Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “Michelle,” a young mom holding a six month old asks from the kitchen doorway, “We think we’re interested. How do we go about making an offer?”

  I point to her and answer, “Your agent will write it up. Give me one second.”

  I gently take Nick by the arm and lead him toward the front of the house and away from the kitchen. “I was hoping they’d put in an offer. Can I handle them and call you tonight? What’s your new cell?”

  “Same as before. Hey, I know it’s last minute, but is there any chance you’re free for dinner? I would love to catch up, and I feel like if I could quickly show you what I want and what I like, we could hit the ground running. I want to buy something and get settled as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, um, sure. Hey, how about that French place on Vermont? Great food, very relaxed, and it’ll allow me to swoon while you and the hot waiter speak to each other in French.”

  He laughs. “Perfect. It’s a date. Pick you up at 7:00?”

  I tense up at the word “date." Say what now?

  Then I realize I’m being silly. This is Nick. Obviously, it’s not a date. Duh. “Actually, I plan to work until dinner, so can I meet you there?”

  He gives me a huge smile. “Absolutely. And thank you for squeezing me in.”

  I smile back. “Great. And… um… I just want you to know… I have news of my own. Steve recently moved out and… um… well, I just wanted you to know that.”

  He nods slowly and tells me sympathetically, “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. Kent told me. Teenage boys may not tell their Moms anything, but teenage girls tell everyone everything all the time.”

  I laugh. “Okay then, 7:00. It’s a date.”

  Twenty-seven

  Alexis

  Sunday morning, and the weather is glorious. Not a cloud in the sky, allowing us a perfect view of the sparkling Pacific Ocean from our seats on the patio of Geoffrey’s.

  I have introduced Kris and John to Claudia, one of the stars of Diamond Girls. I want to be Claudia when I grow up. She’s in her seventies (at least), but she’s had a lot of subtle work done that makes her look younger than me. A self-made woman, she started out as a jewelry designer in the 1960s, and her designs were frequently featured in Vogue and other high fashion magazines. Then, in 1968, Marlo Thomas wore one of Claudia’s pieces on her show That Girl the same year Jackie O was seen wearing her stuff, and her reputation exploded. She opened her jewelry store in 1969 and became all the rage in New York, bringing her to the attention of Ari, her husband of almost fifty years. They combined her designs with his family’s stake in gem mines around the world to open a chain of one of the most recognizable jewelry stores on the planet.

  Claudia has pretty much dominated the conversation since we got here, but that’s okay. I have spent the last hour sipping mimosas, eating a Scotch Benedict, and watching Kris hysterically laugh at Claudia’s jokes and listen intently to her stories. John has been more sedate, but seems charmed. I watch him take a sip of his Bloody Mary as Claudia finishes her latest story, “And so I said to him, ‘Mr. President, if you were wearing one of my designs you might have gotten laid that night.’”

  I watch Kris cover her mouth. “You didn’t.”

  “Of course I did. Can you imagine getting a picture of the First Lady wearing one of my necklaces? You can’t buy that kind of publicity. Princess Diana wore one of my rings once, it sold out in less than a day. And that was before the internet.” She points to John’s crab cake Benedict. “So what do you think? Was I right?”

  John smiles. “It’s delicious. You were right.”

  “I love to hear I was right,” Claudia tells him. “So speaking of delicious, who are you dating?”

  I choke a little on my mimosa.

  Before John can answer her, Kris chimes in. “Oh, Dad doesn’t date," she tells her, with a hint of patronization in her voice. “He thinks we can’t handle it.”

  “That’s not true,” John says, suddenly seeming defensive. He smiles at Claudia. “I just haven’t found the right woman yet.”

  “And what would the right woman look like?” Claudia asks, then points to me. “Does she look like her?”

  Kill me now…

  “God, I wish he’d date Alex," Kris says. “She is awesome.”

  “She also just got out of a long-term relationship,” John points out.

  “Oh please,” Claudia says, making a face. “Connor was a long-term fuck, not a relationship. And not even a good one. By the end, she couldn’t even get there.”

  “Wow!" I sputter. “Okay, next topic.”

  Claudia puts her hand lightly over mine. “I’m sorry sweetie. Did I embarrass you?”

  “Of course you did. Now, can we talk about something less depressing? Say, the Middle East? Climate change?”

  “Are you okay with dating a successful woman, or are you one of those, ‘I need to be the provider’ mouth breathers?” Claudia asks John.

  “No judgment there," I say sarcastically to Claudia.

  “Don’t be silly. All of us judge all the time. I just say it out loud. John, back me up here: most men are intimidated by successful women. They don’t really want us making more than they do.”

  “Yes, by all means. Speak for every man on the planet," I joke to him.

  “Well, the straight ones,” Claudia clarifies.

  “Yes, speak for all the straight ones," I continue to joke.

  John appears put on the spot, but decides to answer anyway. “All men are different: some will have a problem with their girlfriends making more money or being more successful, but not for the reason you think. I think most guys are just trying to figure out: Where do I belong? Where’s my chair?”

  “Where’s your chair?” I ask, confused.

  “Like at the dinner table, which one’s my chair? How do I fit in? If I don’t have the money to take a woman out to the dinners she’s used to, if I can’t afford to buy her that purse she likes to carry, if I can’t take her to Bora Bora, what value do I have to her? Where do I fit in?”

  “You fit in by making her feel treasured and accepted," Kris answers. “We fit in by allowing people to be themselves. Even if they carry a two-thousand dollar purse. ” She shrugs. “At least that’s what my Dad taught me.”

  “Your dad seems like a smart man,” John jokes.

  Kris looks at Claudia. “Dad used to be a lawyer. He gave that up to raise us, so now he’s broke. And he’s all weird about it.”

  “I’m not weird about it,” John counters in irritation.

  “That’s why you never invite women over. You don’t want them to see…”

  “Can we please change this conversation?” John interrupts. He looks at me and jokes, “So that Middle East thing… think we can get it solved by Hanukkah?’”

  “Consider the subject changed,” Claudia says, then signals to our waitress, “Another round please.” As the waitress smiles and heads towards the bar to get us more drinks, Claudia turns her attention to Kris. “So, you’re a junior. I assume you’ll be PAing for us this summer?”

  Kris looks over at me awkwardly. “I don’t know. Right now I’m just Alex’s dog walker.”

  I smile and assure Claudia, “Yes, she absolutely is.”

  Kris’s jaw drops. “Wait, really?”

  “Well, if it’s okay with your Dad," I say, looking at John.

  I see this little smile creep onto his face, and it’s so cute. “I think we can make that happen.”

  Yay! I did good!

  “Perfect,” Claudia says. “You’ll get in a little experience, glam up the college applications, differentiate yourself from the other applicants. So where are you applying?”

  Kris’s eyes widen for less than a second. Rather than talk about how she doesn’t want to go, she answers, “Um… I’m not sure. USC, UC Santa Barbara, maybe Pepperdine.”

  “Well, what do you want to major in?’

  “Theater production.”


  “Goodness child, don’t limit yourself to Los Angeles.” Claudia looks to John. “Dad, can I make some suggestions?”

  John smiles. “Be my guest. I have nothing to do with where she chooses to go to college.”

  “USC is good. So is NYU, University of Toronto, Reed, Boston U, University of Chicago, I’d throw London into the mix, Carnegie-Mellon…”

  “Oh, we could never afford Carnegie Mellon," Kris interjects.

  “Don’t be silly. You get scholarships. What are your SAT scores?”

  “I don’t take them until later this year. But on the practice test I got a 1470.”

  “Whoa…” I exclaim, almost doing a spit take into of my mimosa. “Damn, we’re going to be working for you in a few years.”

  Kris looks almost sheepish, and looks down the tablecloth. “My sisters got a 1550 and a 1560," she mutters.

  “And my sister got knocked up at nineteen,” Claudia says. “Comparisons are odious. With your scores, you can totally qualify for one of our Diamond Girl scholarships. That’s twenty five thousand dollars right there.”

  I was about to bring my glass to my lips, but stop in mid-air as Kris turns to me excitedly. “You guys do scholarships?”

  Before I can answer, Claudia chimes in, “Well, it’s more of a work/study thing. We have smaller scholarships for women in the arts, but the big ones go to employees of the company.”

  John eyes me suspiciously.

  “How do I apply?” Kris asks.

  Claudia turns to me. “I’m not sure. How does she apply?”

  I only spend a moment glaring at Claudia, but that one moment is all John needs to realize we are making this up as we go along. “Ashley will know," I tell Kris. “The important thing right now is that you do well in school and the SATs, and apply to some great places.”

  Claudia and Kris continued to become BFFs through the rest of brunch, and even exchanged phone numbers. But I felt like John shut down the minute we talked about scholarships. He barely said two words the rest of brunch, and not because he was amused watching the women dominate the conversation (like earlier), but because he looked angry.

  No one noticed that look of anger but me. It’s the look I get from my employees when they’re pissed, but they don’t want to rock the boat and lose their job, so they just say nothing and seethe.

  I’m not thrilled with that look from the Assistant Director I’ve told not to call lunch until we get that last shot. I’m irritated with that look from the editor who clearly chose the wrong take, but doesn’t want to redo it because it will take up his precious time. I am incensed by that look from the Production Assistant I require to stay until eight o’clock because the network execs are coming to see dailies.

  But the look kills me from a guy I desperately want to impress. I was just trying to help.

  At the valet on our way out, Claudia’s driver magically appears in a Rolls Royce. We all give each other warm hugs, say we have to do this again soon, and promise to keep in touch. But once it’s just the three of us, John’s body is so tense you’d think he was walking down a dark alley at two a.m.

  As the valet pulls up with his truck, I try to bring us back to how we were before the scholarship lie. “Thank you for everything," I say with forced cheer as I give him a tight hug. “Thank you as well,” he returns coldly, barely hugging me back. “The place is beautiful.” And he gets into the passenger’s side of his truck.

  Kris can’t stop hugging me before taking the keys from the valet and hopping into the truck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’ve already emailed Ashley to ask about the scholarship requirements.”

  A few minutes after they leave, while I wait for my Uber to show up, I text John.

  Did I do something wrong?

  It takes over an hour to get a response.

  No. Thanks again for brunch.

  Around dinnertime, I text again.

  Toilets working great. When can you come over for another Mourvedre?

  An hour later he write back…

  Probably not a good idea.

  I did do something wrong.

  Five minutes later…

  Look, I don’t want to be like Connor and disappear on you, but I really don’t want to talk right now. I hope this doesn’t affect you hiring Kris.

  Shit. I really did something wrong. I write back immediately.

  Of course not. Can I call you later this week?

  Let me call you.

  Are you still walking my dog?

  I made a commitment. If you won’t be there, I am happy to walk Tunny.

  If I won’t be there?

  Well, I don’t really need a guy to girl translation for that text, do I?

  Twenty-eight

  Zoe

  That afternoon, David is at his girlfriend’s house doing homework, Carlos and Sofia are at a Dodgers game, and for the past twenty minutes, I have been lounging on my couch in my yoga pants, eating a bag of cookies, sipping coffee, and happily texting with Tom.

  I’m having so much fun. It’s like a great first date, only without the worrying about where anything will lead, or all of the head games that come from the possibility of sex.

  Favorite Star Wars Character?

  General Leia. And not because she ends up with your favorite character. (Yes, I remember it’s Han.) Favorite Angel?

  Kelly. Yours was Sabrina. Wonder Woman or Bionic Woman?

  Hmmm… toss up. If pressed, I would say Bionic Woman, because I would at least have a shot at a super power.

  But only if you nearly die in a parachuting accident.

  Yeah, but if I’m like Jamie, I won’t remember it. Plus she got to forget about her ex-boyfriends. Win-win.

  He doesn’t write back for a few minutes, and I realize I may have offended him with my ex comment. Finally, I see dots showing he’s writing back. I brace myself to see…

  Sorry. Had to make myself an espresso. So you’d want to forget about Steve Austin?

  Crisis averted. Whew!

  Good point. Moving on. Happy Days: Fonz, right?

  Indeed. I can’t believe you chose Chachi.

  My first teen heartthrob. What can I say? In my head, we never discussed politics. Cheryl Tiegs or Christie Brinkley?

  Paulina Porizkova. She’s a writer now, you know.

  Well, when you don’t have looks, you have to find something. Favorite toy as a kid?

  Mego Batman action figure. You?

  Any board game: Clue, Monopoly, Sorry! Although I also had a stuffed purple cat I was quite fond of. I named him Grape. Favorite 70s show as a grownup?

  M*A*S*H. Favorite sexual memory of me?

  Whoa! You slipped that one in.

  That’s what you said.

  Seriously, is this appropriate?

  I don’t know. But it’s just a memory. I’m not going to crawl through the phone and start groping you.

  I stare at his text.

  Damn it. I want to answer. I remember it like it was yesterday. But if I answer, is that crossing a line? I mean… it’s only typing, right? I’m not actually having a first kiss, or sleeping with anyone.

  Still… I decide to deflect in a “boing!” worthy of Tom.

  You first. Favorite sexual memory of me?

  I have a lot of them.

  Really? More than twenty odd years later? That’s flattering. Pick a favorite.

  Okay. Do you remember when we were on your floor? We had just finished round one, and I was rubbing your belly…”

  And he writes some very sexy memories that I will delete once this conversation is over. But the memory makes me feel treasured. Young. And I haven’t felt that way in a long time.

  Okay, your turn. Favorite sexual memory of me?

  It’s hard to explain.

  Try.

  I close my eyes and I can feel the smile creep onto my face, happily thinking back to all those years ago. I can feel my face blush as I type…

  You had a way of looking at me like I
was the only woman in the world.

  If I could see you now, I’d still look at you like you were the only woman in the world.

  I smile. What a sweet thing to say. I take awhile to type back.

  Thank you. That meant the world to me. But I think we better backtrack a bit.

  Wait. Can we just stay on this subject for one more minute? I have a confession.

  I stare at the text, and my mind zings… Is he still in love with me? Did he make a mistake all those years ago? I type…

  Okay.

  Nothing on his end for awhile. Maybe he decided we were getting too close to the sun. Probably for the best anyway because...

  I don’t have sex with my wife anymore.

  Jesus, that’s irritating.

  What?

  Middle aged husbands who claim not to have sex with their wives anymore. Sorry it’s not every night and every morning the way it used to be. But, my God, at some point we have to go to work. And that’s before kids show up and mortgages and aging parents and all of that crap.

  No. My wife has health issues. It’s nothing life threatening, but it’s too painful for her. So we don’t. At all. That’s not an exaggeration.

  I suppose. But there are other things you can do.

  Yeah, but we don’t.

  Is that why you’re talking to me?

  No. I’m talking to you because I miss you. Because I feel, and have always felt, like I’ve known you for a thousand years. Because you might have been my best friend if I hadn’t messed it up by kissing you all those years ago.