears?”

“Well . . . um . . . ,” Kate continues, “it’s just that . . .” She struggles to find the right words. “I’m thinking of asking Dawn to be my maid of honor!” Kate blurts out, clearly wracked with guilt.

“Oh?” I ask hopefully.

“I’m sorry!” she says, speaking a mile a minute, “I love you both so much, and of course I really want you to be a maid of honor, too. It’s just, well, Dawn has never been a maid of honor, and you just got to be one a few weeks ago. And it just seems more fair if I ask her to do the honors. But I haven’t decided for sure yet. Are you mad?”

I take a moment to collect my thoughts.

Am I mad?

Is she kidding?

“So,” I begin, “would that mean that Dawn would get to throw the bridal shower, and the bachelorette party?”

I say ‘get to,’ when what I really mean is ‘has to.’ As in,
has to
hold your hand every step of the way, even when you fight with your family, even when you use words like
hyacinth
and
hydrangea
, even when you put her in a prom dress that costs her four hundred dollars. As in,
has to
be at your beck and call the entire day of your wedding, guaranteeing she can’t enjoy herself at all.

“Well . . . ,” Kate begins, stalling. “Maybe. I don’t know for sure.”

“Huh,” I say, almost to myself.

Apparently, some days life is unfair in my favor.

“You know what Kate, it’s your day,” I say diplomatically. “Do whatever makes you happiest. As your friend, I just want you to be happy.”

“Oh, thank you!” Kate gushes. “I love you. I knew you’d understand. I’m going to call Dawn right now. And of course I want you to be a bridesmaid.”

“Thank you. I’d be honored.”

“We’re putting you in red and pink taffeta. Oh, it’s gonna be beautiful. Long ballroom-type dresses. Very quinceanera, very debutante ball . . .”

Oh, dear. She’s making that sound like a good thing
. . . .

Kate continues excitedly. “Don’t worry, it won’t be polyester, but I think you should indulge me by allowing something with two layers of tulle. I figure we’ll put flowers in your hair to match the gowns . . .”

I think I need a cookie
. . . .

“. . . and I’m learning all about dyed-to-match shoes!”

A very big cookie
.

I listen to Kate talk about caterers, and invitations, and seating charts for another few minutes, then I let her get off the phone so she can call Dawn to gleefully announce the horror . . . wait, no, I meant the honor . . . that is about to be bestowed upon her.

Then I hit
PLAY
on my TiVo, and prepare for Dawn’s wrath.