Picture Perfect (14 page)

“I’m not being paranoid,” I say, turning to catch a glimpse of my ass in the mirror. “I’m being realistic. Jack has gone off the reservation and the last communication from him was a text saying he was coming for me. I’m really starting to think that guy is not running on all cylinders.”  

“You sound like he’s Jason Bourne or something. You got that text yesterday, and nothing has come of it. Stop fretting already. Besides, you got what you wanted, right? Timeless is begging for your return to clean up the mess made by those lackeys they left in charge.”

“I know, but don’t you think it’s weird? That Jack sent me a text like that and then…nothing.”

“Oh, I get it,” she says, turning to face me. “You
wanted
him to come for you. Come sweep you off your feet in a big, romantic gesture.”

“Hardly,” I sputter.

Justine gives me a once-over, the kind I’ve seen Giles give me on many an occasion. “Well, if you’re really worried prince charming is going to come and steal you away from me, I think looking like a
hausfrau
just might be enough to snuff out his desire.”

“Very funny. I didn’t realize a poetry reading was cause for formal wear.”

“Since when do you need a reason to look sexy? It should just be your natural state of dress.”

“I pay other people to think about that kind of stuff for me. I have more important things to worry about.”

“Is that so? Then you wouldn’t be interested in borrowing a backless vintage Halston dress I picked up at an estate sale last month, would you?”

“Of course I would. And stop smirking. It’s very unbecoming.”

“Like those pants you’re wearing.”

“Shut up.”

“If your best friend can’t tell you when you look like a frump, who will?”

“Believe me, there are scores of people ready to do it.”

“But no one with more love in their hearts than me.”

“No one,” I say with mock indignation. “So, are you gonna pony up the dress or do I have to beg?”

“Please, no begging. I get enough of that from Lucas. I swear, we’ve only been seeing each other for two months, but he’s been acting like we’re some sort of…
couple
,” she says, disgusted.

“Well, what are you?”

Justine moves to her over-stuffed closet and digs in to the back. “We’re friends. Friends who just happen to sleep together.”

“Have you told him that? Because he just might be in love.”

“Pfft. What does he know about love? He’s twenty-seven.”

I suppress a chortle. “What about all those poets you worship? Keats, Yeats, Byron, Shakespeare? Weren’t they all young men espousing the importance love?”

“Yes, but they’d suffered for their love.” She shoves aside a group of hangers laden with enough colorful garments to make a hotel heiress jealous and continues digging through the closet. “You can’t know love until you’ve suffered sufficiently.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll make Lucas suffer. By the way, is he coming tonight?”

“Yes. Is that okay?” she asks, momentarily halting her excavation.

“Of course it’s okay. He seems like a total sweetheart.”

“Oh, he is,” she says, dropping one hand on her hip. “A little too sweet sometimes. I wish he had just a little bit of bad in him—like your villainous Jack.”

“Jack isn’t villainous. I don’t think.”

“Girl, he is classic Marlon Brando,
The Wild One
.”

“Oh, he isn’t that bad.”

“But he is that sexy, brooding bad boy on a bike, is he not?”

“I only think he’s brooding because of the trouble I got him into. Otherwise he seems to be just as annoyingly sweet and chipper as your Lucas.”

“Well at least Lucas has that magic potion of his should we overindulge again.” She turns back to the closet and shoves another section of clothing out of the way.

“Oh, no. I am never going to drink again.”

“You say that now.” She pulls out a slinky seventies era black dress and hangs it on the mirror. “But if there ever was a frock made for pairing with martinis, this is it.”

“
Frock
me
,” I say, already envisioning myself in the gorgeous floor-length silk gown.  “Well, maybe one drink won’t hurt.”

“That’s the spirit.”

I slip into the designer garb and marvel at how easily a piece of fabric can change one’s entire outlook on life. In my dowdy trousers and sweater, I felt like a little mouse struggling to eke out an existence in a kitchen full of fat cats and rat traps. But within seconds of sliding the sleek, black dress over my body, I feel more like a stealthy panther on the prowl than its helpless prey hiding in the bushes. The difference in my attitude is clearly visible to Justine as well.

She gives me a nod. “Now that’s the Lauren I know and love.” She shoves my discarded clothing with her foot. “Save this get up for laundry day.”

I’ve got plenty of people in LA who are more than happy to dispense style advice (for a fee), but no one does it with the same kind of heart as Justine. She isn’t judging me when she tells me I’m starting to resemble the scandalized wife of an adulterous congressman in my wool suits and sensible shoes. She knows the real me is hiding under all that protective layering, and she knows just how to bring her out of hiding. 

“Come on, lady. My public is waiting,” she says with a sweep of her hand.

I follow her out of the bedroom, and after a few quick tweaks to hair and makeup and bundling up in warm coats, we venture out into the city and over to the shop where she is giving her reading.

At the Housing Works Bookstore Café, we are greeted by an eclectic assortment of bookish types, all wrapped in cozy sweaters and wool scarves to fend off the bitterly cold night air. Inside, the mahogany-paneled balconies, spiraling staircases, and over-stuffed armchairs are more reminiscent of an old private library tucked away in a Tudor-style townhome than a socially conscious bookstore whose proceeds benefit the homeless and fund AIDS programs. It’s so like Justine to pair the release of her new book with a plug for humanitarianism. She may be quite the philanderer when it comes to her lovers, but when it comes to philanthropy, she’s all heart.

We strip off our outerwear and mingle with the growing crowd of literati. A lanky guy suffering from a bad case of bed-head and wearing a Housing Works apron hands me a cup of hot chocolate and a napkin-wrapped oatmeal cookie. I give Justine a smug look.

“I’m wearing vintage couture for cookies and cocoa?”

“The dress is for
after
the reading when we go to the Meat Packing District to pick up boys,” she says before sinking her teeth into a brownie.

“I am
so
not doing that again.”

“I’m kidding. We’ll go get a cocktail at the Brandy Library in Tribeca. It’s only fitting.”

“And this place will be frequented by adults? Not horny teens from Connecticut with fake I.D.s and a stash of extasy in their pockets?”

“I promise you it is very grown up. I’m sure no one will ask you to wriggle out of your panties under the table.”

“Thank God for that. I only brought so many pairs with me.”

“I know you don’t like to make a move without your personal shopper, but I think we could find another pair of undies somewhere in this city should it become necessary.”

“Giles does not buy my underwear for me. I’m perfectly capable of doing that on my own.”

“What would you do without all those little elves working so hard to make you look so good all the time?

I’d probably be stuck working at an insurance company in some no-name town that yields more corn crops than Fortune 500 companies.”

“How does the lack of a personal shopper lead to living in the Bread Basket and selling insurance?”

“First of all, Giles is not my personal shopper. He’s my stylist. He uses his brain cells to figure out how I can dress to impress so that I can use mine to make movies-of-the-week.”

“Are you always going to make movies-of-the-week?” she asks with the kind of innocent curiosity a child might use to ask her parent why the sky is blue.

“What do you mean?”

“Why not go out on your own? Become an independent producer. You’ve certainly got the chops for it.”

“Go out on my own?” I ponder aloud as Justine is pulled aside by her agent to discuss some poetry-related business.

Justine’s query isn’t one I haven’t thought about in the past, but I’ve usually come to the conclusion that sticking with Timeless Television and their annual film budget would be a whole lot simpler than trying to drum up money on my own to make movies. The financing side of producing at Timeless is taken care of by a couple of MBAs and a team of accountants figuring out just how much they’ve got to spend on original programming each year based on ad revenues. If I went out on my own, I’d have to work out how to fund my projects all by myself. And that has always been enough of a deterrent to keep me out of that rat race altogether. But being an independent producer would also mean that I could do whatever I wanted and not have to stay within the confines of Timeless’ programming requirements.

And I’d never have to work with back-stabbing little Jezebels like Jennifer, worrying that someone I hired and trained would always be looking to take my job. And if I were my own boss, no one could fire me for something as piddling as sleeping with an actor or even as dastardly as sabotaging someone else’s career. Which I would never do anyway. I’ve learned that going on the offensive in this industry is just as dangerous as a big budget flop. Start a smear campaign, and you’re about as likely to get smeared as you are to get ahead.

Ten years in Tinsel Town has taught me something else, too.

Always watch your back.

Not everyone in Hollywood is as enlightened as I am, and if there’s a skeleton to be found in the backyard, some ambitious little lapdog will dig it up.

“I’ve got to mingle,” Justine says when her agent has left her side, bringing me back into the moment, “then I’ll start the reading in a few minutes.”

“Sounds good.” I shove the last of my oatmeal cookie in my mouth, the thought of striking out on my own niggling at the back of my brain like an empty segment in the New York Times Sunday crossword. I know if I put some real effort into it, I could solve this puzzle. But is it worth the time?

“Cheers
, Miss,” Lucas says, touching me lightly on the elbow. I’m so startled by the gesture that I jerk my arm away as if he were trying to snatch the designer clutch out of my hand.

     Oh, Lucas! I was lost in a daydream. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

     “My apologies. I hate to intrude on a reverie.”

     “No wonder Justine fell for you. You talk like a bard.”

     Lucas’ eyes widen. “She told you she’s fallen for me?”

“Oh, I mean, you know.” Dammit. Justine will skewer me for letting him think she’s smitten. “Figure of speech.”

He seems to lose a couple of inches off his height. “Oh.”

“Justine’s not big on expressing emotional stuff. That’s all.”

“Odd. With her being a poet and everything.”

He looks so sullen I can’t help but try to soothe his feelings. “If you ask me, she puts it all into her poetry so she doesn’t have to deal with it in real life. It’s just her way. Don’t take it personally.”

He gives me a reluctant nod.

He is so damn adorable I hate the thought of Justine turning him out, broken and bruised, when she’s done playing with him. “Lucas, can I give you a little piece of advice?”

“Absolutely.”

“Justine likes a challenge. For her, love is sport. And she plays for keeps.”

Lucas’ brows knit together. “Thank you for that.”

He grabs a brownie off a passing tray and silently stuffs his mouth. Clearly, he and I share similar coping mechanisms.

A man wearing round glasses and a blue turtleneck climbs up to the small stage in the back of the bookstore and approaches the podium at the front edge of it. He taps on the mic, a thumping sound echoing over our heads.

“Thank you everyone for attending this special reading of the latest
oeuvre
by our favorite philanthropist and local poet, Justine Baker. Please welcome Justine to the stage.”

The audience responds with a respectable smattering of applause as Justine takes her place behind the little stand. She carefully opens her book and sets it on the podium. From her bag, she withdraws a pair of reading glasses and slides them on her nose. I can imagine her doing this every day before lecturing her students about the works of Emily Dickenson or Dylan Thomas—a side of her that I rarely see. And it makes me smile, this small glimpse into the life of my closest friend. A life so seemingly simple, so free of drama. I’m sure it isn’t, but the fantasy of it pleases me.

She begins, “The poem I want to share with you tonight is called ‘release’ and it’s dedicated to someone very dear to me. My best friend, in fact. Lauren, this is for you.”

She clears her throat, and pride swells in my chest.

“the white winter shadows whisper, then fade into the night,

like a woman’s heart accepting full sunlight after

everything she grieved about disappears. I remember

the first time I saw the man in the moon, on a white winter night,

and asked my father why it was called a man in the moon and not

a woman in the moon. he had no answer. this was

my first childhood warning. i stopped believing

in fairy tales and nursery rhymes and never again

looked for answers at the bottom of a bell jar. somewhere

on the wrong side of the Berlin wall, I read:

if it’s fish that you’re seeking, why climb trees.
that moment,

on the wrong side of the wall, I stopped climbing trees.  i returned

to mother goose and mother earth,

Gertrude Stein and Lillian Hellman, and

bathed in wisdom from de Beauvoir and Friedan. i found

the nearest ocean, dove right in and

never looked back again, setting free

those familiar enemies: fear and safety.”