Love the Wine You're With Page 3

  “Oh. Well, can she return it? Because the money—”

  “It was a disease. I have this booty call in Vegas, and apparently she sees other dudes when I’m not in town.”

  I make a note on the list of bills. “Which would explain the ten-thousand-dollar cash withdrawal in Henderson…”

  “She’s worth it. Do you know what the girlfriend experience is?”

  I look up. “She makes you miss football on Sunday to go antiquing?”

  “You’re funny, Jess. Oh … but you should be proud of me here … she’s totally comping me the next time I’m in town because of that … uh … gift she gave me.”

  “Clearly, she’s a woman of character,” I tell him as I scroll down more expenses. Then I ask. “Back to the flowers. You and your girlfriend are having four bouquets delivered twice a week from the most expensive florist in Beverly Hills.”

  Now Chad looks irritated. “Yeah?”

  Deep breaths, Jessie. “Okay, well, for example, one of the bouquets, the peonies, cost six hundred and twenty-seven dollars. Now, if you could go for only having flowers delivered once a week…”

  “Oh, please. These are minor changes. You might as well tell me not to go to Starbucks for a Venti Mocha. Give me a big item to cross off the list.”

  “Big item! You got it! You spent one hundred and twenty thousand dollars last month on ‘entertainment.’ If you could bring that down to even forty thousand a month…”

  Chad pulls out his phone, pressing a button as he stands up to let himself out. “You know what? I’m late to a thing. You’ll figure it out.” As he walks out without so much as a good-bye, I hear him tell the person on the other end of the phone, “Linda. Send my accountant Jessica some peonies.”

  10:00 A.M.

  I want to firebomb my building.

  On the other side of my desk now sits Methuselah and his trophy wife, Tiffani, who’s dressed like a sex doll, and dots her i’s with hearts. (I’m not being a bitch; her official signature has hearts on it. Okay, I am being a bitch—but how can I not be? Seriously!)

  “So I understand why you paid for a reverse vasectomy,” I tell Methus … Mr. Kennedy.

  “He needed it so we could have children,” Tiffani practically spits out at me.

  “Of course. And mazel tov, by the way. I’m sure you’ll make an amazing mother.”

  And he’ll make an amazing great grandfather. Nope, need this job.

  “Now what I’m unclear on is why you’re still spending money every month on maintenance for sperm you froze in the 1990s.”

  Mr. Kennedy’s eyes nearly pop out at me as Tiffani asks me, “What does that mean? Maintenance on sperm he froze?”

  I nervously look over at Mr. Kennedy. He pleads with me with his eyes. I take a deep breath and tell her, “My mistake. It’s just a medical expense.”

  “Daddy Issues” turns to her husband. “This is why we need a man accountant. She doesn’t understand what a medical expense is.”

  “Mrs. Kennedy, I assure you that any accountant in the city will tell you that Juvederm and Botox injections are not medical expenses…”

  “But I need them for my job.”

  “Oh. Are you working?”

  “Yes. I’m his wife. I have to look good for his client dinners.”

  Methuselah closes his eyes, lowers his chin, and appears to drift off to sleep.

  11:00 A.M.

  I wonder if it’s too late to get into hooking? Nah. I’d still have to deal with the Chads and the Methuselahs of the world.

  My next client comes in with a full-on crew: including a director of photography (DP), lighting guy, gaffer, and two hair and makeup people.

  Oh, and a director. Who, as the gaffer and DP set up lights around my office, tells me, “So the feeling here is aspirational. I need you to let the audience know how rich Gretchen is without actually saying it.”

  Did I mention that my client is a reality star known mostly for a sex tape she made before marrying a sitcom star? Or maybe she made the sex tape with a famous sitcom star and then married her husband? Or her dad defended a famous murd … Well, anyway, only in L.A. could an accountant come back from a secret donut and two-minute coffee break to a lighting crew and a guy putting black tape on her carpet and showing her her mark.

  “But she’s not rich. She declared bankruptcy last year,” I point out to the director. Then I turn to Gretchen and say gently, “You do know you’re not rich, right?”

  Before she can say anything, the director says, “Love it! So just talk to Gretchen like you would any other client who’s wasting money. Maybe give her a lecture, so our viewers can feel superior, yet make it clear this is how she lives, so they can want to be like her.”

  I think I can manage that.

  Is it too early to start drinking?

  Chapter Four

  JESSIE

  I’m going to guess we’re not really having a fight over the color beige.

  “I hate beige,” my boyfriend, Kevin, whispers to me, so as not to be heard by our real estate agent. We are staring at the beige Formica counters in what will soon be our new kitchen. In what will, in just a few weeks, be our new home.

  Okay, I will admit, the counters are a special kind of “Yikes!” No doubt from the back of a van “closeout special” from 1986. I’m surprised it doesn’t come with a Nagel poster at no extra charge. But that’s no reason not to buy a house.

  “And I hate orange,” I whisper back, making sure I keep my voice calm and soothing, “with the fire of a thousand suns, which is ironic, since they would be orange. And all of the tiles in the guest bathroom are orange. But I don’t care. Because we can replace these counters and rip out those tiles. Haven’t you ever seen HGTV? Entire shows are made about ripping out tiles and counters.”

  “You sound frustrated,” Kevin whispers back.

  Gee, Kevin, ya’ think?! I scream in exasperation. But only in my head. From my mouth comes an exceedingly calm, “We’ve been looking at houses for six months. This is the best one we’ve found. The offer’s been accepted. We did it. Yay.”

  Kevin sighs as he rubs his fingers over the stained counter. “At least with orange you have a color that presents itself: ‘I’m orange. Deal with it. Like me or hate me, it’s who I am.’ Beige, on the other hand, says”—he switches to a whine—“‘I can’t make a decision. I’m just going to sit in the corner with the lights out and be the most boring color on the planet.’”

  “It’s just a counter.”

  “It’s not just a counter. It’s a compromise. And I don’t want to compromise. It’s bad enough I’m an accountant. Do I also have to be an accountant who comes home to a beige kitchen every day?”

  Kevin’s face is so contorted, he looks like he’s in physical pain. I sigh and try to decide how to deal with his latest freak-out. (A quick lesson to you singletons out there: Just because a man’s calm does not mean he’s not freaking out.)

  How’d I get myself into this hideously uncomfortable moment in my life?

  The way so many uncomfortable moments start for a woman in her thirties: with someone else’s wedding.

  Six months ago, during a three-day weekend in Napa for a friend’s wedding that wasn’t the least bit fraught with, “Why isn’t it us?” (right—you show me a woman who has been with a guy for over two years who is not secretly upset at another woman’s wedding, and I’ll show you a unicorn), Kevin got a bit giddy one night on too much champagne and suggested we start looking at houses.

  That night, he gave me lots of great reasons for us to pool our resources and buy: Interest rates were still low, we could find a nice fixer-upper three-bedroom in an up-and-coming neighborhood. Since we’re both accountants with stable jobs who are relatively frugal with money, why keep wasting thousands of dollars per month on two rents, when we could be investing in our futures with one mortgage payment? His hypothesis was completely logical—and not the least bit romantic.

  What I heard was, “I’m re
ady to get married! Let’s test the waters with a house. And let’s make sure we have a second and third bedroom for our laughing babies.”

  The rest of the weekend became wildly romantic, and the following weekend, we began looking at houses.

  Ew. Shopping for houses is the exact antithesis of romantic. It’s one of those moments where your dream of where you want to be in your life crashes down like a tidal wave onto where you actually are. Kevin found problems with every single home. One house had no air-conditioning. One condominium had enclosed hallways (“I’m not spending the next twenty years of my life smelling Grandma Rosa’s old spaghetti sauce from 2005”). One town house only had one parking spot. Some places were too expensive; others required too much fixing up. I was beginning to think I would be in rental and dating limbo forever. And I would never say it out loud, but I was starting to resent him for wasting every weekend of my life not moving us forward.

  Then, just yesterday, we finally found the perfect home. It had been owned by the same couple for fifty-five years. After their mother died, the kids wanted to sell quickly. The house hadn’t even gone on the market yet, but our Realtor knew their Realtor. The sellers were asking at least sixty thousand below market value, provided we make them an offer immediately. It had three bedrooms. Yes, one bedroom had two burn holes shaped like an iron that melted through the most hideous bronze carpet you’ve ever seen, another had a giant gold bathtub in the middle of the room (and cherubs peeing hot and cold running water), and the third smelled like a yeast infection. But the living room was huge, the walls had sconces, and it was up in the hills of Highland Park, with an amazing view of the city.

  I was ecstatic. Kevin less so. But we made an offer on the spot for the asking price, and they accepted.

  And now, less than twenty-four hours later, here was Kevin, standing in the middle of our soon to be beige kitchen, about to argue that we should keep looking.

  “I just think we should keep looking,” he says predictably. “We haven’t put any money into escrow yet, and this is our last chance to back out.”

  I inhale a deep breath and try to stay calm. “I can have new counters put in the week we move in. Pick whatever color you want. Hell, at this point, you can pick orange.”

  “You mean the week you move in,” Kevin corrects me. “I’m in Frankfurt for work starting next month. Do you really want to be going through the hassle of buying a house, plodding through all the subsequent paperwork, then moving, all by yourself?”

  YES! I want to scream. I’m desperate to move forward with my life. And if not now, when? But instead all I can squeeze out is a defeated, “Okay.”

  I utter a lot of defeated “okays” lately.

  Sometimes I say them aloud (like now), but mostly I say them to myself every day when responding to my inner monologue.

  Innermost thought: You can’t take that pottery class. You don’t really have time for it, and you’d suck anyway.

  “Okay.”

  You don’t need to go to Italy this year. Venice will still be there next year, and by then you’ll have more money to enjoy it.

  “Okay.”

  Kevin’s the best you’re ever going to do. And if you don’t agree with him, he’ll leave you over this.

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Kevin is driving me back to my office. I stare out the passenger’s window, in a daze, watching house after house on the hill whizz by.

  “Are you mad at me?” Kevin asks gently.

  Mad? That’s the wrong word. He breaks my heart every day, but I’m not mad at him. I’m not anything anymore. I used to get mad when he wouldn’t talk about marriage; now I’m just deadened to it.

  Defeated.

  It’s like, every day that we don’t buy a house and move in together, and every day that he doesn’t propose, or talk about kids, he wins the fight. And I lose the fight.

  It’s not a yelling, crying, throwing things kind of fight, it’s much quieter. But make no mistake—this is a fight. One of the biggest fights a couple can have.

  And after almost an entire year of losing the battle and feeling emotionally beat up every single day, I’m no longer angry. I just have no fight left in me. I want to limp off the battlefield and head back to my castle to lick my wounds.

  After several moments of silence, I finally lie to him with a succinct, “No.”

  Sensing he’s not on solid ground here, Kevin asks, “Do you understand why I think we just need a little more time?”

  To which I say, “Sure.”

  But really, of course not! And if he knew me even vaguely he would know that all that is racing through my head right now is, Time. How much time? A week? A year? Another three years?

  Up until this point, I have never understood women who gave their boyfriends ultimatums: As far as I was concerned, if a guy didn’t want to be with me, I didn’t want to be with him. And why would I want to have a wedding with a guy who had been strong-armed into it?

  And yet … Three years is a long time. At what point will he realize that I won’t wait around forever? And will he ever realize it on his own, with no prodding from me? Is an ultimatum really strong-arming someone? Or is it just a clarification of what everyone wants in life? “I want to be married. You either do or you don’t. And if you don’t, well … Peace. I’m moving on.”

  Kevin takes my hand and kisses it lightly. “Can I take you to dinner? Anywhere you want.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t,” I tell him apologetically. “I’m meeting Nat and Holly at Wine O’Clock tonight. The owner sold it, and tonight’s the last night it will ever be open.”

  “Right. I forgot,” Kevin says softly. “I love you,” he reminds me.

  “I love you too,” I answer back, almost by rote, as I watch a little white house on the hill pass by my window.

  I wonder who lives in that house. Is it some couple who decided six months into their relationship that they wanted to be together forever? Is it some fifty-year-old bachelor who was never able to make a commitment, and he still rents, because he’ll never grow up? Is it a single woman who one day said to herself, “Fuck it! I don’t need to be married to own a house”?

  I turn to Kevin. He looks sad. Which I feel bad about, even though it’s not my fault. “You can come with us tonight if you want,” I tell him, hoping to God he doesn’t take me up on my offer.

  “No. It’s your girls’ night,” he answers. “I get it. Besides, I have some work I should finish up tonight. Make up for my long lunch hour and all that.”

  “Okay.”

  More silence in the car.

  “When I get back from Frankfurt—”

  “I know,” I say, cutting him off.

  “It’s only four months…”

  “I know that too.”

  Kevin stops talking.

  Just propose, I think to myself. Let me know that I’m the one. That it’s not me, it’s the house. That I’m enough. That I deserve to get my wedding and my two kids and my trip to Italy for our honeymoon. And, yes, my home. Our home.

  I force a sad smile toward him. He forces an awkward smile back.

  And don’t do it because I prodded. Do it because you want to marry me. Do it because you’re ready.

  “There’s an open house I’d love to go to Sunday, over in Silverlake,” Kevin says. “I figured we could go to brunch afterward.”

  The smiling is starting to hurt. “Sounds great,” I say, trying to drum up some enthusiasm.

  And the holding pattern continues. Today, once again, he wins.

  Chapter Five

  NAT

  How the hell can a thirty-two-year-old woman explain still having sex in the back of a car?

  Okay, if I were happily married with a couple of kids, I suppose that could be cool and retro. But I’m not, so it isn’t. Although I am doing it with a married man.

  And yes, I frequently hate myself. And yes, I’m an idiot.

  Just like every other wo
man who ever has dated a married man. Because we’re all idiots, and I’m the first to admit it (admitting it is the first step to recovery, right?).

  Marc is charming, handsome, and athletic (but not annoyingly so), and has the sexiest accent on the planet. Actually, French is probably the sexiest, but British is a close second. Marc went to Cambridge, and listening to him is kind of like listening to Prince William speak.

  Of course, also like Prince William, he’s married.

  Sigh.

  So, how the hell did I get myself into this mess?

  It started as a harmless crush. I am the head writer for Million Dollar Genius! (can’t forget the !), a game show known for its difficult trivia questions and ridiculously high cash prizes. Last year, a woman won three million dollars in the time it took for us to tape four episodes. She was able to name the seventeenth president off the top of her head (Andrew Johnson), as well as the date of his inauguration (April 15, 1865), the numbers on the hatch from Lost (4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42), and the first thing ever bought on eBay (a broken laser pointer). I can’t remember where I put my keys on a good day, or where I stashed my birth control pills on a bad day.

  Marc (with a c—I love that!) brought the show over from England two years ago and recruited me from another trivia show, where I swear I had men—good-looking, smart, nice men—surrounding me all day, and was never the least bit tempted. I promise I’m not usually a slutbag. This is so not like me.

  I left my other job because Marc offered me a promotion with a better salary, better benefits, and a better contract. It had nothing to do with his clear emerald-colored eyes, his contagious smile, or his hug-inducing chest. Or his suits. He wears really fantastic suits. While most creative types in Hollywood seem to live in jeans, Marc wears tailored Savile Row suits on days when we tape the show. (Why is it that American men don’t know that when a man looks good in a suit, the sight of him coaxes most women into thinking about how to get him out of said suit?)

  Anyway, so yes, I did notice the eyes, the face, the body, the clothes, the accent, the wicked sense of humor, the charm, the intelligence, and his rather citrusy cologne that first year. But I also noticed the wedding ring, and that was enough to keep me from getting too close. We were friends for almost a year before anything got dangerous.