A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  I hated her before the insider trading. I mean, why not just roll the fitted sheet in a ball and throw it in your linen closet like everyone else? And do you ever wonder who’s actually making aluminum foil Christmas ornaments using “thirty-six-gauge aluminum foil” and “tin snips,” then giving the ornament “a tarnished finish” with the use of extrafine steel wool and something called aluminum blackener?

  But I digress.

  Monday morning, about an hour after Drew and I talked, Dawn called to tell him that Colin Cowie’s catering company was my absolute favorite, and suddenly, Dante the Greek was out, and Colin’s people were in.

  Then Drew took it upon himself to plan the whole event. I didn’t have to lift a finger. He invited the guests, planned the menu, even had his dining room painted—again. I am actually getting to show up tonight as a guest. A real guest.

  It’s Thursday night, and I am dressed in a brand-new sparkly black dress (slightly above the knee, so as to be sexy, yet not trashy), black seamed stockings (I read it makes a man run his eyes up your leg) and FM pumps (just in case they don’t get the other two, more subtle, messages).

  As I drive over to Brentwood on this cool, drizzly Los Angeles night, I feel glamorous, sexy, and hopeful. There is nothing that could bring down my mood.

  Except the phone ringing.

  I make the mistake of putting on my headset and taking the call. “Hello.”

  “Put the scanner gun down, and no one gets hurt!” Andy yells into the phone.

  “Hi, Andy.”

  “Sorry. Someone was trying to sneak a set of barbecue tongs onto our registry,” she says accusingly.

  “The nerve of some guys. Finally showing interest in the registry,” I respond sarcastically. “The man should be shot.”

  “Will you just go over to linens and look at fingertip towels?” Andy says in irritation.

  “Andy, as much as I’d like to listen to you argue with your beloved, I’m about to go into a canyon….”

  “Okay, this’ll just take a second. I’ve decided on your shoes. I opted for the ones we looked at that looked like a tap shoe, only with a chunky wedge heel instead of the thin one, and also the two-inch strap across the top now has a fabric peony.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a kind of flower.”

  I cringe. “I suppose one that can be dyed to match the silver dress?”

  “Absolutely! And they’ll do it for free, so you only pay the two hundred sixty dollars plus tax.”

  “Two hundred sixty dollars for a pair of dyed-to-match shoes I’ll never wear again?!” I scream into my headset.

  “They’re Italian silk satin.”

  “They’re the ugliest things I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s because you haven’t met the groom’s mother yet,” Andy whispers to me.

  “Andy!” I scream. Then I inhale—one, two, three—and exhale—one, two, three. “Andy,” I say, determined to sound calm if it kills me, “I love you. But I do not have two hundred sixty dollars to spend on a pair of shoes.”

  “What about those Stuart Weitzman shoes you bought for three hundred dollars?”

  “That doesn’t count. I was using Drew’s credit card, which he said I could after the camel incident, so it wasn’t my money. And besides…”

  I stop at a red light, and don’t finish my sentence. I don’t have a “besides.” This is her wedding. She’s only going to do this once (or “twice at the most” as her wedding coordinator keeps reminding us), and how I act on this occasion could be held against me for many moons to come.

  “Fine,” I sigh, “but I draw the line at the faux fur stole.”

  “I totally agree,” Andy assures me. “We decided on real fur.”

  “Dyed to match?” I ask through gritted teeth, my hands clenching the steering wheel. The guy in the SUV to my right, who had pulled around me to speed past when the light turns green, takes one look at my face and lets his car drift backward.

  “Of course,” Andy says. “I mean, what animal rights crazy is gonna throw a paint ball at you in the middle of the Hotel Bel Air?”

  I decide not to point out that a big paint splotch in the middle of my dress might be an improvement. Instead I say, “Buy the shoes, buy the stole. I’ll pay you back. I’m at Drew’s now. I gotta go.”

  “Did he get his invitation yet?” Andy asks.

  “Did I get my invitation yet?” I ask, irritated.

  “Of course not. I know you’re coming. The first round went to people who might be busy.”

  Before I can verbally take offense, Andy yells, “We’re not getting Emeril—we’re getting All Clad! Drop that paella pan this instant!” to Hunter, then a quick “Gotta-go-love-you-bye,” to me.

  I pull up to the iron gate of Drew’s house and buzz the intercom. A man’s voice with a British accent answers, “Good evening. How may I be of service?”

  “Hi. This is Charlie Edwards. I’m here for the dinner party,” I yell into the intercom like I’m ordering a double double at In-N-Out at two in the morning.

  “Excellent. Mr. Stanton has been expecting you.”

  The black gate slowly slides open, and I drive through the gate, down a gray stone driveway, and into a circle filled with cars all more expensive than my Toyota Prius (and all owned by Drew).

  Later I would write in my notebook:

  Never judge someone by the car they drive.

  But actually, I’m totally intimidated in this mini parking lot of luxury vehicles, so I park and get out of my car as quickly as possible, so no one can guess which one is mine.

  Drew’s mansion is sort of a Mediterranean villa surrounded by an enchanted forest of rose bushes, Hawaiian orchids, and trees. I walk up the gray slate footpath, now dotted with candles leading up to the doorway.

  I push the doorbell, and hear the melody of “Play that Funky Music White Boy,” but in a doorbell tune.

  A butler, who I do not recognize, answers. “Good evening,” he says as he opens the door for me to enter. “May I take your coat?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I say, as though having this level of exceptional service is the norm for me. “I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Charlie, Drew’s assistant. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

  “I’m only here for the evening,” the butler tells me in the queen’s English as he takes my coat. “I actually work for Master Puffy D, Master Stanton’s neighbor. I’m on loan, so to speak.”

  “I love your accent,” I say.

  “And I yours, madam. My name is Jeeves, and I’m at your service.”

  While Jeeves (seriously?) puts my coat in the hall closet, I look around the front entry. Drew’s house looks magical tonight, even more so than usual. The lights have been dimmed, candles flicker everywhere around me, and Sarah McLachlan’s CD Fumbling Towards Ecstasy lilts in the background.

  “Mr. Stanton requests that you make yourself comfortable in the drawing room,” Jeeves informs me.

  Jeeves leads me to Drew’s “drawing room” (what the rest of the world would call his living room).

  I walk into the drawing room, and it’s decorated even more exquisitely than the front hallway. A roaring fire crackles in the fireplace, and there are so many candles here, I feel like I’m at church (but in a good way). There’s a fully stocked bar in the corner, complete with a bartender. Perfect.

  Drew bounds in, looking positively stunning in a dark blue suit he had made at Saville Row last year, and waving a large ivory card in front of me.

  “It came!” he yells excitedly, thrusting my sister’s wedding invitation in my face. I grab it and look—teddy bears. Is she out of her fucking tree?

  “Which tuxedo do you think I should wear?” Drew asks, beaming. “The Armani, the Gucci, or the Turnbull and Asser?”

  “What’s the one you had made when we went to England?” I ask, staring at the invitation and discovering that Hunter’s middle name is Thompson (Thompson?).

  “Turn
bull and Asser,” Drew says.

  “Yeah, that one,” I say distractedly, running my finger lightly over the invitation. They actually paid to have the teddy bears engraved. Good grief. “And wear those cufflinks you had made when we were there, too.”

  Drew’s face lights up even more. “Ooohhh, you mean the diamond ones from Deakin and Francis. I love those. Remind me that we need to get back to London soon, and do some shopping.”

  Suddenly he furrows his brow and taps his index finger to his chin to give his “thinking face.” “Wait, do you think I might look too flashy? I don’t want to come off as too Hollywood.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, still focused on the invitation, and wondering how Andy found salmon-colored sparkly ink. “Everyone’s supposed to wear a tux. Besides, the Turnbull one makes you look hot.”

  Drew smiles, visibly surprised. “You think I’ll look hot?”

  “Huh?” I say, as I look up from the invitation. “What? Yeah. Definitely.”

  What I didn’t tell him was the universal truth:

  All men under forty look hot in tuxedos. All men over forty look distinguished.

  The bartender hands us each a Christofle martini glass filled with chilled vodka with what looks like flecks of gold floating throughout. It looks like a snow globe souvenir of California during the gold rush.

  “Try this,” Drew says proudly. “It’s the new drink: the Academy Award martini!”

  I’m dubious, but I take a sip. The metal tastes…weird. I peer into the glass and squint my eyes. “What is this floating in my drink?”

  “Edible gold leaf,” Drew tells me. “I read about it in a magazine. The guy I bought it from says if you drink too much your poop can turn gold.”

  Drew makes this last statement with such joie de vive, I’m not sure how to respond. But before I can anything, I’m saved by the bell.

  The doorbell rings and, within seconds, Bachelor #1 enters the drawing room. He is gorgeous: dark hair, smoldering dark eyes, and a perfectly chiseled body that can only come from working out actually being your career.

  Drew’s face lights up when he sees him.

  “Chris!” he says brightly, walking up to him, doing the shaking of the hand with the half hug thing, then leading him to me. “Charlie, I’d like you to meet—”

  “Hi, Chris,” I interrupt, kissing Chris on the check. “How have you been?”

  “Good, good,” he says, smiling to show off his bright white teeth. “You? Your mother still making you crazy?”

  “You have no idea,” I say, then turn to Drew. “Drew, Chris is my mother’s, um, gentleman friend.”

  “Part-time gentleman friend,” Chris corrects me.

  “Chris is my mother’s whatever,” I say. Which is true. When my mother first started dating this twenty-nine-year-old, we asked her what we should call him: boyfriend, friend, “Dad,” pool boy? Mom said “whatever,” and the name stuck.

  Oh, another one for my book:

  The difference between a middle-aged man and a middle-aged woman is that when a woman dates someone thirty years younger than her, at least she knows she looks like an idiot.

  Okay, my mother doesn’t, but most women would.

  Chris and I talk for a few moments when the doorbell rings again. Jordan enters the drawing room, looking perfect in a gray suit, red silk tie, and a camera hanging around his neck. As I am about to say “hi,” he flashes his camera to take my picture. I blink my eyes a few times, trying to clear up the green square filling my vision, as Jordan walks up to me.

  “You look gorgeous,” he says, taking my arm and kissing me on the cheek.

  He kissed me! I think. Okay, just the cheek, but still…and he said I looked gorgeous.

  “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself,” I say.

  Inwardly, I cringe at my lame response. You’re not so bad yourself? What am I—Mae West?

  Jordan smiles, blushes a little, and turns away. “I clean up okay. Look, since you’re the only person I know here tonight, do you mind if I hang out with you when I’m not working?”

  Is he serious?

  “Oh sure,” I stammer. “No problem. You can count on me. Maybe we can sit together at dinner…”

  As I continue to babble, Jordan looks past me and his jaw nearly drops. I turn to see who or what he’s looking at.

  Behind a married couple coming in, I see Dawn, wearing a gold beaded bias cut dress with one slit up the leg to show off her perfect calf and thigh (and, frankly, her recent bikini wax, but maybe I’m being bitter).

  “Charlie!” she yells to me, her face beaming. “Have I got gossip for you!”

  I start to make my way toward her, only to be pushed out of the way by Drew.

  “Dawn, you look stunning,” he says, kissing her hand lightly.

  It’s a good thing men don’t have tails, or this lovesick puppy would be wagging his so fast, it would look like a helicopter.

  “Can I get you a drink? We have ice-cold martinis at the bar,” Drew says as he takes Dawn’s hand and begins to lead her to the bar.

  “That would be lovely,” Dawn says, then mouths to me, “Gossip.”

  “Great,” Drew says, then yanks her toward the bar so fast it looks like her neck is going to snap backward. As they pass us, she turns to me, stretches her arms out wide, and mouths, “Huge.”

  I cock my head as Jordan takes a picture of Drew dragging poor Dawn to the bar.

  Then he turns to me. “She’s cute. What’s her story?”

  No! No! No!!! “Her story is she’s a spectator sport,” I say cattily. “Fun to watch, but if you try to go out on the field, there’s going to be blood and broken bones all over the place.”

  It came out sounding harsh, but it’s the truth, actually.

  “That’s a shame,” Jordan says. “I have a friend who would have loved her.”

  Two more couples come in, both married. One couple I recognize—Gigi and Nick. She’s a producer, and he’s a stay-at-home dad. The other couple I don’t recognize, but I assume they’re married, since they both wear wedding rings, and seem to have no problem separating from each other long enough to mingle with the other guests.

  This is usually a sign of an older, more secure couple. I hate it when I’m at a party talking to a guy, just chitchatting, only to have his ferocious young wife angrily introduce herself to me as “Mrs. Jones—Frank’s wife” and verbally piss around her territory to let me know he’s taken.

  Dawn walks up to Jordan and me, sans Drew. “Hi, I’m Dawn. You must be Jordan.” I glare at her. How would she know that if I hadn’t told her all about him?

  “I must be,” he says, a little confused. “I’m surprised Drew has talked about me.”

  Dawn looks at me as I shake my head ever so slightly in disapproval.

  “Um…okay,” she says, putting her hand on my back and steering me away. “Listen, do you mind if I steal my girl for a minute?”

  At that moment, Drew bounds up to us, a martini in each hand. “Dawn, I told you it would only take them a minute to make a martini without gold leaf. Why did you leave me?”

  “Well, sweetie, I just assumed that you would want to go greet your other guests. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

  “What other…”

  Dawn points to the two other couples, and Drew frowns. “Oh. Right.” He hands her a plain martini, and Jordan a gold one. “Promise me you won’t move from this spot.”

  “I promise,” she assures him.

  Drew rushes away from us to greet his other guests. The three of us stare in his direction. He’s so hyped up, I would swear he was on cocaine if I didn’t know for a fact that he never touches the stuff. (“Kills my pot buzz,” he insists.)

  Dawn gently pushes Jordan toward Drew and the other guests. “Wouldn’t it be divine if you got some snaps of the guests arriving. You know, before they’re all drunk and bleary eyed?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jordan says, snapping to attention. “Charlie, can you watc
h my drink?”

  “Sure. It would be my honor.”

  “Thanks,” he says, smiling that perfect smile, handing me his martini, and walking away.

  “I’ll be right here,” I continue stupidly. “We’re not going anywhere. Don’t let your martini get warm. Umph…”

  Dawn puts her hand over my mouth. “What’s our rule?”

  If you can’t say something intelligent to a cute guy, shut the hell up!

  “Correct,” Dawn says, taking her hand off my mouth. She takes a sip of her martini. “Okay, now I have big news, but it’s totally on the D.L.”

  I look at her blankly. “The what?”

  “The D.L. You know, the downlow?”

  I continue to look at her blankly. Dawn bites her inner cheek. “You know, sometimes I’m amazed you’ve ever had a black friend. The downlow: it means it’s a secret!”

  “Ooohhh…” My face lights up. “Is it about Justin Timberlake being gay?”

  “No, it’s about someone we know…So he’s definitely gay?” Dawn asks, totally losing interest in her own gossip.

  “I have no idea. You worked with him. So what’s the gossip?”

  Dawn looks around the room to make sure no one’s listening. “Guess what I did all day?” Dawn says in that I know something you don’t know singsongy tone. “You will never guess.”

  “Discovered the secret to cold fusion,” I deadpan.

  “I went engagement-ring shopping.”

  I stare at Dawn, in shock. She smiles and nods her head. I immediately leave her in a huff to give Drew a piece of my mind. “Oh, for God’s sake. He’s met you once, and talked to you on the phone twice. Drew!” Dawn flips me back around. “Not for me. For Kate. I went with Jack.”

  “Jack?”

  “He’s gonna propose tonight,” she beams. “Like, for real. He got a room at the Hotel Bel Air, and he’s going to take her there for drinks tonight, pop the question with a Tiffany’s one-and-a-quarter-carat diamond solitaire, set in platinum, then retire for the evening in the room to celebrate. Isn’t that romantic?”

  “Wow,” I say, stunned.