Hollywood Punch
Page 1
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Brenda Janowitz
Cover design by Georgia Morrissey
eISBN 978-1-940610-37-5
Originally published by Harlequin Books S.A.
under the title Based On A True Story
Reissued in 2014 by Polis Books, LLC
60 West 23rd Street
New York, NY 10010
www.PolisBooks.com
CONTENTS
Copyright
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Ben and Davey
Chapter One
You know that feeling you get when everything seems to be right with the world? When the planets seem to be in alignment? One of those days when you’re actually running on time, your apartment is (relatively) clean, and you haven’t gotten into an argument with your mother/ best friend/ boss/ therapist in at least a week? That’s exactly how I feel today.
And why not? Last spring, I survived my ex-boyfriend’s wedding with my dignity ever so slightly intact, and now I’m engaged to a man I love, and working at a job that I don’t hate. Which, as a lawyer in New York City, is really the most you can hope for.
Well, okay, so going to my ex-boyfriend’s wedding last spring wasn’t really as easy as I’m making it sound. Sure, I survived with my dignity ever so slightly intact, but only barely. You see, mere days before the wedding, my gorgeous Scottish boyfriend, Douglas, broke up with me and announced that he was getting engaged to someone else, but that was all right. I had a plan—I simply took my friend Jack as my date instead. Okay, okay, I actually forced my best friend Jack to pretend to be Douglas, thus helping me to keep my dignity ever so slightly intact for the whole of Trip’s wedding, but it was really just a harmless little lie, you know? Who would ever be the wiser? Certainly not my ex, Trip, and definitely not my more recent ex, Douglas (wow, I have so many ex-boyfriends that I’m confusing even myself….). And Jack was such a good friend that he really didn’t mind one bit. Not even a little. Anyway, how hard could it be to pretend to be Douglas?
Okay, okay, so Douglas was obsessively Scottish and planning to wear a kilt to my ex-boyfriend’s wedding, all of which I had warned said ex-boyfriend of in advance, so this little charade took slightly more than a name change, but how hard could it really be for Jack to don a kilt and a fake accent, right?
Well, it wasn’t easy, but Jack was a trooper and we managed to go to Trip’s wedding, have a great time, and then, as an added bonus, fall madly in love. And now we are a bona fide couple, on our way towards marching down the aisle. See, sometimes the cliché is right—every cloud does have a silver lining.
Which is why this morning I didn’t have a care in world about what I would wear for dinner tonight. Even though it’s a dinner with Trip, my ex-boyfriend. And his beautiful movie star wife, Ava Huang. Yes, that Ava Huang. The perfect Hollywood “It” girl, Ava Huang. Who has an Academy Award nomination. And a royal title.
Not like I’m jealous of her or anything.
I mean, what’s to be jealous of? My fiancé, Jack, recently made partner at a large law firm in Manhattan. In many ways, I think that’s harder to do than to get an Oscar nod. To get her nomination, all Ava had to do was play an autistic transvestite who was sexually abused as a child and grew up to cure cancer. And everyone knows that when a gorgeous actress does a role where she gets to look ugly, she gets an Oscar nod. Whereas Jack had to work twelve to fourteen hour days for nine years before they even considered him for partner. And, I mean, to be born royal, you only have to… well… be born, so working your butt off to make partner for years is certainly more impressive than that.
When I woke up and got dressed for work today, I didn’t really give a second thought to what I’d wear to dinner with my ex and his movie star wife. I mean, I’m engaged now, so what does it really matter what I’m wearing? Soon, I’ll be a married woman myself and I’ll be much too busy being the normal well-adjusted wife that I am to worry about the little insecurities that I entertained when I was single.
I mean, when you’re an engaged woman, does it really matter what you wear for a weeknight after-work dinner? What do you have to prove, really? This is just like any other casual dinner with friends. Even if one is an ex-boyfriend and the other is his Oscar-nominated wife. In fact, I specifically didn’t think twice about what I would wear tonight because I’m so above such petty jealousies.
And now, as I sit here at my desk, mere hours away from tonight’s dinner, only one thing pops to mind: what the hell was I thinking? Clearly, this morning I was delusional. I’m having dinner with a movie star, for the love of God! I must go home immediately and change.
From:“Brooke Miller”
To:“Jack Solomon” < jsolomon@gilsonhecht.com >
Subject:Re: tonight
running home to change before dinner. want to look cute for you! pick me up at the apartment instead of the office tonight? love you.
Brooke Miller
Sent from my wireless handheld
I race out of my office and hop into a taxi cab. As I give the driver my address, my BlackBerry begins to buzz.
From:“Jack Solomon” < jsolomon@gilsonhecht.com >
To:“Brooke Miller”
Subject:Re: Re: tonight
Love you, too.
Jack Solomon
Gilson, Hecht and Trattner
425 Park Avenue
11th Floor
New York, New York 10022
*****CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE*****
The information contained in this e-mail message is confidential and is intended only for the use of the individual or entity named above. If you are not the intended recipient, we would request you delete this communication without reading it or any attachment, not forward or otherwise distribute it, and kindly advise Gilson, Hecht & Trattner by return email to the sender or a telephone call to 1 (800) GILSON. Thank you in advance.
I can barely contain my smile as the cab lurches uptown and we arrive at my apartment building. I just know that the second Jack picks me up in a cab, he’ll flash his baby blue eyes at me and say, “I am the luckiest man in the world. Never leave me, Brooke, for without you, I would surely die,” or something as equally heartfelt and romantic.
I rush up to my apartment, turn on the radio and march into the bathroom. That’s it—freshening up with a little “getting ready” music will put me in a good mood. The radio begins to blast an old Madonna song from the 80s and I dance around the bathroom, mood lightening. After all, when Madonna tells you to “get up and dance and sing,” you listen.
Throwing my head upside down, I give it a few good shakes. Flipping my hair back and standing upright, I look at my reflection in the mirror. Ever since I cut eight and a half inches off of my signature locks, I’ve also taken to wearing my hair with more of its natural curl in it. This past summer, I even let it dry naturally on days that I wasn’t appearing in court (for those days, I resorted to my old tried and true classic bun), and with the Indian Summer we were having this September, I’m still doing the same.
I pull out the bathroom mirrors so that I can see myself in 3-D. I look okay, I tell myself. I look fine. After all, it’s just a cas
ual dinner at a local French restaurant with some friends. One of whom happens to be one of the biggest movie stars in the world. Who is married to my ex-boyfriend.
I must go get my hair blown out. Letting my hair dry naturally and frizz ever so slightly is okay for an evening at home with my fiancé who already gave me a ring and asked my father for permission and all that—he’s already stuck with me—but it just won’t cut it for dinner at Pastis with a real, live movie star.
What if the paparazzi is there? I wouldn’t want to embarrass my friends and family by being photographed with frizzy hair. I really am a very considerate girl.
And anyway, it’s really not all that uncommon to get your hair professionally done. I heard once that Marilyn Monroe used to wash and set her hair up to three times day when she was on a movie set. I mean, if Marilyn Monroe in her heyday had to constantly wash and set her hair, what hope do we normal gals have, anyway?
Oh please! As if you wouldn’t get your hair washed and blown out if you were going out to dinner with your ex-boyfriend and his movie star wife!
From:“Brooke Miller”
To:“Jack Solomon” < jsolomon@gilsonhecht.com >
Subject:Re: Re: Re: tonight
on second thought, why dont you pick me up at the cheap hair place on the corner of lex and 62nd? i want to get gorgeous for you….
Brooke Miller
Sent from my wireless handheld
From:“Jack Solomon” < jsolomon@gilsonhecht.com >
To:“Brooke Miller”
Subject:Re: Re: Re: Re: tonight
of course you do.
Jack Solomon
Gilson, Hecht and Trattner
425 Park Avenue
11th Floor
New York, New York 10022
*****CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE*****
The information contained in this e-mail message is confidential and is intended only for the use of the individual or entity named above. If you are not the intended recipient, we would request you delete this communication without reading it or any attachment, not forward or otherwise distribute it, and kindly advise Gilson, Hecht & Trattner by return email to the sender or a telephone call to 1 (800) GILSON. Thank you in advance.
Perfect! I have just enough time to change into my newest little black dress, get to the hair place and get my hair washed and blown out straight. And, maybe if there’s time I can get a manicure. And have my make-up done, too. But, only if there’s time.
What? I wouldn’t want to keep the paparazzi waiting.
Chapter Two
“You had your make-up done, too?” my fiancé Jack asks as I slide into the town car. “How much did getting ready for this dinner set you back?”
“I just wanted to look beautiful for you,” I say, giving him a peck on the lips.
“Well,” he says, “I’m just glad to see that this has nothing to do with the fact that we’re having dinner with your ex-boyfriend and his movie star wife.”
“No,” I say, laughing, “of course not!”
“Yes,” he says, putting his hand on my leg, “of course.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re down in the Meatpacking District, pulling up to Pastis. Ah, Pastis—a restaurant which would be considered a casual French bistro, but for the fact that it is a huge celebrity hangout and has a three month waiting list for a reservation. The second my foot hits the cobblestone street, I hear my ex-boyfriend, Trip, call out my name. He and his wife, Ava, are already ensconced at one of the outside tables. Getting a reservation at Pastis is hard enough, but getting an outside table is nearly impossible. Of course, within the first five minutes of conversation, Trip drops the fact that this is their regular table.
You know those celebrities who go out to restaurants at odd hours and take tables in the corner, facing inside, desperate not to be seen or recognized? Trip and Ava are not those kind of celebrities.
“So, I said to DiCaprio,” Trip says, making no effort at all to lower his voice, reveling in the fact that this causes all of the nearby tables to turn and look at him, “if you don’t do it, you’re insane!” To which he and Ava laugh hysterically and Jack and I merely smile politely.
Eating with Trip and Ava is incredibly difficult. Every so often, you see the flash of a bulb go off and you just know that a papparrazo somewhere out there has just taken your picture. You feel the constant glare of camera phones on you as you try to take a bite of your steak sandwich. I’m desperately trying to eat in an attractive way, which is no easy feat, I assure you.
I guess this is why Ava is so thin.
“That crazy DiCaprio,” Jack says in a Scottish accent. Now, I suppose I should mention here that Jack isn’t actually Scottish. But, yes, you read that correctly. Yes, tonight Jack is speaking with a Scottish accent. There really is a very logical reason for all of this.
You see, it’s your typical girl-gets-invited-to-her-ex-boyfriend’s-wedding-only-to-be-broken-up-with-by-her-awful-cad-of-a-Scottish-boyfriend-mere-minutes-before-the-wedding-forcing-girl-to-drag-her-best-friend-Jack-in-his-place-and-make-him-wear-a-kilt-and-speak-with-a-Scottish-accent-in-a-desperate-attempt-to-keep-her-dignity-ever-so-slightly-intact sort of story. Kind of story you hear about all the time, right? This is also the story of why Trip and Ava are calling Jack “Douglas.”
Okay, so I understand that most women don’t get invited to their ex-boyfriend’s weddings. And I realize that most women don’t RSVP ‘yes’ to their ex-boyfriend’s weddings because they are dating gorgeous hunky Scotsmen and they want to show up their exes. And, okay, most women, when then broken up with by their hunky Scotsmen, don’t recruit their friends to take his place and pretend to be him. And pretend to be engaged to said faux-Scotsman. But, then again, I’m not most girls.
And therein lies my charm. I think. I’m pretty sure Jack told me that once. Or at least I think he did. Didn’t he? Anyway, the point is, I’m not most girls. And Jack, luckily for me, is not most guys.
And I’m lucky that he’s not. Since going to Trip’s wedding as a fake couple, Jack and I have actually become a real couple. Which was an easy transition since we were the best of friends before the wedding. It just took a trip to LA and seeing Jack in a kilt for me to realize that he was the one for me. And now that I have, I have no intention of ever going back to being just friends again. Because Jack is amazing. As evidenced by the fact that he’s dressed up as a Scotsman once again, phony accent and all, just to save my pride. And he even remembered to bring me the fake engagement ring I wore to Trip’s wedding, which I swapped out for my real one when Jack picked me up in the cab.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. How can she go on like this? And really, it’s easy. You see, I don’t plan to see Trip and Ava ever again after tonight. And, I’m sure, after having to feign a Scottish accent for an entire evening, by tomorrow, Jack will be of a similar mind. Maybe even later tonight. We’re only here in the first place to be polite (that, and the fact that I was unsuccessful in dodging Trip’s calls. He had his assistant call me seven times. Yes, seven! I wonder how many times he had to call Leo to get him on the phone….).
Trip’s assistant assured me that there was something that Trip just had to tell me. And I just had to know what it was. Trip and I always had a very competitive relationship, even back when we were an item in law school, but now I can’t imagine there’s much left for him to say to me. Still, curiosity got the best of me. But, really, what could he possibly be here to announce? I mean, he’s won, hasn’t he? He was married first and to an Oscar nominated star, at that. It’s really not much of a contest. I get it.
Why am I at this dinner again?
“So, did he say yes?” I ask. I don’t want to ask, but Trip so clearly wants me to ask more about his silly little Leonardo DiCaprio story. The man is so starved for attention. Trip, I mean. Not Leonardo DiCaprio. I’ve never met Leonardo DiCaprio, but I’m sure that he’s very well adjusted and nice. Although he was a child star (
who didn’t love him on Growing Pains?!), so maybe he’s not as nice as he seems, even though he does feel passionate about the environment. But I digress….
“As a matter of fact, Brooke,” he said, “he did. Leo’s going to be starring in Ava’s next picture.” It drives me insane that Trip calls movies ‘pictures’ as if he’s Orson Welles or something. He’s not even her director. He’s just her agent. Isn’t there some sort of confidentiality thing he’s violating here? Note to self: write a note to the bar association to determine confidentiality implications of an agent being romantically involved with the actress he’s representing.
“Great,” Jack says, “Jolly good.” I don’t think that Scots say things like ‘jolly good,’ but I let it slide since Jack’s being so great by pretending to be a Scotsman on a weeknight. Anyway, the industry talk is probably the only saving grace for Jack this evening. Jack always wanted to be an actor but never really made a go of it. Jack’s like a lot of litigators—frustrated thespians who use their dramatic flair in the courtroom instead of on the stage.
“And Ava will be playing the lead,” Trip continues, as the waiter begins clearing out plates. I say a tiny prayer that Trip and Ava won’t want to order dessert and that Jack and I can get out of here. “DiCaprio will be the ex-boyfriend, whose wedding Ava attends.”
Suddenly, time begins moving in slow motion.
“Excuse me?” I ask. Surely, I must have misheard Trip.
“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Trip asks, a tiny smirk creeping onto his lips. “The picture is about a woman who goes to her ex-boyfriend’s wedding.”
This story is beginning to sound alarmingly familiar.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, “Ava’s next movie is about a girl who goes to her ex-boyfriend’s wedding?”
“Yeah,” Trip says with a laugh. “You inspired me to write it!”