where I have to play security cop and where Jennifer is already going off like a hand grenade.
Trying to remind myself that at least Jennifer is still safely tucked away in the house, I head down the stairs to the tuxedoed, shade-wearing throng milling around on the lawn. It’s heading toward 6:00 P.M. , but the sun is still searingly bright, and I’m guessing it’s still north of 100 degrees. Coming down the stairs, I’ve lost sight of Patrice, but given how tall she is, she shouldn’t be that hard to spot. I’m picking my way among the crowd, waving off the waiters swirling around with their silver trays, when suddenly she emerges just ahead. I’m trying to keep her in view when some beefy guy in an Armani tux nearly backs into me and I have to leap aside to avoid being crushed. As I glide by, I feel the heat coming off him. Like some huge barnyard animal. At least I’m not the only one who’s dying out here.
By the time I reach her, Patrice, champagne flute in hand, is ensconced in some tight little conversational group with Mickey and two other couples. Great, now I have to shake her down in public.
“Hey, Patrice,” I say, sidling up to her. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
She turns and looks at me blankly.
Ohmigod
. She doesn’t remember me. I’m just trying to decide if this is truly humiliating or actually hilarious when her eyes start to blink. “Umm?” she says, craning her blond pelt in my direction. I have the impression of a giraffe bending down to nibble some leaves.
“Alex. Alex Davidson,” I say brightly.
“Alec?” she says, shaking her head. “Oh,
Alec
. Of course, howare
you
?” she says, bending even further down and giving me one of those pretend air hugs which are even faker than air kisses. “So bloody hot,” she says, holding her glass to the side as she leans in my direction. “I mean, honestly, when everyone told me L.A. was ‘hot,’” she says, making little quote marks with her fingers, “I had no idea they meant it so literally.”
“I’m fine, fine,” I say, ignoring her how-weird-is-L.A. riff. Had enough of that at our lunch, and it was old then. “So I didn’t realize you were a friend of Jeffrey’s,” I say, trying to edge her away from the group.
“Who?”
she says, giving me another blank look. Maybe it’s just names she has trouble with.
“Jeffrey. Jeffrey
Hawker
,” I say.
Still nothing.
“He’s the
groom.”
“Oh,” she says, startled. “Is that who this is for? I had no idea,” she says, turning back toward Mickey. “I’m actually just here with Mickey, and apparently he’s friends with — who is it, Jimmy? Or he works with him. Or has. Or wants to. I’m still not totally sure how it all works here in ‘Hollywood,’” she says, making those little quote marks with her fingers.
Oh, God.
“‘Right,’” I say, making little quote marks of my own. Obviously, I could leave it here. I should leave it there. Clearly, Patrice is just a guest, and a clueless one at that. Still, the memory of Jennifer railing at me over the headsets and my choice of wedding garb is still fresh. I don’t want any more unexpected explosions if she discovers
C
magazine’s entertainment editor is here. “So, Patrice,” I plunge ahead, trying to sound offhand and not like I’m giving her the third degree, “you’re here as Mickey’s guest and not in your capacity at the magazine?”
Another blank look.
I try again. “I mean, you’re only here as a civilian?”
“Pats! Pats!
I want you to meet an old friend of mine” comes bellowing over my shoulder. I turn. Mickey pushing through the crowd. Great, the sex offender joins the party.
“Look,” I say quickly, turning back to Patrice. “I’m assuming you’re here only as a guest, because there’s no media allowed. I just need to make that clear.”
“What?” she says, pulling back like I’ve struck her. “What are you talking about? And why,” she says, suddenly
Trying to remind myself that at least Jennifer is still safely tucked away in the house, I head down the stairs to the tuxedoed, shade-wearing throng milling around on the lawn. It’s heading toward 6:00 P.M. , but the sun is still searingly bright, and I’m guessing it’s still north of 100 degrees. Coming down the stairs, I’ve lost sight of Patrice, but given how tall she is, she shouldn’t be that hard to spot. I’m picking my way among the crowd, waving off the waiters swirling around with their silver trays, when suddenly she emerges just ahead. I’m trying to keep her in view when some beefy guy in an Armani tux nearly backs into me and I have to leap aside to avoid being crushed. As I glide by, I feel the heat coming off him. Like some huge barnyard animal. At least I’m not the only one who’s dying out here.
By the time I reach her, Patrice, champagne flute in hand, is ensconced in some tight little conversational group with Mickey and two other couples. Great, now I have to shake her down in public.
“Hey, Patrice,” I say, sidling up to her. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
She turns and looks at me blankly.
Ohmigod
. She doesn’t remember me. I’m just trying to decide if this is truly humiliating or actually hilarious when her eyes start to blink. “Umm?” she says, craning her blond pelt in my direction. I have the impression of a giraffe bending down to nibble some leaves.
“Alex. Alex Davidson,” I say brightly.
“Alec?” she says, shaking her head. “Oh,
Alec
. Of course, howare
you
?” she says, bending even further down and giving me one of those pretend air hugs which are even faker than air kisses. “So bloody hot,” she says, holding her glass to the side as she leans in my direction. “I mean, honestly, when everyone told me L.A. was ‘hot,’” she says, making little quote marks with her fingers, “I had no idea they meant it so literally.”
“I’m fine, fine,” I say, ignoring her how-weird-is-L.A. riff. Had enough of that at our lunch, and it was old then. “So I didn’t realize you were a friend of Jeffrey’s,” I say, trying to edge her away from the group.
“Who?”
she says, giving me another blank look. Maybe it’s just names she has trouble with.
“Jeffrey. Jeffrey
Hawker
,” I say.
Still nothing.
“He’s the
groom.”
“Oh,” she says, startled. “Is that who this is for? I had no idea,” she says, turning back toward Mickey. “I’m actually just here with Mickey, and apparently he’s friends with — who is it, Jimmy? Or he works with him. Or has. Or wants to. I’m still not totally sure how it all works here in ‘Hollywood,’” she says, making those little quote marks with her fingers.
Oh, God.
“‘Right,’” I say, making little quote marks of my own. Obviously, I could leave it here. I should leave it there. Clearly, Patrice is just a guest, and a clueless one at that. Still, the memory of Jennifer railing at me over the headsets and my choice of wedding garb is still fresh. I don’t want any more unexpected explosions if she discovers
C
magazine’s entertainment editor is here. “So, Patrice,” I plunge ahead, trying to sound offhand and not like I’m giving her the third degree, “you’re here as Mickey’s guest and not in your capacity at the magazine?”
Another blank look.
I try again. “I mean, you’re only here as a civilian?”
“Pats! Pats!
I want you to meet an old friend of mine” comes bellowing over my shoulder. I turn. Mickey pushing through the crowd. Great, the sex offender joins the party.
“Look,” I say quickly, turning back to Patrice. “I’m assuming you’re here only as a guest, because there’s no media allowed. I just need to make that clear.”
“What?” she says, pulling back like I’ve struck her. “What are you talking about? And why,” she says, suddenly
Similar Books
