Misery Loves Cabernet Read online

  Misery Loves

  Cabernet

  KIM GRUENENFELDER

  Table of Contents

  Also by the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  To Brian and Alex—who taught me that

  testosterone and estrogen really can coexist

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Kim Whalen, my brilliant literary agent, for encouraging me to write this book, even during months when I would just stare at the computer and sigh. And to Rebecca Oliver for introducing us, and changing my life.

  Thanks to Jennifer Weis, my wonderful editor. Thanks for believing in me, and for believing there’s an audience for women’s fiction not set in New York’s Upper East Side. I’ve got another L.A. comedy for you soon!

  Thanks to Jennifer Good, my awesome film agent, who is making me turn this book series into a pilot. Let’s hope you’re right!

  Thanks to the friends who are willing not only to look at my crappy first draft but also to give honest notes about what needs to be fixed: Gaylyn Fraiche, Carolyn Townsend, Dorothy Kozak, Susan Schofield, and my wonderful husband, Brian Smith.

  Thank you to Joe Keenan for letting me bounce around ideas as we trudged the WGA picket line last year. I am in awe of your talent. And I’m totally stealing your idea for my next protagonist’s man problems! Someone who’s willing to listen to my ten mediocre ideas to get to the one good one is worth his weight in Bollinger.

  Thank you to Irishman Cormac Funge for helping me get all of the Liam nuances correct. You answered every e-mail question about your country, no matter how stupid, and for that you’re worth your weight in good Irish whisky.

  Thanks to my family: Carol (Mom), Ed (Dad), Janis, Jenn, Rob, Jake, Declan, and all of my wonderful aunts, uncles, and cousins. And to my in-laws, who welcomed me with open arms: Caryol, Walter, Bonnie, Toni, Sonia, Eric Sr., Eric Jr., and Kyle.

  Thanks to Elizabeth Porter and her wonderful fiancé, Bryant York, for describing a perfect first date in DUMBO in such amazing detail.

  And, of course, to “the winetasters” (I guess Misery really does love Cabernet)—my female pack: Jen, Dawn, Gaylyn, Christie, Marisa, Missy, Dorothy, Cecily, and Nancy. And to newer friends Susan and Jamie. I treasure all of you.

  And finally, here’s to the next generation of women: Haley, Maibre, Lila, Janni, Emily, Korie, Scarlett, Katie, Adeline, Karina, and Sophia. You guys are going to kick ass, and I can’t wait to be your biggest fan when you do!

  One

  Do not read and reread a man’s text message, or e-mail, or listen to his voice message, over and over again. Do not try to delve into his words for hidden meaning, or call your friends to get their opinions on “what he really means.” It’s a message, not the Constitution—you’re not supposed to study it.

  I’m sitting on my living room couch, an empty bag of Doritos to my right and an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights to my left, writing a book of advice for my future great-granddaughter.

  Why am I writing a book that won’t be read for almost a hundred years? A few months ago, I started thinking about all of the things I wish I had known when I was sixteen and wish I could remember now that I’m thirty.

  I began my book a few months ago by telling her things like:

  You should never have a job that you hate so much you think, “Thank God it’s Friday” every week of your life.

  Not to mention:

  You won’t meet your future husband at a bar.

  And, my favorite:

  Some days are a total waste of makeup.

  In the past week, I’ve come up with a few other pieces of advice I like, such as:

  If you are going to show up at someone’s house unannounced, call at least five minutes in advance. This gives your hostess four minutes to race around the house collecting dirty dishes to throw in the sink, and another minute to plan your death.

  All women think they can utter the following phrase: “If I had a dime for every sane member of my family, I’d have a dime.”

  Never drink wine from a box.

  And just now . . .

  Do not read and reread a man’s text message, or e-mail, or listen to his voice message, over and over again. Do not try to delve into his words for hidden meaning, or call your friends to get their opinions on “what he really means.” It’s a message, not the Constitution—you’re not supposed to study it.

  Which is stupendous advice, if I do say so myself. So stupendous that I must immediately ignore it, walk over to my computer, and stare at the e-mail on my screen:

  Charlie, you’re overthinking this. Have fun at the Halloween party. Talk to whomever you want. As you said before, we’ll figure this out when I get home. No worries.

  xoxo

  J

  Crap. What did Jordan mean when he wrote that? That we’re a couple who trust each other, and therefore I can have fun talking to whomever I want while he’s away in Paris?

  That he likes me, even though I’ve insisted that we should be on a break while he is in Paris?

  That he’s already on the set sleeping with the Second A.D.?

  The past six weeks have been alternately perfect and hideous, and the hideous parts may be my own damn fault. I recently wrote to my great-granddaughter:

  You know what the right thing to do is, even though it’s usually easier (and temporarily more fun) to do the wrong thing.

  The problem is, I don’t even know if I have done the right thing.

  Let me back up. Six weeks ago, after a particularly brutal weekend acting as maid of honor at my little sister’s wedding, I thought I had finally found my perfect guy, my reward for all of my torturous years of dating. Jordan Dumaurier. After several frustrating starts and stops in our relationship, both of us were totally free of our entanglements, and we were now dating each other.

  Those next six weeks should have been bliss. I wasn’t working much, since my boss was out of the country. One of the perks of being a personal assistant to a successful boss is that they sometimes take off for Belize on a moment’s notice, and you get some unexpected free time. So while international movie star Drew Stanton dined on plantains and readjusted his chakras in a Yucatán villa, I got to hang out with my new man and still collect a fat check every week, made out to Charlize Edwards.

  Yes, Drew Stanton. As in the Drew Stanton: Golden Globe winner, Academy Award nominee, “Sexiest Man Alive” . . . complete lunatic.

  But I say that with love. Drew is one of those forces of nature that seem to irreparably change all who enter his sphere of influence. In chaos theory, they refer to this as the butterfly effect. But if Drew is a butterfly, I’m frankly never sure whether to stare at him in a
dmiration or pin him to a corkboard.

  But enough about him, let’s talk about me. And Jordan.

  Jordan’s gig as set still photographer on Drew’s last film ended when the shoot wrapped, so he had time off, too. We spent four delicious weeks holed up in my little house, eating lots of takeout, talking for all hours, and having sex, sex, and more sex.

  Then, the unthinkable happened. He—gasp!—got a job offer. Oh, the horror.

  Yes, I know, I’m being a big baby. People have to work. It’s reality. And I even advised my great-granddaughter:

  Don’t be jealous of spoiled rich kids. If you don’t work, you don’t have honor.

  But here’s the problem: he didn’t actually get one offer, he got two. One was to shoot stills for a film shooting in Los Angeles for the next three months. Taking that job would have allowed us to be in the same city during the holidays. The other job was for a movie shooting in Paris until the end of February. And he had to leave the next day.

  He chose Paris. And I couldn’t help but feel that he had chosen Paris over me.

  I spent the next sixteen hours hanging out with him as he packed, and temporarily breaking up with him.

  I didn’t actually break up with him. What I did was tell him that long-distance relationships don’t work, and that we’d be deluding ourselves if we thought we could weather a four-month split after a four-week courtship. I then quoted the “if it was meant to be” line, and said that when he got home, if we both wanted, we could start up exactly where we left off.

  It all sounded perfectly logical at the time. I’ve worked in the entertainment business for years, and (with the exception of the marrieds) I’ve yet to see a four-month break ever lead to anything but a breakup.

  Ever.

  So, at the time, I felt like I had no choice.

  That said, the moment he left, I backtracked like crazy. My first day alone I worked myself into a tizzy, convinced that the moment he walked off the plane, he would go to the film set and run right into a gorgeous, thin woman with a sexy French accent and her sights set on my hunky American man.

  Oh, she’s out there, and I hate her already. Cheeky little . . .

  Anyway, I have spent the last two weeks continuing to work myself up into a psychological frenzy, and this past hour has been no different. I cannot leave my computer screen for more than two minutes. Gazing at his latest e-mail is like watching a bad car wreck, or the latest Tom Cruise Scientology video—you want to turn away, but you can’t.

  I walk back to my living room, grab my notepad and my unopened cigarettes, head back to my office, look at the screen again, and stew.

  Charlie, you’re overthinking this. Have fun at the Halloween party. Talk to whomever you want. As you said before, we’ll figure this out when I get home. No worries.

  xoxo

  J

  He wrote xoxo, J. Not Love, Jordan. Not even Love, J. Nope—xoxo.

  Okay, yes, it’s better than Cheers! Jordan, or (God forbid) Best, Jordan. Or his initials—JAD—that would be obnoxious.

  But, I don’t know, I use xoxo for the friends I adore, not the man I’m sleeping with.

  Was sleeping with.

  Then dumped for no good reason.

  Scratch that. A very good reason.

  Besides, we’ve never said the L word to each other, and I’d rather hear it in person (preferably when he’s sober and standing up) rather than in an impersonal e-mail.

  My God, if I spent half as much time exercising as I do obsessing about men, I’d weigh what it says on my driver’s license by now.

  I glance over at the pack of cigs and sigh. I also quit smoking six weeks ago. I didn’t do it for Jordan, I did it for me. Well, the first six hours I did for me. After that, my only motivation was the promise of sex whenever I wanted. Which does help with those oral cravings, I must admit.

  But then the sex went to Paris, and now I’m just abstaining because I really enjoy getting road rage, eating enough in a day to sustain a small horse, and constantly wanting to slam my head through a wall.

  My home phone rings. I pick up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  If you ever become a rock star, whether you have one hit or twenty, you are still never entitled to have a CD entitled The Essential Collection.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “That’s my advice for your book,” my best friend Dawn says. “I mean, you know, the Beatles could get away with it. But Hall and Oates? Tom Jones? Please.”

  “Not bad,” I say, writing down her advice.

  “Or The Ultimate Collection,” I hear my other best friend, Kate, say in the background on Dawn’s end of the line.

  “Who has that?” I hear Dawn ask Kate.

  “Shalamar and Ace of Base,” Kate says.

  I hear Dawn mutter “Ugh,” as I ask her, “Where are you guys?”

  “The Grove. Kate dragged me here so we could do a little Christmas shopping.”

  Ah, yes, the last week in October. The week most stores start putting up Christmas decorations—and Kate becomes a raving Christmas lunatic. You would think one of the city’s top political radio show hosts would view the holiday season with a certain sense of perspective and decorum.

  You’d be wrong.

  Last year, Kate’s apartment included one dancing Santa, two Christmas trees, and a life-size flying reindeer.

  “Tell her about the New Year’s resolutions,” I hear Kate say cheerfully.

  “The what?” I ask.

  “Don’t ask,” Dawn says under her breath. “Poor girl’s got issues, and should not be encouraged. Now listen, I got the e-mail you forwarded from Jordan.”

  “Good. What do you think it means?”

  “It means you are one crazy heifer,” Dawn says emphatically. “You’ve become the girl who forwards a man’s e-mail to all of her friends. You made the right decision: get rid of him for now. Men are like trains: one doesn’t just come every twelve minutes, it usually doubles back eight hours later, during the afternoon rush hour.”

  My phone beeps. “Hang on, that’s my call waiting,” I click over. “Hello?”

  “Don’t listen to her!” Kate counters from her cell phone. She’s probably all of two feet away from Dawn. “Breaking up with Jordan just because you’ve had previous problems with long-distance relationships is making him pay for the mistakes of his competitors. It’s important that you greet every relationship with your mind completely open and emptied for the joy that is to come.”

  “Did you just tell Charlie to be an airhead every time she dates a new guy?” I hear Dawn ask incredulously in the background of Kate’s line.

  “You’re paraphrasing my words in a foolish manner to defeat my position of love and openness. This is a reflection of your pain, not a condemnation of my hope. According to this book I’m reading—”

  “Don’t make me come over there with a shoe!” Dawn counters.

  “Well, I’m not going to let you sabotage Charlie’s love life just because you can’t make yourself emotionally available to a man,” Kate says firmly to Dawn.

  “Can you hold on a sec?” I ask Kate.

  “Sure.”

  I click back over to Dawn. “What the hell is she talking about?”

  “I begged her to stay out of the self-help section,” Dawn tells me, and I can almost hear her shaking her head, “but not only did she sneak in, she bought books, took notes, and is trying to drag us into her sick little world. . . .”

  Kate’s voice suddenly comes in loud and clear, meaning she has taken the phone away from Dawn. “Sometime next week, you’re both coming to my house so we can do our New Year’s resolutions.”

  “New Year’s isn’t for more than two months,” I remind her. “And I haven’t finished ignoring the ten pounds I planned to lose last year.”

  “No, no. I just read this amazing book: Dream It, Do It, Deal with It. It’s all about figuring out what you really want in life, then forcing yourself toward your goals every day. One of the tr
icks is to make New Year’s resolutions every month, instead of once a year.”

  “Tell Charlie what the Deal with It part means,” I hear Dawn say dryly.

  I hear Kate sigh. “That’s the negativity talking,” she insists to Dawn.

  “Ya think?” Dawn asks sarcastically.

  “What does the Deal with It mean?” I am curious to know.

  “Oh, that’s for when you get your dreams, but you’re still not happy,” Kate says quickly, trying to skirt over that part. “But I’m telling you, the rest is genius.”

  “Boo, can I have my phone back?” Dawn asks, “I want to text Charlie.”

  “Sure,” Kate says. “Charlie, click back over to my phone.”

  I click back to Kate’s phone, and hear Dawn hang up. “You really think Jordan still likes me?” I ask Kate.

  “Of course he does,” Kate assures me.

  My iPhone gives me a little explosion to let me know I have a new text. Hoping to God it’s Jordan, and not following my earlier advice to my great-granddaughter:

  Don’t wait by the phone.

  I immediately click on my text inbox to see Dawn’s number, followed by the message:

  Blow him out of the water, and leave him for dead.

  What are you wearing to the Halloween party? Be sexy, but not desperate.

  Love,

  Dawn

  P.S. (Note how I did not dare write xoxoD)

  That’s easy for her to say. Dawn is stunningly beautiful. The product of three interracial marriages (her grandparents are Hispanic, Jewish, Japanese, and African American), she seems to have swum through the world’s largest gene pool, and come out perfect. Well, not perfect. She flunked Physics back when we were in college together. But I’ve yet to hear a man ask her about that.

  Don’t obsess about your looks, but don’t ignore them, either. Potential suitors can’t see your brain from across the room.