Scot on the Rocks Read online

  “Well, actually, I wanted to surprise you, but I guess that I can tell you now that we’re celebrating anyway,” Vanessa said, holding up her glass of champagne. “Remember my cousin Damian?”

  “The one that dresses like a woman?” Jack asked.

  “Yes. Well, he’s working as a stylist now, and he agreed to come over and help us get gorgeous!”

  “Really?” I asked. “He does hair now?”

  “And makeup!” Vanessa cried, suddenly a kid in a candy shop. “I figured it would be fun to get the Hollywood treatment before going to the Hollywood wedding. He’s coming at four o’clock.”

  “Perfect. That’s perfect. Thank you,” I said, giving Vanessa a hug.

  “Well, ladies,” Jack interrupted, reaching his arms over the both of us to join in on the hug, “I’d say that this calls for a celebration!” And with that, we were off into the L.A. night.

  14

  An hour later, we found ourselves at a perfectly fabulous L.A. hot spot. Or what seemed to be a hot spot, anyway, what with all of the beautiful people walking around. I somehow thought that L.A. would be much different from New York, being on the other coast and all, but there we were, at a sleek new bar with the same eighteen-dollar martinis that we get in New York. The only difference was that this bar was on an outside terrace, so you could chase your eighteen-dollar martini with a breath of night air. That, and the L.A. locals seemed to be much blonder as an overall population and wore flip-flops a lot more than New Yorkers.

  I felt as if I had a scarlet NY on my chest — dressed in black from head to toe, from my black wrap sweater (complimented perfectly with black pants) down to my black pointy-toed shoes. Vanessa was similarly attired in her own black pants and black sleeveless top, with an Hermès scarf tied around her waist and black D’Orsay pumps. Actually, a scarlet NY might have been a very nice fashion accessory — Californians seem to experiment quite a bit more with color than their New York counterparts.

  “Now, remember, it’s not an English accent. It’s very distinct,” I instructed Jack. We had found a table right in the center of the terrace and were sitting down.

  “Why, Trip, old boy, old chap, nice to meet you,” he said in a very bad English accent. English accent? Didn’t we just cover that?

  “Okay, that was really bad,” Vanessa said, reading my mind.

  “Yeah, he doesn’t talk like that,” I explained. “He says fuck a lot, so try to say that. But not in front of Trip’s mother. Or grandmother.”

  “Well, no one’s ever actually met Douglas, so I don’t have to sound like him, I just need to sound Scottish, right?”

  “That’s true,” I said, and felt an unexpected stab of sadness as I said it. I let the feeling pass. “But I think that Scottish people say fuck a lot in general.”

  “That’s kind of a sweeping generalization. Do they really?” Vanessa asked. What is she, the accent police? Can’t she see that we’re working here?

  “I think so,” I abruptly answered.

  “Well, did his mother say fuck a lot when you met her?” she asked. Sometimes it’s annoying when all of your friends are litigators.

  “Bond, James Bond,” Jack said, this time with a perfect accent. A perfect English accent.

  “No!” I said.

  “I thought it was pretty close,” Vanessa said. “Anyway, who’s really going to notice the difference anyway?”

  “Do you think that just because they live in California,” I asked her, “they’re stupid?”

  “You think that just because they’re from Scotland,” Vanessa explained, “they say fuck a lot.” Who brought the lawyer?

  “Sean Connery is Scottish,” Jack said.

  “But James Bond is English! Jeez! More Braveheart than Bond.” This was getting to be worse than when I used to tutor the Nelson twins in Spanish. (Twin no. 1: Why can’t we just put an o on the end of everything? Me: Because in Spanish, they use masculine and feminine forms of their words. Twin no. 2: Well, we’re going to just put an o at the end of everything. Me: If you do that, it will make you sound dumb. Twin no. 1: Mom, Brooke just called us dumb!)

  “But they — can never take — our freedom!” Jack cried out so loud that the people around us began to stare. At least he did it with a Scottish accent, though.

  “Please don’t say that at the wedding,” I instructed him.

  “They’re magically delicious!” Jack said, sounding a bit like the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

  “Was that Irish?” Vanessa said.

  “Are you making fun of me?” I said.

  “You know what, I just need to do some of my acting exercises. I’m not warmed up,” he explained. And with that, he began to make strange sounds with his throat. It was like something out of the Animal Channel. Vanessa and I sat very still, so as not to be eaten alive or anything. A waitress approached our table and I feared for her life.

  “What can I get you to drink?” she asked, not thinking twice about the strange throat noises Jack was emitting.

  “May we see your martini menu, please,” Vanessa said.

  “They’ll take a look at the martini menu,” Jack interrupted, with a Scottish accent no less. “I’ll have a Scotch on the rocks, please.” The waitress nodded and it looked like he really had her. I was impressed — he had actually fooled our waitress! As a smile came to my face, Jack said, “For fuck’s sake!” and the waitress walked away looking confused. She probably went to go and spit in our drinks.

  “Could you please not say fuck this much around me?” Vanessa asked.

  “Jack, that was really good!” I said. Positive reinforcement. Another thing I learned from the Animal Channel. “That sounded, like, totally Scottish! Soon you’ll be eating haggis and talking about World Cup soccer!”

  “Football?” he asked with a full Scottish accent. “You mean football? Ah, you Americans…”

  “Now he’s on a roll!” I said, looking to Vanessa like a proud parent.

  “Put another shrimp on the barbie!” he cried in a perfect accent. A perfect Australian accent.

  “And now he’s not,” Vanessa said, as the waitress returned with our drinks.

  “Cheers!” Jack said, back in full Scottish accent. He also did a slight head tilt thing that I’d never seen before.

  “Cheers,” the waitress said with a flair. I think that she may have winked, too. Either way, it was an unequivocal flirt.

  “Oh, my God. I think that you actually had her fooled,” I said, my hand accidentally reaching for his leg. I must have gotten a bit carried away with the whole positive reinforcement thing.

  “No, he didn’t,” Vanessa said. “Maybe she was just turned on by the throat exercises.”

  “Okay, cheers was good. Use that,” I said, slowly removing my hand from his leg, as quietly as a gazelle, so as to not let anyone notice that it was there.

  “I think that that’s English, though, not necessarily Scottish,” Vanessa said, seemingly oblivious to what was going on under the table.

  “Well, I don’t know what it is, but it sounds good, Jack, go with it,” I said.

  “I thought that we were going more Braveheart than Bond?” Jack asked, grabbing for my hand once it was almost detached from his leg.

  “We are, but when in doubt, default back to English,” I instructed, pulling my hand back to my own lap.

  “I think that we’re just confusing things now,” Vanessa said, looking down like a child who has just caught her parents kissing.

  “No, I’m a professional. You forget. I can handle this. I thrive on good direction,” Jack said, arms flailing about, presumably to demonstrate what a wonderful thespian he was.

  “You are not really thriving, thus far, on our direction,” Vanessa pointed out.

  “I said good direction,” Jack countered.

  “Just — whatever you do — do not lapse into that Australian accent,” I said.

  “A guy makes one mistake….” Jack said to no one in particular.

 
“I just don’t even know where that came from,” I explained. “I mean, they are, like, totally separate continents.”

  “I would like to see you try to do better,” Jack challenged.

  “Okay, point taken,” Vanessa refereed. “But so was Brooke’s — more Braveheart than Bond. But Bond is acceptable in an emergency. And never, ever, resort to Crocodile Dundee. Understood?”

  “Got it.” Jack was practically panting and ready to begin.

  “Now, go grasshopper, and make us proud,” Vanessa said.

  Jack hopped up from the table like a lion let out of his cage and started circling his prey. It was actually fun to watch. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he decided which group of lovelies to approach. Men are so predictable. He’ll probably start with some easy conquer — one of the lonely lambs seated at the bar. The sure thing, the easy pounce.

  I watched and waited until he finally made his move. He sat down at a table with three women. Impressive. Now, this is a man who clearly loves a challenge. I waited for the pack to eat him alive, but, within moments, it was clear that these women were completely charmed by him. I could have sworn I heard one woman ask, “So, like, do you know how to play a bagpipe and stuff?” To which Jack nodded his head in a knowing way as if to say, “But of course!”

  Women really do love an accent. I should know — I used to be one of them. One of those naive, unsuspecting women who thought that a man with an accent meant a mature, sophisticated man. Not a man who would cheat on you and get engaged to another woman and leave you boyfriend-less for your ex-boyfriend’s wedding.

  I mean, look at these women — they were practically drooling all over him and they didn’t even know him. He’s not even that good-looking! Well, not really, anyway. Well, I mean, unless you go for that sort of look. Which I don’t.

  “My, my, Brooke,” Vanessa said, interrupting my thoughts, “I didn’t take you for the jealous type.”

  “Jealous? Vanessa, please! Why would I be jealous!”

  “You tell me. What was with the little hand thing under the table? And why can’t you take your eyes off of him and his minions?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, quickly snapping my head back to face her.

  “I don’t know what he sees in those girls, anyway,” Vanessa said. “They are so L.A. I’ve never seen so much pink clothing before in my life.”

  “I know,” I said, taking off my wrap sweater to reveal the white wife beater I had on underneath it, “it’s pathetic.” Vanessa nodded her head in agreement, adjusting her D’Orsay pumps. “So,” I casually asked, “do you think that I should call Douglas later?”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” she asked.

  “Because he’s my boyfriend,” I said.

  “He’s your ex-boyfriend. Emphasis on the ex part. Your heartbreaking, two-timing, lying, cheating —”

  “Okay, I get it,” I said, cutting her off.

  “Good,” she said, taking the apple slice out of her martini to nibble. “Okay, now, back to important things — does that woman over there realize that the hair color she’s got is not found in nature?”

  “I know. It’s really sad,” I said, twirling my own long locks, which I had blown the curl out of to perfection that morning. “Just so we’re clear, though, you don’t think that I should call Douglas?” I asked.

  What? You would have wanted to clarify things, too.

  We watched Jack as he approached another group of women. And greeted them with a hearty “G’day mate!” He seemed horrified at his slip, but the women didn’t even seem to notice, in unison saying back, “G’day!” Jack quickly excused himself to return to our table.

  “So, how’d it go, loverboy?” I asked him. “All ready to forsake New York for L.A.?”

  “It went quite well, actually,” he said, tucking my pink bra strap into my wife beater. I looked down as his hand brushed against my bare shoulder. “I think that I had them all fooled. Either that, or they didn’t care — because I got tons of phone numbers!” Vanessa couldn’t control herself, eyes widening in disbelief. I myself stayed cool, as if I couldn’t care less. Or could care less. Don’t those two mean the same thing? Okay, well, just use whichever one means I didn’t care at all. Because I didn’t.

  “You cad!” Vanessa said, smiling. Why the hell is she smiling? Those girls were massive bimbos! That, and the fact that he has no time to take any of them out since we are only here for the weekend. Although, if he moved anywhere as quickly as Douglas did, maybe he would. Anyway, what self-respecting women would all give their phone numbers to the same man? Maybe they thought they were on one of those reality dating shows. You see, this is why people hate L.A.

  “The only problem is,” Jack explained, “for some reason, that Australian accent keeps rearing its ugly head.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, “just don’t do it at the wedding.”

  “Goddamn Crocodile Dundee,” Vanessa muttered into her drink.

  After Vanessa and I had sampled every specialty martini on the menu (including one called the Mulholland Drive that was built for two and equipped with a very, very large straw), we managed to drag Jack away from his admirers and stumble back to our hotel suite.

  We sprawled out over the Louis XVI furniture and feasted on all the minifridge had to offer. Snickers, Milky Way, Butterfingers, Hershey’s Kisses…no candy was shown mercy. After the first round of candy bars, we didn’t even look at the price list as we dove into the chips and mixed nuts. We were way too busy discussing matters such as: Why is the room spinning? Was it spinning before? And who can we call to make it stop?

  Jack and Vanessa went out to the balcony to get some fresh air while I excused myself to use the ladies’ room. And wouldn’t you know it — our hotel suite is so fancy, we even have phones in our bathroom! I, of course, took this as a sign from God that I should give Douglas a call. Now, I know that Vanessa disapproved, but the last time that that girl was single was sometime in the 1980s. What did she know? And I’m sure, if given a vote, Jack would also have said that I shouldn’t call, but he’s a man, so what does he know? And at any rate, I’m sure that he was still very much turned on from the whole “hand on the knee/touching my shoulder” thing, so he couldn’t really be an objective voter, now, could he?

  I sat on the edge of the cream-colored marble whirlpool bathtub and dialed the number. As the phone rang, I realized that I hadn’t taken the time difference into account. While I was still puzzling over the time in New York, counting back the hours on my fingers, the answering machine picked up.

  “Douglas,” I said after the beep, trying very hard to sound sober, “it’s me. Things have been really crazy, but I’m just calling to tell you that I forgive you. I’m in California right now for Trip’s wedding, but I want you to know that the second I get back to New York —”

  “Hello?” a very sleepy female voice answered, picking up the phone. Oh, my God. Oh. My. God. When I was busy calculating New York time, I instead should have thinking about the fact that Beryl had already moved in, thus, making the plan of drunk dialing Douglas in the middle of the night very, very stupid. Even more stupid than the name Beryl. Okay, nothing’s more stupid than the name Beryl, but you know what I mean.

  There was no mistaking that voice. Even half-asleep, it still had a whiny “Daddy, will you buy me that?” quality to it. With just a touch of screech. It was a half an octave away from being a pitch that only dogs could hear.

  A voice like that could only belong to a woman named Beryl. And I was quite certain that the sound of it was making me even more nauseated than I was before. “Hellooo?” she said, now sounding more awake and more annoyed. I immediately hung up the phone. What on earth was I thinking? How was making a complete fool of myself in the middle of the night taking me any closer to my goal of getting Douglas back?

  Anyway, I thought in my drunken stupor, I just had to wait until Douglas cheated on Beryl (which
he undoubtedly would) and she would leave him so that I could swoop in and reclaim my man and my apartment. There was one flaw with this plan that I refused to see at the time but now in hindsight is crystal clear: it relied on the irrefutable truth that Douglas was, and always would be, a cheater.

  The room still spinning, I decided to shelve all further plans for getting back together with Douglas until I was decidedly more sensible, sound and sober. Now, it was time to go to bed.

  But first, I walked across the gorgeous marble-encrusted bathroom and threw up.

  15

  I was dreaming that I was at Trip’s wedding, talking to Trip. As I spoke to him, my teeth began to fall out of my mouth, one by one. I hoped that no one would notice, but the more I spoke, the more my teeth fell out. As I introduced Jack as Douglas to Trip, one of my teeth went flying out of my mouth and hit the floor with a thump. I fell to the ground, trying to pick up that tooth and the rest of my teeth, but the thumping continued. The more I tried to pick up my teeth, the more thumping I seemed to hear. I woke up in a cold sweat.

  I sat up in bed, thanking all that was holy that my teeth were still in my mouth, but the thumping continued. Dull and far away. Almost like a knock. I finally realized that there actually was knocking on our hotel suite’s door, and jumped out of bed to answer it.

  I walked into the suite’s living room, past Jack and Vanessa, both passed out and drooling all over our eighteenth-century inspired throw pillows, to the door.

  My eyes still drunk with sleep, I could barely see the man standing at the door, but I was almost positive that he was an airport employee delivering my lost luggage. I thanked him and tipped him and practically danced over to the coffee table to put the suitcase down to open it.

  For a minute, I thought that I was still drunk I was so happy, but if I wasn’t already sober, I immediately sobered up. I opened the suitcase and looked at a set of very lovely clothes. Very lovely men’s clothes. Even in my very hungover state, I was pretty sure that they were not mine.