There's Cake in My Future (22 page)

Okay, even I know I’m being petty.

“I’ll take one,” Britney says happily to Scott, completely oblivious to any verbal strategic maneuvering on my part.

“You got it,” Scott says to Britney, pulling two pint glasses from a cabinet as Britney effortlessly moves around him to grab a bottle opener out of a different drawer. (How many times has she been here that she knows where the bottle opener and the utensils are kept, and that she can flawlessly choreograph her way around him in his kitchen?)

Britney pops the top off the first beer as she insists, “I’m gonna have one beer and a little food, and then I’ll go.”

“I told you, you don’t have to go,” Scott reiterates to her.

“No. You’re working,” Britney says. “Besides, I’m meeting Roger and Roger for drinks. It’s kind of a work thing.”

“Roger and Roger?” I ask.

“Yeah, they’re the co-owners of the gallery that carries most of my pieces,” Britney tells me.

“Roger and Roger … Wait, is your stuff at R and R Gallery?” I ask her, surprised.

Britney nods, then turns her face away from me almost demurely.

“Wow,” I say, impressed and hating myself for it. “That’s a good gallery.”

Scott takes the bottle of red he bought for me at Trader Joe’s, and refills my glass. “Her pieces rock,” he brags. “Britney has a show coming up there in six weeks. You must go.”

“Oh, it’s a group thing,” she says humbly to me as she pours her beer into one of the pint glasses. “I’ll only have five pieces in the show. I’m not like Scott or anything.”

“She’s being modest,” Scott says proudly as he opens a carton filled with tempura. “Her pieces are insane. Vibrant, energetic. I wish I had that kind of talent.”

“My God!” Britney guffaws as she hands him a pint of perfectly poured beer. “You are so much more talented than I am!” She slaps him on the arm playfully. “Mr. ‘I’ve had my stuff on display at a museum!’ ”

Mr. what??? What is he? Five?

“You’re young. You will,” Scott insists, as he chuckles at the pretend smack on the arm.

And she’s young, too. Perfect. How young? 27? 15? What?

Britney turns to me. “Seema, tell Scott how talented he is.”

Oh, am I still in the room? Thanks for noticing.

“You are incredibly talented,” I say to Scott in all sincerity.

Scott makes a show of dropping his jaw at me. Then he practically rolls his eyes at me and turns to Britney. “Seema hates my stuff.”

“That’s not true,” I say, shocked that he thinks such a thing.

Scott turns back to me, and smiles an amused smile. “So true,” he counters with a light tone. Then he turns to Britney. “I told you how we met, right?”

She giggles, as though he’s the wittiest man she’s ever met. “Oh my God, that was Seema? The one who hated your
Conformity
piece?”

“I never said I hated it,” I say quickly.

Scott laughs good-naturedly. “No, you just said it was thoroughly unoriginal.”

I’m not laughing. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did!” Scott says, still smiling at me warmly, as if he doesn’t hold it against me at all.

I don’t know how to take that. What am I supposed to say?

Britney’s phone beeps a text. She pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Okay, they’re at the bar now. You guys wanna meet up there later?”

Yeah, I’ll bet it’s us
guys
she wants meeting her later.

“We’d love to, but we can’t,” Scott tells her apologetically. “Seema saw my pieces before they were stolen. She’s the only one who can help me re-create them exactly, and I only have her for tonight, so I gotta finish at least two pieces before the night’s over.”

“No worries,” Britney says. “I’ll be back around two.”

And with that, she kisses him good-bye.

It’s a hot, passionate kiss, with tongue and the tiniest bit of moaning. And if I was a more suspicious woman, I would say it was more for my benefit than his.

Can I officially hate her yet?

Twenty-seven

Melissa

Next on my carefully cultivated list of ways to meet men (a list that I am about to rip into a million pieces I might add) is a Scotch tasting. I’ve never had Scotch before, and frankly I’m a little intimidated by the idea of it. But the author of one of the lists seemed to feel very strongly that because Scotch is considered a man’s drink, more men will attend a tasting than women. And I seem to feel that after the day I’ve had, I could use a drink.

Man-wise, this looks promising. As I walk up to the line of people waiting to check in, I see there has to be about eight men for every woman here. The men range in age from early twenties to late sixties, but many of the guys here seem to be my age, and most don’t have wedding rings on. (Although today I have learned that this is not necessarily indicative of anything other than an intense dislike of jewelry.)

The Scotch company has rented a stage at a local studio in Hollywood in order to teach potential customers the ins and outs of a good Scotch. So, even if the evening is a total bust, I still get to lurk around the studio lot for a bit in the hopes of spotting George Clooney.

I arrive at 8:30 that evening, wait in line for a few minutes, then get to the door of Sound Stage Nine. I give my name to the perky girl at the front desk. She checks my name and I.D., then reminds me that the tasting and lecture is set to begin promptly at nine. She hands me a coin for a free drink at the bar, and I head inside.

Nice. Where have these tastings been hiding? The studio has been decorated to look like a sleek, sexy nightclub, complete with mood lighting and loungey overstuffed chairs. I walk up to one of the three bars in the room and look at the drinks menu. I have a choice of a Scotch and ginger ale; a glass of twelve-year-old Scotch, served straight up, over rocks, or with a splash of water; or what looks like a Scotch mojito, mixing the Scotch with mint, sugar, and ice cubes. Since I will be getting straight-up Scotch in the next room later, I go with the mojito.

As the bartender pours the ingredients into a cocktail shaker, I glance around the room to peruse my selection of men for the evening.

I check out a rocker type who looks paler than a sick person and who wears skinny black jeans and a funky black T-shirt. He has tattoos running up and down his arms. No. I don’t mean to be judgmental; people can do whatever they want to their bodies. But there is something unsightly to me about a giant Marilyn Monroe plastered on someone’s arm. Rocker guy smiles at me when he notices me looking at him, and I realize he’s fifty if he’s a day. I immediately avert my eyes.

My drink is ready. I hand the bartender my free drink coin, along with a one-dollar tip, then sit down on one of the plush chairs.

Absolutely no one approaches me. I make eye contact with the cute half-Asian guy in the gray wool suit. Nothing. He either doesn’t think I’m looking at him, or finds me so repulsive that I don’t even warrant a polite smile. I give the five-second stare (you know, when you look at a guy for one, two, three, four, five seconds straight) to a redhead in a button-up shirt and jeans. I do get a polite smile back, but then he turns to his friends and continues conversing with them.

Damn. Zero for two.

Next, I try a ten-second stare on a tall, dark, and handsome stranger who just invokes the word “delicious.”

Zilch. He almost looks confused by my interest. Although his girlfriend, a ridiculously hot redhead wearing a black minidress and black knee-high boots to show off her perfect legs, did suddenly appear next to him with two drinks in her hands.

Damn it. I look over at a group of older guys. Oh fuck it—maybe I should just flirt with one of them.

“Excuse me. Girl in the sexy red dress,” I hear a girl say to my left.

I look over to see the hot redhead walk up to me. “Hi! I’m Candy,” she says brightly to me.

“Hi, I’m Mel,” I say back, a little confused.

“That’s Dave over there,” she says, jutting her head toward the cute guy with her. “So what do you think? Cute, right?”

“Delicious,” I say out loud.

Oh God! You dork. You are not nearly cool enough to pull off “Delicious.” Knock it off.

“Perfect!” Candy declares. “Because he’d like to know if you’re single.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised a guy like that would even notice me, much less send his friend over to go bond with me.

Dave raises his drink and smiles at me as Candy says, “Would you like to join us for a drink?”

“Sure,” I say, standing up.

“Great. Because we both think you’re really cute…”

I put up the palm of my hand. “Wait. We? What do you mean
we
?”

“Oh come on,” Candy says playfully. “He is an amazing lover, and all I do is stand by with the camera.”

Eek!

“Wow,” I blurt out as the man starts to walk toward us. “No, no, no,” I warn him over and over again as I wave my hands around like I’m trying to swat flies away from a picnic. “You go away. Shoo!”

“Honey, this is a perfect opportunity to expand your microcosm,” Candy tells me. “When was the last time someone completely catered to your fantasies?”

“About ten years ago, when Häagen-Dazs came out with their dulce de leche ice cream,” I answer.

Candy smiles at my joke. She seems to really like me. “No worries,” she tells me genuinely, then pulls out her business card. “If you change your mind, just call or text me. I think the three of us could have a lot of fun.”

“Thank you,” I respond awkwardly, taking her card and reading it.

Wow. Her name really is Candy. Dr. Candy Horowitz. And she’s a dentist.

A dentist?!

I’m not sure which throws me more: that dentists look like that, or that they have sex lives like hers.

Ten minutes later, the hostesses announce that the Scotch tasting will begin, and to please segue into the next room.

I slowly walk in with the crowd to a large room that looks like a weird combination wedding reception/high school laboratory: throughout the large room are circular banquet tables that each seat eight. In front of each of the eight chairs is a collection of test tubes: five tubes hold Scotch, five hold other ingredients. In front of the ten test tubes are three glass snifters. Two of the snifters have Scotch in them, one is empty. Behind the test tubes is another glass containing what I assume is water.

Huh.

A hostess at the door asks me how many are in my party.

“One,” I say, proud of myself for heeding the advice of the dating guru who insists that men hunt in packs, but they don’t hunt them.

The hostess seats me at a table near the front. Seven men, ranging in age from about thirty to about sixty, are already seated. One of the men, a white-haired gentleman who looks like a college professor, stands up as I approach. “Finally, a lady in our presence.”

“Thank you,” I say, as I sit between the white-haired guy and a cute thirty-something I hadn’t noticed before while scanning the bar area.

Thirty-something is nerd cute: something about him seems so approachable. Like a young Jon Stewart—good looking, but not so much that you say stupid things and look at the ground the entire time you’re with him. A man who might not fill me with self-loathing for the next few hours.

“Jimbo, didn’t I tell you?” the white-haired guy says to the Jon Stewart look-alike. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Mel,” I say, quickly flitting my eyes back and forth between white-haired guy, who looks victorious, and approachable guy, who seems a bit embarrassed. “What? What did you tell him?”

“I’m George,” white-haired guy tells me. “And I told Jim that we should sit a seat apart from each other, just in case Angelina Jolie comes in alone looking for a drink. And, instead, we got her much prettier sister.”

This guy is so charming that his statement didn’t sound like a pickup line: it sounded like one of those things dads say when they’re trying to boost your ego.

“Take it down a notch,” young Jim tells George as he gives him an indulgent smile. “Obviously, a woman like this is taken.”

“Are you taken, Mel?” George asks me without hesitation.

“Um … no, actually,” I say. Then I give both of them the line I have rehearsed in my head a hundred times just on the car ride over. “I recently dumped my boyfriend of six years. And I’m excited to get back out in the world and try some fun things on my own.”

Then I decide to throw in for good measure, “I thought it was time to expand my microcosm.”

“Really?” Jim says, visibly impressed. “I just broke up too. Well, actually she broke up with me. But I gotta say,
that
is the attitude to take. Just get back out there. Have fun. Meet some new people.”

I smile at Jim, glowing a bit from his approval. Not that I should care what a total stranger thinks, but it’s nice to hear someone say aloud that they think I’m on a good path.

The perky blonde who checked us in takes a microphone and introduces us to the company’s “ambassador,” a delightful Scotsman who tells us about the history of Scotch in general, and his company in particular.

I spend the next twenty minutes sneaking glances at Jim, who smiles easily and effortlessly, and learning a bit about Scotch.

Actually, learning about Scotch is a little like learning chess. You can spend an eternity learning, but all you really need to know to get started are some basics. For chess, it’s that the rook only moves horizontally and vertically, the bishop only goes diagonally, and the queen can go almost anywhere. You don’t need to start off knowing Bobby Fischer’s favorite moves.

For Scotch, we learned that a single malt is a Scotch that is distilled in a single distillery. Blended Scotch, on the other hand, can be a mix of forty or more different types of single-malt Scotch. We also learned that Scotch has been around for hundreds of years, and that based on where and how it’s made, it can smell and taste like a variety of things.

Our ambassador tells us that we have five single-malt Scotches in the test tubes in front of us. Each one has a unique scent and flavor to it. The trick is to only smell the Scotches, not drink them (not drink them?!), to see which one we like the best.