The Real Real (15 page)

If we crop it well, it’ll look like the front door to a mansion. Ben!”

“
Drew.
” I turn to him mock-stern. “You’re going to sit on the toilet. If we crop it well, you’ll look like you’re sitting at a fancy French restaurant.”

“
Jesse,
” he says right back. “You’re going to get in the fountain. If we frame it right, it’ll look like an Olympic pool.”

We lean against each other in hysterics, eyes watering.

“Wait, wait,” I say, my hand on his shoulder, my other holding my stomach. “I can’t ruin my makeup. I don’t have the patience.”

We straighten up, panting. “It does look good,” he says. “Pretty. I mean, you look pretty.”

“Thank you. I dig your tie.” I touch one of the tiny heart-holding penguins.

“Thanks. It’s mine.”

“I cannot say that about a single thing on my person.”

“Drew, over here.”
Zacheria commandeers Kara’s bullhorn.
“Get
out
of the limo.
Walk
to the door. Jesse, you
wait.
Wait
for a beat. Feel it.
Feel
for the moment. Like
you’re not standing there. And then answer. He’ll give
you roses. Take his arm to the limo—sparkle, sparkle,
147

fairy dust—we’ll pick up filming when you arrive at
the restaurant in the city. Got it?”

I nod and shut the Wootens’ back door, waiting for the moment that’ll make it seem like I’m not waiting. And then, when I arc it open, though I know it’s powdered Drew in the product placement suit, and though I know Jenny just handed him the flowers, I lose my breath, I lose my place. And I let him take my arm all the way to the limo. He opens the door for me, and I slide in for a real date, at a real restaurant.

But we get no farther than the end of the drive before the limo suddenly does a U-turn and goes back to the Wootens’ front door, where Kara and three production assistants pile in. Kara plops herself between us while the other three squash in across and commence swapping black nail polish and chattering about East Village rents, Williamsburg bars, and Greenpoint STD clinics. Drew and I stare out opposite windows, studiously ignoring words like
itchy
and
ooze
that get bandied about our heads.

“It’s awesome to be out of the van,” Kara says, slouching down. Within moments she’s snoring—and drooling—on my shoulder.

Three hours of epic over-sharing later, the limo pulls up at a large town house on Fifty-second Street in Manhattan. “The Twenty-one Club!” a refreshed Kara cheers off her third bottle of Frappuccino in ten minutes. Nico and Jase’s limo is parked ahead of us. “I love this place,” Kara 148

says, smiling up at the wrought-iron porch on the first floor, lined with small painted jockeys. “Real old New York. Fletch wanted something in the meatpacking district, but I’m, like, that could be anywhere. And since I won a certain bet about you this morning”—she pokes me in the side—“I got to pick.” Blushing, I follow her out of the limo and onto the sidewalk as the crew runs lighting equipment and sandbags inside. “Bacall and Bogart had their first date here. Howard Hughes hung out here.

Alfred Hitchock—the real deal.”

I pick up the hem of my silk dress and follow Kara down the steps, under the ornate wrought-iron awning, and into an old-fashioned saloon, the ceiling blanketed in model airplanes from the twenties and thirties. We weave our way through the cashmere-wrapped customers having a warming drink to the small stairwell and up past three flights of dining rooms. “We took the top floor.

Thank God it’s off-season. Okay, you guys can pop a squat here.” She points to a banquette by the stairwell. “We’ll be shooting you in shifts. Nico and Jase are having their romantic dinner through there.” She points stewardess-style to quilted leather double doors a few feet away. “We’ve been covering it with a skeleton crew, but now we’re really going to load in. Stay quiet. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to have you guys start your date.” Kara disappears through the doors.

Left alone, Drew and I are suddenly both fascinated by the framed nineteenth-century melon prints on either 149

side of us. Because it’s one thing to be told to dress up, to give flowers, accept flowers, but to have it described as
our
date right in front of us is mortifying. Falling somewhere between fake invitation Snoopy dance and the inspection of my disappearing boobs.

I slip off my coat and we take our seats on the tufted peach toile beneath the low-lit chandelier as Ben and his team run past with equipment.

“So,” Drew says, fidgeting with his cuff links.

“So,” I say, fidgeting with my bracelet.

“What did you do for Valentine’s last year?” he asks.

I pivot away from him to stretch my legs out long on the banquette, my dress’s slippery fabric fanning toward the floor. “Caitlyn and I made a red velvet cake and watched
The Notebook
. You?”

“I bought my ex some pricey chocolate from that gourmet store in Bridgehampton. Then we got in a fight and she threw it out of the car.”

“See, now that’s real,” I say, surprised he’s brought her up and hoping he might say more about her fight-instigation and irrational snack defenestration.

Suddenly we both sit straight up, cocking our heads like rodents.

“
French fries,
” Drew says, identifying the captivating aroma. “God, I’m starving.”

“See if they’re eating—see if they’re done—ask when we eat.” I propel him to action.

Drew Scooby Doo tiptoes to the quilted doors to look 150

through the porthole windows. He lifts the felt flaps the crew’s taped up over the glass circles and stares in.

“Well?” I whisper.

“We’re screwed—they’re only on their shrimp cocktail.”

“
That we can see.
” I scamper over to him. “This might be the third time they’re eating it. They may have had steak and dessert and now they’re re-doing the appetizers.

You never know. Let’s see if we can order something to eat while we wait.”

He spins to me. “Okay, you.” He takes my elbow and gently guides me back to the banquette. “Sit tight.” With a salute he disappears down the stairwell.

I do. I sit tight and swing my heels, listening to intermittent Zacheria outbursts of
“Hate it!” “Loathe it!”

“Crap on it!”

“Tah-dah!”

I look up at a beaming Drew standing in the stairwell doorway carrying a tray with two metal plate warmers stacked atop each other. He brings the tray to the table and whips off the warmers with a flourish, releasing a burst of savory steam to greet me. “Twenty-one Burgers.

Their specialty.”

“You. Are a genius.” I reach out for the golden bun, slavering to shove the entire thing into my watering mouth.

“Wait!” He twists to the next table and whips off the white tablecloth in one toreador move. “Turn around.” I spin my back to him.

“Whoa,” he murmurs. “Nice ink.”

After a split second of confusion, I remember, darting my finger to feel the rough texture of the body paint.

“Thanks.”

Clearing his throat he continues, draping the yard of fabric over my silk front before going to a pile of lighting equipment and returning with a metal clamp. He secures my bib and gestures for me to eat.

“Good call,” I admire from under my white damask poncho, grabbing a crispy fry.

“I was afraid if you got grease down the front Kara might beat you to death with her clipboard.” He squeezes in beside me as he lifts his burger to his mouth. “That would suck.”

We happily inhale the food, pausing only to steal Cokes from the crew’s nearby Igloo cooler. “Cheers!” he says, tapping his can with mine.

“Cheers.”

“To the weirdest Valentine’s ever.” He grins.

And to my best.

“Look at her!”
We startle at Zacheria screaming in the bullhorn from the other room, presumably at Jase.
“Look

at her adoringly! Compliment her dress! Tell her she’s

beautiful! Say it again! Sound like you mean it!”

“Love her! Act like you love her!” Drew mimics as he wipes off his hands and tosses his napkin on the table in disgust. “God,
what
does she see in him? He’s rude to the makeup people. He’s totally arrogant. He’s stolen, like, 152

three shirts from wardrobe, and it’s not like he can’t afford to buy them. Seriously, he’s such a douche.”

I nod, tensing.

“And she’s so impressive.”

“Well, he’s a hot douche,” I level back before I can stop myself. Impressive?
Really?

“You think he’s hot?” He looks at me intently.

“No, I mean, but obviously she does. Maybe in a caged-lion kind of way.”

“And that’s why she puts up with him? Because she wants a predator as her boyfriend?”

“Drew, I don’t even know her. I have no idea why she does what she does.”

“But you think he’s hot.”

I think
you’re
hot! “And
what
, other than the fact that she looks like Heidi Klum, is so
impressive
about her?”

He stares at me for a second as I’m wondering how this conversation went so wrong, so quickly. “This is stupid,”

he says finally, then gets up and strides to the door, leaving me to sit alone with the cooling platters in an increasing cacophony of take seventeens and do-overs.

I dejectedly spin the miniature Heinz bottle,
impressive
looping in my head. I want to go back five minutes.

I want to take a deep breath, but the tape braces my rib cage together.

This
is
stupid.

“How about I steal us a sundae from the magic food well you found downstairs?” I try.

“I’m full, but thanks.”

I try to raise my arms, but the tape pins me. “Sorry, but can you . . . ” I twist, pointing at the out-of-reach clip on my bib.

He walks over and I lean forward, willing back the ease of a few minutes ago. I feel the tablecloth release around me like an untied bikini.

“You’re free,” he says quietly, dropping the clip into my hand.

Suddenly Fletch charges through the swinging doors so hard they catch open. Practically vibrating, he stops just short of knocking over the chilled remains of our feast as I jump up. “Nico! In here,” he growls.

But Nico, surrounded by dozens of dining extras, doesn’t make a move from her chair.

“NOW!” Fletch bellows, his face sanguine as the Persian carpet.

Slowly Nico lifts her napkin to the corners of her immaculate mouth and dabs before setting it down next to her untouched food. Pushing back from the table, she glides languorously away from a glazed-over Jase, who sits forward to reveal—
Trisha
? Yes. She’s sitting at their table, her nose job facing Rick—
Rick? What are they doing
here?
—her boob job facing Jase.

Nico passes our dropped jaws on her way to Fletch.

“Yes?”

“You’re upset. Your rival for Jase’s affection has just crashed your date by showing up with Rick, who she’s 154

using to make Jase jealous, which, in a subplot, will come between their bromance, having serious repercussions.”

As Jase and Rick shrug at each other, Fletch crosses his arms tightly over his star-patterned shirt and rocks back on his heals. “Nico, we’re shooting you storming off in a whir of hurt. Understand? Go back to the table and let’s get this in one take.”

“But I’m not upset,” she says, slicing her words as she stands firm before him. “I trust Jase. It’s
fine
.”

“Fine?! Fine makes
them
turn the channel,
me
earn scale, and you a
nobody
.” His last word whitens her. “So.

Go back to the table and give me my scene. Now.”

Her expression faltering, she turns to where Trisha has just pulled Jase’s handkerchief from his breast pocket and is dabbing it against the imaginary sweat on her cleavage.

Shoulders splayed, head rigid, Nico walks gracefully back to the table and takes her seat, her eyes locked on Jase.

Trisha, tucking the square back into his pocket, also locks eyes on Jase—who reaches out for a roll and bites into it without a look to either of them.

“Jase.” Nico’s voice is airy, belying her struggle to stay put. “Tell them. Tell them I can trust you. Tell Trisha to stop embarrassing herself.”

Jase’s jaw tightens as he looks to Fletch, to me, to the bloody filet on his plate— and I feel myself gauging along with him what could be planned next, how far Fletch will go to get the scene he wants. “Let’s just get this over with, Nic,” he pronounces, his voice slightly hoarse with defeat.

Trisha sidles closer to him, hitting Nico with an unmitigated look of triumph.

Nico just blinks at them, a slideshow of shock and rage flashing across her face.

“And nobody got that, I suppose?” Fletch screams.

The guys shrug, their cameras dangling in their hands.

“Goddamn it! You should be rolling
all
the time! At least I could’ve edited that down! Fuck this.” Fletch spins to us. “Drew!”

“Yes?” Drew takes a small step forward.

“Scratch the date with Jesse. Go to the bar where you’ll run into Nico, be her shoulder to cry on.”

My stomach drops. Not so much at the concept, but at how brightly his face lights up when he hears it. “Okay.

Now?” he asks, darting his eyes to me.

“Uh, yeah,” Fletch says. “Jesse, you go wait downstairs.” Fletch claps his hands and people start packing up the equipment. While I stand there dumbly, Kara tentatively brings a stunned Nico her stole as Jase jumps up from the table, yanking down the knot of his tie. With big smiles to the crew, Trisha grabs her wrap like she’s leaving a
Dancing With the Stars
audition she’s nailed.

“I guess we should head down,” Drew says to me, turning around to check his bangs in the antique mirror.

“Yeah.” I pick up my coat and walk to the stairs, my heart sinking with each step. “Good luck with the, uh, consoling.”

We both arrive at the landing. “She deserves it,” he 156