Bad Bridesmaid. Portia MacIntosh
watch as Zack makes himself more comfortable on the sofa. As I anxiously nibble my middle fingernail, I wonder how quickly I’m going to be able to get him to leave.
‘Could you fix me a drink?’ he asks, flashing me a big, toothy grin. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’
‘Sure,’ I reply reluctantly. ‘Back in a sec.’
As I walk towards the sink I hear Zack call after me.
‘This is a nice place you got here.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply. I’m not surprised he likes it; it was designed with someone like Zack in mind. The interior of my Beverly Hills apartment is everything you’d expect of a lad pad. It is ultra modern, with clean white walls and huge floor-to-ceiling windows to make the most of the stunning view, perfect for the king of the castle. With its white walls, glass surfaces and the pretty LED lighting that runs around the room, the open plan living area has the vibes of a fancy hotel lobby. I can change the colour theme depending on my mood, but unless I set the glow to pink (as I most often do) you could easily think this was still a bachelor pad.
The place came furnished (because the bachelor it belonged to met a girl, fell in love and decided he wanted to play house – sucks for him, great news for me) but the furnishings suit me just fine. The custom-made white leather sofa is a delight to sit on (it feels like Matthew McConaughey is hugging your bum), the kitchen has all the bells and whistles you could even begin to imagine (plus some I still haven’t figured out) and the bathroom could rival certain spas we have back home.
You can tell the place used to belong to a movie star because when I moved in there was a huge wall-mounted TV – which I have recently upgraded to an even bigger one – and I loved the way he had framed posters from his movies all over the walls, so much so I did the same. I realise how vain that sounds, but it’s not as bad in my case because my face isn’t on the posters. I don’t star in movies, I write them. Romantic comedies to be precise. I’m part of a small writing group called Pink Inc. and we’ve been responsible for all of the big hits in our genre over the past four years. I made a name for myself back in England when I was in my early twenties, writing for a girly TV drama called Love Online. The show was about a group of young women who decided to try and find love by meeting boys on the net. This was around the time social networks were becoming a must among young people and the show turned out to be a huge success. So at least I have that to thank the MySpace generation for – that and the world embracing flattering, high-angle selfies. After that I went on to bigger and better things, before eventually moving here and joining a team of screenwriters.
My success can be a little off-putting for men – not because I am successful, but because of what I am successful for: writing love stories. When people know that you’re responsible for these romantic movies they instantly think that you have unrealistic expectations about love. They expect you to be all lovey-dovey and mushy and on a quest to find a Prince Charming. For me this could not be further from the truth. I’m good at my job because I have a good understanding of the genre, not because I’m a soppy romantic.
I fill a glass with water and hand it to Zack.
‘Is this vodka?’ he asks with a puzzled look on his face.
‘Water,’ I reply bluntly.
‘When I said a drink I meant something alcoholic. I need it after that,’ he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows. I could do with a stiff drink too, but for me it would be to help me forget.
‘Oh, sorry. It’s just I’ve got to be up pretty early in the morning so…’ So take the hint, Zack.
‘Great. I’m tired too, and I love to spoon. Is that the bedroom over there?’
Whoa, stop right there, does he think he is staying over? This isn’t the Sleepover Club.
‘Erm,’ I start, unsure how to do this tactfully. This was only ever going to be a casual thing, and I thought Zack knew that. Sleeping together isn’t ever going to happen – literally sleeping together, that is.
‘You want me to go?’ Zack asks.
‘Well, yeah,’ I reply. ‘I’m just not great at sharing my bed. I’m a wiggler, I fling my arms around – it would be carnage.’
‘It’s three a.m.’ Zack replies with a laugh. ‘I’ll take my chances.’
‘Even so,’ I reply, pausing to think of the right way to say this, ‘I’d still rather you went home.’
‘If I sleep here I can give you a ride to work on my bike in the morning,’ he negotiates, but I don’t think you’re allowed to side-saddle on motorbikes and a helmet would trash my hair.
‘Even so,’ I repeat myself, but before I have the chance to say anything else Zack gets the message. He hops off the sofa and begins aggressively putting his clothes back on. I can tell that he is angry because even a simple task like putting his leg into his jeans isn’t going very well.
‘So this was just sex and now you want me out?’ he asks angrily, but I don’t give him an answer. ‘I thought guys were supposed to do this to girls – use them for sex and then send them packing – not the other way around. Who do you think you are, huh?’
Still, I don’t say anything. Well, what can I say? He’s hit the nail on the head.
I stand by the door as I watch Zack get dressed. With his clothes on and his boots in his hand, Zack approaches me and places a hand on my shoulder.
‘This is silly,’ he says as he massages me. ‘It’s the middle of the night, we’re going to the same place in the morning. You and I could be really good together.’
The fact he’s even considering us having some kind of future together after just one night causes me to pull a face – an involuntary reaction I have to the idea of relationships, and one that I can’t always mask.
‘Let me guess,’ Zack starts, ‘ “Even so”…’
Again, I say nothing. Nail on the head.
‘You’re a fucking bitch, you know that?’ Zack shouts as he storms out, slamming the door behind him.
‘Yep,’ I say quietly to myself before turning off the lights and climbing into my bed, alone, just the way I like it.
Despite being late for work, I grabbed my usual skinny cinnamon latte from the coffee shop on the corner by my office before hurriedly making my way there.
‘Hold the lift,’ I call out, just in time to squash myself in with all the other people. And by lift, I mean elevator. There goes Dick Van Dyke again.
As we begin our ascent to the floor I work on, I finally get to take my first sip of coffee of the day. God, that feels good. I’d gasp with delight if there weren’t so many people around who might find this odd. It is only as I examine my takeaway cup that I realise there is a phone number written on the side. I cast my mind back to the coffee shop. I was in a rush, but I definitely remember being served by a woman. Before I have a chance to consider what kind of vibes I’m giving off (I suppose I do flirt – for sport – with almost everyone) I remember the young bloke who handed me my coffee, the one with the gorgeous smile. I’ll have to remember to make a note of his number before I throw my cup away.
My appearance seems to be a hit with the male population of LA, but it took a lot of work to get like this. Back in Kent I was Mia Harrison, a chubby brunette with very few men vying for her attention, and nothing much going on in life apart from work. When I moved to the States I decided it would be the perfect time to reinvent myself (what better place to fake it than LA?), so I slimmed down to a US size six (which is absolutely no fun to maintain), dyed my dull brown locks a sexy honey blonde colour, and every morning I meticulously curl my long hair with tongs, squash myself into something sexy and step into a high pair of heels.
Now my name is