The Gift Bag Chronicles (16 page)

I’m just gathering up my notes for the meeting when I hear my cell phone go. Shit. I reach into my bag and pull it out, expecting to see Oscar’s number. My home phone. My home phone? It takes me a minute to realize it must be the painters. They’ve been working for what — I check my watch — less than an hour and a half, and already they have questions? Okay, this could really become a problem. Still, better they ask me than try to reach Louise.

“Yes,” I say, clicking on.

“Whoa, you sound busy,” the voice says. I take it to be Brad.

“Brad?”

“Yeah.”

“Brad, is there a problem?” I say, gathering up the folder.

“Ah, no. We just need to know if you want the trim painted.”

I close my eyes. Hadn’t Louise gone over all this with them? They’d seemed clear about it when I left the house. Or at least they hadn’t seemed unclear. “Look,” I say, opening my eyes and gazing out my window at the ratty palm tree being blown to pieces in the desert winds. This is not the calming visual I need. Must get some kind of tropical beach scene for my screen saver, preferably with a light classical soundtrack. Something like my dentist has. “I thought you’d gone over this with Louise.”

“Yeah, well, we did, but now that we have a chance to see it, the trim really needs painting, and we can’t reach Louise.”

I try to visualize the trim and whether it needs repainting. I realize I can’t even recall what color it is, let alone its condition.
“Okay, just paint it,” I say, opting for the shortest distance between two points. It’s taken months for Louise to get these guys in. Not going to quibble over the trim. I can always just take the overruns out of my rent.

“She says paint the trim,” Brad hollers, so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear. I feel like Cary Grant in
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House
, that scene where the contractor asks him if he wants his lintels rabbeted or unrabbeted, like anybody other than a carpenter knows what that means, but you just know whichever he chooses it’s going to (1) be more expensive and (2) take much, much longer.

Caitlin appears in the doorway, her arms folded, her little face screwed into a pout.

I nod at her and turn away. “Okay, Brad, so we’re good on the trim?” I say, trying to wrap this up.

“We are
so
good,” he drawls, like he just got laid and is reaching for a cigarette.

“Okay, good then,” I say. “So I’ll —”

“Now, you want the same color?”

“As what?”

“As the old trim?”

Okay, this is way too much
Mr. Blandings
. At least for this morning. Clearly, Louise has just tubed it. I’m going to have to take over this job and run it myself. Like everything else in my life. “You know, hold off on the trim until I can look at it tonight.”

“Yeah, okay, it’s just that if we’re going to paint the trim, we need to paint it first.”

“Everyone’s
waiting!”
Caitlin hisses from the door. I don’t bother to turn around, just raise my hand and waggle my fingers.

“Look, I’ll look at it tonight and let you know about the trim tomorrow,” I say. “But for now you must have at least a full day and probably two of prepping the surface.”

“‘Prepping the surface’?”
he says, sounding like he’s about to laugh. “How do you know so much about painting?”

I don’t, you fucking stoner, but I know enough to know a problem when I see it, and this is clearly a problem. God, Louise
would
hire a couple of potheads instead of real painters. “Look, do what you can today and we’ll go over it all tomorrow,” I say, trying to keep my voice upbeat, keep everyone moving.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “By the way, what’s up with your neighbor?”

“My neighbor?” I say, blanking.

“Yeah, that girl next door?” he says. “She seems like she needs a lot of attention.”

Oh, great, Christy’s put in an appearance. “Okay, just ignore her,” I say, reiterating my plan to meet with them in the morning before Brad can bring anything else to my attention. God forbid workmen should operate in the same time zone as the rest of us. They’re like grade-schoolers — start at dawn, knock off in the middle of the afternoon. Before I’ve even started rolling my calls, they’ll have finished for the day and adjourned to a bar somewhere. I swear, how does anyone with a real job get any work done on their house? It’s like dealing with two different time zones.

It takes me a minute to get my head out of painting and back into work. Or about as long as the walk to the conference room. Padding down the hall with Caitlin at my heels, I can’t help noticing how nicely our paint job here has held up. But then these offices are the one good thing about our brief but infamous merger with BIG three years ago — back when we were BIG-DWP PR. Or we were until Mr. Big, Doug Graydon, my old boss, got caught in Hollywood’s scandal du jour, a kickback scheme involving our clients that made the business sections of all the major dailies as well as the trades. Doug quit, sold the rights to his story to one of his producer cronies, spent two years doing community service, and now lives out in Malibu, where he works as a life coach. If there’s any more bullshit job than event planner, it’s life coach.

But at least we got to keep Doug’s swanky offices right down to the sisal carpet, halogen lights, and Aeron chairs. The day B-I-G got sandblasted off the glass front doors, replaced by E-D, was one of the biggest of my career.

I round the corner and head into the conference room, where my five student council presidents are already seated around the rosewood table. I’ve had this team for almost a year now, and it still takes me by surprise.
Staff
. What a concept.

“Sorry, you guys,” I say, heading for a chair, deliberately choosing one that is not at the head of the table. When it comes to being a boss, I always think what Doug would have done and then do the opposite.

“No problem,” says Marissa, who is the cheeriest, and neatest, of the bunch, always dressed in some designer outfit and her hair in a perfect ponytail, like the Kappa president she once was.

“Yeah, it’s not like we can’t use the time,” Allie says, slumped in her chair, chewing on a pen. Allie’s my iconoclast, always looks like she just rolled out of bed and into a leather jacket and stilettos. Actually, Allie used to be a serious partyer until she cleaned up her act and realized her talent for sniffing out the hottest scene was worth money. She’s not great on details or anything written, but the girl can work a crowd like nobody’s business, and her contacts are the best. If Allie says someone’s going to show, they’re going to show.

“Yeah, well, I apologize,” I say, flipping open the folder and staring at my list. There are at least half a dozen events we need to go over, including the Kia launch for their new Spritz hybrid car, Barry Rose’s annual Scrabble tournament, and the
C
Christmas party.
C
will be the biggest headache, not only because it’s now become my test for keeping the account but because it’s a pain for all the usual reasons
C
’s events are a pain — the budget is nothing and they expect the moon for it. Moon being wall-to-wall A-list celebs followed by wall-to-wall coverage.

“Okay, let’s take these in ascending order of difficulty,” I say, opting to tackle the smaller events — the Ferragamo fall charity fashion event, the opening of the new Fred Segal hair salon, and Arianna Huffington’s book party.

“Didn’t we just do a book party for her?” says Jill, flipping through her notes with the kind of barely concealed impatience that reminds me of me and why she’s my utility player. If something absolutely has to happen, and happen in the next five minutes, I sic Jill on it.

“Yeah, well, there’s still too many Republicans, so she’s written a new one,” I say, turning the discussion toward a suitable venue. L’Orangerie? Too old-school. The Chateau? A cliché at this point. The downtown library? Too stiff.

“What about the Tower Bar at the Argyle?” says Maurine, our resident food and beverage liaison and the calmest of my team. With her dark hair and big eyes, she always reminds me of a graduate poetry student instead of a publicist. “It’s got that great view, and since it recently opened they might even do a deal,” she says.

“Sold to the highest bidder,” I say. “Call them and see what they want and then take it to Arianna. Okay, Scrabble,” I say, moving on, and everyone groans.

Barry Rose’s annual tournament is a fixture in Hollywood. The kind of event everyone loves to hate except everyone really hates it. It’s supposedly a fund-raiser for some hospital charity Barry and his wife, actually second wife, Barb, adopted, but it’s mostly a way for Barb to parade around with the
Oxford English Dictionary
and throw some much needed business at their country club.

“Look, I know it’s annoying, but it’s a no-brainer, just the invites, the RSVP list, the gift bag — they want to do one this year — and then a few of us to work the check-in table,” I say, trying to put a good face on it. “Besides, Barry’s new movie looks like an Oscar contender, so people might actually turn out this year.”

“Excuse me,” Allie says, in mock hauteur and arching her pinkie. “But is
that
word in the
OED
?”

“Thank you, Allie,” I say, nodding at her. “I needed a volunteer.”

Everyone’s still grumbling, so I decide to send Caitlin to get lunch. Charles always bitches that my interoffice food bills are the highest in the company, but I think it’s worth it. A nice lunch, or even a basket from Clementine’s bakery, keeps everyone’s spirits up, and God knows we have a long, spirit-draining afternoon ahead of us.

“Call Ammo and get a bunch of Cobb salads, iced teas, and diet sodas,” I say as Caitlin, all too happy to get out of the office, heads for the door, barely avoiding colliding with Steven, who’s just coming in. “And get some of their chocolate chip cookies,” I call after her.

“Where’s Princess going so fast?” Steven says, pulling out a chair and tossing his notes to the table. “The mall?”

“To call in the lunch order,” I say. “But she’ll be gone for an hour, knowing her, so let’s keep going.”

By the time Caitlin gets back with the bulging white sacks, we’re just wrapping up with Kia, with only
C
’s Christmas party left.

“So, they’re really up for this tent-down-on-Hollywood-Boulevard idea?” I say, tearing open one of the bags and dispensing the salads. “What does Oscar think?”

“He thinks it’s better than going to Smashbox,” Steven says, “which is about the only place where you can park a car inside, and we need room for two — the standard and deluxe models.”

Allie raises her hand. “How many times do I have to say ‘Avalon’ to you guys? You can put an entire dealership in there, plus you get that funky old Hollywood vibe.”

Steven makes a gagging sound.

“I don’t think funky and old is what the client is going for,” I say, aiming for diplomacy. “The car is not only a hybrid but supposedly the first ‘vegan’ hybrid.”

“That club is
so
over, plus the promoters are assholes,” Steven says. “Plus you have to use their food and beverage. Plus, plus, plus.”

“I still like Smashbox,” says Marissa.

“You always like Smashbox,” says Jill, reaching for an iced tea.

“It’s just very neat and contained and white,” counters Marissa, looking wounded. “Plus their food concession is good.”

“What about the courtyard of the PDC?” says Michelle. Michelle is Miss Paperwork of the team, the one who keeps track of invoices, bills, RSVP lists. Without her, we are dead, but she is not usually one for ideas.

“It’s the right image,” she adds. “Oscar can do his tents, but it’s not like they’re on a vacant lot on Hollywood Boulevard.”

“That’s a great idea,” I say, mentally lopping the next twenty minutes off the meeting.

“It’ll be more expensive,” Steven warns, but I wave him off.

“Get Oscar to price it out and take it to them,” I say, turning to my
C
notes. It’s heading toward 2:00, and even Ammo’s food isn’t going to get us through much more of this.

“Okay, fine, but we still have to nail down host committee members,” Steven says.

“Oh, shit,” I say, pushing my folder aside and reaching for a cookie. I see my afternoon stretching in front of me. Better pace myself with the sugar. “Okay, for Kia, why don’t we get the winners of whatever reality show will finish in October — they’ll show up for anything — and Alicia Silverstone, Ed Begley Jr., and call it a day,” I say, half-kidding.

“Because he’s under contract to GE,” Jill says.

I look at her blankly. “GE?”

“For his electric car,” Steven says. “He’s been with them for years. Gets an endorsement fee and the car.”

“What about Jeff Goldblum?” someone suggests.

“He’s a flake, plus he hits on every woman in sight,” someone else says.

“Apple used him in those ads,” Marissa says.

“Fuck Jeff Goldblum,” says Allie. “And fuck Apple.”

“What have you got against Apple?” Steven says, looking at her. “You have an iPod.”

“Is anyone going to eat that?” Caitlin says, nodding at the last bit of salad.

“Come on, you guys, more names,” I say, trying to keep this moving. “Think about all the vegans in town besides Alicia, and what about trying to get all the stars who already own hybrids, like Larry David?”

“No,”
Jill says, sounding aggravated. “All those Prius drivers have deals with Toyota. You just can’t get them to endorse another hybrid.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, holding up my hand. “Am I totally behind here, or does every celebrity really have endorsement deals now?”

“Everyone has endorsement deals,” they say in unison.

“Yeah, why drive a car, wear clothes, go on vacation, or do anything when you can get paid to do it?” Steven says. “Celebs don’t like to admit it, but they take advantage of it. I mean, I’d be happy to get a hundred thousand dollars a year from Vitamin Water to tell everyone how great it is. I already drink a ton of it.”

“You drink a ton of it because they’re our client and it’s all over the office,” says Maurine matter-of-factly.