Misery Loves Cabernet

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “Mike who?” I ask.

  “Work Mike,” Kate mutters, hiding behind us as she continues buttoning up. “You know, the guy I slept with right after I broke up with Jack.”

  “You mean the asshole from work you hooked up with at a bar who then hid from you at the radio station for a week afterward?” Dawn asks, as we turn to see Kate flip up the hem of her skirt ever so slightly to reveal several inches of fabric folded and taped underneath.

  “He did not hide from me,” Kate says defensively.

  I try not to roll my eyes as I say to her sympathetically, “Kate, sweetie, he hosts the show right after yours, and you still didn’t see him for a week.”

  “He had a lot going on that week,” Kate insists as she peels off the tape, and begins to carefully unfold her skirt.

  “When you finally did talk to him, it was after finding him crouched under a desk, trying to avoid you when he saw you coming down the hall,” Dawn reminds her.

  “Fine, he’s an asshole. But I still don’t want him to see me like this.” Kate says as she continues to peel the tape.

  “But he was the bad guy, not you. Why are you hiding from him?” I ask her. “Wouldn’t you prefer to confront him, looking like your new fabulous self?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Kate says, pulling off the rest of the tape, thereby lengthening her skirt by about six inches. “I tried putting it out there, and I look ridiculous. I’m a respected political analyst for God’s sake. I can’t pull off a thong and a smile unless all the lights are out.”

  Kate crumples the tape into a ball, and puts it on the silver tray of a passing Bride of Frankenstein waitress.

  It’s at that moment Mike sees her from across the room, smiles brightly, and waves.

  Kate nervously waves back. “Okay, all those comments you made about the self-loathing causing the need to drink?”

  “Bring it on, ma’ bitches?” Dawn asks lightly.

  “By the gallon,” Kate nearly whispers, walking away from us to approach Mike.

  My eyes follow Kate as she nervously walks up to a gorgeous blond man dressed as a firefighter. “I wonder what it is about that guy that gets her so flustered?”

  Dawn turns to me. “I think maybe you need to get your eyes checked.”

  “No . . . I know he’s good-looking,” I clarify. “I just mean, after the way he treated her, why would she go back for more?”

  “If I could answer that, I could write a self-help book for half the single women in this country,” Dawn answers. “Cut the girl some slack. At least she didn’t dress like a pregnant carnosaur just to prove she ‘doesn’t need a man to validate her self-worth.’ ”

  “I don’t need a man to validate my self-worth,” I say, trying to get a You go girl! snap into my voice. “I am finally at a point in my life where how a man sees me doesn’t have any bearing on how I see myself.”

  It’s at that point God decides to emotionally bitchslap me.

  Less than ten feet from me I see Liam. The exquisitely handsome, and disturbingly sexy, Liam O’Connor.

  “Oh, crap!” I say out loud, then immediately turn my head, and spit my nicotine gum out in a ten-foot arc through the air and into the bushes.

  “Charming,” Dawn says dryly.

  I throw off my dinosaur head, and try to fluff up my hair. “How do I look?” I ask as I grab my purse to pull out my lipstick.

  “Like a beheaded T. rex,” she answers matter-of-factly.

  “Crap, crap, crap,” I mutter under my breath as I quickly put on more lipstick. “Damn it all to hell! Why did I have to quit smoking, knowing I’d gain twelve pounds? Why did I have to turn thirty? Why did I have to eat that whole bag of Chips Ahoy last night?”

  Dawn starts looking around the backyard. “Okay, who’s the dude causing all the drama?”

  “You see the guy in the tuxedo?” I say urgently.

  “Damn . . . ,” is all I get out of Dawn.

  Which is her way of saying she’s seen him, and she approves. “And why have we not seen that stud in your little stable over the years?” she asks me.

  “Please, he’s just a friend,” I insist as I throw my lipstick back in my purse, then grab my powder compact, open it, and quickly powder my face. “I know him through my sister. They went to Harvard together.”

  “Right,” Dawn says dryly. “This is exactly how I act when I run into an old friend.”

  “Okay,” I admit, powdering my nose so quickly a cloud of dust forms between Dawn and me. “I may have had a tiny, miniscule, ever so slight infatuation with him way back when. But that was years ago.”

  “Charlie?” I hear in a lilting Irish accent behind me.

  I stuff my compact into my purse, hand it off to Dawn, then turn around, my face blushing to the point of sunburn.

  “Liam! How are you?” I say brightly.

  I haven’t seen Liam in six months. Naturally when I do, I am in a dinosaur outfit, making noises with my feet, and looking like I’m either two hundred pounds, or seven months pregnant. Or both. Why, oh why, didn’t I wear the cheerleader outfit? Hell, at this point, why didn’t I wear flannel pajamas and a bathrobe and go as a Desperate Housewife? At least that would have made me a two on a scale of one to ten.

  Liam would be my favorite crush if it weren’t for the fact that the man is so far out of my league, I would need an oxygen tank and a mask to approach him in an atmosphere that high.

  Every woman has a guy in her life who’s so totally gorgeous and perfect that she ends up becoming “just friends” with him, because she doesn’t have the self-esteem to do anything else. And then at some point, she’s been friends with him for so long that, even though it tortures her every time she sees him (because all she can think about is what it would be like to kiss him—just once, just to know) there was no way in hell she’d ever have the nerve to try and be seen as anything other than a friend. (Except on those occasions when there was a plethora of booze available, at which time she seriously considered getting him drunk, just to see what would happen.)

  For me, that guy is Liam.

  First of all, he’s six-foot-two, which to me is the perfect height, I don’t know why. And he is in perfect shape. Not the annoying I’m at the gym every morning at six A.M. lifting weights kind of perfect. More like, Everything’s perfectly proportioned, and yet he can probably be talked into staying in bed on a Saturday morning (preferably naked) perfect. And he has this dirty blond hair that complements his clear blue eyes perfectly.

  Plus, his hair doesn’t have any product in it. I know, this is a silly thing to think about. But I live in Los Angeles, the West Coast capital of the metrosexual. It’s refreshing to see a guy who doesn’t obsess about his looks. There’s a certain ruggedness to the guy that I find irresistible.

  The first few months I knew Liam, I couldn’t look directly at him. I feared that staring directly at him might be like staring directly at the sun during an eclipse—it might blow out my retinas, and I’d be blinded for life. Instead, I would stare at the ground, glance over his shoulder, or stare at my hands.

  I know—Rico Suave, right?

  Liam is a producer who I met through my sister Andy years ago, back when they were getting their MBAs from Harvard. He puts together financing for studio films that also need private investors, and that’s all I know about his job. He has tried to explain his job to me several times, but I never can seem to get past staring at those gorgeous blue eyes and those perfect, chiseled cheekbones long enough to actually hear what he does for a living.

  One time, as he was explaining the nuances of some deal he was working on, I absentmindedly asked him what moisturizer he used on his face, because his complexion was so flawless.

  Yeah—that was one from a long list of “reasons Liam must think I’m an idiot.” I think the list topped out at four hundred and ninety-six before I stopped keeping track.

  Anyway, I’ve known him for years, and he is no longer a crush.

  That said, I still fe
el like a skinny, flat-chested, pimply little high school sophomore every time I’m around him. Or, in this case, a really fat headless dinosaur.

  And I still can never get enough of him.

  “I was just thinking about you today,” Liam says before kissing me hello on the lips. “How are you, darling?”

  I fall backward ever so slightly (knee lock). Fortunately, Dawn is right behind me to subtly prop me back up.

  “I’m good,” I say nervously, my words catching in my throat. “Have you met my friend Dawn?”

  He puts out his hand and they shake hands. “Of course. We met at Andy’s housewarming party. Lovely as always to see you.”

  “Lovely as always to hear that cute little accent,” Dawn flirts. “I’m going to get us some cocktails. Can I get you something from the bar?”

  “Oh, that’s so kind, but no,” Liam says. “My date went to get me a martini about half an hour ago. She should be back by midnight,” he jokes.

  “Okay, martini for me,” Dawn says, then turns to me. “Malbec for you, right, Charlie?”

  Oh, I just hate it when people define how trendy I am by whether or not I saw the movie Sideways.

  “Merlot,” I correct her.

  She jokingly rolls her eyes, then winks at me.

  Dawn takes her leave, leaving Liam and me to talk about . . . nothing.

  “So,” I say awkwardly. “You came with a date?”

  Good opener, Charlie. Very dry, very witty.

  “Yes,” Liam says uncomfortably. “I’m afraid this outfit was her idea. Now I look like a waiter.”

  “No, you don’t!” I insist, nearly spitting on him by accident. “You look like a groom.”

  Yup, Edwards, that’s perfect. Why don’t you shut up now, point to something over his shoulder, and when he turns to look, run and hide.

  Liam seems taken aback by the comment, but I can’t tell if he’s amused, or just thinks I’m the most socially awkward woman on the planet. “Ummm, thank you. Actually, I’m supposed to be James Bond. My date wanted to go as a Bond girl, since she’s one of the Bond girls in the newest movie. She thought it would be funny.”

  He’s here with a Bond girl. Nifty.

  At that moment, Kate appears with a tray of purple shots. “I just talked to Mike, then I ran and got these. They’re all I’ve been able to find. I know the rule and Professor Whigman and all, but I’m going to need at least two of something before I can talk to Mike again.” She looks around. “Where’s Dawn?”

  “Getting us drinks,” I say, grabbing a shot and downing it.

  Kate looks confused by my behavior. “Didn’t you just say you’re not supposed to . . . ?”

  “Have you met my friend Liam?” I ask, cutting her off. “He’s a friend of Andy’s.”

  “Oh, hi!” Kate says brightly, holding out the tray to him. “Can I interest you in a shot?”

  “Um,” he says, debating, “well, I suppose if you ladies would like to join me, I’d be hard pressed to resist.”

  Liam, Kate, and I all pick up a filled shot glass. We toast, then put the glasses up to our lips, and Liam and I drink. Kate however, stops short of drinking, a thought suddenly occurring to her. “Liam. Your name is Gaelic for ‘strong-willed warrior.’ ”

  I choke on my drink.

  Liam appears charmed by that information. “Why, yes it is. How on earth did you know that?”

  At which point Kate innocently says, “Well, I remember looking up the name one night when . . .”

  It’s at that moment that Kate realizes she should be ending the sentence with, “When Charlie was so infatuated with you that she was looking up your name on babynames.com.”

  Then, to her credit, Kate does an amazing save. “. . . when Liam was a character in one of Cecelia Ahern’s books. You know . . . the Irish writer?” Before he can answer, Kate turns to me. “You know what we need, we need some club soda. And I’m going to go get some. Because God knows I wouldn’t want to drink too much and say something stupid.”

  And, with that, she takes her silver tray of shots, and walks away without another word.

  Liam just looks confused as his eyes follow her away. “You have a lot of beautiful friends.”

  I don’t know how to take that. “Um, well, you know what they say: blind-date rule. . . .”

  “I’m sorry, blind-date rule?”

  “You know, beautiful women never hang out together, that’s why when you get stuck with your friend’s hot girlfriend’s best friend on a blind date. . . .”

  Am I saying this out loud? I’m still talking! Jesus, stop talking! Back up like a dump truck: Beep, beep, beep . . .

  Never talk about your theories on dating with the man you have a crush on.

  Liam squints his eyes, and smiles ever so slightly as he looks at me. “Why are you always so self-deprecating?”

  Before he can continue, a stunningly beautiful (and spectacularly drunk) size 00 of a girl walks up to us in a sparkly purple minidress and five-inch pumps. Megan Travers: This year’s Bond girl. Megan carries two martinis, both of which she nearly spills on me. “Here I am, sweetie!” she slurs, handing a martini to Liam while simultaneously practically falling into him. “Stirred, not shaken.”

  Liam gently takes his drink as he puts his arm around her waist and props her back up. “Thank you, dear. Megan, have you met my friend Charlie?”

  Megan beams as she puts out her hand. “Hi, I’m Megan.”

  She’s not the least bit jealous of me. I hate her. “Hi,” I say, “I’m Charlie.”

  Megan immediately pulls me into a hug. “Oh, Charlie, I loooovvveee your outfit.”

  “Um . . . thank you,” I say. “I love yours, too.”

  Then Megan turns to Liam and hugs him. “And I love you.”

  I can’t tell if it’s a real “I love you,” or a drunken “I love you, man!” but I’m bitterly jealous that she can say such a thing out loud to him anyway.

  Never answer “I love you” with “Thank you.”

  “I love you, too,” Liam returns in a slightly patronizing tone that only sober people can hear.

  Drunken I love you. I feel better.

  “Finger Eleven is playing!” Megan says excitedly to Liam. “We should dance!”

  Liam gently pulls himself away from Megan. “I’d love to, sweetie. But first I need to tell Charlie how beautiful she is, and then talk to her about the movie. Could you give us a few minutes?”

  “Sure,” she says happily. She downs her martini in one gulp. “I need to go find another drink anyway.” She turns to me. “Can I get you a drink, Charlie?”

  “No, I’m good,” I answer.

  “Perfect,” Megan slurs, pointing to me as she stumbles away. “And you are beautiful!”

  Great. I can’t even hate her, and who needs that?

  “She’s had a bit to drink,” Liam says apologetically.

  “I see that.”

  Liam watches her as she finds a group of men to talk with. “Boyfriend broke up with her yesterday. She’s a mess.”

  And the plot thickens.

  Where’s my lipstick?

  “You’re still working for Drew Stanton, correct?” Liam asks.

  “Yes,” I say, not able to think of anything else to say to him. Except, maybe, “Do you want to lie down on a couch, and wear me as a blanket?” (Which I don’t say—although two more shots each of that purple glop and I’d consider it.)

  “I heard his most recent project just fell through,” Liam says.

  Oh God, please don’t make me talk about Drew . . . , I think to myself as I try to change the subject. “He’s fielding other offers. So how’s life at Sony these days?”

  “Actually, I quit last year. Now, I put together financing for independent features. Low budget stuff—in the five million range. Did you see Yellow Cake?”

  “I have seen it,” I say, visibly impressed. “It’s brilliant. You’re going to get a ton of Academy Award nominations.”

  Liam smil
es, and looks down at the ground. He scratches his ear, a bit self-conscious. “Well, let’s hope so. Anyway, Ian Donovan, our director, is doing another independent film that starts shooting next week. It’s a thirty-three-day shoot. Low budget, about six million. Drew and Ian are both with CAA, so we sent Drew the script today. We’d only need him to shoot for eighteen days. Rehearsal period’s already over, but we could catch him up pretty quickly. We start shooting Monday here in L.A. Three weeks shooting in town . . .”

  My shoulders tense up. I’m Drew’s personal assistant, I don’t get involved with his career decisions. So, I’m saddened to have to interrupt Liam by saying, “I’m afraid I really don’t have anything to do with—”

  “. . . then a week off for Thanksgiving, and then we head to Paris for the rest of the shoot,” Liam finishes.

  And I stop dead in my tracks. “Paris,” I repeat. “You’re shooting the film in Paris?”

  Liam nods. “From the end of November until Christmas. I’m pretty excited about it. Paris is absolutely magical at Christmastime,” he says in his lilting Irish accent. “My parents live there, and they love it.”

  “Isn’t your mother from Ireland?” I ask him, trying to get him to talk more about her. For some reason I think that if a man brings up his mother in any way, shape or form, that should always be taken as a good sign.

  A good sign of what, I’m not sure. But definitely a good sign.

  “Why on earth else would I have this name?” Liam answers. “Mom’s from Ireland, Dad’s from here. Now they’re in Paris. Anyway, we’d only need Drew for a few weeks here, then a few more days in Paris. And I think with Ian directing, Drew would be a shoo-in for an Academy Award nomination for best supporting actor.”

  “Well, Drew does love Paris . . . ,” I say quietly, quickly thinking about my built-in excuse to see Jordan again.

  “Of course, he wouldn’t have the regular perks of a studio shoot,” Liam warns me. “We don’t pay for drivers to pick him up, and things like that. And the paycheck wouldn’t be what he’s used to. But if you could maybe put our script on the top of his reading pile—”