The Lion's Den(2)

Fantastic. I’m three minutes early and clearly the first to arrive, already sweating in the impractical vintage sundress I was so excited to find at a garage sale in Beverly Hills last week. The fabric is too thick for this weather, the bodice too tight. I wish I’d worn something loose and cotton, but I was doing my best approximation of stylish on a shoestring budget, so here we are. At least I have the purse.

Desperate for shade, I haul my suitcase over to the curb and stand in the strip of shadow cast by a lone palm tree, watching the activity on the airfield through the chain-link fence. Shimmering waves of heat rise from the tarmac, distorting the horizon. Past the line of jets, a yellow twin-engine Cessna takes off. Helicopters come and go from a couple of helipads in the distance.

Out on the runway, I count twelve men in suits descending the steps of one of the jets, holding their jackets closed against the wind, and watch an NBA player I recognize but can’t name board another with what must be his wife, three kids, two people who look to be assistants, and four big dogs.

I wonder if that woman is happy. She surely must be comfortable. Certainly more comfortable than I am, melting here in my stupid dress. Money has never been a part of the dating equation for me, but suddenly I have to wonder: What if I’m wrong? What if love doesn’t conquer all and money can in fact solve all your problems? Summer’s clearly placed all her chips on that bet.

My not-so-illustrious acting career has been studded with bit parts and waitressing jobs that have sometimes put me in the path of hunky celebrities, and on occasion I’ve been the recipient of their passing attention. But I’ve never followed through, always horrified by the thought of becoming a witless flavor-of-the-week dangling from the arm of some star until he dumps me for the next famous model. I can almost hear Summer’s voice whispering in my ear, suggesting that this sentiment is only my lack of confidence hampering my Hollywood ending.

I laugh out loud, realizing I must look like a madwoman if anyone’s watching. Surely the heat is going to my head. Or maybe it’s the jets. I’m not Summer. I would never go as far as she has in the pursuit of gold.

Before I can totally lose my mind, a silver BMW SUV pulls into the spot beside me and a voice chirps, “Hey, lady, what are you doing out here?”

I wave and drag my suitcase over to the car as Wendy emerges from the driver’s side, glancing at her dainty gold watch. “Lemme guess, Summer’s late.”

“We’re the first ones here,” I confirm. “And they wouldn’t let me in yet.”

“No wonder you’re melting,” she says as we air-kiss.

Wendy’s black with Disney princess dark eyes complemented by perfectly arched brows and a flawless complexion. Always stylish, today her petite frame is draped in the quintessential flying-on-a-private-jet-to-the-South-of-France outfit: freshly pressed white linen pants paired with tan wedges and a billowy golden top, her signature long wavy raven extensions covered by a floppy white sun hat.

My uncomfortable vintage dress suddenly just feels old. I am never as aware of my appearance as when I’m around Wendy and Summer. It’s not their fault; they’re just effortlessly chic. If I am ever chic, there is definitely full effort involved. My brain simply doesn’t work that way. I see a dress and think it’s an outfit. They put together a whole look.

Wendy’s roommate, Claire, gets out of the passenger side and joins us at the back of the car, where we repeat the air-kiss ritual. I notice she’s cut her usually long dark hair into a flattering lob, accented with beachy waves and caramel highlights that bring out her blue eyes. “Love your hair,” I say.

“Thanks!” Her dimples twinkle as she smiles. “Have I not seen you since I cut it?”

“Not since Wendy’s birthday dinner back in June, I think.”

“Claire’s never around since she started dating Mr. Major League,” Wendy teases.

“My boyfriend’s in Chicago, so I’m there a lot now,” Claire explains. “He’s a baseball player.”

“That’s great,” I enthuse.

Claire’s an incredibly sweet elementary school teacher originally from Miami who’s soft-spoken when she speaks, which isn’t much, and…well, I’m not sure what else, to be honest. We’ve known each other probably four years, and I’m ashamed to admit I don’t think we’ve had a meaningful conversation in that entire time––probably because she’s always overshadowed by Wendy, who is hands-down the most outgoing, energetic, popular person I’ve ever met. When we first became friends at UCLA, Wendy was president of her sorority as well as head of the Greek Society, somehow balancing maintenance of a 4.0 GPA with planning fundraisers and beautification projects for the school grounds. These days she’s an event coordinator turned publicist, and knows—I’m not kidding—everyone in Los Angeles. Well, everyone from a certain social set, anyway. The social set that would go to fancy events and need publicity. But trust me, that’s a lot of people. Like a politician, she has that gift of making you feel like she actually cares when she’s talking to you. Which makes sense, because her father’s a state senator in Ohio.

I asked her about her overwhelming charm once, thinking it was just a natural part of being Wendy, but it turns out it’s a technique. She told me it was all about light touch and eye contact. She tried to show me how to do it, but I just came off as creepy. You’d think that because I’m an actress, manipulation would come easily to me, but I’ve always just tried to be a decent human—and foolishly expected everyone else to as well. Unrealistic, I know. I’m working on it.