I wisely keep my mouth shut. I mean, maybe she does, just a little, but he always seemed like he was fine doing the heavy lifting in the relationship. Or any lifting, of any kind at all. It was just their dynamic, but I guess Zach wasn’t all that happy at all.
“So now I’m stuck taking care of business while he stays out all night with his friends,” Della sighs.
“I’m sorry,” I offer. “I never meant it to go this far. I mean, I never even meant to post that video in the first place—much less inspire anyone else to go on strike, too!”
“I know.” She refills her wine glass. “I know you didn’t. But as they say, the damage is done.”
“So what are you going to do?” Melissa asks. “I mean, would it kill you to try and be a little more romantic?”
“Probably,” Della snaps, and even though she’s cranky I’m happy to see that spark come back into her eyes that I know so well. “But you could help me,” she says, fixing her gaze on me, “if you wanted to.”
“Umm, what do you need me to do?” I say, turning my ball of yarn over in my hands.
“Maybe talk to him? Tell him that the strike is a dumb idea? That maybe you went too far with the whole thing? It’s been a week so far and I think I’m losing my fucking mind!”
A week? Please. Talk to me when it’s been a month.
“I can try,” I say, but even to me, my voice sounds unsure. I mean, if Zach wants to go on strike, who am I to stop him? And how can I convince him that he should stop when I’m still doing it?
Della just glares at me until I relent.
“Okay,” I say, sighing loudly and pushing my knitting to the side. “I’ll try and talk to him. Will that make you happy?”
“Very,” she says, smiling broadly now, reaching over to hug me, enveloping me in a cloud of the musky, patchouli-based perfume she always wears.
So now I guess we’re good? But this also means that I have to, you know, actually talk to Zach, now that I said I would. On top of this, I have to convince him that going on strike is a terrible idea, even though I’m not sure it really is. I mean, Della does take him for granted a lot of the time. And also, there’s the simple fact that I have absolutely no idea what to say now that I’ve been so fucking vocal on the subject of romance—or the lack of it—and the entire world knows what I think. Now I’m going to say it was all a mistake?
Oh well, I think, draining my glass of wine. I’ll think of some way to make it work.
Don’t I always?
15
Lizzie
The next day, I’m down in my basement lair, trying frantically to get things set up for the show, which is drawing closer every day that passes. The phone rings just as I’m cataloguing Audrey Hepburn’s gorgeous, full-skirted party dress from Sabrina, and I pull off the white gloves I’m wearing and race over to answer it, tripping over Bette Davis’ Oscar in the process, the one she scored for her catty, bitchy performance in All About Eve.
“Hello?” I say, rubbing my shin, while glaring at the golden statue. Legend has it that they’re called Oscars because Davis claimed that the statue’s ass resembled that of her own husband, Oscar. It’s probably not true but I like the story anyway, and you can bet your own ass that it’s going in the show.
“Hello,” a deep, smooth male voice answers. “I’m returning a call from Lizzie Ryan. This is Dylan Mandeville.”
Yes! I fist pump the air and catch my breath. I’ve been trying to get a hold of Dylan for weeks now. His grandfather, Clark Mandeville, was one of the most prolific directors of classic rom-com’s, and directed that movie Bring Me the Stars that I was telling Jake about. I’ve been calling his office in Hollywood every day for the past two weeks, but until now, I’ve only gotten radio silence. Dylan is an up-and-coming director, which probably explains why he’s had zero time for the likes of me. Until now!
“Thanks for getting back to me,” I manage to say, sounding professional. “I’m interested in talking about your grandfather’s work . . .”
“It sounds great,” he says after I fill him in on the show and my plans for his grandfather’s place in the exhibition. “But why don’t we discuss it in person? I’m in New York on business right now. I don’t have much time, but I can drop by in about an hour.”
“Perfect,” I exclaim. “I can’t wait.”
An hour later, I’m sitting across the conference table from the hottest guy I’ve seen since, well, since Jake Weston walked into my life. But unlike Jake, this guy doesn’t come buried under the weight of a decade of bitterness and cynicism. Score! My tongue is pretty much hanging out of my mouth like a dog salivating over a juicy bone. He’s exactly my type—dark, handsome, and in his thirties, and dressed very Hollywood-meets-New York in a pair of grey pants and a crisp white button down with the sleeves rolled up. On his feet are beat-up leather loafers with no socks, and he has the most brilliantly white smile I’ve ever seen.
Maybe it’s the strike, maybe it’s my raging hormones, but just looking at him, I’m instantly turned on.
But I digress.
“Great to meet you in person,” I say, adjusting my glasses on my nose and giving him a big smile, hoping I’m not gushing too much already.
“You too,” he answers with a smile of his own. “When you talked about all that classic Hollywood stuff, I was picturing someone a lot older. And far less beautiful.”
Wow. He even has a dimple, a deep one on his left cheek—right near his impossibly full lips. Sigh.
“What’s it like growing up as Hollywood royalty?” I ask before I can stop myself. God, I’m so nosy sometimes. Not to mention gossipy. Still, Dylan doesn’t seem to mind.
“Not everything it’s cracked up to be,” he says with a rueful grin. “Hollywood’s a pretty fake place, you know? It’s not unfiltered like New York. No one tells you what they really think. Take this conversation, for instance, the question you just asked me? It would never happen in LA. Not in a million years.”
“Sorry,” I say, cringing a little.
“Don’t be,” he smiles. “I can’t tell you how refreshing it is.”
His eyes crinkle at the edges. Did I mention, wow?
“I’m thinking of relocating, actually.” Dylan leans back in his seat. “Maybe directing some theater. The movie business can be so shallow. I’m all about telling authentic stories, you know what I mean?”
“Mmmm.” I nod. Gorgeous and thoughtful, too. Be still my heart!
“Plus, it’s hard to meet women out there,” he adds. “At least, a woman of substance.” He smiles, fixing me with a soulful stare that I feel all the way to my toes.
Yup. It’s my toes I’m feeling. For sure.
“I know you don’t have long to talk, so should we get started about the show?” I open my laptop, trying to get down to business when all I can really think about is throwing this guy across the desk and having my way with him—maybe more than once, actually. Stop it, I tell myself, crossing my legs and trying to appear normal. You’re on strike!
“Sure,” he says. “But I’d really rather hear more about you.”