The Gift Bag Chronicles (39 page)

“You know, I think Patrice’s real problem is she’s just not a giver. I mean, look at her decision about the gift bag. Like a copy of the magazine and a tin of Altoids in a bag is going to kill you?”

“Could be,” I say, taking a sip of champagne and realizing it’s flat. And warm. But then it’s past 2:00. Steven and I are outside, slumped on one of the couches, watching as the last of the guests straggle out. I’m wearing some guy’s jacket over my dress, can’t remember whose. The cops have come. And gone. Andrew and Amanda left hours ago. The DJ is packing up, and Oscar’s got the lights over the pool turned up to discourage any lingering. It’s like watching cockroaches scramble for cover. Nobody wants to see themselves — or their dates — that clearly after six hours of partying.

“Can you turn the lights down just a tad?” I say, catching sight of Oscar on the other side of the pool helping one of the bartenders load glasses into boxes.

“Time to go home,” he calls out, waving over his shoulder. A second later, the lights lower.

“Thank you,” I say.

“So I do think it was hilarious Patrice spent the entire evening at the opposite end of the carpet from you,” Steven says. Between his conspiratorial tone and the way he’s sprawled on the couch, I can tell he’s hunkering down for a long, bitchy chat. Usually this is my favorite part of the evening, debriefing ourselves, but not tonight. Between my face-off with Patrice, what I’m taking as my
breakup with Charles, given that he left without saying a word, and the hours of working the carpet, not to mention the whole light fiasco, I’m wiped.

“Well, it’s not like I really expected anything else from her,” I say, peering at my watch. “By the way, where’s my fairy godmother to take Cinderella’s earrings back?”

Steven reaches for his pocket and pulls out a velvet box. “Totally forgot. Lucienne left with the diamonds, but she gave me this to give to you. She said she’ll send a messenger for your earrings on Monday.”

I snap open the box. Inside is a pair of studs, half-carat I’m guessing, and a note.

“Oh, my God,” I say, staring at the earrings. Even by Lucienne’s normal standards of graft, this is huge.

“Personally, I’d rather have the ones you’re wearing,” Steven says, leaning over to study the earrings. “But at least someone’s giving you a diamond.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say, looking up. “And I was just starting to forget about Charles.”

“Sorry,” he says. “But you know I never liked him.”

“You never liked him? Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because you had to learn these things for yourself, Dorothy. Now repeat after me: There’s no place like home.” He reaches for my hand, pulling us both to our feet. “So what are you going to do about your Christmas trip to Hawaii?” he says. “Want me to go with you?”

“I don’t know. I’ll probably just cancel. But then maybe I’ll go on my own. Might be good for me to spend some time alone. Sort things out.”

We head across the lawn for the house. Inside it’s a mess, with glasses, bottles everywhere. So much for the waitstaff. Oscar’s
crew will be here for hours. “Hey, I’m just going to tell him we’re leaving,” I say, turning back for the door.

“One more dance before she turns into a pumpkin?”

“You’re mixing movies with fairy tales now. Say good night, Gracie.”

“Good night, Gracie. Call me tomorrow.”

Steven heads out the front door, and I turn back for the patio. “Where’d he go?” I ask the bartender.

“Out in the pool house, helping the other bartender pack up,” he says, nodding down the yard.

I pick my way across the grass, even wetter now with dew. Even before I get to the pool house, I smell his cigar. “Hey,” I say, sticking my head in the door. At the far end of the room, Oscar is leaning against the bar, cigar in hand, while the bartender, a tall blonde, sits on top of it, her bare legs crossed.

I am so, so stupid. So
fucking
stupid.

I turn and am heading for the door when Oscar catches sight of me. “Hey,” he says, pushing away from the bar.

I shoot him my best professional smile. “Oh, hey, I just wanted to say I’m leaving. And thanks. Thanks again. It turned out well. In the end.”

“Hang on a sec,” he says to me, turning to the bartender. “Here, hold this,” he says, handing her the cigar, and heads toward me. “So you’re going?”

“Yeah,” I say, turning for the door. “We’ll talk Monday.”

“You did a good thing tonight.”

“You mean the lights?”

“I meant Patrice. Standing up to her. Somebody had to.”

I shrug. “It probably cost us the account, but at least I won’t have to deal with her again.”

He looks at me. “I heard Charles left.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a long time in coming. Where’s Mai, by the way?”

“Left. To meet her girlfriend.”

So Steven was right. “And you’re what, the beard?”

“A friend of her parents. From Hawaii.”

I look at him and then the bartender. “Well, have a nice night.”

He turns, looks back at the bartender and then at me. “Look, if you want to stick around, I’m just finishing up here.”

“That’s okay,” I say, looking at him. “I really have to go.”

I turn and head out, picking my way across the lawn toward the house. For the second time tonight, I feel my heart race. For all the times you make your own decisions, there are still those times when circumstances make them for you.

“Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?” he calls out behind me.

I turn. Oscar, standing in the doorway, the light pouring out around him.

“Hugo’s,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at noon.”

I shake my head. “I have a date with my couch and the Sunday papers.”

“I’ll be there,” he says. “Noon.”

I turn, wave over my shoulder, and start for the house.

“Noon,” he says again. “You watch.”

“So you got everything? Bathing suit, paperback, traveler’s
checks?”

“Nobody uses traveler’s checks anymore. In case you hadn’t noticed,” I say, cradling the cell against my ear and fumbling in my bag for my boarding pass. 5A. LAX to Kona. Merry fucking Christmas.

“So, you’re sure you feel okay about not going with Charles?” Steven says.

“Yeah, I think so,” I say, leaning back in my seat, gazing at my fellow Hawaii-bound travelers. “I’m still not sure how it’s going to be to work with him after all this, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Hey, look at it this way. Maybe he’ll actually leave you alone and let you do your job,” he says. “I mean, since Andrew renewed your contract. Mr. Vote of Confidence.”

“Don’t remind me,” I say. “I’m just praying Patrice moves on
to
Vogue
, or
InStyle
, or somewhere up the food chain, since she’s riding so high after the party.”

Across from me, a woman and two teenage girls sink into seats. A mother and her daughters, I’m guessing. The woman has a take-out coffee, a stack of newspapers, and a slightly amused look, like being in the airport with her two children is just the kind of adventure she wants. The girls have backpacks, some sort of fruit frappes, and the careless ease of children still in their parents’ care. The woman fishes out a paper, turns to the crossword.

“Adam’s Rib and a pop star,” she says.

“Eve,” says the younger of the two.

“Oh, by the way,” I say. “Helen wanted me to thank you for the lilies. She said she’s never had flowers delivered to a ship’s cabin before. But then she’s never been in a ship’s cabin before.”

“I hope she didn’t think they were funereal. I mean, some people take lilies the wrong way.”

“She didn’t,” I say, watching the woman. “She said she thought your mother was a very lucky woman.”

“That
would be news to Rita,” he says with a laugh. “Okay, so when’s your flight? I still have a ton of shopping to do.”

I check my watch. “Half an hour,” I say, and feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn.

Oscar. With two take-out coffees.

“God, the Starbucks was way down the concourse,” he says, handing me one and sinking into the seat next to me.

“Oscar says hi,” I say to Steven, prying the lid off and taking a sip.

“Are you still talking to him?” Oscar says, reaching for the phone. I hand it to him. “Hey, I realize you two are joined at the hip, but seriously, dude, she’s going to be okay. She’s going on vacation.”

Steven says something, and Oscar laughs. “Yeah, I’ll tell her,” he says. “And I’m sure she’ll call you the minute we land.”

He hangs up, hands me back the phone. Across the aisle the woman calls out another question. “Huxleian classic.”

“Animal Farm,”
says the older girl.

“Honey, I think that was Orwell.”

“1984,”
says the younger girl.

“That’s Orwell too,” says the older. “Oh, I know.
Brave New World.”

“Right,” the woman says, penciling it in.

“You know, I haven’t flown with anybody for a long time,” I say, eyeing Oscar over the coffee. “It’ll be weird.”

“It’ll be
weird?”

“But in a good way.”

“Look, Garbo,” he says, sliding an arm around my shoulders. “I know this is a big step for you.”

“For me?”

“Okay, for
me
. For
us
. See, this is exactly what guys don’t like to do. They don’t like to talk about it all the time.”

“Define ‘it.’”

“I don’t have to. You know exactly what I mean.”

“You don’t even want to say the word,” I say, laughing. “You can’t even say the word
relationship.”

“Re-la-tion-ship,” he says. “Happy now?”

“Very,” I say, sitting back in my seat. “So tell me again all the places you’re going to show me when we get there. Where you grew up.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, turning to me. “I forgot, the first place we have to go is this little place right on the beach. An old Army buddy of my dad’s bought it right before we moved back to the mainland, but we used to go down, hang out, drink beer, and watch the sunsets. He did the best grilled yellowtail. You’ll love it.”

“And he’s still there?” I say, looking up. “After all these years?”

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s still there. You’ll see. He’s still there.”

Thanks to the usual suspects … Kate and Brian, Adam and Bruce, and Janet, for her patience. Thanks to Beth Parker for her diligence and enthusiasm in spreading the word. Thanks, too, to Jill Eisenstadt, Jeffrey Best, Kelly Striewski, and especially Bryan Rabin. Without their gracious assistance, Alex wouldn’t know how to throw a party, let alone satirize one. And to Michael, who keeps the Oscar-Charles dilemma entirely in the realm of fiction.

H
ILARY DE
V
RIES
is a veteran entertainment journalist who has covered Hollywood for more than a decade. In addition to being the author of
So 5 Minutes Ago
, she is a regular contributor to
The New York Times
and has written for
Vogue, Rolling Stone, The Washington Post, W
, the
Los Angeles Times
, and other publications. She lives in Los Angeles.