Ginny Blue's Boyfriends

by Nancy Kelly

  Yet ... yet ...

  He made me want to run rip out my hair by the roots and shriek. I managed to keep those shrieks from being voiced—barely—as a I snatched up my purse and blasted out of the condo.

  At the door, Mom mumbled, “Virginia, why don’t you buy this condo? It would be a wonderful investment.”

  Always the real estate agent. “It’s a matter of economics,” I reminded her.

  “I could give you the down payment,” she said.

  “Mom.” I stalked over to her, staring down at her swollen eyes. “They gave you some valium derivative, didn’t they?”

  “I have the money, Ginny. If you’re going to marry someone like Don, let me help you.”

  I don’t know what surprised me more: that she was throwing her life savings at me, or that she’d called me Ginny. The Don part was expected. “You need rest,” I told her roughly. I could feel emotion scarily taking me over. I’m not usually prone to waterworks, but the sting behind my eyes was real. Damn it, but I hate it when people are nice to me! I mean, no, not really. But yeah ... sometimes. My mom was killing me. And she looked so damn pathetic!

  “Have a nice time,” she murmured, and I bolted to meet CeeCee.

  Chapter 15

  “... and she told me she’d loan me the money for the down payment,” I said, swilling down the last drops of my second Ketel One martini. I had to shake the reluctant liquid into my mouth. I was definitely feeling very teary. Not a good sign. Not a good idea to knock back a depressant when one is feeling exceptionally low.

  “Is the condo for sale?” CeeCee asked.

  I focused in on her. She’d about knocked me over when she strode into the Love Shack. This was not the CeeCee I knew. This CeeCee wore a business suit with a very short skirt which showed off attractive, muscular legs. Beneath the gray pinstripe peeked an orange V-necked T-shirt. Her hair was all one length and one color, a light brown, one side tucked behind her ear. Her shoes were black flats. Her only concession to the CeeCee I knew was the the absence of stockings and the whiff of cigarette smoke that lingered.

  I’d said, upon first viewing, “Oh ... my ... God.”

  Her answer: “I hate these fucking clothes.”

  “Then what’s it all about?”

  “Role playing.”

  I should have guessed. What was shocking was how utterly wonderful she looked in the outfit. “This get-up’s for the boss?”

  “He likes to do it on his desk whenever we’re alone. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been lying on my back with my legs in the air, this stupid little skirt hiked up to my armpits. On the corner of his desk is this wide metal frame surrounding a picture of his ex-wife and the kids. I watch my reflection in the metal frame.”

  “Oh.”

  “I think I’m about done with him.”

  “And give up eyelash chewing?” I asked, surprised.

  “That’s long over. We’re into—something else. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She snorted and asked again, “Your condo’s for sale?”

  “The owner said something about it once or twice. But I’m not taking my mother’s money.”

  “Could you swing it on your own?”

  I shook my head. “Do you know what a down payment would be on property in Santa Monica? On any property?”

  “I’ve got an idea. It’s good to own real estate.”

  “If you can afford it.”

  She abruptly changed the subject, “Tell me about Don.”

  “Not a chance. I haven’t forgotten what happened with Hairy Larry. I mentioned him, and you called him up.”

  “I like Hairy,” she said.

  “It’s Larry,” I reminded.

  She looked thoughtful “I should’ve gone for him myself that night, instead of letting that Agency chick go after him.”

  “You were in love.”

  “Well, I’m not any more,” she stated grimly. “I’m going to have to quit my job,” she revealed. “Cheese-Dick wins the prize after all.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yep.”

  A moment passed between us, then I asked, “Should I have another drink?”

  “Have ten,” she suggested.

  “Nope. Gotta get back to Mom. I left her in Don’s care and even though he’s close to goodliness, er, Godliness ...” I hiccupped. “I can’t be gone long. He’s wormed his way into her affections and it really bugs me.”

  CeeCee fiddled with her pack of cigarettes, examining the little circular cigarette ends longingly. “He’s still doing all that bowing, scraping, and genuflecting?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I stared at my empty glass morosely. “But he’s got money.”

  “Whoop-dee-do.”

  “Mom seems to think it matters. She’d like to see me settled.”

  “All moms want to see their daughters settled. Though your friend Kristl’s mother might be over that by now.”

  “Kristl’s not married yet,” I defended, as if this somehow meant something, which I wasn’t really sure it did.

  “Jill’s close.”

  “Jill and Ian ... Jill-Ian ...”

  “One of us was bound to go first,” CeeCee said fatalistically. “I always thought it would be Daphne, despite how long Jill and Ian have been living unhappily ever after. But since Leo took off for Losers, Inc. and she decided he was a loser in real life ...”

  “She’s been hanging out with Dr. Dick.” I didn’t want to think about Daphne. I was having a hard time with the whole Dr. Dick thing.

  CeeCee waved that away. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Daphne’s ordering us tickets to ‘Getting Able with Kane.’ ”

  CeeCee gave me a sharp look. “Jesus.”

  I lifted a hand in surrender. “I wouldn’t even go except I made that stupid promise to you guys about putting all my Ex-Files to bed, or something like that. At least I can see Kane and get it over with all at once.” I paused. “Charlie and Hog sent me a postcard from Tijuana. I saw it on the counter. I almost wanted to ...”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Run away, I guess.”

  “To Mexico?”

  “From my life.”

  “Have you seen Black Mark yet?”

  “Lemme see ...” I held up one hand and started counting. “Saw Charlie again, saw Hairy Larry, thanks to you—”

  “My pleasure,” CeeCee murmured. One of the cocktail waiters looked anxious about CeeCee holding her pack of cigarettes. She waved him over and ordered me another vodka martini and scotch on the rocks for herself.

  I touched my third finger, “I’m in the middle of seeing Don the Devout ... whatever that means. That’s three down. When we get to ‘Getting Able’ that’ll be four. Oh, and there’s Nate. He’s way done with, so that’s five.”

  “Who’s left?”

  “Six’ll be Black Mark. I’m planning to go to San Diego this weekend.”

  “And?”

  I sighed heavily and thought hard. Our waiter placed my drink in front of me. I watched the way the clear liquid sloshed lightly in the triangular glass. “The last two are Lang and Knowles-It-All. And I’m tellin’ ya, right now, I’m not gonna look up Mr. Famous Actor.”

  She ignored that and asked, “What’s the deal with Knowles-It-All?”

  “You don’t want to Knowles.” I laughed at my little joke. Kinda surprised I could pull it off as I was definitely feeling the effects. I couldn’t touch my third drink. A little voice inside my head reminded me of WORK tomorrow.

  “Did I tell you I’m on a job with Will?” I asked her. “To you, to me, TUACA!”

  She nodded, smiling faintly. “How’s that going?”

  “He reminds me an awful lot of Black Mark. And I’ve got sex on the brain, just like I did with him. It doesn’t bode well.”

  “You haven’t slept with him yet?”

  “Hell, no. We’ve just been workin’, workin’, workin’.” I carefully lifted the martini glass, trying to look thro
ugh the liquid. “He’s got that girlfriend.”

  CeeCee grunted.

  “A girlfriend is a girlfriend,” I said. This somehow sounded sage and profound to my ears. CeeCee must have thought so, too, because she sighed and said, “And wives are worse.”

  “Gerald’s ex in the pitcher ... um ... picture ... again?”

  “Right in the center of the frame,” she said.

  It took me until the next day to really get her point.

  I never touched that third martini, and CeeCee and I separated at the Love Shack’s front door. I half-staggered, half-walked back to my condo. CeeCee had offered me a ride, as she was remarkably clear and sober, but I needed to clear my head so I hoofed it. The night was coolish; November in southern California definitely has a bite.

  As I approached my complex I saw a small crowd gathered near the door to the garage. Feeling far more sober and filled with curiosity, I stepped forward. One of my neighbors, a burly guy with a belly laugh who nodded at me cheerily whenever I saw him, had his shoulder against the garage gate and was manually pushing it aside. Apparently the mechanism had broken. This happens sometimes. I was glad that burly guy was there to get it open as I didn’t want to be locked inside tomorrow morning, late for work and hung over, as I was bound to be.

  It was then I realized Don was on the ground, his right leg splayed out in front, his foot caught between the gate and the wall. Another neighbor, a young woman, was inside the garage, attempting to take Don’s shoe off. Her ministrations weren’t entirely gentle as I heard Don suck air sharply through gritted teeth.

  “Jesus,” I murmured in awe, staring. “Schematic Man actually got someone.”

  “Don’t swear,” Don muttered fiercely.

  Everyone turned to look at me. I smiled meekly. It was all I could do to keep from cracking up.

  I had an epiphany right there, a serious religious realization: God possesses a sense of humor.

  At work the next day I found myself nearly chirping from my good mood. There was no way to explain how I felt about what had happened to Don without coming off as a sadist. He was on crutches now, and he seemed to have no real explanation about how the accident occurred. I asked if the gate had suddenly sped up and slammed into his foot, but Don muttered a sharp, “No,” and left it at that. His ankle was torn up a bit, and swollen. A bad sprain, I guess. He wasn’t in a cast but he was wrapped up halfway to his knee. I knew it hurt, and I should have felt some empathy and remorse, but I’ve got to admit, all I really felt was glee.

  His injury had turned my mother from a patient to a caretaker in no time flat. With what looked like two black eyes, she buzzed around and happily took care of Don, who now was on the couch. Mom had taken over his room, a game of musical bedrooms that was working for me. I liked this arrangement much better as Mom was down the hall from me, not Don. It is mind-boggling how done I am with Don. Don the Done. Hmmm ...

  On set I managed a few flirtatious moments with Will. Sean, now on the job, witnessed these incidents but he’d forgiven me entirely for everything that had transpired since I’d added him onto the job and paid him for an extra half day. I didn’t care what Holly thought of my actions; they could take the money from my check, for all I cared. It was just worth it having peace reign again; Sean was a pretty decent PA, considering all. And I hadn’t caught the scent of any funny cigarettes around. He seemed to understand how I felt, and we left it at that. I learned that he and Bettina had become a more serious item. Since the catering was taken care of and there was no Liam Engleston to worry about, Bettina was off my shit list. I did warn Sean not to have her, or anyone else not connected with the job, turn in the petty cash receipts. “Not good business,” I pointed out, meaning it could affect my job, his, and any other PAs carelessly tossing cash around.

  “Got it,” Sean said, and I hoped he did.

  Toward the end of the day I was watching Will and the first AD attempting to catch the last rays of the dying sun. They were working hard, hurrying to push things a little farther before the light waned, when Holly sidled up to me, looking inordinately shaken. This was a new view of the Holy Terror and I hardly knew how to ask what was wrong. I did manage “You all right?” to which she nodded abruptly and moved off. Mystified, I checked my watch. I wanted to wrap this damn thing up and fast. Tomorrow was our last shoot day and I might not be seeing Will again anytime soon unless I made a move.

  To my everlasting joy he suddenly shut everything down. They just couldn’t get the shot. As the grips and assistants starting packing up for the night, Will headed my way. Or, at least in my general direction.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Let’s get the hell outta here,” he said to me. “You wanna?”

  “Yep.”

  When the director says “jump,” you jump. I walked out with Will and left Holly and Barb and everyone else to clean up. The great thing was, I wouldn’t even hear about it. The director is God on the set. Holly merely mouthed, “Careful” to me, and I nodded, though it burst my bubble a little. Pissed me off, too. I didn’t ask her to be my mother.

  Will sent me a sidelong look. “I want a shower and then a hot tub. I’ve got both at my place.”

  I asked, “Where’s your place?”

  “Follow me.”

  No more doing the getting-to-know-you dance. We were apparently on our way. My thoughts flew to the girlfriend, but maybe Rhianna was history. Jumping behind the wheel of my Explorer, I trailed after his Ferrari. This was standard issue for directors of any note. Expensive cars were a must. If the shoot was anywhere near their home, they’d drive themselves in their most upscale vehicle; out-of-town jobs most often meant the director had his or her own driver.

  It took an hour to get to Will’s place in the Hollywood Hills, fast by Los Angeles commuting standards. True to his word he headed straight for the shower, telling me to fix myself a drink. I glanced around. He didn’t have bad taste: sage chenille couch, sea grass area rug, antiqued maple tables, and indirect lighting. I suspected some decorator had made a huge order to Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware. My eye caught on a cherry-red club chair. I sat down in it and realized it was a recliner. I LOVED it. Instantly I got up and headed for the mirrored bar, recoiling a bit at my own reflection. I was still in work garb: short-sleeved tan T-shirt, muddy-colored cargo capris, my hair pulled back into a makeshift ponytail-bun thing, more function than form. Did I look too not-beautiful? When you live in LA, with beauties everywhere you look, you have to seriously worry about these things.

  I worried for a moment, then shut my brain down hard, like a trap door. Too late for that now.

  The idea of mixing a drink sounded too hard, and let’s face it, I wasn’t all that eager to swill down more vodka after last night. Though I hadn’t suffered the expected hangover, I was more interested in keeping a clear head tonight. But I didn’t want to appear to be a sudden teetotaler. It might jar the mood. So, thinking, I examined the array of wine. Mostly unrecognizable to my untutored eye. I searched for something I knew wasn’t going to break the bank and found a bottle of Merlot with a California label I recognized from Sav-On. I uncorked it, waited a good three seconds for it to breathe, then poured myself a balloon goblet nearly to the brim. Uncool. I hadn’t meant to look like an amateur. I quickly grabbed another goblet and sloshed half my Merlot into a glass for Will. I accidently rained red drops on a snow globe which sat on the bar. It was one of those promotional ones from the film Fargo, with a dead body, blood, and a police car in its snowy little tableau. I quickly wiped off the wine.

  Sex, I thought. I’m going to have sex tonight!

  “Thank you, God,” I said, squelching a thought of Don.

  Will returned in black terrycloth robe. I’d been thinking of nicknaming him Will Power, but it looked like we were ready to rock and roll, so I was thinking Willing and Able might be more apt.

  He went out to the back deck. His house was on a hillside and he had a hot tub built right into the back deck.
Through a glass partition, the lights of the city winked and undulated against an inky black sky. Will removed the tub’s cover and I heard, saw, and smelled the chlorinated water bubbling and frothing. For a moment my Seinfeld-ish self lifted its head and worried about the bacteria that live in warm water. If the hot tub isn’t hot enough, or chlorinated enough, or something enough, the pesky pseudomonas bacteria attacks with a vengeance. I’ve seen torso skin covered in huge red bumps, the product of poorly attended hot tubs. Ug–ly. Not good. Scary. A huge, seething rash.

  I shuddered. However, fear of bacteria is not a turn-on by anyone’s standards. Gritting my teeth into a smile, I handed Will his balloon of Merlot. He took a healthy swallow then set the glass on the deck beside the tub, slipped out of his robe and stepped into the turgid water.

  I got a good clear view of his equipment. Not as impressive as Black Mark’s had been, but hey, it’s not what you’ve got, it’s how you use it, right? Besides, I’ve never been one of those who swooned over the length and breadth of the male member. It seems so ... wrong, somehow. Like guys who pass over a woman because her breasts aren’t big enough.