The Gift Bag Chronicles (21 page)

“Wait, are you apologizing?” I say, rolling to my side.

“Don’t push your luck,” he says, turning toward me and tracing the outline of my cheek with his fingers.

“Don’t push yours,” I say, grabbing his fingers and wrapping my hand around his. “I have to be able to walk tomorrow, and right now that’s still debatable.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, propping himself back up. “Roll over and I’ll keep working on your back.”

“Let’s see,” I say, focusing on my watch. “Patrice was here almost two hours. I could ask for punitive damages, but I’ll keep it to pain and suffering. Thirty minutes of massage should do it.”

Which is why I hit Michael’s the next day not only pain-free for the first time in days but also in a good mood. Nothing like the BF admitting the error of his ways to put a spring in your step.

I practically bound out of the taxi and into ground zero for the publishing world. Talk about your playgrounds for the rich and famous. The Royaltons may come and go, but Michael’s lives on, although for a power commissary it’s pretty plain by normal Manhattan standards. All that white, and those chairs that are a
notch above porch furniture. But then Michael McCarty did get his start in Santa Monica before he set his sights on New York.

Besides, you’re not supposed to see the restaurant. Like you’re not supposed to see the setting of a ring. It’s about witnessing the power brokers holding court in their booths. Like a publishing zoo. Here’s Barry Diller in one corner. Graydon in another. In between come lesser mortals. Other Condé Nast bigwigs. Time Warner. Celebs du jour proving their intellectual credentials by lunching with fill-in-the-blank editor. If Page Six ever runs out of items, they can just print the lunch reservation list here.

“Whose idea was it to come here?” I say to Charles as we’re threading our way between the tables. “It seems a little overkill for this kind of meeting.”

“Andrew’s,” he says, nodding at the tables as we pass. “He always likes to meet here.”

I catch sight of them up ahead, and my springing step slows to a walk. Even publicists have game faces. If any meeting merits it, this is one. After all, the account, annoying as it is, does hang in the balance. I scan the opposing team. The troika—Andrew, Patrice, and Amanda, the VP of marketing — already assembled and dressed to kill. In L.A., it’s lunch at Orso’s or the Grill, a meeting of the jeans-clad, with the exception of agents, with the real power exchange to occur at the valet stand. Porsche beats SUV. And so on. Here, it’s at the table. Clothes are the weapons, the tail feathers by which pecking order is established. Charles is one notch below bespoke in his Hugo Boss three-button. But my Piazza black suit barely gets me in the door. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Andrew’s armor is some glossy Italian suit, so luminous it seems lit from within. Breathtaking, but out of sync with his ruddy, high-color face, the Irish genes that peek through, giving him the look of a man slightly ill at ease, out of step with his surroundings. Patrice is in no such danger. In a black turtleneck, suede skirt the color of butter, and a pair of black patent leather
boots, she’s totally of a piece. Right down to the ponytail, to show she doesn’t care all that much.

Amanda does. And too much. She’s one of those rock-hard New York women in their early fifties. Divorced, probably childless. Dark hair so short it hurts to look at it. White shirt as starched as a bedsheet. Gold bracelets that rattle like spinnaker lines. Probably hasn’t been with a man in years. Women like her run New York. Kill off the Andrews, and the magazines will still grind out each month. Lose the Amandas, and you’re in real trouble. If I have any business with anyone at this table, it’s her.

We round a six-top of blondes chattering over iced teas, probably a division of
InStyle
, or some socialites celebrating something, and pull up. “Hey there,” I hear behind me. I turn. Oh, God. Jay Reed is also here, and dressed in his gold-buttoned blazer and L.A. sunburn. He flew in for this? If I’d known it was going to be
C
’s version of a war room, I would have brought Steven and Oscar. Let the games begin.

“Hey, Andrew,” Charles says, reaching out to shake hands. “Patrice, Amanda. Jay, how’s L.A. treating you?”

There’s a few minutes of this. Andrew half rises out of his chair to acknowledge me, his hand fluttering up to his tie, his eyes darting left and right, before he sinks back down. I can never get over how a guy this powerful, this well clad, can look so damn scared. Or maybe I’m just confusing fear with misanthropy.

Charles and I take the two open seats. I’m next to Jay, and he’s next to Patrice. Already I’m down a point not being next to Amanda. No chance for a private word. A whispered exchange. A cutting through the clutter. I have the venue, you have the sponsors. Thanks, we’ll be in touch. Now it will be family style. Everyone chiming in. Vetting my proposals. Endless, pointless debate, until Andrew, and it will be Andrew, brings it to a close. Even before we start, I’m betting we get nothing settled today. I reach for the water glass and brace for pleasantries. I don’t have to wait long.

“Alec, how are you feeling today?” Patrice asks, craning her head around Charles.

I tell her fine, never better, and thanks for asking, shooting Charles a look — Catherine must have said something about my palsied back last night when I was phoning Steven — but he’s already talking to Amanda across the table, something about her Hamptons rental.

“Fine,” I say again, taking the menu from the waiter. “You know how it is in yoga. One day you feel muscles you never knew you had, the next day, you can do handsprings.”

Patrice smiles, reaching a pencil arm for her water glass. “I am so
bad
. I have to get into that American habit of working out now that I live in L.A. You’ll have to tell me all the right gyms and things to join when we get back.”

I smile and nod. Her new best friend.

“I joined a gym,” Jay pipes, snapping a breadstick. “The Equation Gym in West Hollywood.”

“I’ve been there,” I say. “It’s a great facility, if you can handle the crowd. All the ‘beautiful’ people.”

“No kidding,” Jay says, practically bouncing in his seat. “It’s hard enough concentrating on my workout without all the eye candy around.”

And to think they get an issue out each month.

I pretend to study the menu. Eating is the least of my concerns. It’s up to me to bring this meeting to order. Timing is everything.

“So, Andrew,” I say, raising my voice a little, putting my menu aside. “How’s the December issue looking? I’m hearing you have Charlize for the cover?”

Andrew says something I can barely make out. But it’s enough to cause Amanda to break off speaking to Charles. Her radar is on her boss now. Neither of us is fast enough.

“Charlize is an option for us,” Patrice says, leaning forward.
“They’re screening the movie for us on Thursday. We’ll decide after that.”

Andrew smiles nervously, adjusting his tie, murmurs something about sophomore slump, Oscar curse. Amanda nods. Well, it’s not her call. But I am stunned. It’s incredibly late to still be deciding the December cover, and worse,
C
has a shot at Charlize but they’re holding out to see if the movie’s any good? I can’t believe PMK or whoever reps her now is going along with that. Not with
Vogue
and
InStyle
happy to take her off their hands. Something isn’t right. Either
C
’s committed to Charlize — with both the studio and her publicity agency assuming it’s a lock — and it will be an earthquake if they bail, or Patrice is lying. Either way, it’s a problem.

“Well, I was going to say, if you had the cover, we could start there in discussing the guest list,” I say.

“We’ll have to talk about that,” Patrice says, leaning back to study her menu, her territory firmly established now. “We’re rethinking the whole
C
cover concept.”

“Not a model?” I say. You don’t blow your December cover with a model. January, but not December.

“Britney,” Jay says, waving his breadstick. “I’ve got first dibs on interviewing her.”

I shoot Amanda a look. Her face is unreadable, but we both know this is insane — the timing, the indecision. Charlize is the answer. Britney is death. Over. Cold. Wrong. Wrong for the magazine and really wrong for hosting an A-list party. On the other hand, an Oscar winner with another shot at Oscar will be on the meet-and-greet campaign the minute the film opens. A big magazine party is right up her alley. More important, the studio’s. With Charlize, we have the world. The list becomes one of dreams. Not that we won’t have to work it. Limos, hair and makeup. Gifts. The usual graft/arm-twisting/pleading. But with the Diamond Council as the lead sponsor, that won’t be too much of a problem.
Where is Lucienne anyway? Six-foot-tall bottle blonde in her late fifties, still married to her first husband, amazingly, she dispenses diamonds for the council with the touch of a career ambassador. Too bad her title is so vulgar: Celebrity Relations.

“Lucienne?” I say, arching my eyebrows at Amanda.

“London,” she says. “She’s back next week, and I’ll meet with her then.”

The waiter rolls up, and everyone bows their heads behind the menus. At least here it’s just like L.A. Fish, water, fish, water, fish, water. Greens all around. Except for Jay, who orders the lamb chops. “And I’ll have the fettuccine with mussels and cream sauce,” says Patrice, smiling, handing the waiter her menu. “And the cream of tomato soup.”

Yes, cream sauce for the bulimic. Google, the little engine that could.

Andrew says something again that I can’t hear. Amanda’s head turns like a radar dish. That’s what I want in my next life. An interpreter. So I only have to murmur and flinch and my needs are met.

“Perhaps we can start there,” she says, turning to the rest of us. “If we go with the third Thursday in December,” she adds, pulling out her BlackBerry and scrolling down. “What are our venue options?”

And we’re off. Or I am. Trotting out my list of places that Steven, Oscar, and I hammered out. There are the usual hotels, restaurants. A few off-the-wall spots. The center courtyard of LACMA. The Getty. Even Disney Hall is available for the right price. Maybe even the cathedral, for all I know. God knows, the church could use the money.

“I heard they hold high school proms at the Getty now,” Amanda says, rattling her bracelets.

“They do,” I say, “but not in December.”

“I think our list of private venues is actually stronger,” Charles says, coming alive now that I’m firmly in the lead. He may have
been a prick to insist on my attending this confab, but his instincts in the room are fabulous. “Alex and her team have found a few virgins. Homes that have never been rented before.”

Actually, I did come up with a good list. Or rather Oscar did, since that’s technically his job. I’ve arranged them by neighborhood — Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Trousdale, Hancock Park, Sunset Plaza, and Los Feliz. Pick your style: old money, new money, funky, arty, retro, moderne, and just plain vulgar.

“What about something near the ocean?” Jay says. He would. He’s lived in L.A. for two months now, and his concept of it is still a cross between Miami and Phoenix, when San Francisco can be closer to the truth. Like how every out-of-towner used to flock to the Mondrian, all those billowing white curtains and bleached floors. One endless beach house on the Sunset Strip, tucked in among the coffee bars and tattoo parlors populated by tongue-pierced club crawlers. As if. That’s New Yorkers for you. Think they know L.A. No good trying to talk them out of it. They just think you’re running for cover in Sodom-by-the-Sea.

Before I can shoot Jay’s idea down, the waiters roll up with salads, and everyone leans back as the plates, mounded high with what looks like grass cuttings, are presented. All except for Patrice, who ordered the cream of tomato soup.

“I wish I could eat like you,” Amanda says, her fork poised over the cuttings. I’m surprised. Why lob her that softball pitch? If I had to guess, Amanda is just as ripped about Patrice as I am. If my job is harder, hers is harder times twelve. But then again, with Andrew on hand, it pays to play nicely with others.

“It’s just my metabolism,” Patrice says, lifting a spoon to her mouth. “Mummy always said I burned it off.”

Yeah, in the loo.

Andrew spears his greens, says something.

“Do you have any shots of the houses?” Amanda interprets.

“Not with me, but we have JPEGs that I can forward to you,” I say, adding that, personally, I think the Trousdale house offers the
best of what they need. Style, seclusion, a pool with a large deck and yard. And the neighborhood is just outside the Beverly Hills city limits, so there’s much less hassle with permits, parking.

Amanda and Andrew nod. I talk on. Picking up speed, rhythm as I go. Everyone is nodding now. It’s like winning at poker; the table starts to slide in my direction. Jay keeps burbling, but even Patrice quiets down. She’ll be trouble later. But for now, with her boss at her side, she’s a quiet little cobra. Smiling. Collaborative. Charlize and the cover was her power card, and she played it, and now she’s letting me have my time.