Perfect on Paper (6 page)

“You want me to
try something
?” I narrowed my eyes. “That sounds a bit shady.”

He smiled. “I promise, it’s totally legal. My sports psychologist makes me do it when the pressure starts to get to me.”

“When the pressure of being rich and famous gets to you? Are you crazy?” I said.

He laughed. “It’s just a mental exercise. Now close your eyes and tell me what you see.”

I closed my eyes and immediately felt like I was going to topple over. Nice equilibrium. I reached over and put my hand on the wall. Then I stared into the back of my eyelids. I saw, well, nothing.

“Uh, Shane? I’m not seeing anything.”

“Just keep your eyes closed. Now I want you to think about something that makes you feel happy, okay?”

“Okay.” I tried, but I still saw nothing.

“Is this a trick?” I said.

“Nope, just keep concentrating.”

I tried again. After a few moments a vision of a car-size Snickers suddenly popped into my head. My own snicker followed it.

“Good, now what do you see?” Shane said.

“I see a huge candy bar.”

“Good, that’s perfect. Now keep thinking about that image.”

I kept thinking. Mmm.

“Okay, now open your eyes,” Shane said.

I opened them and looked at him. “Well?”

“Do you know what you just saw?” he said.

“Uh, didn’t I just tell you that?”

He smiled. “Work with me here, Waverly. What I mean is, do you know the meaning of what you just saw?”

“Uh, that I’m a pig?”

“Nope. Well, maybe. I mean, I just met you. But that’s not the point.”

“Okay, well what then?”

“It means that you just smiled,
to yourself
.”

“So?”

“And now don’t you feel better?”

I thought about it. He was right. “Yeah, I do feel a little better.”

“And why do you feel better?”

“Because I’m a pig?”

He smiled. “No, you feel better because you saw something in your own mind that is special to you, something that no one else in the world could see.”

“So?”

“So that should show you that you can’t always rely on the outside world to make you happy, Waverly. Most of the time it’s really up to you.”

I opened my mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Think about it, Waverly,” he said. “Your life isn’t a basketball game. No one is keeping score but you, so don’t worry so much about what everyone else is doing and what everyone else thinks.”

This was coming from an NBA player? Talk about shattering stereotypes. Was he going to start ballet dancing next?

“Uh, I don’t know what to say, Shane, I’m really impressed.”

“Surprised you, didn’t I?”

I nodded slowly. “More than you know. Thank you, I really need to get a grip.”

“If you think I’m tough, wait ’til you meet my wife,” he said.

I put my hand on his arm. “Hey, uh, while I really appreciate it and all, can we pretend this little encounter never happened?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because outside of practicing with my team, having dinner with you guys, and talking to my wife on the phone, this is pretty much the first conversation I’ve had all week that wasn’t about me. Do you know how boring it is to have to talk about yourself all the time?”

I crossed my arms. “Hmm, I guess I never thought about that. So you’re saying that my freak-out over dying old and alone with a head full of grey hair is a welcome change for you?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Well, I’m glad I could comfort you, Mr. Kennedy. And if you refuse to forget this conversation, can you at least promise me that we’ll keep it between you and me?”

“Yes, we’ll keep it between you and me,” he said.

“You promise?” I held out my hand. “We have a deal?”

He shook it and smiled. “Deal.”

When I got back to my room I booted up my computer and typed in a few more ideas for Honey Notes.

Front: Found that dreaded first grey hair?

Inside: Honey, think of the alternative. Can you say George Costanza?

Front: Do your married friends tell you that you’re too picky?

Inside: Honey, they settled. Either that or they’re not really your friends.

Front: Feeling down because you’re still single?

Inside: Honey, keep your spirits up. Then down a few of them and go find yourself a hot guy to smooch.

Front: So your life isn’t turning out how you thought it would?

Inside: Honey, no one is keeping score but you, so just go with it.

That night I dreamt that I divorced Davey to marry Shane and got into a fistfight with Kristina at our drive-through Vegas wedding. Aaron was the minister. He was dressed in an Elvis suit and dangling from a vine.

At least I woke up laughing.

At seven o’clock Friday evening, Penelope French and I were among the last of the JAG staff left at the booth. The show had officially ended at six o’clock, and most everyone, including Kent and Davey, had bolted shortly thereafter to hit happy hour.

I kicked off my shoes and sat cross-legged on the floor. “Thank God it’s over. I’m absolutely exhausted.”

“Tell me about it, sugar.” She patted her fire-red bouffant hair, which never seemed to move, and cracked her knuckles. “I’ve been working like a dog for the past six months getting this thing together, and I’m no spring chicken anymore. Once I’m back in San Francisco, I’m heading straight for the nicest spa I can find and having every sort of body and beauty treatment imaginable, all on JAG.”

“That sounds heavenly,” I said.

She nodded. “Oh, it will be. And if any of those tightwads in accounting complain about the bill, they can take this show and stuff it up their cheap asses.”

I laughed, and just then Gabrielle Simone emerged from one of the private meeting rooms.

“Hi, Gabrielle,” I said, quickly standing up and putting my shoes on.

“Hello, Waverly,” she said with a slow nod. “I trust you had a good show?”

“Excellent show,” I said with a little too much enthusiasm. “A bunch of great press interviews.”

“Glad to hear it.” She looked down at Penelope. “And I assume you weren’t serious about charging JAG for your personal spa time?”

Penelope looked at the floor. “Yeah, I was just kidding.”

“Good. Well, I’ll see you two back in San Francisco. Have a nice flight home.” She turned and walked away.

“Meow.” Penelope clawed the air when she was gone.

“That woman scares me,” I whispered.

“I bet she kicks puppies for fun,” Penelope said, standing up and stretching her tiny arms over her head. “So what do you say, señorita? Should we grab a bite to eat and a glass of wine before heading over to the party? It’s been a long week, and it’s going to be a long night. And I, for one, plan to get good and tanked.”

I held my arm out to let her pass. “Show me the way.”

An hour and a half later, Penelope and I were inside the Zellerbach Center, the huge venue JAG had rented. The party didn’t officially start until nine o’clock, so the hall was still pretty empty except for the planning staff and the numerous caterers, bartenders, and security guards milling around.

The room looked stylishly festive. Large black and white helium balloons covered the entire ceiling, and there was a full bar in every corner, each flanked by waist-high black vases bursting with white roses. Half of the room was filled with tall, round tables of various diameters, each adorned with a black-and-white checkered tablecloth and surrounded by black barstools. A long, narrow buffet table full of appetizers and desserts lined one wall. Atop it sat large ice sculptures that spelled out
JAG.

On the other side of the room was a dance floor, above which hung a giant disco ball. The band was tuning up on a stage that ran along the middle part of the far wall.

“This is going to be such a great party,” I said. “I heard JAG hired Big Bangs to play.”

Penelope nodded. “Yep, the events department finally realized that ’80s cover music is the way to go, or at least the way to go for parties where the majority of the crowd is over the age of 22.”

“Excellent decision,” I said. I absolutely loved ’80s music. Madonna, the B-52s, Duran Duran, Prince. I could dance all night, just as long as they didn’t play any Bryan Adams.
Barf.

We walked over to the nearest bar, which was staffed by an attractive guy in a tuxedo. He was really cute: tall with dark hair and dark eyes, no wedding ring. His name tag said “Chad.”

I leaned down to whisper in Penelope’s ear. “Well, if there’s no one interesting to talk to at the party, I can always hang out by the bar with this guy.”

“You ain’t kidding,” she whispered back, nodding.

Chad turned to face us and spread his hands out on the bar.

“What can I get you, ladies?”

Penelope batted her mascara-caked eyelashes. “Sugar, with that smile you can get whatever you darn well please. But I’ll have a gin and tonic.” She was always dating younger men and had no problem flirting with guys half her age or younger.

“Sure thing. And you?” He looked at me and smiled.

“Um, what do you recommend, Chad?” I said.

“How about a rookie?” he said.

“What’s in a rookie?” I tried to sound cute. But how does one sound cute?

“Vodka, orange juice, pineapple juice, and Red Bull. It’s pretty popular these days.”

My ears perked up. “Red Bull? As in caffeine?”

He nodded. “Yep.”

“Sounds good to me. Pass one over.”

“Coming right up, ma’am,” he said with another smile.

Pause.

Ma’am? Why didn’t he just yell out
Nice grey hair there, Grandma!
to the whole room?

Chad turned his back to fix our drinks, and I leaned over to Penelope.

“Okay, he just called me ma’am. Next drink we hit a different bar, okay?”

She patted me on the arm. “No problem, dollface. It happens to the best of us.”

We thanked Chad for the drinks and turned around. It was nearly nine o’clock, and we could see a big crowd forming outside.

“Check out that line,” I said. “This place is about to be flooded.”

Just then I heard the ring of my cell phone. I looked at the caller ID and bit my lip. It was my dad … again.

I touched Penelope on the shoulder. “Hey, I have to take this call, okay? I’ll catch up with you later.” I walked toward the nearest powder room and flipped open my phone. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, baby, are you okay? I’ve left you all sorts of messages.”

I hated it when he called me “baby.” I pushed open the door and plopped down on a plush purple couch. “I’m fine, Dad. I’m in Atlanta for work this week, so I’ve been really busy.”

“Atlanta? What’s in Atlanta?”

“Just a trade show.”

“The Super Show?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“That’s nice. Are all the big guns there?”

“Yep.”

He didn’t say anything else, so I knew what was coming.

“So what’s up, Dad?”

The warmth left his voice. “Do I have to have a reason for calling my only child?”

I took a deep breath. “No, Dad, it’s just that I’m sort of in the middle of something. How are you?”

“I’m good, doing all right. That job I had lined up at the factory didn’t work out, but it wasn’t my fault.”

Of course it wasn’t. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Those bastards in management had it in for me from the start. I never had a chance.”

“Uh huh.”

“But I’m looking into some new opportunities.”

“You are?”

“Yep, been kicking around the idea of getting into magazine marketing.”

“Magazine marketing?”

“It’s a great opportunity,” he said. “They’ll train me right at the call center.”

“Call center? Do you mean telemarketing?”

“It’s marketing, Waverly. That’s what they’re calling it these days. Hey, maybe one day I’ll be working right alongside you at K.A. Marketing.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“So hey, listen, kiddo, I’ve got to pay for this training course, so if you could send me a little something to help with expenses while I’m not drawing a paycheck, not that I need your help, but if you wanted to I would appreciate it.”

I made a fist with my free hand. “They’re making you pay for the training course? That sounds pretty shady, Dad.”

“Hey, Waverly, this is a great opportunity for a guy like me. Not everyone got the chance to go to college, you know.”

I sighed. Always the college card. “I don’t know, Dad. The last time I sent you money you promised it would be the last time.”

“So I’ve had a bit of bad luck since then. It’s not my fault, you know. More than anyone, you should know that, Waverly.”

I stood up and put my hand on my forehead. “Fine, I’ll wire you some money when I get home.”

The warmth immediately returned to his voice. “Thanks, kiddo, I appreciate it. So are you seeing anyone these days?”

“No, not at the moment.”

“That boy Aaron still in the picture at all?”

“Not really.”

“You shouldn’t be so picky, you know, letting him go like that. Boys like that don’t grow on trees, you know.” The
for girls like you
was left unsaid.

“I know, Dad. Listen, I’ve really got to go now, okay?”

“Sure, baby, you have a nice evening now.”

I hung up and closed my eyes, trying to tell myself that it didn’t matter.

When I finally opened them, I looked around and was struck by the difference in beauty between the powder room and the conversation I’d just had. The room was practically regal. The restroom part had marble floors, but the lounge area was covered with thick, expensive gold carpeting and boasted several plush velvet couches and love seats in various shades of dark purple, green, and yellow. The walls were lined with a number of fancy mirrors, each with its own table and a purple velvet stool.

I sat down on one and faced the gold-trimmed mirror. Then I put my drink on the table and opened my purse. To erase, or at least to camouflage the effects of three days at the booth, topped off by that lovely chat with my father, I brushed my hair, applied a bit of black mascara to my eyelashes, and swept a pale-pink blusher over my cheeks. I decided to paint my lips a dark red. Chad the bartender may have called me ma’am, but, whatever, I wasn’t a total fossil yet.

Ready to have some fun, I walked back to the main hall and immediately noticed how much the party had filled up since Penelope and I had arrived. There were already several hundred people inside, and I wondered if I would ever find her again. The band had started playing, but the dance floor was still empty as the guests swarmed the bars and buffet tables.

I decided another drink was in order and glanced around to get a look at the non-Chad bartenders. I headed straight for the only one staffed by three females. I wasn’t taking any more chances of being mistaken for someone’s mom. I waited in line for a few minutes and listened to the band play Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf.” When I reached the front of the line, a petite blonde bartender greeted me with a big smile and a southern accent. “What can I get you, miss?”

“A rookie, please,” I said with a big smile of my own. Thank God for under-eye concealer.

Fresh drink in hand, I turned around to scan the crowd for familiar faces. Nothing. The room was getting really crowded, and I wondered where all the people from JAG were. I didn’t see anyone I recognized, except for a handful of celebrity athletes. I had already spotted two players from the Red Sox, a couple of wide receivers from the Steelers, and an unbelievably short Olympic gymnast who didn’t look old enough to drive, much less drink.

I wandered around the party for a few more minutes and still didn’t recognize a soul. I looked at my watch and noticed that my drink was almost empty. Then I realized that I’d skipped lunch, hadn’t eaten much at dinner, and was suddenly feeling a bit tipsy, so I headed over to the buffet table. I scoped out the offerings and filled up a tiny party plate with cheese and crackers.

I munched on a cracker and stood on my tiptoes to look around for a familiar face. Still nothing. Suddenly I felt uncomfortable, as if all the people in the room were looking at me. My face began to feel a little flushed. My burst of confidence vanished, to be replaced by a feeling that the whole room was wondering who the loser in the red lipstick was.

“Hey there, can I tell you that you look really hot in those jeans?”

I looked to my right, and then I looked down, and then I met the glance of a middle-aged man who looked like he had eaten every meal for the past twenty-five years at McDonald’s. He was about five foot five and balding, with what remained of his thinning hair brushed into a tragic comb-over. He wore a white button-down shirt with a collar so tight that the folds of his neck hung over the side, and it looked like he was wearing a tire around his waist under his shirt. I tried not to look too closely at what was below his waist, but I believe his shirt was tucked into a pair of black Levi’s. To top it off, he was wearing a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots.

Oh, and he was sweating.

I’m pretty sure you can imagine what I was thinking in this situation.

“Uh, thank you, I guess,” I said. I wondered how I could escape. Where was everybody from JAG?

“I’m Chuck Jenkins. What’s your name, pretty lady?” He was chomping on a greasy buffalo wing covered in ranch dressing.

“Um, I’m Waverly. Waverly Bryson.”

“Did you say Waverly? Waverly, as in the cracker?”

I sighed. “Yes, as in the cracker.” My name could either be a fun conversation starter or a major annoyance depending on who was on the other end of the conversation.

“Well I’ll be damned. Waverly.” He licked the ranch dressing off his fingers, then wiped his hand on his black jeans and extended it to me for a handshake.

Was he kidding? I smiled politely and made a gesture that my hands were both occupied.
Sweet Jesus, please just go away
. I was sort of drunk, but not drunk enough to deal with this asshole.