Misery Loves Cabernet (18 page)

The moment I have turned the corner and am out of Liam’s eyeline, I key in my code to check my message.

I already know who it’s from.

Message one begins. “Hey, it’s me,” Jordan says. “It’s about eight
A.M.
here, eleven your time. I tried you at home, but you’re not there. Or maybe you’re just not answering. Listen, I know this is last minute, and I’m not exactly number one on your list right now, but do you have any interest in meeting me in New York this weekend? Turns out they want me to shoot some promo stuff there for the movie Thursday and Friday, and then they’re giving me the weekend off. My flight leaves for Paris at about five Sunday night. Call we when you get this and tell me if you want to come out.”

I have to say: I didn’t see that one coming.

I peep my head around the hallway corner to see everyone happily chatting at the table, not seeming to notice my absence yet. Liam looks so good tonight, and he does seem interested in me. But just hearing Jordan’s voice makes me want to crawl into his arms and stay there forever.

I have no idea what the right answer is.

I hide in the hallway again, and quickly dial my sister’s number.

She picks up. “Hello,” she answers groggily.

“Were you asleep?”

“I’m in my first trimester of pregnancy. I’m always asleep. What’s up?”

“Liam’s here.”

“Oh,” she says disappointedly. “Had I known he was coming, I would have stayed. How is he?”

“He’s fine,” I say quickly. “So, can I ask . . . how come you never dated him?”

“Oh, God,” Andy says, suddenly waking up. “You’re not thinking of hooking up with him, are you?”

“Why? Is that a bad idea?”

“Mind-numbingly bad. At Harvard, he made Don Juan look like a wallflower.”

“Oh,” I say, both surprised and saddened by that information. “I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me. Okay, thanks for the heads-up. One more question: Jordan just called to ask me to meet him in New York for the weekend. Should I go?”

Andy thinks about that. When she answers, there’s a hesitancy in her voice. “Honestly, if it’s a choice between Jordan or Liam, I’d go with Jordan.”

“But . . .” I say, stretching out the word.

“But what?”

“Your sentence had a ‘but’ in it. You’d choose Jordan, but . . .”

Another hesitant pause from Andy. “Just ask yourself this: What would Jamie do?”

I thank Andy for the advice, apologize for waking her, and we say our good-byes. I click off my phone and think about her last question, “What would Jamie do?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Jamie is a twenty-five-year-old single male. He’d sleep with both of them, and deal with the fallout later.

I dial Jordan’s number.

He answers the phone on the second ring, “Hey, stranger,” he says cheerfully.

“Hey, you,” I respond anxiously.

“So, do you want to go?”

“Of course!” I say, surprising myself a little with my exuberance.

What the hell am I doing?

“Good,” he says. “It’ll be really good to see you.”

We spend the next few minutes making plans, but then Jordan has to get off the phone to head out to work. Which is good, because I’ve been gone from my group for more than ten minutes, and already I don’t know how I will explain my absence to the table.

After we hang up, I debate what to do about Liam. I call Drew.

He picks up on the first ring. “Where are you?” he asks. “Is it a place to be seen? Are there paparazzi there?”

“I’m in front of the ladies’ room, and, God, I hope not,” I say quickly. “Don’t let on to Liam it’s me, okay?”

“Um, okay.”

“I just figured out what I want in exchange for the toilet fiasco. I need Friday off.”

“Okay,” Drew says.

“And instead of a hotel in Paris, I want a first-class ticket to New York.”

“But I’m economizing . . .” Drew whines.

“Business?” I suggest.

“Done,” Drew says cheerfully.

“Good,” I whisper. “Don’t tell anyone it was me on the phone. I’ll be right there.”

I hang up the phone, then quickly head back to the table.

“Sorry,” I say to Liam as I take my seat. “That was Andy calling, so I called her back. She sends her love.” I look around to see Drew having his picture taken with some fans at the bar, Dawn talking to a good-looking man in the corner, and Jamie talking to one of the referee waitresses. “Did we leave you alone at the table?”

“Yeah, but it’s fine,” Liam assures me as our waitress hands him his credit card, and a check to sign.

“Wait,” I say, as he signs the tab, leaving her a twenty-five percent tip. “You don’t have to get that.”

“It’s not a problem. I brought one of our stars out to dinner. I’ll charge it to the production.”

“But that check goes back to when we got here at seven,” I say, pulling out my wallet, and handing him a couple of twenties. “At least let me get some of it.”

“Don’t be silly. You can get the next time.”

Pay attention to how a man divvies up the tab with his friends. A guy who throws an extra five dollars on the table for his meal is way hotter than the one who asks who ordered the extra side of fries.

I protest for a few moments more, then Drew, Dawn, and Jamie join me in trying to throw twenties at him (or, in Drew’s case, hundreds; but he’s economizing). Liam insists it’s his treat, and he won’t hear another word about it. Within minutes, our group collects our things, and heads out.

As the five of us leave the bar, Drew makes a big deal of stretching his arms out for a big yawn. “Man, I’m beat,” he says, suddenly sounding exhausted. “Charlie, Liam and I came in my car. Since you’re going to Silverlake, would you mind driving him home?”

Damn him.

“Uh, sure . . .” I stammer.

Normally, I would be thrilled with this turn of events, but right now I’m just torn and confused. I’m excited to see Jordan, but things are so wonky with him right now. And, meanwhile, I never thought I’d ever have a shot in hell with Liam, but for tonight at least, he seems interested in me.

Liam can sense my unease, and assures me, “I can grab a cab.”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “It’s not a problem. Where do you live?”

Liam seems a bit confused by my question. “Angelino Heights,” he says, with a tone of voice like I should already know the answer.

“We’re shooting the film in Liam’s house,” Drew tells me. “Didn’t you know that?”

“That beautiful Victorian house is yours?” I say, surprised.

“Indeed,” Liam says.

I agree to take Liam home, and we say our good-byes. I am conscious of how he says good-bye to Dawn. First he says, “Lovely to see you again,” and then he kisses her good-bye.

Right. This is Hollywood. Everyone kisses everyone hello and good-bye.

So why did the tiniest spark of jealousy just fly through me?

I’m a terrible person
, I think to myself as Liam walks me to my Prius. As we chat about his Victorian home—when he bought it, all he’s done to improve it, why he wishes he had never bought a house with sixty-year-old plumbing—my mind wanders, and I can’t help but think about kissing him again . . .

If a man has walked you to your car or your door, and you want to linger (and hint that you want a kiss), pretend not to be able to find your keys
.

I get my keys from my purse before we get to the car. I beep my alarm, then beep it a second time to open all the doors.

Even though I’m still thinking about kissing him.

As I drive Liam home, the conversation flows freely. He’s funny and interesting, and normally this would be the end of a really great first date.

A tangential thought occurs to me: Has anyone ever had a really great first date that started out as a first date? I’m just curious. My experience with really great first dates is that either I’ve been out with the guy several times before I even realized I was on a date or, alternately, I met the guy that first night, and made out with him that first night, which means by the time we actually got around to the first date, really it was a second date. So the whole idea of a great first date: fact, or one of those urban myths comparable to the Mexican pet or the emotionally available single man over thirty?

As we pull up to Liam’s house, he cuts into my thoughts.

“So,” Liam says pleasantly, “are we on for ‘Taming of the Shrew’ this weekend?”

I’m awful. I’m a dreadful person. I went out fishing tonight, and now I’m playing catch and release
.

“Uh . . . I can’t,” I say awkwardly. “I’m afraid I have to go to New York this weekend.”

Liam looks a bit confused. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that.” His face immediately brightens. “What’s the occasion? Visiting friends?”

“Actually, my boyfriend,” I find myself saying.

Liam’s eyes open a bit wider, so I quickly rush to explain. “I don’t even know if I can call him my boyfriend. He’s a guy I date. Sort of. He’s working in Europe right now, but he’s in New York this weekend, so I’m going to go visit him, and see how things go.”

Liam smiles and gives me a quick nod of the head. “Well, he’s a very lucky man. See you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” I say, trying to sound cheery and casual.

“Great,” he says, disarming me with his easy smile.

I get my “friends only” nonromantic kiss good-bye, and then Liam gets out of my car, and walks up the pathway toward his house.

I watch him as he unlocks the door, turns to me, and waves good night.

I wave back.

Hmmm. Seems like I may have just tackled myself on the two-yard line.

I spend the next two days running various errands for Drew. I went to college for four years so I could pick up dry cleaning, deal with fan mail, and buy birthday gifts for all of his close personal friends who were born in the month of November. (Although, in all fairness, a morning shopping at Tiffany’s really is more pleasant than a lot of other jobs.)

I didn’t see Liam, and frankly, I didn’t know what I’d have said if I had. I hadn’t wanted him to know about Jordan. I’m not sure if I wanted to keep my options open because things with Jordan weren’t working out, or because I was so used to being chronically single that I was sure I’d be single again soon.

Side note: When are any of us absolutely sure that we’re never going to be single again? Does anyone over the age of sixteen ever really have that love-at-first-sight moment when they see the guy next to the barbecue at a friend’s house doling out hamburgers, and they know he’s the one they’ll be holding hands with at eighty? Or do we know after the first date? The third? After we’ve been proposed to? Walked down the aisle? Or had his first child?

Speaking of people who know they’ll never be single again, the day before I leave for New York, I take a few hours in the afternoon to slip away from the set, and head to Beverly Hills to help Kate pick out her wedding gown.

I drive to the same bridal salon I graced with my presence a little more than two months ago, when I was the maid of honor for Andy’s wedding. That time, the bride put me in a silver dress that made me look like a baked potato in dyed-to-match heels. On the plus side, how much worse can it get?

The secret to happiness is low expectations
.

I walk into the posh salon, and look around. There’s a twentysomething girl in a pastel pink suit quietly taking an order over the phone in a hushed, “soothing” tone of voice, and other than that, the place is empty. The clerk looks over to me, smiles brightly, and silently raises her index finger to indicate that she’ll be with me in a moment.

I smile back, then seat myself at one of the spotless white overstuffed chairs that perfectly match the unsullied white plush carpeting, and the immaculate white damask walls. I pick up a bridal magazine from the sparklingly clean glass table, and flip open to the first article: A guide to making the perfect bridesmaid’s tote bag. (Because God knows how one’s nearest and dearest have lived so long without a lime green tote bag that says “Janet and Ted: Soulmates Forever” in pink embroidery.)

I flip a few pages to the next article: the ins and outs of designing the perfect wedding program guide. (Frankly, I think it’s a bad idea to let your guests know in advance that right after your processional, your great-aunt Doris plans to solo “You Light Up My Life.” This information tends to encourage guests to sneak out mid-ceremony).

And finally, why it’s a good idea for brides to carry moneybags at their wedding.

Classy.

I would later write in my journal of advice:

Some advice for your future wedding:

1. It’s NEVER a good idea to carry a moneybag at your wedding. Nor is it a good idea to register for mortgages or stock certificates. Nor can you tell your guests you want cash for your gift. This is a wedding, not a charity event
.

2. Don’t have a cash bar
.

3. Don’t wear a miniskirt on your wedding day. Unless you’re in Vegas. And on wedding #4 or higher
.

Finally, I get to an article debating the pros and cons of a honeymoon in Hawaii. Apparently, there are cons to vacationing in Hawaii. Right. I suppose there are also cons to two-hour massages, any kind of chocolate, and twenty-two-year-old models you don’t have to call the next day. Before I can read too much, I hear Dawn’s voice above me: “Explain to me how it is that an intelligent women with all of her faculties can send her black friend a PDF of bridesmaids’ dresses that begins with the title, ‘You Can Never Have Too Much Black in Your Closet’?”

“Oh, please,” I say, referring to yet another set of pictures of hideous dresses Kate e-mailed to both of us last night. “I’d kill to wear one of those. Did you see the PDF of the dresses that included the phrase ‘The Joy of Sex’ ?”

Dawn’s face falls into an oh-my-God look. “I missed that one. Though I did get the attachment of the ones where we’ll look like decorated Christmas trees. I wrote back, ‘You put us in anything taffeta, I swear to God, I’m putting a hit out on you.’ ”