Page 14 of The Yes Factor

“A party?” Bex takes the final bite of her French toast, holding her fork in the air in the utensil sign language for seriously?. “The last time I went to a party was, well.” She pauses, deep in thought. “When was the last time?”

“Precisely. That’s my point,” I say like a schoolteacher.

“Whose party? And where?”

“Trust me.” I wonder how many times I’ll have to say that to Bex before I return to London. Coaxing her out into the dating world takes more work than I’d imagined. “Remember the mantra?”

“Say yes.” Bex rolls her eyes, stabbing the air with her fork at each syllable. “But I wanted us to go to the Pasadena Society Estate Sale tomorrow morning. It’s the last one of the season. I don’t want to be out late tonight—I like to get up and out. Early bird catches the best antique bargain and all that. I need to find some distressed leather for a piece I’m working on for a client. Anyway, what time is this party?”

I’m not going to let her bail on this one. She might be able to weasel her way out of plans with her friends here, but I know her too well.

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes, what?” Bex says in confusion.

“Yes. Yes, let’s go to the Estate Sale thingy tomorrow morning. Yes, we’ll still go to the party tonight. Yes. Yes…” I smile, on the verge of laughing. Mimosas, sunshine, and jet lag are a fun combination.

“Ah ha, I see what you’re doing,” Bex gives me a sarcastic look, but indulges me. “Yes,” she says with a smile, “I’ll go to the party.”

* * *

“Are you sure this looks okay?” Bex pulls nervously at the sweetheart neckline of her red body-hugging dress to tuck in an errant bra strap. “I should have worn a strapless bra. But they don’t give me the lift I need, especially for a dress like this one.”

“Stop complaining that you have boobs.” I gesture to my almost B cups. “Check out this view,” I marvel. “The city looks so beautiful from up here, I know it’s cliché, but it is just like the movies. Those twinkling lights of lives and dreams. It almost makes me miss living in this crazy town.”

“Yeah, it’s really nice even though we did almost die getting here. This better be a fun party.”

The twisty curves along Mulholland had been almost too much to bear, especially in the back seat of an Uber with a faulty suspension. I should have sprung for the executive car. The two double gin and tonics we’d enjoyed in Bex’s backyard after mimosas at brunch were sloshing around in our stomachs as the car swerved and swayed. A near miss with an oncoming Range Rover almost made us both throw up. The driver was thoughtful though and clearly protective of his 4.87 rating—there were handy wipes and a roll of paper towels tucked into the middle seat console. This driver was ready for anything. I’d told him to drop us off a couple of blocks away from the address so we could get some fresh air and walk off the nausea.

“I think this is going to be a big party. Look at all the cars. And nice ones too,” I say.

“Come on, Liv.” Bex rolls her eyes. “I don’t care if a guy drives a pickup truck or a Porsche. You know, I’d actually prefer the pickup truck. You can’t haul anything around in a sports car.”

“Maybe there’s an app for that. Pickup Truck Bucks,” I say, racking my brain at all the dating sites I’d discovered while researching Bex’s profiles. “You know there’s even one for ‘Uniform Dating.’ How ’bout a fireman?”

Finally, after a pretty steep walk past a growing line of parked cars, our stilettos click-clacking up to the address, we arrive.

“Is this it?” Bex says.

“Yeah.” I look at my phone to confirm that we’re at the right number. “Yup, this is it. Shall we?” I raise my hand about to ring the doorbell.

“This is a house,” Bex states. “I mean it’s a nice house, but it’s a house. I thought this was some kind of event, like at a warehouse or a gallery. How do you know these people?”

“Yes, it’s a house. An amazing house,” I say. “You just don’t get this kind of place in London. This is so LA. Is that an infinity pool behind the gate?” I try my best to sound encouraging, sensing that Bex is about to turn tail and make a run for it.

“Are these friends of friends, or someone from Ethan’s firm?” Bex says, switching into LAPD detective mode.

I can tell she’s starting to get nervous. She’s been hibernating for longer than I thought.

“Beeexxxxxx,” I say, whining and stretching her name out beyond the one syllable to get my way. “Come on, you can’t bail now. It was Saturday night, I guess that makes it all right,” I sing out of key, knowing that the right lyrics will lure her into action.

“Oh, all right, fine, let’s do it.” When she sings back What have I got to lose I know I’ve got her hooked. “Hopefully, there won’t be anyone crying,” Bex says dramatically as she rings the doorbell.

We hear a high-pitched laugh from inside. “I’m coming!” a voice calls out with a slightly sarcastic edge as the door opens with a flourish.

“Hi, ladies, come in. Oh, I like the dress,” a giggly woman in one of those Hervé Leger bandage dresses says to Bex. “Very Dynasty.” We squeeze past her and walk inside.

“Dynasty? Why did she say that? Is it too fancy? Too Joan Collins? I mean, I got it from Anthropologie!” Bex whispers to me.

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