Romantically Challenged (23 page)

I hopped into the shower without even letting the water warm up first and was out of the house in under an hour. That was fast for me. Especially without coffee.

Half an hour later I pulled up in front of Ivy at the Shore and handed the valet my keys. I was only eight minutes late. Not terrible, but bad enough to go inside armed with an apology and complaints about L.A. traffic. It turned out they weren’t necessary. Richard was late too. I wish I knew beforehand—I could’ve looked for street parking.

Richard showed up five minutes later with an apology and his own complaints about L.A. traffic. I sympathized. The maître d’ seated us on the enclosed patio and Richard told me about the dinner party he’d attended the night before. I told him I went to the movies with a friend. It was only our second date. I didn’t owe him full disclosure.

I was happy to let Richard do most of the talking. I was having trouble concentrating on the conversation. I kept thinking about Noah and imagining it was him sitting across from me instead of Richard. Maybe the mimosa had something to do with it.

I switched to water and tried to fulfill my promise to keep an open mind. If I could keep the date short I might be able to pull it off. It was just brunch, how long could it last?

When we left the restaurant, I headed toward the valet stand, but Richard suggested we take a walk. I suppose I could’ve said no, but I didn’t. I felt guilty for fantasizing about Noah. Mental cheating.

We picked up two lattes to go at the Coffee Bean around the corner and headed out to the park that ran along the beach side of Ocean Avenue. The benches were filled with tourists enjoying the sunshine and homeless people happy to have a place to crash.

By the time we’d walked the six blocks to the Pacific Coast Highway incline, my nerves were fraying. I didn’t want to ask or answer any more questions about careers, goals, hobbies or families. Two dates in less than twenty-four hours was too much for me. I just wanted to go home.

It was a slow walk back to the restaurant. We stopped several times to snap pictures for tourists and enjoy the view. We must’ve been strolling in the park for close to an hour before Richard noticed the homeless people.

“Is that guy taking a nap?” he asked, pointing to a man lying on the grass wearing army fatigues, no shirt, and a threadbare blazer.

If anyone else had said that to me I would’ve thought they were kidding. But Richard didn’t kid. In the eight hours and seven minutes I’d spent with Richard, he’d never even attempted to crack a joke.

“Sort of,” I said. “He’s homeless. A lot of homeless people sleep in this park because the cops don’t kick them out.”

Richard went silent and we continued walking. Five minutes later he said, “I don’t understand why all these homeless people don’t just get jobs. Surely there must be something they’re qualified to do.”

I knew he wasn’t just being callous; he really didn’t get it. “Well, it’s kind of hard to go on a job interview when you haven’t showered in three days, you have no clean clothes, and no address or phone number to put on an application.”

Of course Richie Rich wouldn’t know any of this because he’d never once in his entire life had to fill out a job application or even submit a resume. I knew I needed to end the date quickly before I said something I’d really regret.

“I spoke to my decorator yesterday,” Richard said, clumsily changing the subject. “She said my apartment will be finished in a few weeks. I’m hoping you’ll come over and give me your opinion.”

I could lie and say yes. Or I could be brutally honest. I chose the third option—I pretended I hadn’t heard him and pointed at the crowds waiting in line for the roller coaster at the Santa Monica Pier.

He pushed on undeterred. “What are you doing two weeks from Friday?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Why?”

“I have tickets for the opera. I’d like to take you.”

“I can’t. I don’t have anything to wear.” Lame, but I was on the spot.

“You don’t need a formal gown. A cocktail dress would be fine.”

“I don’t own a cocktail dress.” Of course I did, but he didn’t know that. Although he should’ve suspected.

“We don’t have to go to the opera if you don’t want to,” he said with real disappointment, “but I hope we’ll be spending more time together.”

Obviously, we were going to have to do this the hard way. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. Aren’t I too plebeian for you?”

“What do you mean?”

Surely with his Ivy League education he knew the definition of the word “plebeian.” “Richard, you must’ve noticed the differences between us. I didn’t go to boarding school, my family doesn’t own any vacation homes, and I’ve never been to the opera. Aren’t you a little out of my league?”

“I can’t believe you would even think that.” He seemed genuinely surprised. “You’re smart and beautiful and someone I enjoy spending time with. I find the differences in our backgrounds refreshing. I haven’t met a lot of women like you.”

Now that was the “A” answer. I was just starting to feel bad about what I’d said when he continued.

“Besides, I’m really looking forward to showing you some of the things you’ve missed, like the opera.”

The nerve of this guy! This wasn’t
My Fair Lady
. I wasn’t Eliza Doolittle and he was no Henry Higgins. If only he’d quit while he was ahead.

While we waited for the valet to bring us our cars, Richard told me that he was leaving for Charleston in the morning, but that he’d call me when he got back. He could call all he wanted, this was still our last date. 

* * *

The next day a dozen, long-stem, red roses arrived at my office. I was reading the card when Kaitlyn called.

“Guess who just sent me flowers?” I said.

“Noah.”

“I wish. They’re from Richie Rich. Does this mean I have to go out with him again?”

“Yup.”

“Are you sure?” I whined.

“Yes,” she said, “and you also have to call him and thank him for the roses.”

“I was going to do that anyway. I do have some manners you know.”

I called Richard’s office and left him a message on his voicemail. I hoped that since he was out of town, that would be the end of it. He called me from Charleston later that night and asked me if I would see him again when he returned. He was trying so hard, how could I say no? The flowers had bought him one more date.

Noah, however, didn’t need to send roses. When he called the next night and asked me if I wanted to go with him to the premiere of Capitol Studios’ new picture, I didn’t need to be persuaded to say yes. I would’ve gone even if I didn’t want to see the movie.

Movies & Stars

I left work early Thursday night so Noah could pick me up at my house on the way to the premiere. He buzzed my apartment at six o’clock and told me to meet him downstairs. I found him standing next to a black BMW idling in the driveway of my building’s parking garage. He was trying to calm the old lady that lived on the first floor. She was threatening to have his car towed. 

“Are you excited?” he asked, when we were ensconced in the black leather interior.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ve never been to a movie premiere before.”

“Enjoy it. After the first one, the thrill is gone. Then it’s just another hassle to be endured.”

“If you don’t like them, then why do you still go?”

“Because I’m expected to. They’re also great networking opportunities since everyone’s there.”

I didn’t ask who ‘everyone’ was. I wasn’t interested in networking. I just wanted to see movie stars. Rosenthal would shoot me if he heard me say that.

“Isn’t Robert DeNiro in this movie?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I’d love to meet him.” Then I could call everyone I know and tell them I’d met Robert DeNiro.

Noah laughed. “You’re not going to meet him. I doubt you’ll even see him.”

* * *

We found a space in a garage south of Hollywood Boulevard and walked up to Grauman’s Chinese Theater. It was a jumble of police barricades, camera crews and screaming fans. It took us fifteen minutes winding through the crowd just to find the entrance to the red carpet. I didn’t see any movie stars, but it was still exciting.

It was almost as chaotic inside the theater as it was outside, and just as crowded. Luckily, Noah knew one of the ushers who found us two seats together in the reserved section. Otherwise we would’ve been sitting at opposite ends of the theater. He brought me popcorn and a diet coke, and left me holding the seats while he went out to the lobby to schmooze.

When he returned forty-five minutes later, I’d eaten half the popcorn, finished the soda, and was rummaging through my purse looking for something to read. “I thought you were going to miss the movie,” I said when he’d sat down. “It’s almost seven-thirty.”

“Are you kidding? These things never start on time. We’ll be lucky if it starts by eight.”

Noah finished my popcorn and pointed out a few people in the crowd. Their names sounded familiar, probably people I’d read about in the trades, but I didn’t recognize any faces. The guests fell into two distinct groups—the “Suits,” comprised of agents, lawyers and studio executives, and the “Artistic Types,” which consisted of a handful of working actors, directors and producers, and a whole bunch of hangers-on and wannabes.

It was easy to distinguish between them. The “Suits” were dressed in suits, hence the name, and were generally older, flabbier, and ninety-five percent white male. The “Artistic Types” were younger, hipper, and more evenly split among paper-thin wannabe actresses displaying their silicone breasts and gym-maintained wannabe actors with chiseled jaws.

When the movie ended, we retrieved Noah’s car and followed the crowd to the after-party at a trendy Japanese restaurant six blocks away. Between the traffic on Hollywood Boulevard and the line in front of the valet, it would’ve been quicker to walk. But no one did.

Once our names were checked off the list by a security guard at the entrance, we were allowed inside the restaurant. Noah handed me a drink and I accompanied him as he walked around the party looking for people he knew. After a few minutes of searching, he introduced me to another lawyer from one of the A-list talent firms. I recognized the name—only because   Rosenthal used to brag about playing golf with the guy. When I mentioned to the talent lawyer that I worked for Bruce Rosenthal, he said he didn’t know him. I’d have to remember to tell Simone about that.

After half an hour, I was completely bored. I left Noah chatting with an agent while I went in search of food. I was waiting in line at the buffet table when someone put their hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw Mark Parsons and gave him an enthusiastic hello. I was happy to see a familiar face, any familiar face.

“Julie, I’m surprised to see you here. It’s not like Bruce to give his premiere tickets to one of his associates.”

“My invitation didn’t come from Bruce,” I said. “I’m here with a date.”

He raised his eyebrows and I could see that I’d just moved up one notch in his estimation. “Anyone I know?”

“Noah Greeley. He works at Capitol Studios.”

“Don’t know the name,” he said and began scanning the room.

I was sure I’d lost half a point for that. I was about to inquire after his wife and baby when Mark spotted someone more important by the sushi bar and abruptly excused himself.

After I’d managed to score a few tempura shrimp and a spoonful of noodles, I headed back into the crowd to search for Noah. It took me ten minutes to find him in the sea of dark suits. I told him I was ready to leave and he said he was too. That meant he only stopped to chat with one more Artistic Type and two more Suits on the way to the door. I never did see Robert De Niro.

Then There’s TV

As soon as I arrived at the office the next day I went looking for Simone. I couldn’t wait to tell her about the premiere. I found her in the conference room with Greg’s assistant, Marlene. They were standing in front of the television, but the screen was black.

“What are you guys doing?” I asked.

“Come in quick and close the door,” Simone said. Then she pushed a button on the remote and I heard the whir of a tape rewinding in the VCR.

“What are you watching?” I asked.

“Greg was on
First Date
last night. Marlene taped it.”

“What’s
First Date
?” We all turned around and stared at Rosenthal standing in the doorway. I hadn’t even heard him open the door.

“It’s one of those reality television shows,” Simone said, “where they follow couples around with a camera on their first date.”

The tape clicked to a stop in the VCR, but nobody moved.

“What are you waiting for?” Rosenthal said. “Let’s watch it.”

Simone pushed PLAY and Greg appeared on the screen with his arm around an attractive blonde named Susie. We watched two minute snippets of Greg and Susie playing miniature golf, talking about their sex lives over dinner at a Greek restaurant, and engaging in some heavy petting on the dance floor at a Hollywood nightclub. When the next couple appeared on the screen, Marlene popped the tape out and left the room.

“It’s too bad Greg didn’t spend more time talking about his job,” Rosenthal said. “It would’ve been good publicity for the firm.”

Simone and I glanced at each other, but neither of us replied.

Rosenthal was almost out the door when he turned to face me. I could practically see the light bulb go off above his head. “Julie, you’re single. Why don’t you go on
First Date
?”

The man never ceased to amaze me. “No thanks,” I replied.

“Why not?” he asked. “It would be good for you to get out more and network.”

“Bruce, I’m not going to humiliate myself on national television just so you can get some free publicity for the firm.”

“You don’t have to decide now, just think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it,” I shouted after he’d shut the door behind him. I looked at Simone. I could see her wheels turning too. “No,” I said before she even asked. “Absolutely, positively, not going to happen.”