My hand is also shaky as I pour myself a flute of champagne.
“I wouldn’t be an easy person to marry,” she tells me.
“Whyever not?”
“Because I’m a sixty-year-old empty-nester in a twenty-nine-year-old’s body. I love my brothers, but finishing the job our parents started wasn’t easy, and I don’t want to do it again. Ah-ah-ah. Don’t saymaybe you’ll feel differently once time has passed and you meet the right man. The only right answer isyou did a great job with your brothers, Bea, and you’ve earned time to focus on enjoying your life for yourself now.”
I smile broadly at her terrible English accent, tipping my flute to hers in a silent toast. “You raised at least two men who clearly adore you with all of their hearts and souls, and you deserve every happiness you gift to yourself. Is your other brother as kind and charming and brilliant as those two?”
“No. And he has even worse taste in television shows than Daphne does.”
“So he’s anIn the Weedsfan?”
“You said it. I didn’t.” She shifts her gaze away as she takes a sip.
I sip my bubbly as well, amused at her reaction to the show. “You’re not a fan?”
“Of a show about middle-aged men trying to kill each other over marijuana and money with the blessing of their shithead of a father? I realize I’m in the minority, but it’s not my personal cup of tea, and let’s be real. It’s been done over and over and over again. Where are the shows about women murdering their cheating spouses and abusers and getting away with it? What about the shows where women are the mobsters and the mafia bosses?Oh my god. Why are you smiling like that? I’m basicallyinsulting you, and you keep smiling bigger and bigger.Who does that?”
Someone who’s rapidly realizing how to write the next cult hit. “No, you’re right, the show was dreadful. I wrote it as a comedy and it was directed as a drama and it’s a hot mess.”
“You wrote it as a comedy?”
“That was my intention. If not straight-up comedy, satire at the very least.”
She stares at me as though I’m a man who’s lost his puppy and needs reassurance that it will be found one day even though she knows it’s actually dead in the street.
As if I’m deserving of all of the world’s pity for my situation.
Rather than offering comfort at my clear lack of worthwhile talent though, she purses those plump red lips together and looks away as though she’s embarrassed for me.
It’s a refreshing reaction, honestly.
The show was complete rubbish. Bungled all to hell by trying to make it into a true drama. And successful despite its best efforts to not be. Both seasons now. “Is that why you were immune to my charm last Saturday?” I ask.
“No, I wasimmune to your charmbecause you had me sent to jail and I almost had a panic attack because I hate enclosed spaces and my stupid ex’s brother was the cop and he wouldn’t let me pee and you had the nerve to be smiley-smiley-happy-happy like anI’m sorrywas supposed to brush it all away when—sorry, this is rude—I was very, very tired of seeing your face to begin with.”
I shift in my seat again because, while I’m comfortable talking about sex and inviting women to have sex with me, I’m also well-trained on not walking around with my flagpole up—therearelines—and I find it highly attractive in a woman when she insults me and holds me to a high standard.
Clearly, my body recognizes Bea as someone I could fuck and leave.
Also, perhaps Lana’s right about seeing that therapist.
“And also because it’s easy to confuse you with the character,” she adds on a sigh. “I know I shouldn’t, I just—you see Peter Jones smiling, and you wonder what he’s planning next.”
“A man intent on proving to the mother of his children that he can, in fact, afford to help pay for their school supplies will do anything for a meager salary,” I tell Bea. “Including participating in the butchering of a show he wrote and loved, requiring him to play a man who’s far worse than he was written to be.”
“Are you just telling me this because you think it’s what I want to hear?”
“Heavens, no. I don’t tend to have that affliction. Though the studio does prefer that I not state my real feelings on the production while on press tours and late-night talk shows.”
She’s smiling as she sips her champagne. “I honestly can’t make you out at all. Is this real?”
“As real as I get.”
“So notallreal. Just as real as you’re willing to show people.”
The lady is correct, and I should be as on guard as she appears to be. “Ah, we’re almost here. Would you like a top up? I’m sure it’s against proper etiquette to arrive at a grand opening with our own beverages, but I’ve discovered people let me get away with terrible behavior since they expect far worse from me, and itwoulddraw extra attention to both of us.”
