“No, I do not have any bags,” I said to a very blonde, very tan, very smiley man behind the reception desk of the Beverly Wilshire. “No bags at all.”
“We have two bags here,” Vanessa chimed in.
“And we are very hopeful that the airline will recover the third bag shortly,” Jack said. Very optimistically, I might add. Unfortunately, I was in no mood for optimism. Optimistic people suck. I never had that problem with Douglas.
“The airline lost mine,” I explained to the Ken doll at reception, “on the eve of my ex-boyfriend’s wedding. Can you believe that?”
“And we were escorted out of the airport by security,” Vanessa added, “Can you believe that?” I guess she’s still upset about the whole me threatening the airport employee, jumping over the counter in an alleged play for her neck, getting escorted out of the airport by security, and then getting a police escort to the hotel thing. You think she would have been more appreciative about getting a free ride to our hotel.
“Well, miss, that is absolutely terrible, but I am sure that they will locate your bag for you,” Ken doll said to me. That optimism thing rears its ugly head again. Is everyone going to be like this in L.A.? “And I can assure you,” Ken doll continued, “that we will take very good care of you at the hotel. Are we still four in the suite?”
“No, actually, we’re three,” I explained to Ken. “My friend’s husband had to work this weekend. Is that going to be a problem?” Take that, Ken. You see, in the real world real people have real problems. The real world isn’t beautiful and blonde and tanned and buff and smiley with really really white teeth and…. Where was I? Oh yes, the real world. Take that, Ken. We are real people here with real problems. And we have real spouses who have to do real work over the weekend. Really.
“It’s no problem at all,” Ken said, smiling back at me, typing furiously into his computer. “But,” he said, leaning over the counter in a whisper, “I’m still going to give you a suite big enough for four, and only charge you for three.” He is?
“You are? Thank you so much,” I gushed. Ken’s so nice. Now I feel badly that I said all that mean stuff to him. Well, I didn’t say it to him—I only thought it—but still.
A bellhop appeared out of nowhere with our two bags and whisked us to our suite. Now, I fancy myself a real tough New Yorker. Completely jaded, unimpressed by most everything. But, when Jack opened the door to that suite, I gasped. I actually gasped. An actual sucking in of my breath and uncontrollably moving my hand to my chest. Everyone did. The suite was absolutely breathtaking.
“Welcome to the Vice Presidential suite,” the bellhop said, with the requisite pageantry such an announcement deserved.
“Do you think we could have gotten the Presidential suite if all three of us had lost our bags?” Vanessa asked.
“Vice-Presidential. Sweet,” Jack said, in full surfer mode. He even made some strange hand gesture when he said it.
It looked fit for a queen. Or a Vice-President, as the case may be. The white columns in the entranceway served as the perfect invitation to the suite’s living room, beckoning you to come in. As you did, you couldn’t help but be struck by the windows which reached all the way to the ten foot ceiling, framed by drapes with fabric so rich, they practically poured onto the tan marble floor. I felt like if you looked out those windows you could probably see the whole world.
It was just as perfectly regal as the lobby. Well, I didn’t actually see the lobby, what with being all infuriated about my bags and all, but I remember the lobby from the pictures I saw of it on the internet when I booked the hotel. And it was very regal, I assure you.
The living room itself was bigger than the first apartment I had in New York. I practically fell over myself in my rush to see the bedrooms. As I walked towards door number one, Jack was already behind the mahogany bar, taking drink orders from Vanessa. He popped the bottle of champagne that was the centerpiece of our complimentary fruit basket and I could tell that it was expensive from its very pop—a polite pop that sounded like a delicate song.
“What can I get ‘cha little lady?” he asked me, already pouring champagne and orange juice into a glass for Vanessa. Vanessa started downing her mimosa, picking up the phone on the bar to call Marcus.
“What have you got?” I asked him.
“For you?” he asked. “Anything.” The phone rang as Jack and I locked eyes.
“Our hotel room has two phone lines,” Vanessa informed me, downing her mimosa as she spoke to her husband. She pushed the glass over to Jack for a refill.
“How freaking cool is that?” I asked, turning to her. She put Marcus on hold and picked up line two.
“The airline is on two for you,” she said. I ran to the sofa to pick up line two. The furniture was all deep reds and navy with just the right amount of gold strewn in, set in dark mahogany. I melted into the pillows and, for a moment, forgot that I was there to pick up the phone.
“Hello?” I said.
“She’s living in our apartment and now she has to be on our calls, too?” Marcus said. Holy bad mood, Batman. I slammed down the phone and shot Vanessa an apologetic look.
“Just ignore him, Brooke,” Vanessa said into the phone. “It’s what I do.” I picked up line two.
“This is she,” I said, brushing my hands across the sofa’s fabric. “Oh my God, you did? That’s fabulous! I can come over right now to pick it up!” I practically cried. My bags! My beloved bags! They’re here! Come home to mama!
“Shall we deliver them to your hotel, Ms. Miller?” a decidedly non-disgruntled airport employee asked me.
“Deliver it? Why, yes, that’s right,” I said, suddenly becoming more articulate with each passing moment I spent in the suite and its luxurious surroundings. “You certainly should deliver it after all that I have been through.”
“In the past 65 minutes....” Jack said, joining me on the sofa with a mimosa and a beer in his hands.
“It was a very traumatic 65 minutes, thank you very much,” I whispered to Jack, holding my hand over the phone. “That would be fine,” I said in a very ladylike manner after removing my hand from the receiver. “Thank you very much.” This joint was really classing me up.
Vanessa and I hung up our phones at the same time. We did a little dance and started to cheer.
“Delivering the bag first thing in the morning!” I said.
“Phew!” Vanessa said, dramatically brushing her hand across her forehead. “That would have really sucked if we had to run around L.A. like complete idiots looking for a new dress and shoes!”
“Not to mention hair products and makeup,” I added. “My God, if my bag had actually been lost, it would have taken me a week just to get ready for this stupid wedding!”
“Well, actually, I wanted to surprise you, but I guess that I can tell you now that we’re celebrating anyway,” Vanessa said, holding up her glass of champagne. “Remember my cousin Damian?”
“The one that dresses like a woman?” Jack asked.
“Yes. Well, he’s working as a stylist now, and he agreed to come over and help us get gorgeous!”
“Really?” I asked. “He does hair now?”
“And makeup!” Vanessa cried, suddenly a kid in a candy shop. “I figured it would be fun to get the Hollywood treatment before going to the Hollywood wedding. He’s coming at 4 o’clock.”
“Perfect. That’s perfect. Thank you,” I said, giving Vanessa a hug.
“Well, ladies,” Jack interrupted, reaching his arms over the both of us to join in on the hug, “I’d say that this calls for a celebration!” And with that, we were off into the L.A. night.