All right, so we haven't gone to New York. Instead we're here, in a French restaurant on Melrose, lunching on the patio. And, later, on the veranda at Shutters, sipping gin-and-tonics while the sun melts lazily into the Pacific. And, still later, in another French restaurant on Abbot Kinney, rapidly developing a matched set of miniature hangovers. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'm wearing a little black sundress, wedges, a light sweater. Big looped earrings that jingle faintly when I turn my head. I'm pretending it's already summer, and the weather has decided to oblige.
Next to me, he's wearing jeans, loafers, a navy blue blazer, and a crisp white shirt. With French cuffs. This is, he informs me, about as casual as he ever gets. He believes that tee shirts are for sleeping in.
He's a member of Ascot, for Christ's sake. I do my best Eliza Doolittle ("Come on, Dover! Move your bloomin' arse!") but he doesn't seem to find it quite as funny as I do.
That makes him sound like a stuffy bore, and he isn’t. Still, when I ask him about his favorite concert, he tells me about listening to a famous tenor sing in Red Square, with the Kremlin for set dressing. My answer -- Bon Jovi at the Staples Center -- seems a little pedestrian after that.
And it's when we start talking about computers (blessing or curse?) that my brain-to-mouth filter ruptures. He tells me how he insisted on using a typewriter for years, until his assistant finally rebelled. The words coming out of his mouth sound all too familiar. "God," I blurt, "you should really just date my dad."
There's a beat. He laughs, and then cocks an eyebrow into his glass. "Talk about lines you never want to hear on a date," he comments, his voice echoing in the gin. I have, as usual, said the wrong thing.
But it's true. Dad would love this guy. Whether or not I can is a different story.
