Okay, let’s do the right thing. Let’s be sensibly English. A weekend in Provence with Clarissa seems like the best option after all, even if she is a mean cow. What would I do otherwise? Sit at home and eat cheese puffs, watch the Golden Girls, and get lost in an Internet wormhole of stalking Emily and Francois? And what would Clarissa and I do away? I conjure up an image of Clarissa and me on a girl’s trip, practically boring myself to sleep. Now if it were Bex and me. I smile at the thought, already hearing the percussion of popping corks and howls of laughter.
If it were Bex and me…
I tap at the keyboard. London to LA. Departing tomorrow—Friday. Screw Clarissa. Screw Ethan’s case. And screw Francois. Well, maybe not, no screwing Francois. I can still be sensible and have fun. I need me some Bex time and Bex, well, she needs her some man time and I’m going to help her get it. Monday’s already a public holiday here, and I can squeeze in four vacation days. It’s August after all, and things are dead. A week in LA. How many dates can I get Bex to go on in that time? Go big or go home—seven for seven. Considering some of the conversations I overhear at the office about all these dating apps, it should be easy.
I reach into my Chanel handbag to retrieve my credit card. Ethan won’t care if I buy the ticket. Hell, he doesn’t even read the credit card statements. But, on second thought, I’m not going to use his money. Something about Francois, even if he is an intern dating lothario, has given me back a tiny bit of me. I’m going to do this my way. I used to juggle temp jobs during the day and a hostess gig at a Cajun restaurant in Atlanta. Before Ethan, before London, before I ever knew anyone like Clarissa, I survived just fine with my own money and purses from Target. And that was before Target was cool. I look around for a better price. With a layover in Zurich and a top up with miles, the price comes to £286 (damn those airport taxes).
The time on my phone says 1:23 p.m. So, 5:23 a.m. in LA, Bex is probably up by now. I know her too well, she wouldn’t have gone out; instead, she’d have fallen asleep halfway through an episode of Outlander.
“So soon?” Bex answers groggily after three rings.
“Hey, are they still doing all that construction at LAX?”
“Yeah, it’s a real shitshow.” Bex groans. “No one knows where they’re going and Ubers are everywhere,” she says with increasing alertness, the topic of LA traffic setting her on edge. “Why are you asking? And why are you calling me so damn early?”
“I need you to pick me up.”
“What? Now!” Bex says, fully awake.
“No, tomorrow. Friday at four thirty p.m. Don’t forget to wear makeup and don’t even think about wearing sweats. You never know who you might meet at the airport. Oh, and we’re going out tomorrow night. You’re officially back on the market, baby!”
Chapter Three
The Weeper
BEX
I’m driving to the airport in my freshly washed and vacuumed Lexus SUV. It’s an old one, the first hybrid model, peppered with a few dings and scratches, and still no AC, but with a good wash it looks presentable. Kind of like me, I half-laugh to myself.
Exhausted after a full day of errands, I run through my mental checklist of all the prep I’ve done for this last-minute surprise visit from Liv. The house is clean; the bedding has all been changed, and I even made Liv’s favorite ranch dip. Oh, and I bought a month’s supply of wine, which I doubt will be enough. And Advil.
Liv told me to put makeup on and to “not wear sweats.” She says this like I wear sweats all the time. Which I don’t. I wear workout clothes too. I believe “athleisure” is the name. I quickly look in the rearview mirror, checking to see if my cleavage situation isn’t too much. It’s been about a decade since I’ve worn this top, and well, let’s just say gravity can do a lot over ten years. Thank God, it still fits. Working from home with little to no social life apart from going to Zumba and chauffeuring Maddie around means my regular attire has me looking like a hobo who found some leggings in a dumpster dive haul.
I don’t know what Liv has planned, but honestly, I’m a little nervous. I can tell when Liv is in “go-mode” and she’s full throttle right now. She hasn’t lived in LA for a while and she doesn’t know what it’s like anymore. She has no idea what kind of hell it is to be single in this town.
Back when Liv and I lived in Atlanta, we hardly ever had a night alone. The amount of calls that came in to our answering machine nearly wore it out. We always ran out of tape (it was a long time ago). We gave out our number like evangelists give out bibles. Except we weren’t saving souls…we were saving money! I don’t think we bought a drink in four years.
We’d go out almost every night of the week, which always began with the same ritual: 7:30 p.m.—turn on the shower and turn up the music. One of us would bathe while the other put together outfits. The bathroom would become a fog of steam, perfume, and hairspray as we perfected our looks. 9:00 p.m.—out the door with two drinks under our belt and on a mission for trouble.
As I head to the airport in my best jeans and a skimpier than I’d like tank top, I wonder what it’ll be like going out with Liv now. Things have really changed since those carefree Atlanta nights. I feel older, but none the wiser.
LAX traffic is as anticipated, slow as molasses, and inching forward to the terminal I see Liv waiting for me curbside with her bulky suitcase. She must have packed her entire closet. But she’s wearing the same fitted leather jacket that she’s worn for ages—which is still fashionable. That makes me smile, and I realize then that nothing has really changed at all. Any worries I had about her visit instantly vanish and I’m overcome with giddy excitement.
As I pull up to the curbside, I roll the windows down and turn up the first song on the playlist I made for “Liv and Bex Take LA,” and sing along at the top of my lungs. “Get outta my dreams and into my car!”
“Hi!” Liv squeals and does a little jump up and down. She heaves her suitcase into the back seat then jumps in the front seat beside me yelling, “Shotgun!”
We throw our arms around each other and I inhale her familiar perfume. It’s hard to believe we’re in the car together after so many years and miles apart. When we were little, Liv and I would always run out to my mom’s car, racing to get the front seat. We could have easily ridden our bikes to the country club pool, but Liv liked riding in my mom’s Mercedes. Liv came from a one-car family, and that one car was a total beater, so she loved riding in our convertible any chance she could. We’d always yell “Shotgun” at the same time, but Mom would say, in that slow southern drawl of hers, “Honey, let Livy ride up front.”
And now, with Liv up front beside me, I know this week will be fabulous and just what I need.
“So,” Liv cuts into my reverie and says in an authoritative tone, “first drinks, then some food, then we review your updated profiles.”
Stop the train. Did I say fabulous? I take that back.
“What profiles?” I am suddenly afraid. Very afraid.
“Your dating profiles! Duh.” She looks down at her perfect manicure, which means she’s not looking at me. “I may have gone into your accounts and rewritten a few things.”