Bicoastal Babe

by Cynthia Langston

  “This is not about me and it’s not about you. It’s our thing together…” Jen’s words echo in my head as I struggle for the right way to handle this.

  “Lindsey?” Julia puts her hand on my shoulder gently, as if to remind me that she’s still standing there.

  “I… I’m sorry. Right. Yeah… uh… it was a funny story, actually…”

  • • •

  Walking away from the interview with Julia, I feel like I just posed nude for a pervert’s Polaroid. I took absolutely no credit for my contributions to the newsletter, outside of bobbing my head like a wobble doll every time Julia made reference to “you two” or “you guys” or “you and Jen.” Yet I’m not sure that I didn’t do the right thing. Copywriters at Gordon-Taylor don’t really get credit in the marketing world for their cool ads – the credit just goes to the agency. Or does it? Once again, I feel like such an idiot. I have no idea how the world works.

  Making my way back toward the bar, I see that Victor and Jen have found each other. They’re standing at the bar laughing, standing perhaps one centimeter too close for my comfort. Or is that in my imagination?

  “How’d it go?” Jen asks sweetly as I walk up.

  “Fine,” I answer tersely. “Victor, can we go soon?”

  “Seriously? Lindsey, we just got here.”

  “I want to go home.”

  Victor shrugs at Jen, then reaches for my wrap. But as I turn to toss it around my shoulders, my eyes are blinded by the flashbulb of a camera in my face.

  “It’s Jen Savage and Lindsey Miller from Friday’s Lifestyle section,” I hear someone say, and I suddenly feel arms pulling me forward.

  When my eyes adjust, I see a photographer, with his light guy holding up a giant bulb. “Let’s have a good one, you two,” he calls out.

  Jen jumps over and throws her arm around me. My eyes are still blurry from the flash. I try to smile as the camera clicks three times. Then I glance around for Victor, who’s watching from off to the side, looking amused but slightly jealous. And then I feel another hand on my arm.

  “You’re not leaving so soon, are you, dear?” It’s Ethel Kim, whispering in my ear.

  “Well, I was going to,” I say timidly.

  She shakes her head disapprovingly. “No, no, dear. Let me make you aware of something. According to your newsletter, you’re an expert on spotting trends, is that correct?”

  I nod.

  “Well, then, darling, you should be noticing right now that the new trend emerging in this room is you.” She smiles knowingly. “And,” she continues, “if you play your cards right, all this” – she motions around the room – “all this could be just the beginning.”

  And then just as suddenly as she appeared, she’s gone.

  I look around the room and everything seems like it’s swirling in slow motion. Ethel Kim is right. I’m at a swanky New York party, and I’m not here because of Victor. I’m here because of me!

  “Lindsey, Jen – over here!” I turn to see another photographer, who identifies himself as being from the W Magazine social page. Jen leaps to my side and the camera snaps, and it hits me that even if it’s for a very short time, in a very small way, I am somebody in this world.

  And when I wake up two mornings later, naked in Victors bed and sticky from last night’s whipped-cream fiesta, I’m greeted by a fresh copy of The New York Times and a dozen red roses with a note that reads, I’m proud of you, Lindsey Miller. Love and admiration, Victor.

  Chapter 24

  Buying a Halloween costume is not easy.

  “Look at this one,” I say to Victor. “Piece of Pizza – how cute!

  “I’m thinking more along the lines of Daisy Duke,” he says as he pulls a skimpy getup off the rack.

  We’re browsing through the Scare Store, Manhattan’s biggest seasonal extravaganza of costumes and accessories.

  “Or what about this. Pair of Scissors! How do they think of these things?”

  I look over to see him pulling a Naughty Schoolgirl costume off the rack with a look of desperate hope.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I laugh as he holds it up to me and nods his approval. “But just remember, you’re not going to see it on me anyway.”

  His face falls. “Why can’t you spend Halloween with me?” he demands.

  “You know why. Because I won’t be in New York that week.”

  “So come back for it. I’ll buy your ticket.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry!”

  “Why would you want to spend Halloween in Los Angeles? It’s not even special there. Everyone’s so used to dressing up each day like superficial movie assholes that the concept of putting on a costume is totally lost.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I’m sure I can imagine,” he grumbles.

  It’s true. Halloween is in two weeks, and I’ll be in L.A. I’ve been invited to several soirees in both cities, but the Haunted Heaven and Hell party down by the beach with Danny sounded like the most fun. Besides, Victor and some of his Wall Street buddies are dressing up like hundred-dollar bills and walking (on a dare from their office manager) in the gay parade down in the Village. Which means I’d be standing on the sidelines for most of the night.

  “So it’s down to Sexy Librarian, Army Sergeant, and Bumble Bee,” I tell him. “Which should I pick?”

  “Hmm, let’s see,” he muses. “That’s a tough one. Are you sure you don’t want to throw on a burlap sack and go as Mrs. Potato Head?”

  “So you’re saying I should go with the Sexy Librarian?”

  “Only if you give me a private preview.”

  “But I really want the Bumble Bee!”

  “I know you do.” He sighs. “So take it then, and let’s go get some dinner.”

  I bite my lip. I’d love to go out for dinner, but I’m so swamped with work that I can’t imagine taking more time out for fun today.

  “Uh… okay. On one condition.”

  Twenty minutes later we’re sitting in Victor’s living room surrounded by cardboard cartons of Chinese food. I can feel a cool breeze blowing in through Victor’s window, and I’m reminded that summer in New York is officially over.

  • • •

  “Almost finished?” Victor asks hopefully.

  I give him a look that suggests he is crazy for asking. I’ve got my head buried in statistics as I frantically try to pull together this month’s results from the Internet trend study, and I’m way behind, as seems to be the norm lately. Victor is half watching Jeopardy, bored and frustrated that I’ve had no time lately for drunken carousing or crazy sexcapades.

  Indeed, the last two months have been a whirlwind. After the first issue of The Pulse came out and the story broke in the New York Times, Jen and I became celebrities of sorts in the marketing and advertising circles of both New York and L.A. I’m not saying there aren’t other companies out there doing trend-tracking, because believe me, there are plenty. Most of them have been around a lot longer, and their methods are probably a lot more time-tested and reliable than ours. But we’re the newest, the latest, probably the youngest, and, according to Jen, the best-looking. Like that has to do with anything – even if it were true! But Jen swears, “Don’t underestimate the power of a tight ass, a good outfit, and a killer haircut. If you’re even the slightest bit interesting, they’ll want to take your picture.” Even so, the challenge for me has been to keep the newsletter fresh and creative by coming up with new outlooks on trends every month. So far it’s worked, but now I’m more terrified than ever of slacking off and ruining everything.

  But time has become an issue. The more popular our newsletter has become, the more popular we’ve become. Which means parties, lunches, dinners, screenings, and various other events around town that have made it hard for me to find time to stand on street corners, harassing people for their opinions on what’s trendy.

  So the thing that has suffered is my social life. I just simply don’t hav
e a lot of time to spend with Victor or Danny – which Carmen has identified as an undeniably good thing. It means that I’ve been able to have a great time with both of them, without getting too serious with either. And the minute I feel myself falling in any certain direction, I’m whisked off in the other direction.

  “Maybe I should come out there for a couple days,” Victor muses.

  “Where?”

  “LaLa Land.”

  “Seriously?” Oh, shit.

  “Yeah, maybe next week.”

  “But… you know I’ll be busy pulling the newsletter together for print. I won’t have much time to hang out at all.”

  “I’m a big boy, Lindsey. I can entertain myself. I could hit Rodeo Drive, maybe go to the beach…”

  “No!” I practically shout. He looks up at me curiously. “But Victor, you hate L.A. And it’s a long plane ride for just a couple days. And I really am busy out there.”

  Victor crawls over the couch and begins to kiss the back of my neck as he tries to slide my tank top down. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t come visit you.”

  I disentangle myself and jump up. I can’t even remotely let myself think about Danny when I’m in the near territory of getting busy with Victor. “Maybe I’m seeing someone out there,” I say nervously.

  Victor watches me for a minute, then goes back to Jeopardy. “You’re not seeing someone out there,” he says.

  “Maybe I am!”

  “No, you’re not.” He rolls his eyes.

  I stomp my foot in defiance. “What if I am! How do you know?”

  “Because I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Lindsey. You won’t even put on a sexy-librarian costume in public. I highly doubt that you’re fucking two different guys at the same time.”

  “You listen to me.” I grab the remote control from his hand and flip off the television. “I am not old Mrs. Prudence Prudity over here. I’ve done some pretty entertaining things in that four-poster bed of yours. Admit it!”

  “If memory serves.”

  “Admit it!”

  “You’re going to have to remind me.”

  I jump up, head into the kitchen, and grab the spray can of Reddi-wip that we had fun with not so long ago. Then I stomp back into the living room, walk up behind Victor, and spray the cream all over his head. “There’s a reminder!” I announce triumphantly.

  Victor smiles. He looks absolutely ridiculous. Then he reaches up and buries my face in the enormous mound of whipped cream on his head.

  I squeal and run, giggling, into his bedroom as he chases me with the spray can.

  He’s a bad influence.

  • • •

  “Retro leather sneakers.”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you have them?”

  “Um… no, but there’s a pair in the window of Macy’s that I totally want.”

  I’m doing my interviews on a bench in the middle of the Hollywood & Highland outdoor mall, a hot spot for both tourists and L.A. insiders alike. I’ve snagged a true Cali girl, with alternating blond and pink streaks in her hair, enormous fake boobs, diamond-crusted flip-flops, and a T-shirt that says, MRS. PITT.

  “Okay. Soymilk boxes. You know – like juice boxes but with soymilk?”

  “Yep – totally. The strawberry ones are delish. I was at Tropicana Bar the other night and they were everywhere.”

  “People were drinking them at a club instead of alcohol?”

  “Totally. I mean, between Red Bulls. You know.”

  “And why do you think they’re so popular right now?”

  “Because they’re different! I don’t know. Maybe because they’re good for you? But… you know. Because everyone likes them.”

  I glance over my shoulder to the patio of Vert, the cafe where I’m supposed to meet up with Lorenzo, one of the designers from Versace. He’s not there yet, so I press on.

  “One more. DVR-ing sports.”

  She looks skeptical. “That one I’m not sure about. My boyfriend insists on watching sports live. So does my brother, come to think of it.”

  “So you haven’t noticed anyone DVR-ing a game lately? Like, as a new thing that people didn’t do before?”

  She shakes her head. “If that’s a trend, then I haven’t heard of it yet.”

  “Hmph,” I say, and look up to see Lorenzo swishing toward the cafe in a pink scarf, bright blue bowling shoes, and a yellow diamond ring on his marriage finger. He’s so pastel, he looks like an Easter egg. I thank the girl and quickly run after him. “Lorenzo!”

  “And there she is.” He throws a couple air kisses my way and points toward a table. “By the way, you look very edgy. Very city,” he says as he looks me up and down. “Not like the little suburb ferret who came sniffing into my office three months ago.”

  I blush.

  “Seriously, darling. You’re practically one of the Trendsetting Elite.”

  I look up, surprised that he’s using one of my and Liz’s terms from the newsletter.

  “Yes, I’ve read it. Don’t look so naive. It’s splendid, by the way.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “Your bitchy little partner quoted me on page eight of last month. I figured that warranted a complimentary copy.”

  “Of course! I remember now. You said that the tweed skirt will be as useful this fall as a maxipad on a G-string.”

  “You girls all love that period humor.”

  “Actually, it’s pretty gross, Lorenzo.”

  “So what do I know? I’m just an over-the-hill couture hag.”

  “You’re thirty-four.”

  “Bite your tongue – that’s animal cruelty.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m wearing leopard-print pantaloons, darling.”

  I laugh. I love Lorenzo. “I stand corrected.”

  “So what’s with the fashion makeover? Did you get dolled up just for me, or should someone alert the Glamour ‘Do’ patrol?”

  “That’s what you get when you research trends all day.”

  “Ah, yes. So let’s talk about trends.”

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  “You tell me, I’ll tell you, we’ll throw back a couple of zing bombers and pretend this never happened.”

  “Perfect.”

  “But you will be at our catwalk show next Sunday, right?”

  “Uh… that’ll be Jen.”

  “Fabulous.” He sighs. “I’ll send my gas mask to the dry cleaner.”

  • • •

  I race back into the apartment and slam the door. I got so caught up with Lorenzo that I forgot I have the teen panel coming over in ten minutes, and I have nothing prepared for it – no snacks, no questions, nothing. I tear through the fridge for remnants of potential teen food, but all I find is a bag of stale peanuts and a half-empty bottle of flat Diet Pepsi. Plus all the pool towels are dirty and there are three Mexican workers painting the wall outside my apartment (and calling out “Mamalicious!” every time I walk past the window).

  I frantically rip off my outfit, scrub off my mascara, and pull my hair up into a ponytail, so as to look as young and non-authoritative as possible. And then the doorbell rings.

  “Hey, city girl.” It’s not the teen panel. It’s Danny, holding up a box of cupcake mix, a jar of frosting, and a tub of Marshmallow Fudge Swirl ice cream.

  “I love you!” I exclaim.

  No, I didn’t. Did I just say that?

  “I mean…” I can feel an instant breakout of hives threatening to explode on my neck.

  “It’s okay.” he smiles. “It’s the cupcakes. They have that effect.”

  “But… but…” I’m so flustered I don’t know what to say. “What are you doing here?”

  “You said to come over at four-thirty.”

  “I did? When?”

  “Last week on the phone. When you were in New York.”

  “Shit!”

  He steps inside the apartment
, puts down the cupcakes and ice cream, and swoops me in for a kiss. Mmmm, I love that kiss. It makes me want a cupcake.

  “Is that a problem?” he asks.

  “Well… uh… not if you like kids.”

  “You want my children? So you do love me.”

  “No! No, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is… can you run a video camera?”

  “I don’t think we should be so kinky if we’re trying to conceive a baby, Lindsey.” He’s laughing as he rips open the cupcake mix and pours it into a bowl.

  “Danny!” I giggle as the doorbell rings again. “So, do you? Like kids?”

  “Sure, love them. Why?”

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting with five teenage boys, trying to make sense of a heated debate between the merits of Xbox versus Sony PlayStation. I look up toward the kitchen, where Danny is surrounded by my girls, frosting cupcakes and laughing as they flirt and vie for his attention. Once again, he’s saved the day by making a run for things that crunch, fizz, and rot the teeth – then picked up my video camera and played movie guy as my teens gave me the rundown on the latest fads and fashions.

  “Lindsey!” McKenna is motioning for me to follow her into the bathroom. I politely excuse myself from the videogame dispute.

  “What’s up?” I ask her.

  “Danny is so hot – is he your boyfriend?” she whispers.

  “Easy there.” I laugh. “What’s with the labels?”

  “So he’s not your boyfriend. He’s your California fuck buddy.”

  “Again with the labels!”

  “You can tell me! Come on, Lindsey. Fess up.”

  “Get out there and do your job.” I drag her back over toward the group. “Make me one with chocolate frosting and blue sprinkles.”

  After the teens are gone and I’m physically and mentally drained, Danny offers to give me a shoulder rub. Normally this would reek of a cheesy seduction approach, but Danny’s the kind of guy who probably really does want to rub my shoulders.

  “What a handful.” He whistles. “But definitely fun.”

  “I think my girls had a little crush on you,” I tell him. “You should be flattered.”