Fashionably Late Page 5

  “But you—where are you going to work?”

  I stared at my hands. “I told you. Los Angeles. I’ve got a job as a hostess in a restaurant near Melrose Avenue. I’ll sew and try to market my samples during the day, then work at night.”

  “You said you were just going to visit Claire.” His tone had taken on a distinctly accusatory edge.

  “Kevin, I know you’re unhappy about this. But you have to be fair. I did try to explain what I’ll be doing out there.”

  “You…Becca.” He fell back into his usual fatherly, analytical mode. “Be reasonable. You cannot quit your job.”

  “Too late.” I winced. “I already did.”

  “This is insane. You know that?” He shook his head. “You quit your job, you go to California on impulse…what’s wrong with you lately? You never showed any interest in restaurant work before. And your sister just got back from her honeymoon. Doesn’t she want some time alone with Andrew?”

  “They had to cancel their honeymoon because Andrew’s having some sort of crisis at the studio. Claire begged me to come out because he’s working twenty-four/seven and she’s lonely in her gigantic new mansion. Try to put yourself in my shoes for just one minute, okay? I don’t want to go from my parents’ house to my husband’s house and never take a risk, never put myself out there to see what I can do.”

  “This is Claire’s doing,” he decided. “She’s always encouraged these flighty, frivolous impulses.”

  “I know you have very specific ideas of how our life together should be,” I said, feeling the weight of these words in the pit of my stomach. “But I don’t see this trip as flighty or frivolous. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time and I just…I feel like I’ll never be happy if I don’t try.”

  “So I don’t make you happy?” he demanded, stung. “Well, life isn’t about being happy. You have to consider other people’s needs, not just your own.” His face reddened as he broke out the big guns. “If you go to Los Angeles, there will be consequences. I don’t have to let you walk all over me.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “You don’t.”

  “If you go to Los Angeles, then we…” He took a deep breath. “We’re finished! You have to choose: me or this trip.”

  “Kevin, please—”

  “This doesn’t fit in with our ten-year plan!”

  I kept my tone steady as I said, “Well, maybe we need to make some adjustments to the plan.”

  He finally turned off the TV. All the sword slashes and battle cries and visceral grunts of pain gave way to silence. “What kind of adjustments? Is this about the stupid red door?”

  “No.” I collapsed back into the couch cushions. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

  “Fine. I’ll forget you said any of this because you’re being ridiculous.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead.

  “Can’t you try to support me in this? Or at least pretend to support me?”

  “No.” He turned back to the blank TV screen.

  “I support your dreams and decisions, even though I don’t always agree with them.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s because my dreams and decisions aren’t completely selfish and unrealistic.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “This is your last warning, Becca. If you get on that plane tomorrow, we’re through.”

  Years of living with Gayle had taught me how to gently verbalize feelings and fight fair. “I don’t like being threatened with ultimatums.”

  “And I don’t like giving them, but you leave me no choice.”

  I considered this for a minute, then plunged ahead. “I can’t control what you do, but I’m going to the airport tomorrow. I have to.”

  He didn’t say anything. Wouldn’t even look at me.

  I wriggled the diamond ring off and pressed it into his hand. “Should I leave this here?”

  We sat on opposite sides of the couch, staring straight ahead and barely breathing.

  Finally, he thrust the ring into his pocket, then turned to me and said, “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I’ll drive you to the airport tomorrow. What time is your flight?”

  He didn’t give the ring back. More significantly, he didn’t give me a security checkpoint wave or an in-flight book note, which meant that the ring was the least of our problems.

  When we first started dating back in college, Kevin and I had perfected an airport drop-off routine that had attained the precision of a military drill as we saw each other off on family vacations (mine), job interviews (his), and business trips (also his). The dropper-off would always park in the short-term lot and accompany the taker-off to check in and snake through the security line. When the airline workers demanded boarding pass and ID, the dropper-off would step aside, watch the taker-off progress through the metal detector, and wave at regular intervals until the taker-off was out of sight. When I was the taker-off, Kevin would clandestinely tuck a little note in whatever novel or magazine that happened to be in my carry-on. Nothing sappy or grandiose, just See you soons or I love yous scrawled on Post-its. Something to keep me smiling until landing.

  So today, when he stopped his car by the curb under the DEPARTURES sign and said, “Bye. See you in a month,” I was somewhat bewildered.

  “Aren’t you going to come in with me?”

  He made a big show of checking his watch. “I have to go. Drew has an extra ticket to the Coyotes game and I’m supposed to meet him in twenty minutes.”

  I was 99.9 percent certain this was a lie, as neither he nor his friend Drew had any interest in professional sports outside of mastering Madden NFL 2006 on PlayStation. “So…does this mean we’re officially breaking up?”

  “No, it means I need time to think about what’s best for us.”

  I forced myself to smile. “You get to decide all by yourself?”

  “You already made your decision. I still have to make mine.” He practically shoved me out of the car. I barely had time to lug my suitcases out of the trunk before he peeled away from the crosswalk.

  “Bye.” I lifted one hand as the car sped off toward the airport exit.

  What the hell? Seriously. There were lots of questions bouncing around between us and no answers. I wasn’t sure what it all meant, I wasn’t sure if I had a boyfriend anymore, or even if that was what I truly wanted—to be Kevinless. All I knew for sure was that I suddenly felt impossibly, deliciously free. My hands shook with anticipation as I dragged my bags to the ticket counter and prepared to start the life I’d been dreaming about for the past five years.

  7

  The freeways were terrifying at first. All the brand-new cars—some of which cost nearly as much as the house Kevin had picked out in Phoenix—weaving in and out of the car pool lane with kamikaze speed. Everyone had places to go and people to see and traffic safety be damned.

  “Are you kidding?” Claire, who had selected a very short black dress for airport pickup detail, laughed and swished her blond hair against the leather seat cover of her Mercedes SUV. Her massive diamond rings glinted in the afternoon sun. “This is nothing. Wait until rush hour. Then you’ll see some carnage.”

  “I’ll pass.” I braced my hands against the dashboard as she slammed on the brakes, stopping millimeters away from the bumper of the convertible in front of us. “Listen, is there any way I could take a bus to work or something?”

  “A bus? Stop, please, you’re killing me. Becks, this is L.A. There is no bus. There is no sidewalk. There is only freeway. Don’t worry—you can borrow my Jetta while you’re out here. I don’t use it anymore since Andrew upgraded my wheels.”

  “I’ll have to remember to wear nice underpants every day so as not to offend the ER orderlies when they examine my mangled corpse.”

  “Or quit wearing panties altogether,” she suggested. “Give those poor exhausted residents a thrill.”

  “I hope you have lots of insurance coverage on that Jetta.”

  “Connor’s restaurant is all the way over in West Holly
wood; if you think I am driving your timid ass down Cold-water Canyon every day, you are sadly mistaken. Welcome to the real world, Grasshopper.”

  The next day, after some sisterly encouragement and several cups of the calming herbal tea Claire’s yogi recommended for stress relief, I braved the highways and walked unscathed through the doors of the Rhapsody restaurant and bar. “Becca Davis, reporting for active duty.”

  Connor looked up from a pile of papers, obviously stressed and distracted, and ran one hand through his thick brown hair. “Hi. Listen, you didn’t happen to bring a map to work, did you?”

  “No. Was I supposed to—”

  “’Cause I just got lost in your eyes.” His mask of impatience dissolved into a laugh. “Now that, my friend, is a bad pickup line.”

  I grimaced. “I’m in physical pain.”

  “And I’ve got a million more where that one came from. I’ve been collecting them, just for you.”

  “Suddenly that job at Burger King doesn’t sound so bad.” I adjusted the neckline of the pink patterned halter dress I’d whipped up for the hostessing gig.

  “That’s what they all say, until they see the tips.” He ushered me over to the bar and dug through the little refrigerator for two bottles of spring water. “So your flight out was okay? And you have a place to stay?”

  I nodded. “Claire and Andrew’s guesthouse. I had no idea that guesthouses actually existed outside of the set of The OC.”

  “What, they only have one?”

  “It’s pretty big. Big enough to fit a bed and all four of my sewing machines. And I went fabric shopping on Maple Street yesterday, so already my bedroom’s so crammed with muslin and cloth it looks like a third-world sweatshop.”

  “Four sewing machines? You planning on starting a production line in your closet?”

  “Not quite yet.” Claire had dragged me through a series of upscale west Melrose boutiques that morning to give me an idea of what they were stocking. “I am way out of my league here. Seriously. Do you have any idea how much Betsey Johnson charges for clamdiggers?”

  “The real question is, do I have any idea what clamdiggers are?” He handed me a bottle of water. “Don’t panic. Sunday evenings are usually pretty quiet around here, so tonight shouldn’t be too taxing.”

  I nodded glumly, daunted by the prospect of trying to placate customers like the rail-thin fashionistas I’d seen lacerating the boutique salesgirls that afternoon.

  “It’s only your first day pounding the pavement,” he said gently. “You have to develop a thick hide out here. I’m sure that whatever old Betsey’s charging for clamdiggers, you’ll be doubling it soon. And I’ll even give you some free, unsolicited advice.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “ ‘Plastics?’ ”

  He laughed. “No. Charge more than things are worth, and everyone’ll think you’re worth more than you are. Especially out here. Your product is high quality, your time is valuable, and your prices should reflect that.”

  I must have looked skeptical, because he gestured to the water bottle in my hand. “Do you know how much we’d charge the customers for that?”

  “Two-fifty?”

  “Nine dollars. You know what we pay our supplier? A buck twenty.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Exactly. And we charge eighteen dollars for what’s basically a three-dollar martini. But people are happy to pay. It makes them feel wealthy and important. You know you’ve arrived when you spring for a round of eighteen-dollar martinis.”

  “You have the temerity to charge eighteen dollars for a bit of vodka and a splash of vermouth and your customers are gullible enough to pay for it?”

  “Gullible? They demand it! These people wouldn’t want the three-dollar martini. They spit on the three-dollar martini. Three-dollar martinis are for the C-listers. Same thinking applies to clamdiggers. If Betsey Johnson sold them at anywhere near cost, you think even one single trophy wife worth her credit line would be caught dead in them?”

  “Well. No.” Obviously, I should have taken some marketing classes along with all those arts and humanities seminars in college.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll pick up the right attitude in no time. Just remember, they should be thanking you for condescending to accept their filthy lucre.”

  He grinned. I grinned back.

  Then my cell phone rang, jolting me back to reality, where I was a bad, until-very-recently-engaged girlfriend flirting hussily with a man I barely knew.

  I dug the phone out of my bag and glanced at the caller ID: my mom, no doubt wondering if I’d survived another two hours without her. “Oh, I should take this.”

  “Boyfriend checking in?” He nodded. “No problem. Take your time. Ask for the manager when you’re done—he’ll introduce you to Aimee. See you later.”

  “Oh no, it’s not my boyfriend,” I called after him. “In fact, I’m not even sure I have a boyfriend anymore. We took a step back over the weekend and…”

  But he had rounded the corner and headed off to oversee more important matters.

  He didn’t care whether I had a boyfriend or not, or what the status of our relationship was. Just like everyone else out here, he had places to go and people to see.

  How professional. How appropriate. How disheartening.

  “There are three types of important guests you have to be able to pick out.” Aimee Chenard flipped her long, white-blond hair (topped with just enough dark root to give her an air of bad-girl rebellion) and dug a fresh cigarette out of what appeared to be a genuine Chanel bag. “Studio executives, radio people, and superagents. They should be getting the best tables and the best service, but you’re not going to be able to recognize them like celebrities.”

  “Then how will I know who’s who?” I asked, drowning in the sea of information. Table numbers and phone systems and reservation policies…

  “Most of them are regulars. You’ll get to know them after a week or two.”

  “But what about tonight?” Dinner service was slated to start in half an hour, and at this point, I could barely remember my own name.

  She took a long drag on her Marlboro Light. “I’ll be helping you. Have no fear. You’ll get used to life as a hyphen.”

  “Life as a what?”

  “A hyphen. You know. Like I’m an actress-slash-model-slash-hostess. Which is why I can spot all the superagents at fifty paces.” She whipped a stack of head shots out of her bag. “I hear you’re a designer.”

  “I want to be. Progress has definitely been slow.”

  She laughed. “Didn’t you just get here, like, yesterday?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then, cookie, the rejection rodeo has only begun. You’ll get used to it—you just need to learn to speak the Language of No. Like ‘I love your work’ translates to ‘You make me retch.’ ‘Fabulous’ means ‘Only slightly better than a sharp stick in the eye.’ ‘I’ll call you’ means ‘When Puerto Vallarta freezes over.’ ‘You’re so beautiful’ means ‘You didn’t get the job, but I do want to sleep with you.’ When in doubt, assume ‘yes’ means ‘no.’ ”

  “Then what does ‘no’ mean?”

  “No. That’s why we all have day jobs on the side, and this is a great place to meet contacts. Fred Segal comes in all the time. Let’s see…what else do you need to know?” She glanced around the restaurant’s main dining room, which was starting to fill up with servers, expediters, and bartenders. “I should give you a heads-up on Connor.”

  My eyes widened. “What about him?”

  “Don’t bother falling for him. All the new girls do, and it always ends the same.”

  “How?”

  “Tears, heartache, your basic Shangri-Las song. You’re only setting yourself up for disappointment.”

  “Well. I’m sort of already in a relationship—emphasis on the sort of—so that won’t be a problem for me,” I said, twisting my hands together.

  She shook her head. “That’s what I said, too, when the previous hostess
gave me this same lecture.”

  “And now?”

  “Let’s just say I’m very impressed with his ability to resist curvaceous blondes. He doesn’t date employees. Well, actually, he doesn’t date anyone, as far as I know, but I’ll keep working on him. He can’t hold out forever.”

  I cast a surreptitious glance back toward Connor’s office. “Why doesn’t he date? Is he gay?”

  She gave me a look. “Does he seem gay to you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Trust me, he ain’t gay. But I’ve been working here for six months now, and as far as I know, he hasn’t been involved with anyone since he broke up with Meena, the world’s pit-iest pita.”

  “Pita?”

  “Pain in the ass. She’d show up here at eight o’clock on a Friday night, no warning, with like ten of her very bestest friends and demand a corner booth. So then I’d ask her to wait a few minutes since weekends are always booked solid with people who actually make reservations and she’d have a hissy fit. ‘Does Connor know you’re treating me like this? You better get us a table right now, I don’t care if George Clooney is still finishing his coffee.’ And then she’d undertip.” She took two more quick puffs on her cigarette, then stubbed it out in a glass ashtray tucked underneath the bar. “I have got to quit smoking. I just spent a fortune whitening my teeth and they’ll be all dingy again by next week. Anyway, come on, I’ll show you where we keep the menus.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “So what finally happened with Meena and Connor?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “I guess he got tired of living with Mood Swing Barbie. And she got tired of all the rock climbing and skydiving and mountain biking.”

  “He’s into rock climbing and skydiving?”

  She laughed. “If you can break your spine doing it, he’s into it. A one-man version of the X Games.”

  “Really?” Apparently, he hadn’t been lying when he said he enjoyed taking risks in all areas of his life.