“It’s fine. You’re your own man. I understand.”
“I’m just tired of meeting your girlfriends and hearing about how much you’re in love with each other and that she’s ‘the one’ when it’s so clearly never true. It never lasts, Dad. It makes me feel sorry for them, and you.”
That horrible silence lasts only a little while now. And then he laughs. The man actually has the balls to laugh at me. “Well, if you really feel that way then I don’t know what to tell you, son. Apart from I love her.”
“It’s not love, Dad. It never is. It’s temporary insanity.”
He chuckles again, and I try to ignore my rising blood pressure.
“You know, I’m starting to doubt that you even know what love is, Owen,” my dad says. “And for the record? I loved every one of them. It just never worked out.”
I sigh into the phone, then glance over at Margo, who I know has overheard the entire conversation. There’s a concerned expression on her face, and when she mouths ‘is everything ok?’ at me, all I can do is shake my head.
I turn back toward the window, knowing I’ll regret this, but feeling like I have no other option. “Fine, Dad. Arrange whatever you like. I’ll see you then.”
“Perfect. I’ll take care of everything,” he says smoothly, as if the entire last five minutes of arguing had never happened. “But I’m telling you, Owen. She’s the one.”
12
Margo
The night sky is almost pitch black now, the moon high, full, and pale, though it can’t compete with the colored lights dotted around the railings and tables of the rooftop bar. An oasis of bright vibrancy against the darkness beyond. The glowing colors refract and reflect along the wine glasses, shimmering jewelry, metal and marble surfaces of the bar and tables, casting a luxurious radiance across the whole place and the people in it. So otherworldly and light you almost feel like if you fell over the railing you’d just fly back here.
I know that Tom is probably going nuts with the lens-flares and depth of focus as he films this. Personally, I’d take a pub with sticky floors over this any day. Some place where the drinks are cheaper and the people are the attraction rather than the location.
But I’ve got work to do, so I’m sitting at the bar in a dress so tight I feel like I’m naked, facing the date that Owen chose for me: a tall, dark, handsome man with a serious look on his face.
Luckily, Tom and Mia decided to set up hidden cameras in the bar, so this time I’m spared the embarrassment of having them hover around me. Though I still feel like I’m being spied on.
The tall, dark, handsome man is named Brett, and so far he hasn’t made any missteps—though I’m only a third of the way through my white wine. He sips his whiskey on the rocks slowly, eyes smiling at me over the glass, then laughs warmly as he puts it down.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
“Nothing…I just get a good vibe from you,” he says sweetly.
I laugh and sip. “Oh, I’m just being nice for the cameras.”
“Oh yeah? What are you like when they’re off?”
“Terrible,” I say, and Brett laughs. “I’ve got a smart mouth, I’m demanding, and I get really annoyed when men can’t keep up with me.”
I smile over my drink as Brett continues laughing.
“Well,” he says slowly, his eyes rolling over my body unashamedly, “I guess you can get away with a lot when you look like that.”
I wink playfully and take a slow sip of wine. Maybe this dating thing isn’t so bad after all. I knew Owen wouldn’t deliberately pick me a bad date—it’s not his style. But I still had my doubts about whether Owen would be able to pick out a good one when I still struggle to find suitable guys myself.
But so far, I have to say, he nailed it. Brett’s good looking, easy to be around, and we haven’t shared one awkward moment in the twenty-seven minutes that I’ve known him so far.
“So…” I say, putting my drink down, “you work in independent film?”
“Yep,” Brett says, raising his empty glass at the bartender. “I’m a producer.”
“Oh,” I say, the word ‘producer’ immediately conjuring my preconceptions of lying jackasses with too-firm handshakes and slimy personalities. But so far, it looks like Brett might make me reconsider all of that.
“Yeah. I actually came to L.A. to try and make it as an actor at first, and somehow ended up connecting a few people together on some projects. Next thing I know I’m—”
Brett is interrupted by his phone ringing, and he hurriedly fishes around in his pants pocket for it. “Excuse me,” he says, and I nod empathetically as he spins in his bar stool to face away from me.
I take the opportunity to check my own phone, and see that Owen’s texted me. An involuntary smile comes to my face that I can’t suppress.
Where the hell did you get a dress like that?
The smile is printed on now. I look around the bar to try and figure out where Owen is. I knew we were having our dates at the same time, but I didn’t see him when I got here and now the place is so crowded I can’t find him. I hammer out a response.
Where are you?
Owen’s reply is quick. Your ten o’clock-in the booth.
I take another look and find him sitting alone in his booth, raising a glass of beer at me. I frown and text him again, suddenly inexplicably nervous over the ‘perfect’ woman Louise and I picked out for him.
Where’s your date? I text.
I look up and see him groan, then type on his phone for a few seconds. She saw Johnny Depp in the corner and went to get his autograph.
When I check him out again he shrugs his shoulders and I see he’s serious. I look back down to type a reply but get distracted by Brett raising his voice on the phone.
“Executive producer, asshole! Executive! And in the opening credits, or I’ll ram a pole up your ass and spit roast you like a suckling pig. You even think about putting my name under the same title as Joanne and I’ll make sure every person connected with this film knows about your good-for-nothing son’s drug habit, you hear me?”
Brett’s voice is so hard and venomous that a few of the other drinkers at the bar look in our direction. Suddenly I feel naked again—for entirely negative reasons. I pray for Brett to lower his voice or end the call but the filth just keeps on coming, and people keep on looking.