The Gift Bag Chronicles (22 page)

The cuttings consumed, the plates are whisked away, replaced with larger plates with the perfect poached fish, the size of a pack of playing cards. Jay’s chops arrive, the size of walnuts. Still, probably bigger than his balls. Patrice’s fettuccine is a bowl of gold ribbons topped by mussel McNuggets. She smiles, inhaling. I picture a good half hour in the ladies’ room back at the office, the one off the mail room, where she won’t be so noticed.

I press on, making my case. It always boils down to the same four things at this stage — date and venue, theme, sponsors, and the beginnings of the list. Of these, we need to hammer out only the first two today. And after an hour, we’re pretty close. The Trousdale house, pending review of the JPEGs, on the third Thursday in December. We even have the beginnings of a theme, a black-and-white party, an homage to Truman Capote’s fabled gathering at the Plaza Hotel. This was Andrew’s idea. And a good one. The rest of it — the other sponsors, the problems with the budget, the colors, the flowers, the candles, the furniture, and the list — will come soon enough.

“What about the gift bag?” Jay says, wiping his plate with a piece of bread.

The gift bag. The prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. Someone should write a dissertation on this icon. “The Meaning of Swag: Then and Now.” Thirty years ago, I made party favors for Amy’s sixth birthday. Paper dolls I meticulously cut out after
school for five days running. Each with two outfits. I left them blank, for the girls to color themselves. I put them in envelopes with each child’s name written in my best handwriting. In the frenzy of the party, Helen forgot all about them and sent each girl home with an extra piece of cake. It drove Amy to tears when she discovered her birthday cake had been gutted for others. I never cried. Just took the dolls. Stored them in my desk, vowing to color them all myself. A whole family of dolls. Later, home during college one summer, I found them while cleaning out my desk for a yard sale. Paper fossils, still in their shells. The tiny white shapes, as uniform as gingerbread men. Valentines to a different time. Even then I couldn’t bear to throw them away.

Now gift bags are an end unto themselves. It takes a shopping cart to hold all the graft, the bulging bags, the presenter boxes at awards shows, huge as trunks. I like free stuff as much as the next guy, but if there’s meaning here other than marketing and greed, I’ve yet to find it.

“Maybe we should keep the bag simple,” Jay says, smirking, pleased with himself. “Diamond studs and a copy of the magazine?”

Everyone smiles. We have work ahead of us.

“You want to know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think you should tell your landlady that every day the painters are still there you’re going to withhold a day’s rent.”

“You want to know what I think?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me anyway?”

“That you’ve never had to deal with painters.”

Pushing 10:00
A.M.
on Wednesday, and I’m home, on the phone with Steven. I’m home, because the week after New York, which is, more to the point,
two
weeks since Brad and Steve took over my house, I’m spending another morning waiting for them to show. Actually, I’m only waiting for Brad. Steve disappeared somewhere after the first week. Off on another job. Or moved back east. Or back in with his girlfriend. Whatever it is that happens to workmen who just wander off jobs, never to be seen again.
Now I’m down to Brad. At least he shows. About three hours after he says he’s going to. Which means I’ve spent every morning since I’ve gotten back from New York working from home until Brad and his abs wander in and I am sprung.

“Of course I’ve dealt with painters.” Steven snorts. “How could you forget Manuel?”

“Oh, right, cruising the Dunn-Edwards paint store was one of your more inspired dating schemes,” I say, one eye cocked on the TV as I toggle among Matt and Katie,
GMA
, and
Good Day L.A.
, all on mute. Depending on your client base, this actually counts as work.

“At least he repainted the upstairs bath before we broke up.”

“‘Broke up’ is such a cute euphemism,” I say, turning from the TV to my computer and my BlackBerry to check my e-mails. And they wonder why publicists have ADD. “Why can’t you just say ‘before we got sick of screwing each other’? So much more honest.”

“Because a girl has her pride.”

“Well, I no longer do. I’d do anything to get this guy here,” I say, clicking off the BlackBerry and checking my watch. I have less than half an hour before I’m to meet Oscar at his office. Today is our day to play tour guide for Patrice and Jay — guided walk-throughs of every one of the possible venues for
C
’s Christmas party. Talk about a time suck.

Actually, it’s a command performance, and Oscar’s even more pissed about it than I am. Usually when planning events, we give clients two or three venue proposals.
At most
. JPEGed photos with square footage detailed, entrances marked, et cetera, and budget breakdowns including catering, parking, permits, security. But for whatever reasons, Andrew and the rest of the
C
team have insisted on proposals for all
six
houses Oscar found. And they couldn’t just go with our recommendations and a fast visit to the most likely site — the Trousdale house. No, thanks to Patrice, who insisted on
walk-throughs of all six houses before signing off, we have a field trip in our future. It had taken Oscar more than a week to get them all lined up, and as payback, he insisted I come along. God knows, hitting six houses from Bel Air to Los Feliz will take most of the day. And the capper is, we have our walk-through this evening with Kia at the PDC.

“Look,” Steven says, “if Brad doesn’t show soon, you should just bail. Serves him right.”

Given my day, I’d sooner bail on Patrice. “If Brad doesn’t show soon, Oscar’s just going to have to deal with Patrice on his own,” I say, reaching for the remote to turn up the TV. Matt’s interviewing some Hilary Duff wannabe, or maybe it is Hilary Duff, about her latest movie. Gotta keep these blondies straight. If you lose track, it’s almost impossible to catch up.

Matt’s just asking her about her latest boyfriend when I hear voices outside. “Great, I think he’s finally here,” I say, clicking off the TV. Definitely a male voice somewhere. “Okay, look, I’ll call you from the road, but if we miss each other, Oscar and I will meet you and the Kia guys at the PDC at five-thirty.”

I grab my bag and head into the hallway. Through the frosted-glass door, I see the shadowy blur of Brad on his cell phone. Apparently the guy can call everyone but me, and after I’ve left him about a million messages?

“Hey, traffic bad again?” I say, yanking open the door. I could kill him, but I keep my voice happy, happy. Workmen are like bears, I’ve realized. Move at their own pace, eat everything not nailed down, leave trash everywhere. But mostly, you can’t show fear or especially anger, or they will kill you where you stand.

“Ah, no, man,” Brad says, clicking off and shoving the phone in his jeans. “I got tied up at this other job,” he says, heading into the kitchen, dropping his backpack to the counter and reaching for the coffeemaker. Sure, dude, help yourself.

“‘Other job’?” I say, handing him a mug.

“Yeah, I was over at your neighbor’s.”

“My neighbor’s?” I’ve been cooling my heels here for more than two hours and he’s at one of my neighbors’?

“Yeah, that actress chick, Christy? She wanted me to price out painting her bedroom.”

“You were at
Christy’s
this morning?” In the two years I’ve had the pleasure of living next door to Ms. Former Sitcom Star turned
American Idol
hopeful, I’ve never actually
met
Christy. I’ve heard her talking on her cell on the deck, singing on her deck, fighting with some guy on her deck. I’ve even seen her nude on her deck during the wee morning hours after one of her especially exuberant parties. But never actually
met
her. Brad is here, what, all of two weeks? and now he’s spending the morning over there?

“Yeah,” he says, breaking into a grin. “She left me a note on the truck last night, asking me to come by this morning and look at her bedroom walls.”

Oh, great. I’m late for work because
of Christy
.

“But I don’t think she really wants any painting done,” he says, shaking his head. “I think she just needs a lot of attention.”

“You got that right,” I say briskly. No point in going down this road. No time either. “Well, you’re here now, and I’ve actually got to run this morning,” I say, dumping the last of my coffee in the sink and putting the mug in the dishwasher. I turn and practically collide with Brad’s T-shirted pecs as he reaches past me for the sugar.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry,” I say, ducking under his arm. Maybe Christy isn’t the only one who needs attention.

“Yeah, well, I’ll stick around tonight to make up for the time over there.”

“Whatever,” I say, grabbing my bag and my jacket. “Or just come early tomorrow. By the way, do you think you’ll be done by the end of the week? Louise was asking me.”

“Yeah, should be,” he says, raising his T-shirt and scratching his abs.

Oh, God, there they are again. Maybe Oscar has the right idea. Date down the food chain. No muss, no fuss. Okay, what am I saying? I have to get out of here.

“Okay, great,” I say, fleeing for the door. “End of the week is good.”

By the time I make it down Laurel Canyon to Oscar’s office, a converted bungalow just off Melrose, I’m a good fifteen minutes late. At least I don’t see Patrice’s Jaguar or Jay’s Mustang when I pull in the driveway.

“Unless you have to pee, just get right in the hearse,” Oscar says, coming out the front door and waving me toward the Jeep.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say, grabbing my bag. “My painter showed up late again.”

“You want me to run that job for you?” he says, climbing into the driver’s side. “First thing I’ll do is fire that guy and get you a real painter.”

“Oh, Rhett, you would do that for me?” I say, aping a bad southern accent as I slide in next to him.

He shoots me a look. “I’m just offering my services as a project manager, Scarlett.”

“Well, next time, I’ll seriously consider it,” I say, buckling my seat belt. “Speaking of that, I’m letting you run this dog and pony show today. I think Patrice just lives to disagree with me. By the way, where are they?”

“Patrice is meeting us at the first house, but she may have to take off. Something about a screening. Jay will hook up with us later.”

“Oh, great, and after they insisted we set this up.”

“After
I
set it up,” he says, pulling out of the drive.

“After
you
set it up,” I say, leaning back in the seat. Outside it’s a gorgeous fall day for once. Perfect for a road trip. Away from the
office. From painters. From Patrice. “What do you say we bag it and just go to Santa Barbara?” I say suddenly. “Have lunch at this great outdoor restaurant I know.”

He looks over at me. His face is unreadable behind his sunglasses. “Don’t tempt me,” he says, pulling into traffic.

Patrice’s Jaguar — leased and one of those it’s-really-a-Ford-they-couldn’t-give-away — is already in the drive when we pull up to the Bel Air house. It’s a 1970s ranch, west of Roscomare and closer to the 405 than one might like, but it’s got a great open floor plan and a fabulous view from the backyard.

“I see Her Ladyship is here,” I say.

“Now, now, points will be deducted for not playing well with others,” Oscar says, pulling in behind the Jag. He puts the car in park and looks over at me. “On the count of three?”

Before Oscar can even ring the bell, Patrice opens the door. She’s in her usual over-the-top New York regalia — a black pencil skirt, three-inch heels, some fur thing around her neck, and a huge satchel of Day-Glo orange suede. In New York, you wouldn’t look twice. In the glare of the desert sun, she looks garish, brittle, like an extra in a Gilbert and Sullivan musical.

“Hullo, Oscar, Alec,” she says, reaching forward and bussing us each on our cheeks, dousing us in a wave of perfume.

“Hey,” I say, sneezing.

“So, what do you think?” Oscar says, shielding his eyes to gaze at the house. Like a lot of the newer houses in the hills, it’s pretty hideous from the road. Nondescript white stucco, right on the street. Still, what you’re getting is the Bel Air address and the killer view out back.

“Well, to be quite honest, I’m a little shocked,” she says, pumping her English accent hard. “This isn’t the message we want the magazine to send.”

“Really?” I say, reaching in my bag for the specs. “I know it’s a little west—”

“First, is this even Bel Air?” she says, waving across the street. “I mean, it’s not even gated.”

“Look, L.A. is not the Hamptons West,” I start to say, but Oscar cuts me off.

“Patrice, we’re here because you wanted to see it,” he says evenly, his face still unreadable behind his shades. “It was not our recommended site.”

“Well, when you said ‘Bel Air,’ I was thinking of an
estate
with—” Patrice sputters.

“Fine, let’s move on,” Oscar says, turning toward the cars and beeping his car alarm. “The next one is just down the road.”

Maybe it’s Patrice’s off-with-their-heads attitude. Or maybe I’m finally trying to do what everyone else seems to be doing these days — elevate passive-aggressiveness to an art form. “I’d like to see this as long as we’re here,” I say. They both look at me. “It might work for another party,” I say, shrugging.

Oscar looks at Patrice. “Might as well,” he says.

She shakes her head, muttering something about her screening later. “I’ll meet you at the Beverly Hills one in, say” — she pauses to check the massive Cartier on her wrist — “fifteen?”

We both nod and watch her head down the walk, her heels clicking on the concrete.
Buh-bye
.

“Okay, one down, five to go,” I say when she’s out of earshot.

“Cheer up, baby,” Oscar says, grabbing me by the shoulders and steering me toward the door. “We can always quit.”