A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  “Do you think she’ll ask me to be the maid of honor?” Dawn asks.

  “If she loves me, she will,” I retort.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you been paying any attention to the hell I’ve been going through being my sister’s maid of honor?”

  “That’s different. Your sister’s nuts.”

  “Oh, yeah. And Kate’s the pillar of sanity,” I say sarcastically.

  Drew appears, seemingly out of nowhere, with a good-looking man by his side. “Charlie, Dawn, I’d like you to meet Doug Adler. Doug is a manager over at Grovner, Caraway and Reese.”

  Doug’s good-looking, but not in a “works too hard at it” kind of way. He’s about six-foot-two, with wavy dark hair and green eyes. And he has good taste in suits, wearing a navy blue wool Brooks Brothers.

  “Nice to meet you,” we girls say.

  “Charlie is my assistant—a real girl Friday. And Dawn…,” Drew nearly swoons, starstruck. “What can I say about Dawn? Other than her drink is empty. Will you two excuse us?”

  He pulls Dawn away from me for the second time in less than five minutes, and I now have time to get better acquainted with Bachelor #2.

  “So, have you known Drew very long?” Doug asks.

  “About three years. You?”

  “We met recently. I’m trying to convince him to become a client.” Jeeves the butler silently hands him a gold martini, which he takes. “So, Drew tells me you live in Silverlake. Do you like it there?”

  I hate small talk. Over the next ten minutes, I had to abridge my life down to I’m the oldest of three, never been married, no kids, and never been to Australia (the answer to a loaded question designed for him to go on and on about camping in the outback. Yawn.)

  The entire time I was keenly aware that Jordan hadn’t come back for his drink (though he did wave to me a few times while he walked around the room, taking everyone’s picture).

  “And what do you like to do for fun?” Doug asks.

  I’ve had enough of this. Time to take the mask off. “Well, I like to wallow in self-pity while watching old Mary Tyler Moore reruns and eating Krispy Kremes hand over fist,” I say, then gulp the last of my martini. “You?”

  Doug smiles, genuinely amused. “Well, on Valentine’s Day I like to wear all black, chain-smoke cigarettes, and watch Casablanca backwards.”

  Cute and funny.

  But I still couldn’t help mentally keeping track of where Jordan was at all times.

  Once all the guests had arrived, Jeeves announced that we were to adjourn to the dining room.

  Drew had redone his entire dining room—and not just for the People magazine shoot. The walls were now painted a dramatic red (Dawn’s favorite color), and the whole room looked magical in gold and red.

  The lights were dimmed to highlight the red and gold candles on and around the table. All different kinds of candles surrounded us: ruby red, square candles, gold pillar candles of assorted heights, votive candles in deep red cut crystal.

  Drew’s mahogany table was draped in a dark red silk tablecloth, which matched his new gold and red formal china, and gold flatware. Dark red roses floated in crystal centerpiece bowls, along with floating red and gold candles. Low square red and gold candles surrounded the bowls, flooding us with candlelight. Everything was low enough on the table that you could actually see all the guests while seated. (I hate it when the hostess has a gorgeous flower centerpiece so high I spend most of the meal craning my neck to look around it at the person seated across from me.)

  Dinner was set for twelve. As we walked in and saw our place cards written in gold calligraphy, I was thrilled to discover that Drew had seated me at one head of the table, with Jordan to my right and Doug to my left. Drew sat at the other head of the table, with Dawn on his left and one of the married women on his right.

  We began our meal with a cheese course. Along with Drew’s triple crème Brie, they served a Saint André, which is another triple crème cheese that we learned came from the Rovergue zone of south-central France, a Reblochon, a Morbier, Parmigiano-Reggano, and a Gorgonzola, along with an assortment of olives, breads, figs, and cornichons (which are little pickles).

  The caterers served the cheese course with a Domaine Ott Rosé from France. Contrary to what I thought of when I thought of rosé—which would be pink wine in a box on a kitchen counter somewhere—this wine was slightly sweet, and absolutely decadent.

  Next came the salad course, Drew’s favorite type of salad, called a “Flower of Endive.” Basically, it’s a circle of endive leaves standing up like a tulip, and tied together with an edible ribbon of a blanched leek. When the host announces it’s time to let the flower “bloom,” everyone unties their leek, and the endive leaves “blossom” into a salad of watercress, baby frisée lettuce, blue cheese, and pine nuts with a Dijon mustard dressing. The chef paired it with a Napa Valley chardonnay, which was also delicious.

  During the first few courses, I had little time to see or speak with Jordan—he was too busy running around the table taking pictures. But I did have a chance to get to know Doug better, and I liked what I saw.

  “So what made you become a manager?” I ask. I sneak a glimpse of Drew putting his arm around Dawn’s shoulder as Jordan takes a picture of them.

  “Oh, I was a wimp,” Doug says humbly. “I wanted to be a screenwriter, but I was terrible. Then I dabbled in acting, but I hated the auditions. So now I just send my clients to the auditions, and take ten percent.”

  “You were a screenwriter?” I say, knowing that’s usually good for five minutes of small talk. “So what kind of stuff do you write?”

  “Bad romantic comedies. But I don’t want to talk about that. Everyone in town has a half-written screenplay. My fourteen-year-old neighbor has a half-written screenplay. Let’s talk about books. What’s your favorite book?”

  He’s buzzed—so maybe he’s genuinely asking me that. But it sure sounds like a stupid first date question to me. “Hmm,” I stall, “I guess it would have to be anything not written by Kafka.”

  “Could you be more specific?” he says, finishing his glass of chardonnay, then filling his and my glasses back up.

  “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court,” I finally decide.

  “Why?” he asks, tilting his head, and looking genuinely interested.

  “Because it made me laugh when I was twelve, and it made me cry when I was twenty. And that’s a great book.”

  Jordan flashes his camera, catching me leaning in seductively toward Doug. Damn, didn’t see him watching. I immediately turn to him. “Jordan, come sit with us. You’ve barely touched your wine or your salad.”

  “That’s because I’m working,” Jordan says, smiling at me pleasantly.

  Doug smiles to Jordan. “When a beautiful woman asks you to join her, you should oblige.”

  Jordan gives Doug a weird look, like he’s not sure if he’s being challenged or not. Finally, he shrugs. “Okay,” he says cheerfully. He sits down, puts down his camera, and picks up his glass. “Here’s to beautiful women.”

  Doug raises his glass, and so do I.

  “No, dear,” Doug says, gently taking my hand and putting it down. “You don’t toast yourself.”

  I smile awkwardly, happy to receive the compliment, but not sure how to take it in front of Jordan.

  “So what were we talking about?” Jordan asks.

  “Favorite books,” Doug says. “Do you have one?”

  “One? Kind of hard to narrow it down to one. But I guess it would have to be Auntie Mame.”

  “Isn’t that a movie?” Doug asks, slightly derisively.

  “It is,” Jordan says with a smile, either not noticing the veiled insult, or choosing to ignore it. “It’s based on the book by Patrick Dennis.”

  The caterers begin clearing our salad plates. “Hmmm…,” Doug says with a patronizing tone. “Personally, I prefer the classics: A Tale of Two Cities, or Plato’s Republic.”

>   “That’s more of a play, don’t you think?” Jordan asks innocently.

  “It’s philosophy,” Doug counters.

  “It’s a dialogue written by Plato using Socrates and himself as the two main characters. That’s a play, not a book. And if we’re going to choose a favorite philosophy thinly disguised as a play, I’d have to go with Sartre’s No Exit.”

  Jordan turns to me. “Do you know the play?”

  “Sure. That’s the one where three people spend eternity with each other in the same room. Forever. Right?” I say, looking over to Doug to make sure he doesn’t think I’m taking sides.

  Jordan’s face lights up. “Yes! And because they’re in hell, they’re totally mismatched to be in a room together.” He takes a sip of wine and looks right at Doug. “Happens all the time.”

  I’m not quite sure how I got in the middle of this, but it is making me uncomfortable.

  “So, Charlie, if you were in hell, who would you be stuck in eternity with?” Jordan asks.

  Right now, my answer would be him and Doug. But instead I say, “My mother and her mother.”

  “You don’t like your grandmother?” Jordan asks, surprised.

  “No, I don’t like my mother when she’s around my grandmother. It’s not pretty.”

  “Mine would be Adolf Hitler and Saddam Hussein,” Doug chimes in.

  Before Jordan can nail Doug with a response, and let’s face it, Doug threw one right down the middle for him, Drew suddenly appears, putting his arms around Jordan and me, smiling like the gracious host that he is. “Now I don’t believe I’m hearing Socrates and Sartre being discussed on this side of the table. Clearly, none of you have had enough wine.”

  As he cheerfully refills Jordan’s glass, he says, “Now on our side of the table, we’re talking about sex toys and the chicken dance. I’m pro.”

  Both men laugh, and the situation is defused. Drew pats Jordan on the shoulder a few times. “You’ve taken some great shots. Now remember, you’re also my guest here. Have some wine and relax.”

  He walks back to Dawn, who waves to me. I wave back.

  For the next hour, things go swimmingly. The three of us were soon onto a new topic: Sports. I had no idea who they were talking about (something about field goals being out of bounds, but only in Sacramento?), but I did appreciate Jordan smiling and nodding his head in appreciation while he listened to Doug’s theories about…I’m pretty sure it was basketball. Or maybe they switched to football at one point. Does New York have a Knicks and a Giants?

  The main course was the best coq au vin I’ve ever eaten, served with French bread, and a Beaulieu Vineyards George De Latour private reserve cabernet. I have to say, kudos to Colin Cowie’s people for taking all of Drew’s seemingly unmatching ideas and serving the best meal I’d had in I don’t know how long. By the time we were finished with the chicken, I was pleasantly stuffed, a little buzzed, and feeling hopeful for my dating future—be it with Bachelor #2 or Bachelor #3.

  It was then that my promising evening came screeching to a halt.

  Jeeves and the caterers came out carrying silver trays of Baccarat flutes, and magnums of Dom Pérignon. So far, so good.

  But after the drinks are poured, Drew stands up and taps his glass with his dessert fork. “Ladies and gentlemen: although the purpose of this evening was to bring together some of my favorite people so they could meet, we also have a wonderful reason to celebrate.”

  He walks over to me with his glass and raises it. “My assistant Charlie…and, oh hell, why not just say it? One of my closest friends…”

  Since when? I think.

  “…is celebrating a milestone this weekend. She’s turning thirty.”

  I can see the headlines now: “Crazed Assistant Stabs Movie Star Twelve Times with Butter Knife Before Taking Her Own Life with Dessert Fork.”

  “And gentleman, believe it or not, she’s still available.” Drew takes a quick conspiratorial look around the room to the single men while the rest of the guests laugh, and I force a smile, cringing inside.

  “So let’s raise our glasses to the most beautiful woman I know”—he pounds his fist onto his chest twice—“on the inside. To Charlie!”

  Everyone raises their glasses. “To Charlie!”

  And out of the kitchen comes…a wedding cake.

  Is it technically a wedding cake? Maybe not. But it has three layers, the bottom layer a large square, shaped like a white-and-silver-striped package, the middle layer a bit smaller, square shaped, with red frosting polka dots on a silver rolled fondant, and the top tier looks like a square-shaped gold package, complete with a big bow of gold frosting.

  “You like it?” Drew asks, beaming with pride, then whispers to me, “I got it from the same baker who’s doing your sister’s wedding.”

  “It’s very…memorable,” I say, horrified.

  He smiles as he continues to whisper. “See, this way the guests subconsciously associate you with weddings.”

  “That’s very sly,” I say, wishing the earth would swallow me up whole.

  “And the piece de resistance,” Drew says aloud to his guests as the caterer starts putting birthday candles all over the monstrous creation. “Thirty-one candles! Thirty, plus one for good luck.”

  People should quit putting an extra candle on a woman’s birthday cake when she turns ten.

  As Drew begins lighting the sea of candles, I quickly scan the room for a fire extinguisher.

  Everyone begins singing “Happy Birthday,” and I want to run from the dining room screaming, but I’m afraid that might draw attention to myself.

  Jordan starts taking pictures, knowing in his heart how much I will want to remember this moment for eternity.

  After everyone finishes singing, Drew says brightly, “Okay, make a wish.”

  This is always tricky. On the one hand, what girl doesn’t secretly want to wish to find her dream man in the next year? On the other hand, if I thought it would work, what I would really wish for right now is to be on my couch, alone, eating a pint of Häagen-Dazs and watching old Sex and the City reruns.

  I opt for the first wish anyway, reasoning that I have a shot at finding my dream man this year, but no chance in hell of being teleported to my couch right now. I inhale a deep breath, and blow out all the candles.

  Everyone applauds.

  “Jordan,” Drew says, handing him a cake knife, “Would you like to help Charlie cut the cake?”

  Oh, Jesus.

  Jordan looks up from his camera and asks, “Shouldn’t I be taking pictures of this?”

  “I’ll help Charlie!” Doug says, jumping out of his seat.

  Doug stands behind me, puts his right hand over mine, and we cut the bottom layer of the cake, as Jordan takes our picture.

  Groan.

  Thank God it’s chocolate. A fine dark chocolate cake with chocolate mousse filling. We cut the first piece, and send it down the table to Dawn.

  “The middle layer is white cake, with a cream cheese filling,” Drew says as the caterer whisks the cake away (thankfully making it disappear into the kitchen so that it can be cut and served properly). “Who wants what?” Drew asks.

  I end up eating a slice of each. Hey—I’ve had quite the evening, and no cigarettes. (Because God forbid whoever is interested in me find out that I smoke.) I deserve a treat.

  Dessert goes by relatively quickly, and soon people are collecting their coats and purses from Jeeves, and saying their good-byes.

  I take that as my excuse to bail.

  I grab my purse and coat, and prepare to say good-bye.

  But before I can, Drew comes over to me, waving his hands and shaking his head. “No, no, no. Wait,” he says, “The night’s young. Where are you going so soon?”

  “It’s getting late,” I remind him, “and we both have an early day tomorrow.”

  “Can’t you stay for one more drink?”

  “I don’t think I should. I’ve had a lot to drink tonight.”


  I am interrupted by the caterer, who hands me a white cake box. I look down at it, confused, then look up at the caterer questioningly.

  “It’s the top of your wedding cake, ma’am,” he says, smiling.

  “Birthday cake,” I correct him, maybe a little too vociferously.

  “Maybe you can put it in the freezer for a year, and take it out on your thirtieth birthday’s first anniversary,” a voice behind me jokes.

  I turn around, and there’s Jordan, laughing. I can tell he’s not making fun of me, he’s making fun of the cake, and I start laughing, too. Really laughing. It’s the first time tonight I’ve felt relaxed enough to truly laugh.

  “I’ve never understood that ‘freezing the top of your wedding cake’ tradition. First of all, who wants to eat year-old cake?” I say, still smiling from his joke.

  Jordan laughs. “That. And I know myself well enough to know that if the cake’s any good, it won’t make it through the first night anyway. I’d be eating it in the limo on the way to the honeymoon suite.” He turns to Drew. “Thanks so much for the job. I think you’ll be very happy with the pictures.”

  “I’m sure I will be,” Drew says. “Should I write you a check now?”

  “No. Let’s wait until Monday, when I can show you what I’ve got.” Jordan turns back to me. “And now, fair lady, I bid you a humble adieu.” He bows, and kisses my hand lightly. It’s so cute!

  “Would you like to stay for one more drink?” Drew asks him. “I have a fifty-year-old scotch that’s supposed to be excellent.”

  Jordan smiles. “Tempting. Maybe another time. I want to get into my darkroom and get to work.”

  He shakes Drew’s hand, and I watch him leave, wishing he would have stayed. Wishing I was some other person—someone enticing enough to make him want to stay. Someone prettier, thinner, smarter, someone who didn’t smoke….

  Smoke! Damn! Now I want a cigarette.

  Dawn walks up to us, carrying her wrap and her purse. “Thank you for the lovely evening,” she says to Drew, and kisses him lightly on the cheek. “We should do this again sometime.”

  “Okay!” he says, excitedly. “How about tomorrow night?”