The Gift Bag Chronicles, page 26
“Very poetic,” I say. “But wasn’t all this in the CADs she and Jay signed off on?”
“‘CADs’? You mean as in computer-animated drawings that are normal standard operating procedure for every event producer? Well, no, they didn’t sign off on the CADs because Patrice couldn’t be bothered to look at the CADs,” he says, sounding even angrier.
“Sorry, I forgot. Well, if it’s any consolation, she doesn’t like our —”
“But my biggest problem is, and why I called you,” he says, cutting me off. “Is that she’s got a list that’s heading toward seven hundred, which, even given your usual RSVP–no-show ratio, is still way too high for the three-hundred-person event she’s contracted for. The three-hundred-person event, which I’ve permitted with the fire department, the police department, and the valet, bar, and catering staff.”
“Yeah, I know the list is a problem,” I say, reaching for another chocolate. “But I also know that it’s a complete wish list on her part. We’re going to be lucky to have forty people at this rate.”
“Forty is better than seven hundred.”
I sigh. “Look, I’m going into a meeting now about it. Let me call you afterward. Meanwhile, just know that we got our electronic finally nailed down. In addition to Access Hollywood, we have The Insider.”
There’s a pause. “At least something’s going the way it’s supposed to.”
At least he sounds less angry.
“Look, it’s always bad at this stage, you know that,” I say, trying to sound conciliatory. I close my eyes. Oh, go for it. “So how was your Thanksgiving, by the way?”
“Actually, it’s not always this bad,” he says, ignoring my olive branch. “This is especially bad, and after Friday, I’m out. You do another event with her, don’t call me. I’m serious. Life’s too short.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” I blurt out, and realize I am. Sorry. For all of it. For Patrice being so out of control. For the event being such a nightmare. But mostly for having thought we could move the boundaries of our friendship without losing something. If I could put it all back, go back to being friends and colleagues, I would do it in a heartbeat. Sex is easy; friendship is the killer.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, adding quickly, before either of us can say anything more, “Look, I have to go.”
The rest of the day, the week, is a blur. But then it usually is right before a major event. Like a NASA shuttle launch. Everything is in countdown mode. After my call to Oscar, we have our staff meeting to collectively bleat and moan about The List. It’s like Goldilocks. Too big, too small, at the same time.
“What exactly do they think this party is supposed to be?” Allie says, scanning Patrice’s latest memo. “The Oscars meets Fashion Week? Like we’re seriously going to get J.Lo and Tom Ford,” she says, looking up and shaking her head.
“Maybe Tom Ford,” I say. “But only if Andrew makes the call, and according to Patrice, he’s declining to call anyone.”
“For seventy-five grand, you’d think they might be willing to do a little more heavy lifting,” Jill says.
“Try any heavy lifting,” says Steven. “I mean, between their nonexistent budget, the no-cars no-hairstylist no-graft rule, we’re screwed.”
“Well, I think there’s only one answer,” I say, scanning the various lists — our original list, Patrice’s amended lists, and our RSVPs to date.
“Wrangler?” Steven says. “I mean, I’d almost pay the ten grand myself to drop this in someone else’s lap, to conjure celebs out of thin air.”
“Is there any chance they’d pay for that?” Allie says, tossing Patrice’s memo to the table. “I mean, I’m killing myself on my contacts, but almost everybody is already out of town.”
“I’ll check with Amanda,” I say, “but let’s not get our hopes up.”
“So what are we going to do?” Maurine says, looking genuinely worried. So cute. So young. So earnest.
I shake my head. “Worry not, ladies. There’s a reason diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”
In the end, which is to say less than twenty-four hours later, Lucienne comes through. Just like I hoped. Maybe she just gets it. I mean, her job is celebrity liaison for the whole diamond industry. Or maybe she just wants another two hours on the red carpet being photographed with Gwynnie et al., draped in her swag, especially since there’s no gift bag to remind everyone who really sponsored the evening. Whatever her reasons, she stepped up to the plate. Bumped up the “gift” for the six key host committee members from studs to a new “Third Eye” diamond pendant retailing for north of ten thousand dollars.
“Oh, my God, we can totally hit the whole Kabbalah crowd with this,” Allie said the morning Lucienne sent over one of the necklaces.
“Do we get to wear them too?” Jill says, fingering the necklace.
“Hardly,” I say, reading Lucienne’s accompanying memo. “We get diamond studs or drops — three-quarter-carat — or a solitaire pendant to wear during the party, all of which must be returned at the end of the party.”
“Cinderella, Cinderella,” Allie chants, trying on the necklace, which does look pretty amazing. “I’m feeling really, really centered with this on,” she says, closing her eyes and holding her forefingers and thumbs in the Om circle.
“Even you?” Jill says, looking up. “I can’t believe you don’t get to keep the earrings.”
I shrug. At this point, I just want to get this party over and out of our lives. Swag is the last thing I’m worried about. “Trust me, I do not need a piece of jewelry to remind me of Patrice.”
“I don’t know, I think I could live with her memory if I got to keep this,” Allie says, stroking the necklace.
“Sweetie, I hate to turn you back into a pumpkin, but we have to get moving,” I say, scanning the new list of potential host committee members. If we can get two-thirds of these names, we should squeak this one out. Whether the party is any fun or not is another matter entirely. In the end, all you need for a successful event is the perception of it. Which means the right people on the red carpet talking to the right electronic. “Okay,” I say, looking up. “Everyone work with Lucienne on this list and give me a status report by the end of the day, before we send out the next tip sheet.”
“Where are you going?” Allie says, unclasping the necklace.
“From the frying pan into the fire,” I say, turning for the door. “To the walk-through with Patrice and Oscar.”
There are actually three walk-throughs before Friday, an average of one a day, which is about right. Mostly these are Oscar’s dog and pony shows — “and here’s where the portable toilets go” — but given his dark mood, I’m giving him and them a wide berth until the last possible minute. I skip the Tuesday walk-through with Patrice and Jay. Ditto for the one Wednesday with Lucienne. And on Thursday, there’s supposed to be a final walk-through with all of us — Patrice, Jay, Lucienne, Charles, Andrew, if he chooses to attend. Except when Charles’s flight is delayed at the last minute or he’s delayed for some dinner he has to attend, that walkthrough gets moved.
“I’m not doing it twice because Prince Charles can’t make Thursday,” Oscar says. “I’m rescheduling for Friday.”
“Isn’t that cutting it a little close?” I say.
“Thursday’s cutting it close. What’s a few more hours?” he says. “I’ll see you guys at noon.”
Friday arrives like the eye of the storm. Cold, blazingly sunny, not a cloud in the sky. But then the actual day of an event is always strangely calmer than the days, weeks, leading up to it. You have your media or you don’t. You have your talent or you don’t. In our case, the media are no problem. I’ve already got Allie and Maurine set to spend part of the afternoon laying out the rope line and place markers where everyone goes. The Insider gets the lead position, followed by the other electronic, and then print. It’s like a seating chart, and while not every publicity agency runs events this way, we do. Just avoids confusion and fights, and there’s enough of that on the carpet without adding to it.
As for our talent, well, on paper we look good. Better than good. Lucienne’s necklaces really were the tipping point — a fistful of actresses who are this year’s Oscar contenders. Nothing like getting your diamond-bedecked mug on TV right before the Academy ballots go out. Still, I know you can have thirty celebs confirmed and no way of guaranteeing that any of them will actually show. It’s not like an awards show or the Vanity Fair and Miramax Oscar parties, when you know everyone will turn up and it’s only a matter of keeping people out. For any party lower down the totem pole, there’s always that come-to-Jesus moment, when you’re on the carpet, the media in place, and no one’s there yet, and you’re sweating bullets, just praying someone, even a C-lister, shows.
But that’s still hours off when I pull up to the house just before noon. With no valets and the driveway still jammed with trucks and vans, I park on the street and make my way up the drive. I haven’t been here in a few days, and Oscar’s really made headway. The cherry red carpet is unfurled down the drive, and behind it, two of his crew are installing the step-and-repeat emblazoned with Cs and the Diamond Council’s logos.
“Hey, you guys,” I say as I head up the carpet, my heels sinking into its cushiony recesses.
“The man’s inside,” one of them says, turning to me. “And by the way, he’s not happy.”
“Wouldn’t expect it any other way,” I say, giving them a cheery wave. Should only get more festive once Patrice and Charles show. I push through the front door and am greeted with the usual deafening sounds of sawing and hammering. The room is totally empty except for a huge white shag carpet, white sheers at the windows, and about three pieces of white and chrome leather furniture. For a second I flash back to Jeffrey’s wedding in September. It’s like thinking about first grade. How simple and easy Jennifer and her silly latticed tents seem compared to this. How simple and easy my job then seems compared to now.
“Congratulations, you’re the first to arrive,” Oscar says behind me. I whip around. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since Barry’s Scrabble party, and my pulse jumps.
“Here,” he says, handing me a take-out coffee. “We had an extra.”
“Thanks,” I say, reaching for the cup. At least he’s being civil, if a tad brusque. “So where are we on our punch list?” I say, deciding to play it safe and head right for the business at hand.
He eyes me over his cup, wiping one hand on his T-shirt. “‘Punch list’? That’s such contractor lingo,” he says, smiling at me. Or is he laughing at me?
“You know what I mean,” I say.
“Yeah, I do, and it’s not ‘our’ punch list. It’s mine, and other than the generators that can’t be moved because there is nowhere else to move them, I am up to speed with Her Highness’s requests. Of course, that was twelve hours ago, and I’m sure she has more today.”
“Well, it looks amazing,” I say, gazing around the room. He might be civil, but he’s definitely not his old self. “It actually reminds me of something.”
“Lobby of the Mondrian? Every other party you’ve been to in the past year?”
I turn back, startled. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“I’m saying it,” he says, waving dismissively at the sea of white. “It’s way too Ian Schrager. But this is what every New Yorker thinks is L.A. Like the beach is just around every corner. I mean, why didn’t they just hold this at the hotel, light some fucking fig candles, and call it a day?”
I’m about to murmur something appropriately sympathetic back when my cell goes. I check the number. Charles. “Hey,” I say, clicking on, “where are you?”
“In the car on the way to the office,” he says, sounding rushed. “I’m meeting Patrice there. We need to massage the list some more. Keep working the phones. Which means we’ll have to do the walk-through later. Say, sixish.”
“Sixish?” I yelp. “Wow, that’s cutting it really close.” This is insane. Yes, there’s always a final, final walk-through right before an event starts. But given Patrice’s proclivities for last-minute meddling, and the fact that she hasn’t been to the site since Tuesday, a 6:00 P.M. walk-through for an 8:00 event is a disaster in the making.
“Look, there’s no time to argue,” he says. “Get Oscar to walk you through it now since you’re there and then head back here to help. I’ll see you there.”
We hang up, and I turn to Oscar. “Uh, there seems to be —”
“Let me guess — they’re not coming,” he says, crumpling his empty coffee cup.
“Not until later,” I say, my voice small. “I’m sorry.”
“No skin off my nose,” he says, turning for the door. “I’m here all day anyway.”
He leaves me standing in the living room. My cell goes again. Steven. “Yes, I’ve heard, I’m on my way back,” I say before he can say anything.
“I’m quitting after Friday,” he says. “I’m fucking quitting. She’s in the conference room, hallucinating. Russell Crowe. Cate Blanchett—”
“Cate’s on our list.”
“Not anymore. Her assistant just called and said she can’t make it.”
“At least she called.”
“I’m telling you, start thinking about my severance package.”
“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say, clicking off. So much for the eye of the storm. So much for any of these prima donnas. “Hey,” I call after Oscar. “I might as well see it since I’m here.”
“Yeah,” he yells from somewhere down the hall. “I’ll send one of the guys to walk you through it. I’m going out.”
“How many of these are actually confirmed now?”
“You can see for yourself. Those are all the RSVPs.”
Charles looks at the list and scowls. “I’m with Patrice, this doesn’t look all that deep. I mean, with bona fide A-listers. If Cate canceled this afternoon, who’s to say the others won’t.”
I look up from my desk. It’s almost five. We’ve been at this list, phoning, cajoling, pleading, for hours. In the end, Patrice broke down and offered to send cars for the six key host committee members. “Look,” I say. “It’s going to be what it’s going to be at this point. It’s time to stop chasing the dragon. Besides, I have to go home and change.”
He tosses the list to my desk. “All right, we’ll just have to see how the chips fall.”
“Yes, we will, as we do on every event,” I say, reaching for my bag. “You want to come with me and leave your stuff at the house while I change?”
“Umm, I’m actually not staying over,” he says, checking his watch. “I’m catching the red-eye back.”
“What? I thought you were spending the weekend here. That’s what we talked about. What I had planned on.”
I can’t believe he’s going back tonight. And that he’s only just telling me now. So much for the party — he’ll have about an hour before he has to leave for the airport — and so much for our weekend together.
“Well, Mom decided to move the family holiday party to this Saturday, and I have to be back for it since I won’t be there for Christmas,” he says, coming over and putting his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t be mad. I’ll be back in a week. In fact, why don’t you come with me tonight?”
“You know I can’t do that,” I say sulkily, since we both know I’ll be working the party to the bitter end. “Can’t you at least go in the morning?”
“Look, I only came out to walk Andrew in. So he feels like the troops have been massed. You’ll be fine. As you say, it will be what it will be at this point.”
I don’t know which is more upsetting — his saying he only came out to walk Andrew in, his acting like the party is already a failure, or his complete disregard for including me in his plans. I know I came to a realization about our relationship while I was on the Cape dealing with Helen, but it’s not like I ever discussed it with him. Given how busy we’ve been and our usual opposite coast living arrangements, I figured Hawaii would be the first chance we’d have to really talk. But clearly I’ve been fooling myself about our relationship for a long time now. It’s obvious he and I have two different definitions of what a relationship is. What intimacy is. I mean, the man I’m supposed to be spending Christmas with — and in Hawaii, no less — is acting like my boss, not my boyfriend.
“All right, fine,” I say, turning for the door. “You want to at least ride with me over to the party?”
“Actually, I’m going with Patrice to get Andrew and Amanda at the hotel,” he says, checking his watch again. “We’re meeting for a quick calm-the-nerves drink. So why don’t we all meet at the house at, say, sixish?”
“Sure,” I say, not even bothering to protest. “See you at six.”
17
Inside Access Limited
I don’t take it as a good sign that the first person I see when I pull up to the house — other than the valets gathering at the curb like a flock of birds and the waiters rushing up the drive, jackets and ties thrown over their shoulders — is the Chinese Olympian, in a tiny white satin dress, long black ponytail, and spike heels, picking her way up the red carpet. The media haven’t even arrived — even Jill, Maurine, Allie, and the rest of our staff aren’t here yet — but Oscar’s latest is here. I swear, if she’s a lesbian, I’m reconsidering my sexual orientation.
“I know what you’re thinking, and I’m telling you, you’re wrong.”
I whip around. Steven cruises up behind me, putting his arm around my waist. “Besides, that whole Susie Kwan look is such a cliché.”
I shake my head. “Nice to know our party planner brought his own date.”
“She’s not his date,” he says, putting his mouth close to my ear. “She’s an early guest. Look at it that way. She’s another pretty face to put on camera. Besides, if you want to worry about something, worry about Patrice bad-mouthing us to Andrew.”
