Some part of me was swept away by this romantic move. He didn’t want me to be a one-night stand. Another part of me wondered if he was powerful enough, rich enough. He felt more like friend material than potential husband material. Is this what I was going for? Jake struck me as the kind of guy who would live on a girl’s couch while she went to work and paid the bills. He was young and handsome enough to get his way. Then again, he was pretty hot right now, the actor of the moment. This could be the start of a long and successful and illustrious career, and I could be the woman who was there with him, right from the start. A true Hollywood romance.
“Breakfast sounds great,” I said, kissing him again.
True to his word, Jake called first thing in the morning to invite me over. “I make great pancakes,” he said to lure me in. “Come over and play.”
He opened the door to his apartment on Venice Beach, wearing a frilly apron over jeans and a tight T-shirt. He had very nice shoulders. His eyes were a little red and his hair was mussed up, like he hadn’t looked in the mirror yet. Also charming.
“Cool apron.”
“I know, isn’t it?” he said, laughing. “I wore it just for you. You said you like to cook.” His southern drawl was even more adorable in the light of day.
“I did? Well, it’s true, although I haven’t cooked in ages.”
He waved a spatula at me. “Come on in! Welcome to my humble abode,” he said. It wasn’t exactly humble. It was about twice the size of my apartment, decorated in bachelor-pad style, but hardly the starving-artist version. He had a huge stereo system, wood paneling on the walls, a leather sectional with a lot of furry pillows, and wood floors that looked new.
I sat down at the table and he began piling pancakes on a plate. I panicked. “Um … just one is all I can probably eat. Oddly, I’m not that hungry.”
“No way, you can’t eat just one pancake,” he said. He put a plate in front of me. Three pancakes, all dripping with butter, surrounded by bacon. I was like a deer in the headlights. It looked delicious, but there was no way I could eat it. “Do you want orange juice? Coffee? Cold pizza?” he said, opening the refrigerator door and surveying its contents.
“Coffee’s fine.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Just black,” I said, fearfully eyeing the bottle of syrup on the table. I turned it around and looked at the back. The label said 80 calories in two tablespoons, so if I had only one teaspoon, that would be, let’s see … about 15 calories.
He handed me a mug and sat down, his own plate piled with a stack of pancakes and a pile of bacon. He dug in. I looked nervously at my plate.
“Are you gonna eat?” he said, pausing with his mouth full to look at my untouched plate.
“Of course!” I assured him. I picked up my fork.
Careful. Careful. Don’t trip the binge switch. I cut off a tiny piece of pancake. Jake stopped chewing and watched me. I speared the little piece of pancake with my fork and brought it halfway to my mouth. Jake stared at me.
“What?” I said, self-consciously.
“I’m just waiting to see what you think. I’m not sure whether I know how to make pancakes or not. I want a review. Here, you forgot this,” he said, handing me the syrup.
I put my fork down and drizzled a little bit of syrup over my pancakes. No more than a teaspoon. Maybe less. Then I picked the fork back up and took a bite.
The pancake was tender, warm, cakey, just slightly crisp on the outside. The butter and the tiny drop of syrup added just a tantalizing flirtation of rich sweetness. Perfect.
“You definitely know how to make pancakes,” I told him, sincerely.
He grinned and went back to wolfing down his food, satisfied with his pancake prowess. With his attention elsewhere, I was able to cut a few more pieces into smaller pieces and eat one more magnificent delectable bite before putting down my fork.
“Wow, I’m so full,” I said dramatically, holding my stomach, which felt more bloated already.
“Are you gonna eat that bacon?”
“No, I’m … not much of a bacon eater.” Lies! My loins would quiver at the taste of just one bite of crusty bacon. Oh, the naughty things I could do to a piece of bacon. But I knew what the salt and fat would do to me.
“Cool,” he said, grabbing it off my plate. “You want to go to the beach?”
“That sounds great. But I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”
“I probably have one you can borrow,” he said.
“You’re not a cross-dresser, are you?”
He laughed and went into the bedroom. He came back out with a little pink bikini. “Will this fit you?”
“Are you kidding me? I’m not wearing somebody else’s cooch,” I said. “If you want to go swimming, you’re going to have to buy me a virgin bikini.”
Jake and I spent the afternoon at the beach, lying in the sun or cooling off in the surf. It felt natural and easy. When we got back to his place that afternoon, we fell right into bed. He was gentle and sweet and romantic and passionate, and I felt like we were locked away in a private little world.
In the middle of the night when I got up to get a glass of water, I opened the medicine cabinet and saw a tube of mascara and a bottle of Clinique eye makeup remover. The sticker on it said $24.95. Who in God’s name spends $25 for eye makeup remover? Give me a jar of Vaseline and a few baby wipes and I’m good to go. I leaned over to peer out the bathroom door at Jake, asleep in the bedroom. Who else was he sleeping with? I found a cotton ball and took off my mascara. I had to admit, the fancy stuff worked really well. Then I went back to bed.
Over the next few weeks, Jake and I went out a lot, and I was becoming a serious beach bum between his place and my new (though temporary) home in Malibu. I really liked him, and I loved the recognition he got wherever we went out together. It made me feel like I was important. One night, lying in bed, I asked him the question I’d been thinking about for a few weeks.
“Jake, who’s the owner of the bottle of eye makeup remover in your medicine cabinet? I don’t care, I’m just curious.”
He blushed, but acted cavalier. “Oh, you know—some chick I used to date. She’s no you.”
“No really, it doesn’t bother me. I’m just curious.” I realized as I said it that it really didn’t bother me. I liked Jake, but I wasn’t threatened by his romantic past, and I certainly hadn’t stopped looking for Mr. Perfect.
chapter thirteen
My L.A. days were quickly passing into months. I’d wake up just in time to get to La Fenice for the lunch rush, then run to the Kameron house and put in my time as Carol’s slave laborer. I was probably netting $10 an hour total, but to me, it was a fortune. I was paying the few bills I had on time, chipping away at my credit card debt, and continuing to starve myself successfully on most days, so I felt totally in control.
Sometimes, in weaker moments, I’d pull out the Sybil cookbook and flip through the pages, longingly gazing at beautiful photographs of cupcakes and roast turkeys and potato gratins. Someday I’ll cook again, when I’m married and settled and I have a beautiful kitchen, and it doesn’t matter if I’m fat, I thought to myself, although I didn’t really believe that day would ever come—the getting married part, the beautiful kitchen part, or the part where it wouldn’t matter if I was fat.
One afternoon at La Fenice, Carol’s niece Jeannie Klein came in to see me. It wasn’t unusual to see her at the restaurant, because she worked in the neighborhood and liked to drop by to say hello and share the latest gossip over lunch if she hadn’t been to the Kameron’s house for a while. I could tell she hadn’t come in to eat. “Faith, guess what?” she said, with a twinkle in her eye.
“What?” Jeannie always had the best gossip about Hollywood. I figured she had something especially juicy. Maybe something on Josh or Carol.
“That guy you’re dating, Jake?” This took me by surprise.
“Yes?”
“He’s the guy I was dating last month.”
I couldn’t help sitting down. I stared at her. She looked at me, pleased with herself, as if she’d figured out the answer to a puzzle that had been driving me crazy. In fact, she had.
“No. Way.”
“Yep, I finally got it out of him,” she said. “I knew he was seeing someone else, and frankly, I’m so glad it’s you! He had no idea we even knew each other. Hilarious, right? We have to get together to compare notes sometime.”
I burst out laughing. “I’m so glad it’s you!” I said. “But shouldn’t we hate each other now?”
“Are you kidding? Jake’s nice and cute and stacked and all, but girlfriends are forever. Besides, I broke up with him.”
“You’re so enlightened. Oh, shit, wait a minute. Was that your pink bikini?”
“I think I still have one over there. Why?” she said.
“You have no idea how intimate you and I almost were. We practically had a three-way.”
“Sounds fun,” she said with a laugh.
“Hey, I’ve got to go, but wait … first… you just have to answer one question for me. This is the thing that’s been bugging me ever since I first spent the night at Jake’s.”
“Do tell.”
“Why, Jeannie, why on earth would you spend twenty-five dollars on a bottle of eye makeup remover?”
“That’s what’s been bugging you most? Faith, you crack me up.”
The next day, during the five minutes I was home between La Fenice and the Kamerons’, the thing I’d been waiting for months on end, even while I was dating Jake, finally happened. The phone rang and I heard the voice I remembered so well and missed so much. “Darling!”
Vince Beck. My heart started pounding. I didn’t know why he had this effect on me. I couldn’t let on. But to hear his voice, after all this time … play it cool, Faith.
“Who is this?” I said.
“It’s Vince, sweetheart. I’ve missed you! Why haven’t you been in my life?”
“I don’t know, Vince. I guess you’d be the one to answer that question,” I said, matter-of-factly.
“To tell you the truth, sweetheart, I’ve been out of commission. I’m afraid I’d slipped into a bit of a binge, a bit too much of the hard stuff, and I’ve been … clearing things out, shall we say.” Clearing things out? What did that mean? Was he a drug addict?
“Do you mean you were in rehab?” I said.
“I was at the spa, darling, at Canyon Ranch.”
That was so L.A. Go to a spa and pretend it’s rehab.
“And you didn’t take me?” I laughed, trying to make it sound like a joke, rather than a bitter nag.
He ignored my question. “You know what the funniest thing is about people in California?”
“No, Vince. What’s the funniest thing about people in California?”
“They say they’re vegans, but they chain smoke. They go out jogging every morning like it’s a religion, and then they go home and do heroin.”
“Is that what you do?” I asked.
“No, no, dear. I never go out jogging.” He laughed.
My mind reeled. No wonder he hadn’t called me. He’d been detoxing! I was simultaneously filled with sympathy for him and anger that he hadn’t told me or called me in so long. Was he a junkie? Or was he kidding? Not that he had any obligation to tell me anything, or call me ever again, but I’d felt a connection between us, and I was sure he felt it, too. There was something so sweet and appealing and sexy about him. How could he be an addict?
“Well, Vince, I’ve been pretty busy working. I’m sure it was nice at Canyon Ranch.”
“Oh, it was, darling. It reminded me of Australia out there. We must go sometime.”
“Sure,” I said. “I won’t hold my breath.”
He finally seemed to figure out I was pissed off. “Darling!” he said with surprise. “Sweetheart! Are we angry?”
I smiled. Damn his charm! “I don’t know about you …”
“Don’t be angry with me! I was going to call you right after that day I saw you at the restaurant. You were so gorgeous and confident in your little dress. But then I was … waylaid. I meant to congratulate you on your new job with Josh!”
“How did you know about that?” I said.
“Oh, Josh and I go way back,” he said. “And I keep tabs on you, darling. You know that.”
“I see,” I said, wanting to believe it. “And why are you calling me now?”
“Now …” He paused dramatically. “I’m calling to see if you would do me the honor, Faith Brightstone, of having dinner with me on Friday night.”
“That was a very gentlemanly invitation.”
“Spoken by an aspiring gentleman,” he said.
I paused, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic, but desperate to accept. He could tell me all about his troubles, his struggles to get sober. He’d confide in me, like he’d never confided in any other woman. He’d look deep into my eyes and he’d fall in love with me.
“Sure, Vince,” I conceded. “I’ll have dinner with you.”
chapter fourteen
As I lay in the giant bed in the Kamerons’ beach house with Jake early on Friday morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about Vince. Jake and I always had fun, but the more I got to know him, the more I realized that, famous or not, I probably was never going to take him too seriously.
Acting was everything to Jake, and it was all he really talked about. That, and his own biceps. He was a nice guy, but not particularly quick or witty. In some ways, he reminded me of what I’d learned at Meisenburg—he was like an empty shell that he could fill up with any character he wanted, but when he wasn’t being a character, there wasn’t that much to him. Maybe that meant he’d be a superstar—but it didn’t bode well for our relationship, such as it was.
Vince was different. Unlike the other men I’d met in Hollywood so far, he wasn’t needy, he wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t using me for anything. He was invested in his own career, but not at the expense of having a personality or the ability to actually listen when someone else was talking. And he just seemed genuinely to like me. Maybe that was the biggest turn-on of all.
Jake stirred and rolled over, draping his arm around my waist. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”
“It feels like you are,” I said, as his erection poked the back of my thigh. “But I’ve got to get to work.”
“Yeah, me, too,” he said, sadly. “Sorry, fella.” He liked to call his penis “fella.” I no longer found it cute. “But hey, I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Lay it on me.”
He rolled over onto me. “I’ll lay it on you,” he said, and kissed my forehead.
“Ha ha.”
“No, but really … I’m leaving town for a couple of months. Don’t be sad!”
I tried to look a little sad.
“I got a part in a movie that’s filming in Texas, and my parents moved there a few years ago, so I’m going to spend some time with them. I could even be gone through the end of the year, depending on how it goes. Are you gonna miss me?”
“Sure I am,” I said. And I would. A little. But I couldn’t help thinking that Jake leaving would open the door for me to start officially dating Vince Beck. The timing was kind of perfect. “But that’s great that you got another movie! You’re headed straight to the top.” I kissed him, just in case it would be for the last time.
Friday finally arrived—my date with Vince. I was nervous. I hadn’t seen him in so long, and now that he’d been to rehab or detox or whatever it was, would he be different? Would he still drink? If he was off any drugs he might have been on, that was great. But was I allowed to drink? I had a feeling I was going to need a drink.
Once again, I found myself staring into my closet in desolation. I remembered Vince’s comment on our first date about the black dress. I needed something more colorful. He’d said I looked good in red. I took out my strapless red mini dress and looked at it. I brushed it off and smelled it. It still smelled
faintly of smoke, from the last time I wore it out to a club. Why hadn’t I gotten it dry-cleaned? I was annoyed with myself. I sprayed it with Chanel No. 5 and hung it up outside to air it out.
I was starving, but there was no way I was eating anything until tonight, when I would have to eat food like a normal person in front of Vince. To take my mind off food and calm my nerves, I decided to go ride the exercise bike at the gym for an hour, to burn off as many calories as I could before tonight.
After a long steam and a shower, during which I obsessed about Vince and how to make him fall madly in love with me, I plastered foundation over the dark circles under my eyes. I put on three coats of mascara, brushed just a little bit of glittery blush on my cheekbones, and decided to go with lip gloss instead of red lipstick this time. But then my face looked too shiny. I rethought the glitter and tried to wipe it away with a tissue but it wouldn’t come off. I didn’t want to start all over again. I rubbed off the lip gloss and went with a matte red lipstick that matched the dress.
I thought my black strappy stilettos might look best, but then again, I couldn’t forget Vince’s comment about going to a funeral. Did that apply to shoes? And even if it did, would I look weak for not wearing what I wanted to wear just because he’d made a comment? Like he’d ever remember he said it—but I remembered. I decided to go with the black shoes. Red dress, black shoes—a compromise. I can take constructive criticism, but I’m still my own person. I looked at myself in the mirror. “You look good,” I said out loud.
“You look hot,” said Perry from behind me.
I turned. “You think?” I posed for her.
“Oh, yeah. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Oh, nobody … just a certain Vince Beck.”
“No way. He finally called you? That’s awesome!” she said, clapping her hands.
“I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. And I’m so glad you’re home, I’ve just spent the whole afternoon totally obsessing about our impending marriage and children and my future career as an NBC executive.”
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