Ginny Blue's Boyfriends Page 3

  I didn’t waste time. “We’re shooting a Waterstone Iced Tea commercial at Venice beach at the end of the month. I’ve heard nothing but raves about your hors d’oeuvres and sandwiches. I just need to know the total price for lunches for a three-day shoot.”

  He stroked his moustache. Did I mention that he had this kind of Fu Manchu thing going? Not quite the real thing, but close enough to send my mind wandering down red-lit hallways decorated with Chinese lanterns. I really try not to mind facial hair but it is such a turnoff. I can dislike a man on sight if he’s bearded. I hate to admit it. I truly do. But it’s one of those things I just can’t seem to get past. Don the Devout had a close-cropped beard, and I kind of associate facial hair with head-bowing over the dinner table amidst murmurs of Jesus and God and all that is holy. Don’s favorite meal was lamb and tiny roasted potatoes with mint jelly and I can’t face a menu with that combination listed without getting all reverent and nostalgic. (Actually, that’s a lie. Don’s devotion to his religion has left me a bit of an atheist, I’m afraid. Except that I believe in God. Sort of. Don certainly does. Many’s the time I remember him screaming, “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, oh, my GAWD ...” which was my cue that orgasm was imminent. Kind of like playing the Star Spangled Banner and then hearing, “Play ball!” I still meld the two events upon occasion.)

  “What are the exact dates?” Liam Engleston said stiffly.

  I pulled out my organizer. A Kate Spade rendition. I’ve thought about Palm Pilots or Visors, but hey, one step at a time. E-mail is great, buying airline tickets online even better. The cell phone’s a wonder, but I tread lightly into the full-blown electronic age. I do love my iMac.

  I gave Liam the information and he rubbed his mustache a few more times. I pasted a polite, “I don’t have anywhere to go right now, you just take your time, honey, don’t mind me one little bit” look on my face and tried to imagine him without the scraggly hair around his mouth. Better. Not good enough though. He still possessed the weird lips and overall nebbishness and priggery. He’d sure as hell better be able to whip up something good in the kitchen. And it better not be traditional English food, I concluded with a slight shudder, contemplating boiled cabbage and potatoes. My California work crew would revolt. But, then, they were the ones who’d recommended this guy in the first place, so who was I to argue?

  “What is your job, exactly?” he asked.

  “Mine? I’m the production manager.”

  He waited.

  “My job is getting everything lined up and ready to go,” I added patiently.

  “Do you have—a superior?”

  I stared. “You mean a superior attitude?” I said it with a smile, though, because I wasn’t sure whether to completely piss him off yet.

  He stiffened. “Do you have the authority to make the final decision, Ms. Bluebell?”

  I said evenly, “We’re asking you if you would like to cater the shoot. If it doesn’t work into your plans, or if you don’t think you can meet the budget, I won’t waste any more of your time. I’ve been given a list of names. Yours was at the top.”

  He was mollified by my little flattery. The faintest of smiles touched those snarly lips. He reached up for another petting of the mustache and then muttered something about getting in touch. I gave him my card, half-inclined to tell him where he could stuff his British bangers. I left without knowing whether he intended to do the job, but I doubted it would matter. I could just tell we were going to get stuck on the price. I decided to call my own favorite caterer—Jill—and tell the crew I’d done my best with Liam. Let ’em howl and complain and blame me for not having Liam. My job isn’t about being popular; it’s about being underbudget.

  I couldn’t quite get Liam Engleston out of my thoughts on my way back to Santa Monica. He seemed like a jerk-off to me, but at least he had a business going, which is saying a lot in a town where out-of-work actors are thick on the ground. Of course there are thousands of men with decent jobs in a city the size of Los Angeles—Nate being one of them—but when I’m on the dating scene I don’t seem to meet anyone with serious career aspirations. Not that a healthy bank balance is the absolute top of my criteria list for dating, but I sure as hell get tired of always paying at the end of the meal.

  The thought made me wonder if I was being too hasty in throwing away a relationship that was working—or had been working—at several levels.

  I sighed and asked aloud, “What’s the answer?” as I drove into my underground parking space in my condo complex. The gate moved slowly backward. There’s a schematic, black-and-white depiction of a person getting crushed by the gate with the words: Beware of Gate! underlined dramatically. This warning makes it sound as if the gate is hunched down, lying in wait, ready to sever your spine. Schematic Man has sharp lines jutting from all sides meant to indicate pain. His body is bent in half. I’m sure he’s in terrible, twisting agony. But as slow as the lumbering gate moves, you’d have to be in a coma to actually get squished.

  I let myself inside and tossed my keys on the hall table, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror directly above. My dishwater blond-to-brown hair was tousled in a ragged way that was almost sexy. Or, it could be considered unkempt, depending on how you looked at it. It hung to just below my chin. My eyes are gray; my nose is straight and just a tad longer than I would like. I wish I were two inches shorter.

  I thought of Carmen Watkins. Leaning forward, I examined the crow’s feet around my eyes. Practically nonexistent unless I smiled, but then they radiated out like bicycle spokes. Maybe I should give up smiling. Carmen had, by all appearances. I took out a pen and dangled it from my lips and tried to adopt her look. Then I thought of all the hands that had touched that pen and I yanked it from my mouth. I’m not normally so Jerry Seinfeldish about these kind of things, but I didn’t like the image in the mirror anyway. Smiling was still in. Crow’s feet were just a side effect I was going to have to cope with.

  I cocked my head and listened. No one home. Nate and I currently have a part-time roommate, Kristl, who’s staying in the spare bedroom. She’s a friend from Oregon and when she’s in town she stays with me. She had arrived three weeks ago and I was initially thrilled at the diversion, but honestly I hadn’t seen a lot of her. I was just glad to catch her between marriages. Three, so far, and she’s only thirty-two. She graduated in finance, I believe, but as yet she’s never fashioned a career out of it. Currently she’s working as a bartender at a place on Sunset Strip. Can’t remember the name of it either. I’ve only been there once. It’s not Skybar, where all the staff wears white, and it’s not the Viper Room, where River Phoenix OD’d on the street outside. It’s got some funky, kooky name, I think. I don’t believe there’s a sign outside, which is the LA way.

  My cell phone chirped. Jill again. She said, “We’re meeting at the Standard for drinks around six.”

  “Okay.” No need to check my calendar. I was determinedly free. Mentally reminding myself to leave Nate a note, I said, “I’ll try to catch Kristl on her cell, too.”

  “Good.” She hung up.

  When Jill said “we,” she meant herself, Daphne, CeeCee, and me. Kristl was someone they’d met and knew of, and if I wanted to bring her along, no problem, but she’s my friend and therefore one tier outside of our group. Once in a while Jill brings Ian along, the fucking asshole. Why he wants to come has always been a mystery to me, but now that a marriage proposal is on the line, maybe that mystery’s solved. When “Jill-Ian” are together, no matter how pissed they are at each other, they’re just sooooo together. With a proposal on the table, I feared things might worsen.

  Putting that aside, I changed into a short, black skirt and a sleeveless top with a plunging neckline. Not that I have a huge chest to show off; it’s just one of my better outfits. I gave another critical glance at my hair. Sometimes I doll it up with blond streaks. It was probably time for another appointment, I thought, though I shudder at the cost of a trip to the salon. Grabbing my keys, I headed f
or the door.

  My hand on the knob, I suddenly heard the metallic jingle of a key inserted in the lock. I stepped back just as Nate the Nearly Normal swung open the door and stepped across the threshold. To my surprise he was accompanied by a girl at least fifteen years younger than his thirty-five years. My first impression was that she was just out of puberty.

  “Ginny!” Nate said in surprise, though why it should surprise him to find me home didn’t make much sense. It was four o’clock. Cocktail hour, for sure.

  “Hey,” I said, gazing pointedly at his little friend.

  She smoothed her cap of jet-black hair and smiled shyly, her lashes fluttering.

  “This is ... Tara.” He closed the door gently. “She works in the office.”

  “Great.”

  We all stood there.

  Nate finally seemed to notice the way I was dressed. “Going out?”

  “I’m meeting the girls at the Standard.”

  “Were you going to leave me a note?”

  “Of course,” I lied. I’d already forgotten.

  Nate looked past me, his expression tired. “No, you weren’t,” he said. “That’s why I came home early. To pack.”

  “To pack?”

  “I’m moving in with Tara for a while. Don’t fake surprise, Ginny. I know you don’t want me here any more. I’ve already talked to the leasing agent. Surprise, surprise. My name isn’t even on the lease.”

  “I always meant to put it there.” My head was reeling.

  “I know.” His tone was short. “We both meant to do a lot of things. You were here first. You stay.”

  I couldn’t catch my breath. There was no faking involved, no matter what Nate thought.

  He peered closely at me. “This is what you want, right?”

  Well, yeah ... yeah ... I’m pretty sure ... yeah ...

  We stood there for a moment more, then Nate and Tara headed upstairs to the bedrooms. I heard drawers opening and murmured conversation as they apparently gathered his belongings. Numbness settled over me. This was too fast. I didn’t want him to leave. Not like this.

  And I was suddenly furious. I wanted to kick Nate in the balls and drag Tara around the hardwood floor by her hair.

  I did neither. Gritting my teeth I slammed out of the door.

  I headed to the Standard and my friends.

  Chapter 2

  The Standard Hotel on Sunset is the best. A large, coffin-shaped glass case sits behind the reception desk where a girl in a bathing suit or something skimpy or sexy reposes, reading a book or half-sleeping, or something. It’s the human equivalent to a terrarium. Sometimes there’s a guy inside. Tossed around the lobby are pieces of contemporary furniture of the strange-looking, brightly colored and comfortably foamy type. The rug is thick and whitish, reminiscent of Walt Disney’s The Shaggy Dog. Globe chairs of hard, clear plastic hang from thick silver chains. There are two bars. The one on the west side is generally quiet but full and opens to the pool area which, before midnight, is available for anyone to wander by. In the northeast corner is the second bar, which doubles as a coffee shop during the day and therefore has an actual door accessing it from the main lobby. Go in the morning and you can order breakfast at one of the booths, but a look toward the bar and you’ll encounter your friends Johnny Walker, Jim Beam, and Jack Daniels. I’ve never asked for a highball with my omelet, but the day may come.

  I was early, so I grabbed a place to sit by the pool and settled in to wait in the surprisingly hot, late-October evening air. Traffic had been light for rush hour, which normally puts a smile on my face, but tonight my mood was still dark. Nate’s defection hurt; there was no escaping that fact. My anger had deflated like a leaky balloon and now I felt dispirited. I could scarcely concentrate on my surroundings because of the churning in my gut.

  Spying Jill and Daphne arriving together, I tried to pull myself out of my funk as I walked to meet them. We turned as one toward the breakfast-bar—a term which has new meaning at The Standard—and seated ourselves in one of the booths. CeeCee wasn’t here yet, which was typical. CeeCee moved to her own time.

  I said, by way of greeting, “Check out the booze. If it’s got a guy’s name on it, it starts with a letter J.”

  Jill considered this as she took a seat opposite me. She wore dark, teal green—a kind of a flowing ensemble that washed out her face but made her look like a butterfly about to take flight. She’s small and dark, with liquid brown eyes and a nice, albeit way too thin, figure. No wonder she gets proposed to, although her pugnacious jaw does have a tendency to put people off from time to time, especially men. Daphne, also brunette, is tinier and rounder, more voluptuous in a long-gone Marilyn Monroe style, and she possesses the whitest teeth, white even by blue-light-zapped southern California standards, in a heart-shaped face. In personality the two of them are as unlike as they can be: Jill’s a bulldog; Daphne’s a peacemaker.

  And CeeCee never looks the same twice so you can’t even go there.

  I pointed out Jim, Johnny, and Jack.

  “And José,” Jill added, gesturing to José Cuervo tequila.

  Daphne sighed and said, “I don’t really care, as long as somebody brings me something to drink soon. I’ve had a terrible day.”

  No shit, I thought, but I kept my lips sealed tightly. Though these are my closest friends, I wasn’t ready to spill what had happened with Nate. I couldn’t quite process it yet. He left me? I was supposed to be the leaver, not the leavee.

  “What happened?” I asked Daphne.

  “No, no, no,” Jill interrupted, shaking her finger at both of us. “Me first.” She turned to Daphne. “Ian bought me a ring.”

  Daphne stared. “An engagement ring?”

  “Yep. Can you believe it? The fucking asshole!”

  Dazed, she turned to me for verification. “He bought her a ring?”

  I pointed out practically, “I don’t see it.”

  “That’s because I’m not wearing it,” Jill snapped. “I can’t wear it. Jesus, Blue. You, of all people, know how I feel.”

  “Do I?”

  “You can’t stand the idea of getting married, either,” she declared.

  “Whoa,” I said. “That’s not exactly true.”

  “Yes, it is.” She glared at me.

  Jill and I tend to argue a lot. I don’t know why. Astrologers would probably blame it on the fact that we’re both Aries, although I’ve known a lot of other Aries with whom I’ve gotten along famously. They are, in fact, my favorite Zodiac sign, with Aquarians running a close second. Not that I pay much attention to that kind of thing, unless my daily horoscope mentions falling in love with a particular sign. This gives me lots to ponder, especially when I’m chatting up some new prospect—something I was going to have to start doing sooner than expected, I thought glumly. Why, now, did Nate’s bad habits recede into the distance? I should be concentrating on them and working up a judicious anger instead of bemoaning the ending. This was what I’d wanted. It galled me that he’d apparently known it all along.

  “I can’t believe you’re engaged,” Daphne murmured to Jill.

  “Did I say I was engaged?”

  Daphne shrank into her seat, away from Jill, then lifted her brows at me.

  “Jill, why don’t you tell us how to feel about your ring?” I suggested. “Then we won’t have to get the answer wrong, which is apparently what you think we’re doing.”

  “I don’t know how I want you to feel,” she said tersely.

  “Sleep on it,” I suggested. “And get back to us.”

  CeeCee entered at that moment. Like me, her true hair color lies somewhere between blond and brown, but she’s currently cropped her hair really, really short and bleached it platinum with hot pink tips. Tonight she looked exotically trendy/punk with ripped jeans, a black tee shirt, and buff arms. She didn’t ask what was happening, just sat down and waited to catch up.

  “I’m not engaged,” Jill said after a tense moment. “Ian just bought t
he ring to annoy me.”

  “What ring?” asked CeeCee.

  “Maybe you should call his bluff,” I said, waving down a cocktail waiter who finally came to take our order. “I want a stinger.”

  The waiter, Latino and smoldering, looked at me askance. Daphne was the one who voiced, “What’s a stinger?” after he’d taken our orders and moved off.

  “Not sure. One of those cool drinks from the fifties.”

  “What happened to Ketel One vodka martinis?” Jill asked, naming my usual drink.

  “I just want something else,” I said.

  “It’s got milk and crème de menthe,” CeeCee informed me, glancing around the room.

  “The stinger?” I made a face. Crème de menthe? Milk?

  “You ordered it,” CeeCee pointed out unnecessarily.

  I held my tongue, mainly because she was right. I’m leery of those creamy drinks. I always avoid white Russians or your basic Kahlua and cream. And coupled with crème de menthe ... ? Why had I veered from my usual? What was I trying to prove? I wanted to call the waiter back but he was busy taking another order.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Jill demanded. “How do I call his bluff?”

  Daphne sighed and looked at me.

  “Say yes,” I suggested. At Jill’s look of horror, I added, “Then, what do you want?”

  We all waited. Jill opened her mouth and closed it several times. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted, which was as close to winning an argument with her as anything I’ve experienced. Daphne looked at me with awe and even CeeCee seemed impressed.

  Kristl breezed into the bar, looking distracted. Kristl’s a redhead—the dark-haired kind with an overall red hue so popular in Clairol and Nutrisse ads, but Kristl’s color is real. She’s Irish, with tiny little freckles and a mercurial temper that puts Jill’s bullishness to shame. Kristl’s too new to the scene for my friends to have seen this aspect of her personality, which is just as well. I don’t think I could take any more drama right now. Kristl also possesses one of those Barbie-doll type bodies with big boobs and a tiny waist that you’d swear couldn’t be real, but of course, it is. No wonder she’s been married three times. Jill may be adding up the proposals, but Kristl’s taking it to the mat, so to speak.