Dawn decides to follow my lead. “As long as we’re on the subject of cakes not to be considered until hell freezes over,” she says, pointing to one of the plates, “is that carrot cake I see on your wedding-cake table?”
Kate examines the plates, trying to figure out which one is the carrot. “Oh, that. Yeah, Will likes carrot cake, so I . . .” She lets her sentence peter out after she looks back up to see Dawn and me slowly shaking our heads “no” in unison. “All right,” Kate says, slightly exasperated. “No need to get snippy.”
Kate shows us another picture she cut out of a magazine, this time of a four-tiered confection of square shaped cakes, with little white flowers all over. It is beautiful.
“Now this is also a rolled fondant cake . . .” Kate begins.
Dawn takes her fork, and prepares to dig in to a white scoop of heaven. “Which of these frostings is the rolled fondant?”
“The off-white one,” Kate tells her.
Dawn is about to dip her fork into one of the white frostings to officially begin the tasting, but Kate stops her.
“No,” Kate says. “That’s the royal icing. It’s white white.”
“I thought you said the white was the fondant,” Dawn says.
“I said the off-white. But you put your fork in the white white, not the off-white. The white white is royal icing.”
Dawn bugs her eyes out at me in a mild panic, and I am so enjoying not being the maid of honor. Dawn moves her fork over a different plate, then lets it dangle in midair.
“No,” says Kate. “That’s pale yellow. That’s the buttercream.”
Dawn glares at Kate, but she is determined to be on her best behavior. She moves her fork over the next plate, and leaves it hanging in midair, waiting for approval.
“That’s cream-colored,” Kate says.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Dawn says, dropping her fork and starting to lose it. “How the hell do you know that’s cream-colored, and not off-white?”
“Because that’s whipped cream,” Kate answers.
I suppress a giggle. Kate writes the numbers one through four on Post-its, then sticks them on the four plates of frosting. “Start with plate number four,” she instructs us.
Number four is the rolled fondant, and Dawn and I take a taste as Kate moves on to show us the four-squared cake in the picture. “Now this cake is made of a pale, pale green rolled fondant,” she begins cheerfully, “with what they call ‘embroidered’ flowers, made of royal icing all around . . .” She turns to us, and her face drops. “Why are you both making that face?”
Because this is the most disgusting food I’ve ever eaten, I think to myself.
But I’m not going to say it. I am determined to be a good bridesmaid.
Dawn daintily dabs the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin, clearly trying to suppress her gagging reflex. “Sweetie,” she asks, her mouth still full, “do you happen to know what rolled fondant is?”
“Umm . . .” Kate grabs a dictionary, and looks it up. “Sugar paste.”
Dawn and I spit the rolled fondant into our napkins. Then we wipe our tongues with the napkins for good measure. Ick.
“Okay,” Kate says cheerfully. “No cakes with rolled fondant. How about the next one . . .” Kate hands us a picture of an all white, three-layered circular cake with red flowers decorating the top and bottom. “This is a white buttercream cake with red flowers made of royal icing.”
“Which one’s the royal icing?” I ask.
“Plate number one,” Kate says, grabbing the dictionary again as Dawn and I each take a forkful from plate number one. “According to this, royal icing is,” she reads, “a viscous substance secreted from the pharyngeal gland of honeybees . . .”
Dawn and I spit that one out into our napkins even quicker as Kate continues reading. “Wait, no, that’s royal jelly. Royal icing’s not in here.”
“Why don’t we think ‘buttercream?’ Dawn suggests. “After all, everyone loves buttercream.”
“Okay,” Kate says, flipping through her pile of magazine clippings. Flip, flip, flip. “Oh, here’s one I like.”
She shows us a three-layer cake with buttercream lace and buttercream flowers over a white buttercream canvas.
“Now, see, that’s nice,” I say.
“You like that?” Kate says, “I also like this one.”
She hands us another picture, and it is stunning: a three-tiered white cake with green and white flowers piled on top, then cascading down the white cake.
“The flowers are made of sugar,” Kate explains. “But you don’t have to eat them.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Dawn says, and I tell Kate I agree wholeheartedly.
“Well, we’ve got a finalist,” Kate says happily.
She made us look at more than thirty other cake pictures, but we all knew: that was the one.
Now it was on to my favorite part: the cake tasting!
We spent the next hour sampling the cakes. It wasn’t hard to decide on the baker. The problem was agreeing on which kind of cake to have for each layer, as well as which fillings.
Heated debates ensued (I’ll admit, initially as an excuse to eat more cake). We tried every possible combination of cake and filling possible: chocolate with chocolate, chocolate with cream cheese, lemon with cream cheese, lemon with strawberries and cream, white with strawberries and cream—you name it, we ate it. By the time we were done eating, I think we were all about ten pounds heavier, and in dire need of a cup of black coffee.
Finally, we agreed on a chocolate-bottom layer with a cream-cheese filling, a white middle layer with a chocolate ganache filling, and a top layer of whatever Kate wanted, even though:
The tradition of saving the top layer of your wedding cake for your first anniversary leads to stale, frostbitten cake. Eat it on your wedding night.
After another hour of helping pick flower arrangements, Dawn and I said our good-byes to Kate, and called it a night.
After I got into my car, I made the mistake of checking my iPhone.
Jordan had texted me:
Hey. I’m sorry I hung up last night when I called. I miss you.
How are you doing?
I sit in my car, staring at the text for a good three or four minutes.
What is it about men that they seem to instinctively know when you’re okay with them going away, and then they come back to pursue you?
I hit reply, and begin texting back:
I’m OK.
I stare at the screen. There are so many things I want to say, but I don’t know how he’ll react: I’m not okay, I miss you. I’m better than okay, I’m pissed at you. There’s someone new. There’s no one else. I hate you for treating me like this. I ache for you.
I stick with ‘I’m OK.’
But, instead of sending it, I turn off my phone.
Twenty-four
Half an hour later, I unlock my door to my lit-up, though empty, living room. Hoping Liam is back from his date early, I yell, “Honey, I’m home!”
“Be right down!” Liam yells from upstairs. “I have wine for you in the kitchen!”
Still reeling from Jordan’s message, I go into my kitchen to see a bottle of Clos du Val Chardonnay, opened and breathing, and an empty glass next to it. Next to the wine is a cheese platter consisting of what looks like a triangle of Brie and a triangle of blue, accompanied by some crackers and fruit. “What’s all this?” I yell from the kitchen as I pour myself a glass of wine.
Liam appears in my doorway, wearing boxer shorts and a white cotton T-shirt, and looking ridiculously hot, as always. “I figured that after dining on cake samples all night, you might want some real food when you got home.”
I use a cheese spreader I didn’t know I owned to spread some Brie on a cracker. “I love Brie,” I say enthusiastically.
As I put it into my mouth and experience a C.O. (culinary orgasm), Liam tells me, “That’s actually a Camembert from Normandy. I remember how much you said you liked Brie, s
o I thought this would be a fun way to expand your palette. The other is a Valdeón from Spain.”
I try the Valdeón, and I am in heaven. “My God, this is so good. Where did you find these?”
“From the cheese shop next to Trader Joe’s,” he says, referring to the gourmet cheese shop I have within a mile of me that I’ve never set foot in. “I’m still torn between that one and the one on Sunset.”
“There’s a cheese shop on Sunset?” I say, surprised.
Liam smiles and shakes his head as he pulls a can of Guinness out of the refrigerator for himself. “You really never have explored your neighborhood, have you?”
I shrug sheepishly as I sip the wine. “I will now.” Then I force myself to pleasantly ask, “So, how was your date?”
Liam pours the Guinness into a large glass. “Well, it’s ten o’clock, and I’m already home. So that should tell you something. How was your evening?”
I shrug. “Oh . . . fine.”
Liam cocks his head. “Doesn’t sound like it was fine.”
“It was fine,” I reiterate.
I can tell from the look on Liam’s face, he doesn’t buy it.
I want to tell him about the text from Jordan. but I want to keep my options open with him. And nothing says, “About as sexy as a dead fish,” quite as much as a mopey girl still hooked on her ex-boyfriend.
“Sometimes it’s hard to be happy for your friends,” I say, thinking out loud. I stop myself. Take a nervous sip of wine. “My God. I must just sound like this really horrible, awful person now. I just mean . . . I don’t know. It just seems like all my friends live their lives so much more effortlessly than I do.”
Liam doesn’t take his eyes off me as he leans against my counter. “How do you mean?”
“Well, Kate was with a guy for nine years. She finally has the courage to break up with him and . . . bam! The universe gives her a husband. Andy just got married, and bam! She’s already pregnant. Drew decides he wants to go to space; I guarantee you through some bizarre turn of events he will go into space. Meanwhile, I languish around in my life, never quite doing what I set out to do. I’m tired of being a silver medalist, and tired of fighting uphill battles that I only sort of win.”
Liam takes a cracker, and spreads it with the Valdeón. “I’m sorry. Why is it bad to be a silver medalist?”
I let my head fall into my hands. “Crap. You actually are a silver medalist. So, that came out wrong.”
For some reason, it’s really important to me that Liam understand what I’m talking about. I take a sip of wine, and try again. “Aren’t you ever jealous of the guy who won the gold medal in your event?”
Liam shrugs. “Sure.” He smiles as he takes a sip of his beer. “But that doesn’t mean I regret going after my goal. I love running. I loved being in the Olympics. Silver’s pretty good.”
“Didn’t you ever get tired of going after your goal?’
“Of course. But what’s the alternative? Eating potato chips on the couch, and hoping people will come to you with life’s big rewards?”
I make a big show of eyeing the ceiling and thinking about that. “I don’t know. But can we try that for a while and see how it works out?”
Liam laughs. “If this is your way of trying to get out of becoming a producer, I won’t let you.” He rubs my arm in a friendly way. “What you’re feeling is normal. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Particularly not tonight. You just broke up with your boyfriend. Of course you don’t want to think about a wedding.”
“Right,” I say. “And I certainly didn’t want to be given diet books by my helpful friend right before I gorged myself on cake.”
“You don’t need to go on a diet,” Liam says, sounding like the thought of it is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.
“I’m sorry,” I say, smiling and flirting a bit. “Tell me again how you’re single?”
Liam laughs. “You sound like my mother. Of course, what she says is usually something more like, ‘Why can’t you keep a woman around?’ and it’s followed with expressions like, ‘Carrying on the family name,’ and ‘Not getting any younger.’ ”
I laugh. “Meaning you or her?” I ask.
“Both, actually,” Liam says, smiling warmly at me.
Liam and I spent the next hour on the perfect date: we were comfortable together, we laughed a lot, we had great food and wine.
At the end of the evening, Liam hugged me good night, gave me a kiss on the forehead, told me how much he adored me, then went to bed in his room.
It’s at that point that I realized that no matter what I did, no matter how funny I was, how cute or how clever, he saw me as a friend. At this point a good friend, a lovable friend, but just a friend.
And he became the second man this week to break my heart.
Twenty-five
I can’t sleep. I’m Ping-Ponging between two thoughts: whether or not to seduce Liam, and have him see me as more than a roommate, and whether or not to text Jordan back, and try to make things work with us.
Do I pursue Liam—just go knock on his door and act all coquettish until he suddenly sees what he’s been missing, sweeps me off my feet, then carries me to my guest bed so we can share a night of conjugal bliss?
Or, do I pursue Jordan? Text him back and act like nothing’s wrong? Call him tomorrow and act like Sunday morning never happened? Keep everything status quo, and hope things get better once he gets home?
It’s like I’m trying to run to the destination of “relationship,” but I can’t figure out which direction I’m supposed to be running toward. So I just end up running in circles, fretting.
As I ponder my dilemma, I putter downstairs, pull a pint of vanilla Häagen-Dazs from the freezer, grab a spoon, and head upstairs to call Jamie.
“Here’s a novel idea,” Jamie deadpans. “How about letting one of them pursue you?”
“God, that’s just too depressing,” I say, with my mouth full. “I’d like to think I have more control over my destiny than waiting around, hoping I don’t get picked last for the basketball team.”
“Are you eating again?” Jamie asks incredulously.
“No,” I lie with my mouth still full. “But do you think that’s why Liam isn’t interested in me? Because I’m eating too much?”
“No. I think he’s not interested in you because he’s living in your guest room, because he knows you just broke up with your boyfriend, and because you’re working for a man who is a nut who could pull out of his movie at any time for any reason, including, ‘You banged my assistant and now she’s in tears, and we can’t possibly come to work to finish your movie.’ ”
I’m relieved to hear this. “So, you don’t think he doesn’t want me because I’m fat, or a loser, or a neurotic mess?”
“Do you open with that when talking to new men?”
My phone beeps. I see it’s Andy, and put Jamie on hold. “Hey, Mommy. What are you doing up so late?”
“Jamie just e-mailed me that you have a crush on Liam,” Andy says with a concerned tone.
“I don’t have a crush on Liam,” I insist, trying to sound as irritated as possible. “He’s just staying with me for a few days. Why Jamie would jump to the conclusion—”
“Jamie is e-mailing me that you’re lying right now,” Andy interrupts.
“Hold on,” I say to my sister.
I click back over to my brother. “How do you even know what I’m saying?”
“Hi, I’m Jamie. I’ll be your brother today,” Jamie deadpans. “Oh, Andy is e-mailing me that she’s going to throw up soon, and to have you click back over to her.”
“How do you people type so fast?” I ask, exasperated. “Okay, bye.”
Jamie says good-bye, and I click back to Andy. “Sorry. I don’t exactly have a crush, it’s just—”
“I know,” Andy says quickly. “Jordan just dumped you and you’re vulnerable. Just trust me: Liam is not a good rebound guy. He’s had more conquests than William.”
I think about that for a moment. “Kate’s William?”
“No, William the Conqueror. As a matter of fact, we used to call him Liam the Conqueror. Why? Has Kate’s fiancé had a lot of conquests?”
Before I can answer, Andy continues, “Seriously, I love Liam like a brother, but the truth is, he goes through women as fast as . . . our brother.”
“Ew,” I can’t help but snicker, the left half of my upper lip moving up like Lucy Ricardo in I Love Lucy.
“Yeah,” Andy agrees. “Oh God, I gotta go throw up again. I have no idea why they call it ‘morning sickness;’ I’m nauseous all the Goddamn time. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
“Okay, I promise,” I say, probably even meaning it. “Why do you think they call it morning sickness at midnight?”
I hear Andy heave on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry. Can we discuss semantics another day?” she asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “Love you, bye.”
“Love you, too. Bye,” she says, then hangs up.
Lots of conquests. Yuck. I mean, I guess it doesn’t surprise me: men who look like that don’t need to do much pursuing.
Still, he seemed nicer than that.
My phone rings again. I check the caller ID. Argh . . .
I pick up. “Hello, Drew.”
“I need you to give me directions,” Drew says, “I’m lost. I’m driving in some town just outside L.A., and I don’t know what it’s called, but it sounds like a cheese.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I offer gently.
“Fine. I’m passing a Wal-Mart on my right.”
“Thank you. That narrows it down to everywhere except your dining room.”
“Wait. I also passed a gas station. Oh, and does a McDonalds help?”
I ignore his other identifying landmarks, call LoJack, and find out where my boss’s car is. Then I patch them through to Drew to give him directions home.
I don’t even want to know.
Twenty-six
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