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Miller Briggs is a dashing Scottish actor caught in a hurricane of his own making -- a drug problem, an unfulfilling career, friends who use him for photo opportunities, and a complicated engagement with...
Dressed in his navy suit, Miller surveyed himself in the mirror. His teeth, capped with bleached veneers, were brilliant. His hair was tousled and flecked with sculpting wax, a few curls finger-spiraled at his crown to appear errant and rakish. He trimmed his beard close for just a hint of stubble. His eyebrows: brushed, snipped and shaped. He was laminated with a shimmering bronzer that deepened his tan and smelled of faraway spices. The man staring back at him was a burnished god.
His cell phone lit up and Summer's photo filled the screen. It was a publicity still from her latest movie, "Two Mimosa Minimum." She was smiling and toasting with a peach-colored drink. Vivid strawberries and orange slices curled over the rim. Summer was gorgeous, but this photo was enhanced to near-unrecognizability. He didn't know why it was her favorite photo of herself; she'd insisted he used it as her profile picture.
He drew a steeling breath and answered the phone. Before he could speak, she said, "Everyone is waiting." He knew she must be near other people; otherwise, she'd be screaming at him. "We said ten, didn't we?"
"I slept late."
She laughed, but it sounded a little too bright, like shattering glass. "He overslept!" He could hear other women laugh in the background: her flock of hens, the assistant, the stylist, the hair maven, the make-up specialist. "You had me worried." She lowered her voice. "I don't need to worry today."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't want you to be sorry, babe. I want you to be here."
At the entrance to his bedroom, there was a flurry of knocks followed by a heavy slam against the doors. "What the hell," yelled a man's voice from the other side. The sleek stainless steel handles toggled up and down as Miller's best friend, Jamie, yanked on them with vigor. And profanity.
As Miller crossed the marble floor, his heels gave crisp reports with each step. He unlocked the doors and, predictably, Jamie burst in like an excited sheepdog. Miller told Summer, "Give me twenty minutes to get showered and shaved. I'll see you soon." Click.
Jamie shot Miller a quizzical look. "I'm not a bright man, but you're showered and shaved."
Miller nodded. "Loving and lying go together, aye?"
Jamie pointed at the suit with a quizzical look. "No kilt? Summer was very specific."
Miller wished he could tell Jamie his fears, his worries. They had been friends since high school. In every moment of his life worth remembering, Jamie had been his accomplice. Miller was the captain and Jamie the enthusiastic lieutenant. The captain couldn't admit he was afraid of the sea. It wasn't what captains did.
"Let's get this shite over with," he said. Jamie clapped him on the back and laughed. Together they walked to the kitchen and a cacophony of clanging metal spatulas. Mr. Ito, Miller's personal chef, beat the turners together, and shouted a cheer of triumph. Miller smiled broadly and accepted the older man's welcome. Mr. Ito had managed his kitchen for ten years and, every day, this was their tradition. Clang, clang and a shout to the heavens. Sure, it was grating when he was hung over, but today it was as comforting as a bear hug.
Ito handed him a plate with an egg-white omelet and blanched spinach. Bright tomatoes and arugula from the garden decorated the edge of the plate and, atop his breakfast, was a fan of fresh avocado. "You spoil me, my friend," Miller said and slid onto one of the chrome stools that circled the kitchen's large island.
Silvia inched beside him and wordlessly produced a linen napkin. Rather than wrinkle the neckline of his shirt or irritate his skin by tucking it in, she pinched the corners of the napkin and draped it over his chest. He took several bites as Silvia watched him intently.
"Who eats before photos?" she asked.
Miller answered, "This hungry man."
"The car will be here any minute," she said as he downed another bite.
He said, as if just realizing it, "Ah'm driving myself. No need to hire a car."
She shook her head with a rueful smile. "I thought you might say that. Summer sent this car so you avoid any delays or emergencies."
The front door swung open with a clatter and Dame Mavis Paterson called, "Where is my beautiful boy?"
"Speaking of emergencies," Jamie chortled into his cupped hand.
She breezed into the kitchen and whisked her sunglasses off with a flourish. "There he is," she beamed. "There you all are. Ito, Jamie-darling. And Silvia." Mavis stepped to Miller's side, nudged Silvia away and took the napkin from her. Removing the fork from Miller's hand, Mavis fed him the final bite of spinach and dabbed the corner of his mouth with the napkin.
"Enough with you, woman!" Miller growled to the laughter of the room.
