Misery Loves Cabernet (12 page)

It’s only good to be up at four in the morning if you are still up from the night before, you are not alone, and you have nowhere to go in the morning but brunch
.

My phone rings at four o’clock in the fucking morning. Actually, 3:58 in the fucking morning. I pick up groggily.

“Hello,” I mumble.

“Wakey, wakey,” I hear Drew say to me, sounding as ecstatic as a nerd at a high-school science fair.

I sit up, confused. “What on earth are you doing up?”

“I’m doing a low-budget movie!” Drew says excitedly. “Actors who do low-budget movies get up early, go running, eat a healthy breakfast, then drive themselves to work!”

It’s just too early . . .

I take ten seconds for a nice long yawn. “Drew, your call time isn’t until seven
A.M.
”

“That’s high budget, wasteful thinking,” Drew says, trying to sound like a drill sergeant (and failing miserably). “Now get over here. I need a jogging partner.”

That
wakes me up. “What? Why?”

“I can’t go out running alone at this time of the morning. I could get killed. Haven’t you ever seen
Law & Order
?”

“I don’t think the jogger ever gets killed in
Law & Order
. I think the jogger’s the one who finds the body,” I say, not bothering to suppress another yawn.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Drew assures me.

“No,” I say definitively. “Fun is going to the Neiman Marcus half-off sale. Let me call a personal trainer, and get someone out there for you.”

“I can’t afford a personal trainer,” Drew insists. “Remember? I’m on a budget. But you’re already on the take . . .”

It’s too early to tell him if I were on the take, I would tell him to go to—

“. . . and frankly, it’s time to take off the tonnage you’ve gained since you quit smoking,” Drew finishes.

Always be respectful of your boss
.

I press the red button on my phone and hang up on him.

I close my eyes, and try to go back to sleep. My phone rings again.

I pick up. “What?”

“Too much?” Drew asks sweetly. “Because all I meant to say was that you’re not getting any younger, your clock is ticking, and you can’t be a size ten in the world we inhabit, which is what you’re getting dangerously close to . . .”

I press the red button again.

Take two: Close eyes, phone rings . . .

“What?!” I hiss.

“When we get to Paris, do you really want Jordan to see you looking like you do right now?”

Two minutes later, I throw on some battleship gray sweatpants with holes in the knees, match them up with a raggedy T-shirt that I’ve had since high school, pull my unbrushed hair into a ponytail, and head to Drew’s.

Never wear clothes with holes in them
.

When I pull up to Drew’s black metal gate about half an hour later, I realize there are a few photographers lurking nearby.

Swell. They’re going to snap a bunch of pictures of him and me, and soon I’ll be on page three of the
National Enquirer
listed as the “unidentified blob with no sense of style or hygiene.”

I buzz Drew’s intercom. All I hear is “mmm-brbrm-STATIC-mmph, mph.”

“Uh . . . it’s Charlie!” I scream into the intercom.

I hear more static and mumbling, but the gate slowly swings open, and I drive in.

When I see Drew and another man standing in the driveway, I am tempted to run Drew over with my Prius.

Liam waves to me as I pull up to Drew’s garage, and park behind his soon-to-be disposed-of Koenigsegg.

“Charlie!” Liam says brightly, walking over to open my door after I park. He looks amazing. His hair isn’t brushed, but that makes him look pleasantly rumpled. And he’s wearing a black tracksuit with red stripes that look very utilitarian, but also very hot.

And I look like a troll. Damn it! Why, oh why didn’t I wear the Juicy Couture velour sweats I bought a few years ago, even though they’re already out of style? Why didn’t I at least wear a pair of cute running shorts with no holes in them? Why didn’t I brush my hair? Put on some makeup? Not eat like an elephant with PMS for the past six weeks?

“You look lovely,” Liam says, giving me a tap kiss on the lips after I get out of my car. “Did you get the flowers?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you,” I say, my voice catching from nervousness.

Why didn’t I brush my teeth?

Twice?

And, seriously, would some Listerine have killed me?

I turn to Drew, and try to force a smile on my face. “Drew,” I begin stiffly, “if you already had a running partner, why did you call me?”

“Because I didn’t remember Liam was a runner until after I called you,” he answers innocently. “Besides, I hate to bug you with details.”

Sigh.

The three of us stretch for about ten minutes, then Drew opens his gate with a remote, and we take off jogging.

As we turn the corner and head slightly downhill, I can hear photographers snap-snap-snapping away.

Perfect.

For the first few minutes, I do okay. Liam has set the pace, and we seem to be going rather slowly. A nice slow pace, our knees barely rising. This isn’t so bad—I can do this. Good thing I quit smoking.

I start to imagine my new life as a size four, and I am happy. I will shop for bikinis with Dawn, and not feel the least bit self-conscious in the dressing room. My legs will look sculpted, and will give Fergie’s legs a run for their money. I will eat healthier, get slimmer, and finally be able to try on lingerie at the mall without the image in the mirror depressing me so much, it sends me scurrying to the food court.

Wait. I think my chest is tightening. And my knees are starting to hurt.

That’s okay. No pain, no gain. If jogging were easy, everyone would do it. Think legs, think bikini . . .

I think I’m going to have a heart attack. As Drew picks up the pace, and Liam effortlessly follows him, I lag behind a step or two, and try to figure out if I can make a quick right into the bushes and hide.

No. I’m going to do this. I don’t want Liam thinking I’m so out of shape that I’m incapable of running down to the Village and back. I think to myself, “Fight or flight,” and get an adrenaline surge that allows me to run a little faster and catch up to the two of them.

“So, how is Ian to work with as a director?” Drew asks, his breathing completely normal.

“He’s a bit demanding,” Liam admits (also in a normal voice), “but the finished product is so gripping, it’s an emotional price most actors pay gladly.”

I want to seem witty and droll and make a joke about the emotional prices women pay gladly every day, but I don’t. I can barely breathe. My throat is now burning, my calves are mooing, I feel like I’m about to be called to the light and—

“Aaaahhh!” I scream as I trip on a big rock, twist my ankle, and fall sideways into the bushes.

Drew keeps running. Nice.

Liam, however, immediately runs to my side. “Good Lord, what happened?”

“I wasn’t paying attention, and I didn’t see that . . . ,” I say, pointing to the big rock in the middle of the road. I grab my ankle as I wince, “Ow, ow, ow . . .”

Truth be told, I was milking this a little. I had just accidentally run into an excuse to stop running, and I wasn’t giving up my injury without a fight.

Liam puts his hand on my ankle, and although I have thought about the moment when he would caress me a million times . . .

“Ow!” I scream. “Son of a—”

Liam startles ever so slightly at my outburst, and I catch myself before I accidentally curse him out. He touches my ankle one more time. “I think all you need is ice. But, just to be safe, we should get you back to Drew’s, and elevate the ankle.”

Drew turns around and runs back to us. “Did you get hurt?”

I stare him down for his stupid question.

“Hm,” Drew says. “Maybe I shouldn’t have had Liam come with us. I mean, he did win the silver medal in the Olympic marathon.”

“Actually, it was only the five thousand meters,” Liam says sheepishly.

Well, is that all?

It’s then that I notice the subtle little logo on the left hip of his track pants: the five multicolored circles of the Olympic games.

Liam puts my arm around his shoulder, and helps me stand up.

As I begin limping back toward Drew’s house with Liam at my side, I think about an article I read years ago explaining that when a man sweats, he secretes pheromones, which makes a woman want to bed him. And it must be true. Liam smells amazing. Not men’s cologne yummy—rolling around in a bed with him yummy.

I, on the other hand, just remembered I failed to put on deodorant before I left the house, and probably now smell like a skunk trapped in a diaper pail.

Which reminds me to write later:

Some days are a total waste of Wakeup
.

Good soap is a cheap luxury. Always splurge on it!

An hour later, my ankle is feeling better, and I am freshly scrubbed, moisturized, and slightly scented, having used several of Drew’s ridiculously overpriced soaps and lotions. I’m wearing a very cute miniskirt, oversized shirt (to cover my new girth), and slight heels to show off my new runner’s legs. (I say that with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek.) Truth be told, I
may
have thought about my outfit the night before on the
off chance
that Liam would be on set today.

Liam had an early production meeting, and said he’d meet us at the location. But not before he rubbed my foot several times to make sure it was okay, and also make me really wish I had treated myself to a supercute pedicure.

Drew dressed in five-hundred-dollar jeans and a two-hundred-dollar T-shirt, then insisted that as long as I was at his house, I might as well drive him to work, so he could save on gas.

Argh!

The drive turns out to be harrowing. Not because Drew is in the car reciting today’s lines while simultaneously criticizing my driving, but because today is the first Monday in November.

For about half the country, the first Monday in November is crucially important, and comes with a solemn duty and obligation that should be fulfilled every year if you are a good person. Am I talking about Election Day? No, that is the first Tuesday in November, provided that the first Tuesday follows a Monday, blah, blah, blah. End of civics lesson.

Although that reminds me to write in my book later:

Read about Elizabeth Cady Stanton. She was the most important woman in American history, got women the right to vote, and was still happily married with seven kids. To read her letters is to understand what every woman goes through trying to have it all
.

Anyway, in my family, the first Monday in November represents the day we all decide where we are spending Thanksgiving. It’s a time-honored tradition that usually involves negotiating, tears, and, quite frankly, vodka.

As Drew reads through his lines for the day, and I brave Los Angeles traffic, the first shot of the season rings out.

I expected my mother—longtime scheduler of all things evil. But my dashboard display shows it’s just my dad’s cell.

I pop on my earpiece, and answer, “Good morning.”

“Your bastard grandfather has invited me to Thanksgiving,” Dad says without so much as a hello.

I hate myself for having to ask this. “Which one?”

“My father. And you know I can’t stand him or his kin. Marrying that little zygote of a thing, then making his own great-grandchildren. Originally I said no. But then he pointed out that he’s not getting any younger, and this might be his last Thanksgiving. I mean, one can only hope. . . .”

“What about Mom?” I ask nervously. “I thought you were spending Thanksgiving with her this year.”

“What about your mother? Let Chris go. He’s the father of her child.”

“You’re the father of her children!” I yell, exasperated.

“Yeah, for now. But you know women. The minute they go on to the new family with the much younger Dad, they just forget all about the first husband.”

My phone beeps in. I check the caller ID. “That’s Mom,” I say. “Hold on while I get her off the phone.”

“No need,” Dad says. “Love you. Bye.”

“No, but Dad, before I talk to her I need to know where . . . Dad . . . hello?”

My father hangs up on me. Rrrr . . . . I click over to the next call. “Good morning, Mother. What are you doing up so early?”

“Just basking in the glow of my impending grandma-hood,” my mother says pleasantly. “Did you hear?”

“Yes, I did,” I say noncommittally. Truth is, I wanted to avoid Mom until Andy told her the good news. I didn’t know if Mom would be thrilled to be a grandma, or start screaming about how if you successfully got past the velvet rope at Studio 54 without ever fucking the doorman, you shouldn’t ever have to be called Nana.

I also didn’t know if Mom was going to tell Andy about her attempts to make some grandchildren of her own (just ones that would call her Mom).

“I can’t decide which T-shirt to wear today,” Mom continues. “The one that says MILF in Training, or the one that says GILF in Training?”

Ugh. I visibly wince at that. “Mom, what did Dad tell you about that fashion choice?” I ask pointedly.

Mom says to me:

Don’t wear T-shirts with words on them
.

“And it’s good advice,” I tell her.

“Maybe,” Mom concedes. “But right now, as much as I adore your father, he’s on my shit list. The minute he found out we were going to St. Louis for Thanksgiving, he bailed on me just to go see his mistress.”

“Wait . . . what?!” I stammer. “He told me he was spending it with Grandpa.”

“Well, of course he did, darling. What was he going to do, tell you he was abandoning you to spend the holidays with his whore?”

“That’s what he said verbatim last year,” I point out.