A Total Waste of Makeup by Kim Gruenenfelder

before.”
    “I’m only here for the evening,” the butler tells me in the queen’s English as he takes my coat. “I actually work for Master Puffy D, Master Stanton’s neighbor. I’m on loan, so to speak.”
    “I love your accent,” I say.
    “And I yours, madam. My name is Jeeves, and I’m at your service.”
    While Jeeves (seriously?) puts my coat in the hall closet, I look around the front entry. Drew’s house looks magical tonight, even more so than usual. The lights have been dimmed, candles flicker everywhere around me, and Sarah McLachlan’s CD Fumbling Towards Ecstasy lilts in the background.
    “Mr. Stanton requests that you make yourself comfortable in the drawing room,” Jeeves informs me.
    Jeeves leads me to Drew’s “drawing room” (what the rest of the world would call his living room).
    I walk into the drawing room, and it’s decorated even more exquisitely than the front hallway. A roaring fire crackles in the fireplace, and there are so many candles here, I feel like I’m at church (but in a good way). There’s a fully stocked bar in the corner, complete with a bartender. Perfect.
    Drew bounds in, looking positively stunning in a dark blue suit he had made at Saville Row last year, and waving a large ivory card in front of me.
    “It came!” he yells excitedly, thrusting my sister’s wedding invitation in my face. I grab it and look—teddy bears. Is she out of her fucking tree?
    “Which tuxedo do you think I should wear?” Drew asks, beaming. “The Armani, the Gucci, or the Turnbull and Asser?”
    “What’s the one you had made when we went to England?” I ask, staring at the invitation and discovering that Hunter’s middle name is Thompson (Thompson?).
    “Turnbull and Asser,” Drew says.
    “Yeah, that one,” I say distractedly, running my finger lightly over the invitation. They actually paid to have the teddy bears engraved. Good grief. “And wear those cufflinks you had made when we were there, too.”
    Drew’s face lights up even more. “Ooohhh, you mean the diamond ones from Deakin and Francis. I love those. Remind me that we need to get back to London soon, and do some shopping.”
    Suddenly he furrows his brow and taps his index finger to his chin to give his “thinking face.” “Wait, do you think I might look too flashy? I don’t want to come off as too Hollywood.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, still focused on the invitation, and wondering how Andy found salmon-colored sparkly ink. “Everyone’s supposed to wear a tux. Besides, the Turnbull one makes you look hot.”
    Drew smiles, visibly surprised. “You think I’ll look hot?”
    “Huh?” I say, as I look up from the invitation. “What? Yeah. Definitely.”
    What I didn’t tell him was the universal truth:
    All men under forty look hot in tuxedos. All men over forty look distinguished.

    The bartender hands us each a Christofle martini glass filled with chilled vodka with what looks like flecks of gold floating throughout. It looks like a snow globe souvenir of California during the gold rush.
    “Try this,” Drew says proudly. “It’s the new drink: the Academy Award martini!”
    I’m dubious, but I take a sip. The metal tastes…weird. I peer into the glass and squint my eyes. “What is this floating in my drink?”
    “Edible gold leaf,” Drew tells me. “I read about it in a magazine. The guy I bought it from says if you drink too much your poop can turn gold.”
    Drew makes this last statement with such joie de vive, I’m not sure how to respond. But before I can anything, I’m saved by the bell.
    The doorbell rings and, within seconds, Bachelor #1 enters the drawing room. He is gorgeous: dark hair, smoldering dark eyes, and a perfectly chiseled body that can only come from working out actually being your career.
    Drew’s face lights up when he sees him.
    “Chris!” he says brightly, walking up to him, doing the shaking of the hand with the half hug thing, then leading him to