On this particular set, for the movie In My Heart, there’s fake snow and glitter everywhere. It’s a romantic comedy, and the stage is decorated to look like Christmas in an East Coast sea village.
As I walk on the set, I am dusted with glitter—literally. It rains down from above.
“Sorry Charlie!” I hear one of the art department guys yell.
“No problem, George. Good morning!” I say brightly as I step over some wide cables and head to Craft Service to pick up my morning coffee.
This is where I see Jordan Dumaurier sipping a coffee with several of the crew guys.
There’s no such thing as a perfect man.
Jordan is perfect. Have you ever seen a young Parker Stevenson in old Hardy Boys reruns? Jordan looks so much like him, that on the first day of the shoot, several girls on set checked the call sheet to make sure his last name wasn’t Stevenson. (This is Hollywood. You never know. I remember years ago telling this actor named Ty that he was a dead ringer for Tyrone Power. Turns out Ty’s full name was Tyrone Power Jr. Oops.)
Anyway, Jordan’s last name was Dumaurier—no relation to anyone famous. Jordan Dumaurier. Hmm. Charlize Dumaurier. A bit “character from All My Children,” but you know, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
Jordan’s the film’s still photographer, which means he takes pictures of the actors during rehearsals. Those pictures are then used for press kits and the DVD box. It also means he has lots of time to talk throughout the day. Which is what he is doing at this very moment.
“Man—you’re wrong! Magic Johnson is the best player of all time,” Jordan says as I pour myself a cup of coffee, eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Dude,” Keenan, a beefy grip, argues, “wrong MJ—Michael Jordan. Five MVPs and six championship rings. And if he hadn’t taken time off to play baseball, he’d have eight rings instead of six.”
I sneak over to them with my coffee. I stare at the ground and try to remember how to breathe. It’s stupid, I know, but every time I get around this guy, I feel like a geeky little teenager with braces and bad skin.
“You’re both wrong. What about Wilt?” Jeff, the focus puller, vehemently disagrees. “One hundred points in a single game. He averaged fifty points a game one year.” Jeff turns to me. “Help me out here, Charlie.”
Reminds me to write in my book:
Most women have no interest in sports. Don’t apologize for it.
“Um…,” I say, looking down at my shoes nervously. Damn it! Say something witty, something really clever….
“Charlie’s got my back on this,” Jordan says brightly. “She knows Magic could’ve led the league in scoring if he’d wanted to. He made everybody on the team better. Plus, Magic played against better competition. How many rings did Michael win before Magic and Bird retired? Just one. And Wilt only won two his whole career.” I look up timidly to see he’s smiling the most gorgeous smile, and looking right at me. (Yikes!) “That’s what you were going to say, right?”
“Uh…I think Johnson was quite good,” I say weakly.
“Charlie! How can you agree with him?” Keenan lays into me. “Michael never had big-time players around him in the early days. He wasn’t just a big scorer, either—Rookie of the Year, Defensive Player of the Year, thirteen All-Star games—and he was still a star at age forty.”
Okay, when guys start quoting sports statistics, all I hear is “Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, blah.” But to point that out right now might not be clever and cute, so instead I nearly whisper, “Well, you make a valid point, too.”
“Check back in five years and you’ll all be wrong.” I hear Drew next to me as he puts his arm around my shoulder. “Check back in five years and, one word, LeBron.”
There’s a round of “Hey Drew”s and “How’s it going?”s.
“Splendid,” Drew tells them. “Had a sweet weekend in Maui and this really hot girl called me from out of the blue. I’m thinking of taking her to the wrap party next week.”
Uh-oh. “What girl?” I ask nervously, hoping to God it’s not Dawn.
“Cool,” Keenan says. “Is she J. Lo hot or Britney hot?”
“She’s ‘makes Halle Berry look like Hattie McDaniel’ hot.”
Shit.
We get one “cool” from Jordan, a “sweet” from Jeff, and a “daaammmnnn,” from Keenan, followed by an appreciative high-five for Drew.
“Thanks,” Drew says as he high-fives Keenan. “I’ve got to get to Makeup. But Jordan, I have a question for you. I’m having a little dinner party this Thursday night after work. Are you available as a photographer for some candids?”
I can tell from the look on Jordan’s face that he thinks the question is a bit odd, but he’s not about to say no to the film’s star. “Yeah, sure.”
“Great. It’s at my house, seven o’clock. There will be an hors d’oeuvres hour, followed by a three-course meal—should be over around midnight. A thousand dollars enough?”
Jordan’s eyes nearly bug out. “Are you kidding? That’s great.”
My eyes, on the other hand, have narrowed into suspicious little slits. I stare at Drew as he leads me away, yelling over his shoulder to Jordan, “Charlie will give you the address. Dress up a little—I want you to be a guest as well, so the other guests feel relaxed enough for pictures.”
When we’re far enough away, I say under my breath, “What dinner party? I don’t have anything scheduled for you.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna need you to arrange a dinner party for me,” Drew says cheerfully. “Come with me to my trailer.”
We get to Drew’s trailer, and Drew walks in ahead of me. As I enter, a palm frond smacks me in the face.
“Careful,” Drew warns me a second too late.
I instinctively grab my face to check for blood, then step into Drew’s trailer, newly decorated to look like a native Hawaiian hut from the 1800s.
“Aloha,” Drew says, smiling wide as he puts a purple pikake lei over my head, and kisses me on the cheek. “Do you like what I’ve done with the trailer? Pretty cool, huh?”
I put my hands on my hips and look around. The walls are adorned with palm fronds and flowers, grass mats cover the floors, old koa wood rocking chairs replace his plush purple couches, and slack-key guitar music is being piped in from God knows where.
“It’s very…striking,” I say delicately. “What did you do with your old couches?”
Drew opens a small refrigerator and hands me a premade Mai Tai. “I moved them to my house. Why? Do you want them?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. They are $10,000 dark purple velvet couches that he had made when he found out his chakras were purple, and decided to redo his trailer all in purple in order to have his surroundings be more in harmony with his chakra. That would be two weeks ago. If it weren’t for Drew’s constant quest for spiritual fulfillment (always accompanied by a frenzy of redecorating), I wouldn’t have any furniture in my house. That’s another benefit of working for a movie star—all the free castoffs.
Drew turns on some electric tiki torches and little plastic tiki dancers that remind me of the Brady Bunch visiting Hawaii. He stretches his arms out wide, basking in his new surroundings. “Oh, I love the feeling you get when you’re in Hawaii. It’s so spiritual!”
Light-up dancers are spiritual?
“I’m thinking of becoming a kahuna,” Drew says, handing me a bowl of macadamia nuts.
“A what?” I ask.
“A kahuna. It’s sort of like a high priest in Hawaii.” He pops a nut into his mouth, grabs a Mai Tai for himself, then sits on one of the rocking chairs. “I’ve decided when I’m finished with the film, I’m going to move to Hawaii and study the religion of its people.”
“Which is what?” I ask, taking the rickety old rocking chair across from him.
Drew looks confused. “Which is what—what?”
“The religion of the Hawaiian people—the one you want to study. What’s it called?”
Drew co
nsiders that for a moment. “I’m not really sure. I suppose that will be my first question on my journey to self-enlightenment.
“Now.” Drew’s face suddenly turns serious. “We need to talk.”
Nothing good has ever come from a conversation that begins with, “We need to talk.” And, frankly, what it really means is, “You need to listen.”
Drew continues, “I met with a fortune teller in Maui, who was brilliant by the way, and we need to spend more time together.”
Uh-oh.
“We already spend sixty hours a week together,” I calmly point out.
“Yes. But that’s as employer and employee. We need to start hanging out as friends.”
I’ve never been so scared in my life. Is there such a thing as friendly harassment?
“Starting with Thursday,” Drew continues. “I’d like you to be a guest at my dinner party. Of course, I’d also like you to organize the party. Now, we’ll need a cheese course—I read somewhere that this year everyone’s doing cheese.”
I open my work notebook (not to be confused with my advice notebook) and jot down “cheese course” as I remind him, “You’re not allowed to have cheese.”
“I’m not?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
“No. Your doctor told you to cut down on your meat, and to cut out bacon and cheese entirely.”
Drew looks at me like this is the first he’s heard of it. “Why?”
“Because your cholesterol’s two-twenty.”
“Well, isn’t there a pill or something I can take for that?” he asks.
The question must be rhetorical, because before I can answer, he gets up from the rocking chair and begins pacing around the trailer like a caged jaguar. I can hear the grass mats crunching underneath him. “Get Phil to cater, and have him include Brie. I love Brie.”
I write down “Brie” in my notebook. “What if Phil isn’t available on such short notice?” I ask, hoping this will dissuade him enough to cancel the evening.
“Then get the sous chef he had—what’s his name?”
“Dante?”
Drew jerks his head toward me and stops mid-pace. “Dante? Seriously? Greek?”
“No. Upstate New York white bread, but with hippie parents.”
“Dante.” Drew stands lost in thought for a moment. “What do you think of the name Dante Stanton?”
“I think your mother would kill you.”
“I don’t mean for me. I meant if I ever had a son.”
“I think you’ll have enough to fight about with your son without adding his name to the list.”
“Olives!” Drew points to me accusingly, and I recoil, startled. He begins pacing again. “Greeks do the best olives! Let’s have an olive platter.”
I puff out my cheeks, and breathe out slowly, trying to relax as I write down “Olive platter.” This has red flags all over it. “What do you want for the main course?”
“I don’t know. What’s Dawn’s favorite food?”
“Martinis,” I say sarcastically.
Drew stops again. “You know, I’m picking up a negative vibe here.”
I put down my pen. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m not sure if Dawn is available Thursday night.”
“Oh, she is. I called her, and actually it’s the only night she’s available this week. So I booked her.”
Rats.
Drew pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket. “As a matter of fact…she said there was some reason for you to be the guest of honor.” He reads the scrap of paper. “Yeah, here it is! Turns out you’re turning thirty next week.” He says it like, “Wow—did you know fourteen percent of Americans go to McDonalds on any given day?”
He stuffs the paper back in his pocket. “Do you think I should get you a cake?”
What I want to say is, “I think you should get me a Valium the size of a donut.” But instead, I sit in a stunned stupor.
Drew points to me and says—in a tone I swear to God is exactly like my mother’s—“You know, you’re not getting any younger. It’s time we found you a man.”
That shocks me out of my silence. I stand up. “I hear George Clooney’s looking for a new assistant. Been nice working for you.”
Before I can get to the door, Drew takes my arm and spins me back around. “Look, I’m not getting any younger, either. I’ll be thirty-three in a few months, and what have I got to show for it? One divorce, a broken engagement, and a mother who calls me once a week to let me know if she doesn’t get grandchildren soon, I’m out of her will.”
I look at him, confused. “Didn’t you buy her her house?”
“Not the point.” Drew pulls me back to my rocking chair, kneels down next to me like he’s going to propose, and puts both his hands over mine. “When I was in Maui, I was on a beautiful balcony by myself, watching this gorgeous sunset, and all I could think about was what Dawn would think of the sunset.”
He turns his eyes away from me, as though he’s embarrassed by this new vulnerability I’m seeing. “Don’t you want someone to come home to? Don’t you want to find someone who knows everything about you—even the stuff you wish to God weren’t true—and loves you anyway? Isn’t there someone you want seeing your sunset?”
He looks like he’s about to cry. I glare at him. “That’s a speech from your last movie,” I say accusingly.
Drew stands up, and his voice immediately changes back to normal. “Well, of course it is. But why is it such good dialogue?” He gestures emphatically with clenched fingers. “Because it resonates….” He looks around his trailer. “I think I need some wooden carvings. Maybe of Pele. She’s the fire goddess, you know. That would make the room more authentic, don’t you think?”
Drew walks around the trailer, and continues to monologue about authentic Hawaiian replicas. I tune him out, instead thinking about what he just said about finding someone (the fact that a writer wrote it for him notwithstanding).
The dinner is a really bad idea. And when Drew has really bad ideas, I’m the one whose job it is to bring him back to reality. To keep his life in order. To keep him grounded: get him to his appointments, meetings, and dinners in time for…what? For him to go home to an empty house?
For me to go home to an empty house?
I heave out a big sigh. “Dawn’s favorite meal is coq au vin.”
Drew turns to me, smiles wide, and kisses me on the cheek. “Chicken it is. I’m going to invite Doug Adler—he’s a manager who’s been after me to sign with him. He’s single, and I think you two might hit it off. I’ve also invited Jordan for obvious reasons. And then there’s this yoga instructor…a little crunchy granola, but a nice guy—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I interrupt. “What do you mean you asked Jordan ‘for obvious reasons’?”
“Oh, come on! You look at him the way I look at a Krispy Kreme. And, frankly, the only reason I’m speechless in front of a Krispy Kreme is because I’ve already got it in my mouth. Whereas you haven’t had Jordan—”
“Please stop,” I say immediately. “If you love me, you won’t finish that thought.”
Drew’s lips purse, and his eyes get wide. “I do love you. Just because I’d rather say things like that onscreen than to a real person doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.”
That’s the best compliment Drew’s ever given me—and I have no response. Saying “I love you, too,” to your boss sounds disingenuine.
But Drew waits for me to say it anyway.
“And you love me, too…,” he says with a “repeat after me” tone.
“And I love you, too,” I say awkwardly.
He gives me a self-satisfied smile. “Good. By the way, just in case things go well, I need you to go to the pharmacy to pick up some Viagra for me. I had the doctor leave it under your name.”
For a second there, I thought we were going to have a warm, fuzzy moment. Silly me. “Drew, isn’t it bad enough I had to pick up that rash cream for you under my name?”
Drew looks at me
blankly, not following.
I continue. “I’m not really comfortable with the pharmacist thinking I have a sex problem.”
“As long as you’re out, why don’t you buy yourself a new dress for the party,” Drew says, pulling several $100 bills out of his wallet and handing them to me.
I immediately grab them. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
Drew puts his wallet back into his pocket, and turns his back to me, suddenly concentrating on his script.
This would be my cue to leave.
As I turn to go, he almost whispers, “I also realized in Maui that you are one of the nicest, most genuine people I know, and you deserve to be happy.”
He doesn’t say anything else, and his back is still to me.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, then leave him to his work.
Should I have stayed and pointed out that paying some guy $1,000 to be my pseudo-date for the evening probably wouldn’t make me happy? Of course I should have!
But I thought about a quote I would later put in my book of advice:
Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.—Albert Einstein
I mean, what I’d been doing so far hadn’t given me a soul mate. Why not try something new?
Besides, I can’t remember the last time a man was so determined to make me happy, even if it was for his own selfish reasons.
Six
A hostess should always have a glass of something fabulous on hand to serve to her guests.
I’m paraphrasing Colin Cowie. I’m not sure I’m always the best hostess, but I have to say, I love the sentiment.
If you don’t know who Colin Cowie is—he is L.A.’s host extraordinaire! Imagine Martha Stewart being gracious, instead of condescending. Which reminds me:
If you ever want a good laugh, go find some old TV shows from a woman named Martha Stewart. She used to teach women in the 21st century such useless wastes of time as making your own wrapping paper, gluing seashells onto tissue boxes, and how to fold fitted sheets.
A Total Waste of Makeup Page 6