“What are you working on, Bran?” I asked.
“I’m reshooting a scene in a Porta Potty tomorrow,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“Macbeth?” I asked.
“That’s right, Mrs. Frey,” he answered sweetly.
"Is this where shabby chic came to die?” I asked, wondering out loud. “It’s lovely but there’s a lot of it.” The first day of October in Los Angeles is bright and cool, very nearly perfect as we sat outside for brunch, looking over the grey horizon. The Ivy was cloyingly cute with naturally perfumed flowers, pillows and blue Italian Spode plates. The Cajun Bloody Mary, however, seemed to be kicking Loretta’s backside.
“Wow, that’s stiff,” Retta said, trying not to cough. “But I need that.” Retta had been dating a friend of my husband’s, Bran Barclay, biding her time until her divorce was final. Bran had just texted Retta and found out we were at The Ivy, announcing to her that he would be stopping by to pick her up and our brunch would just be down to two; me and Suzan of Beverly Hills.
“Retta, Bran is not like my husband. Bran likes having his picture taken because it helps his career. That isn’t Gerry’s career any longer so neither of us like it. Just a heads’ up,” I warned her.
Within five minutes of the Bran text message, a deep blue Tesla Plaid pulled up to the valet and Bran Barclay stepped out. People noticed and by people I mean everyone sitting on the patio of The Ivy, people walking in the street, everyone. Bran is an action star and everyone knows who he is. He’s mid-fifties so he’s pushing his sell-by date on jumping out of helicopters. But he’s got enough gravitas to find meatier roles. He can take on intellectual roles with those massive biceps and that Scottish lilt. That’s my take, anyway and I would watch the crap out of that movie.
When Bran stepped out of his car, no doubt asking the valet to keep it running, heads turned as his six foot, two inch height towered above the valet. He was wearing a beautiful sports jacket, black jeans, charcoal button down shirt and motorcycle boots. Bran had a week’s stubble covering his weathered face, a touch of gray at the temples of his light brownish-blonde hair. He had a slight smile on his face, behind those dark, wrap-around sunglasses. You could tell he spent a lot of time outdoors as his beautiful skin was a deep bronze, not an orange tan that was sprayed on. He is very muscular and he was wearing jewelry – not a lot of jewelry but just enough to grab the attention. Bran had that high-wattage smile that is required of film stars and it looked particularly good on him. He’s no Gerry but he is about as close as they come.
He walked up to our table and exclaimed to the three of us, “Mo ghràidh, what beauty!” That thick Scottish brogue just got thicker, I thought. Bran stood behind me and then leaned down and kissed me on the cheek, shook Suze’s hand, patting the back of it with his other hand and saying her name. Then he picked up Retta’s hand and dramatically kissed the back of it. Did she just blush? I’ve never seen her blush. Bran took a seat with us next to Retta, seeming happy about having found three ladies to watch him be the peacock. We’re better than the Housewives of Beverly Hills, if I do say so myself. And a lot nicer.
After pleasantries were passed, Bran asked, “Tell me about what you ladies are working on?" he asked, picking up my hand and looking at me.
I began, “Bran, I’m trying to expand my senior center org in Pasadena into a national non-profit. And Suze is on my board of directors.” I passed the torch to her to speak for herself.
Suzan said, “After I pick up my new trunk at Louis Vuitton this afternoon, I’m going to be organizing the smuggling of 10,000 Bibles into North Korea.” She waved her hand at Retta.
“I’m preparing a report for six vice presidents regarding a capitation plan for medical providers in seven states,” Retta said. "And then I have several other triple-booked meetings this week.”
“What are you working on, Bran?” I asked.
“I’m reshooting a scene in a Porta Potty tomorrow,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“Macbeth?” I asked.
“That’s right, Mrs. Frey,” he answered sweetly, but Bran was not here to make small talk or entertain my jibes. “I hate to crash your brunch but I’d like to take Miss Loretta now, if you wee lassies don’t mind,” he stated, looking at Retta. I don’t think he was asking us.
“Hold on, Mr. Scot,” I interrupted Bran’s idea of a quick getaway. He smiled at me.
Then Retta spoke up. “The ladies were just pointing out to me that it might not be the best idea for us to be photographed together leaving here, in case someone saw it on a magazine cover. Or Twitter,” Retta said and I could see Bran working it over in his mind.
“I take your meaning, wee Retta,” he said, smiling.
“Maybe let’s keep it low key for the next couple of weeks? My divorce is almost final,” she suggested and he agreed.
“Gerry’s at the house,” I interjected as they both looked at me.
“What a coincidence,” Bran said, beginning to turn on the acting charm. “I was just on my way over to see my old friend Gerrad,” Bran said, rolling his Rs and smiling.
“We’ll meet you there in a little bit then?” Retta asked, and he agreed to it. He leaned over and whispered something into Retta’s ear and she nodded, the serious look never leaving her.
“Ladies, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, as I texted Gerry to give him a heads’ up. Bran waved goodbye to Retta and Suze, made a dramatic kiss on my cheek as if I were the one he was here to see and left. He was winding his way off The Ivy patio as camera phones clicked. He slid smoothly into his car and was gone.
“Suze, are you smuggling the Bibles in the Louis Vuitton trunk?” I asked. "Because that seems rather conspicuous."
Copyright 2022 © All rights reserved. Excerpt from Resurrection: The Dark Chambers of Gerry Frey’s Heart by Mare Loch.
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