Aftermath of Dreaming(66)
I am late, in my truck driving the 101, praying that I get there on time. Michael was supposed to pick me up, but he called half an hour ago to say that things at the station were crazy, the new Sunday-morning talk show had a little blow-up on the air. I had a feeling he was hoping I’d say, “Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ll go by myself.” But no way. Going to a baby shower alone is as bad as going to a wedding solo, in a “Why aren’t you further along in your life?” kind of way. So I gave him the address and said he could meet me there.
The baby shower is at a house in the hills of a friend of Bill’s, but on the Valley side, which is much less treacherous, but almost as exclusive. As I pull up to the large iron gates in front of the sequestered community and wait while the man in the guardhouse checks his list, I remember a story the nuns used to tell us that if Saint Peter won’t let you in the Pearly Gates, run around to the side and Mary will sneak you in the kitchen door. How could I not prefer Mary with promises like that? I always imagined her in a fragrant spotless kitchen, stirring a big pot of gumbo, places at a table ready and set. Then the massive iron gates swing open and a second guard waves me in.
A swarm of valets in pale pink oxford shirts descend upon my car. Michael is standing waiting for me on a meticulously manicured lawn; I am shocked that he is on time. He is surrounded by a forest of giant topiaries depicting every character in Alice in Wonderland. The Red Queen’s mallet is hovering menacingly over his head. Michael has a look on his face of a man consigned to a circle of hell that he didn’t know existed.
“I’m late, I’m late,” I say as he kisses me. I wish we could stay at the Mad Hatter’s tea party instead of going in, but we stop kissing and turn toward the house, a spectacularly authentic faux French chateau, and walk up a long stone path covered by a continuous archway of pale pink balloons.
“Well, this is nice.” I immediately feel like a woman I once overheard exclaiming that the Louvre sure is big.
A pale-pink-shirted man greets us at the door. “Hi! I’m Ken. Everyone’s outside.”
I put out my hand to introduce myself, thinking he is the host, Bill’s friend, but he cuts me off by repeating his lines, and while one hand takes my gift, the other, with a sweeping winglike motion of the arm, guides us along.
Through a bank of open French doors, I see a sea of pale-pink-shirted men moving among a tiny handful of extremely well dressed guests. I realize that I actually have dressed appropriately for this party—as one of the caterers.
“Oh, my God,” I say as we step outside. “It looks like a wedding.”
“Or bat mitzvah,” Michael replies.
Music is wafting from a string quartet playing on a parquet floor laid on the grass. A huge white tent covers ten tables swathed in pink organza and white. Each one is perfectly set for ten guests with a lifelike diaper-clad baby girl doll sitting on every china plate. Trays of mimosas and canapés glide by us, stopping only long enough to be emptied of their wares.
I see Bill and a young woman leaning over a large lace-covered bassinet. A veil of white netting suspended from a tree branch above is streaming down, surrounding the baby’s bed. I have an almost irrepressible urge to yank down the veil, throw it on my head, and vow “I do,” but I wonder if Michael is the man I want to say that to. Andrew pops into my brain, so I try to get rid of him by quickly taking Michael’s arm to walk with him down the carpeted aisle to see the newborn child.
“Here she is,” Bill says, pulling aside the veil. The sleeping baby looks just like a cherub. I’ve heard that before in nursery rhymes and fairy tales, but this one truly does, a sweet little cherub fallen from a cloud.
“She’s perfect,” I tell Bill, and introduce Michael to him, then Bill introduces us to the baby’s mother, Sarah, a seventeen-year-old from the Midwest.
“We took her on a shopping spree on Friday; got her hair cut and colored,” Bill gushes as Sarah stands by and blushes. “Malibu beach was yesterday and tomorrow a private tour of the museum. She is having a nonstop great time.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” I say to her. “You’re really getting to know L.A.” But not her own baby, I think, then immediately realize that that may be the point.
“And there’s a movie star here!” Sarah suddenly yells, causing the flock of pale-pink-shirted men to stop, turn, stare, then quickly move on.
“Oh,” is all I can think to say.
At that moment, Michael, who has said nothing except “Congratulations” to Bill, takes my arm and leads me away.
“Okay, where?” I say to Michael, looking around at the few other guests as I give in to the voyeuristic urge to find the movie star in this extremely sparse crowd. “Him?”
A few feet away stands a blond man that anyone would define as gorgeous. Not that I recognize him, but I figure that has more to do with my box office attendance than his.
“I guess.” Michael snags two snacks off one of the ever-roaming trays going by. He has just put one in my mouth when a woman approaches us.
“I thought that was you,” she cries, putting a perfectly French-manicured hand on my arm.
Tonette is Bill’s personal trainer, has been for a long time, so I knew her when I worked for him. As she leans in for a hug, I remember that I always felt that Tonette and I could have been friends if only I was more…L.A. somehow.