Plus One

Part 1 - Plus One

"Sammy, I need you to come to a party with me."

"No way."

"Come on, please. I have to take a plus one."

"Take my sister; isn't that why you married her?"

"She's gonna be in Timbuktu."

"Seriously? She's doing a project in Mali? Isn't that dangerous? Bobby, how could you let her go off to such an explosive region..." Jesus Christ! Critically acclaimed, my ass; for a famous son of a bitch, sometimes I swear my brother-in-law has all the intelligence of a snail fart.

"She won't literally be in Timbuktu; it's just an expression."

"Oh sure, 'cause nothing says you're an ass better than insulting a whole African nation."

"Okay, chillax will you? I'm sorry I insulted an African nation; now will you come to the party with me?"

"Right after I die my hair rainbow coloured and get an eyebrow piercing."

"That would be a good look for you."

"Yep, just keep 'em coming, Robbity-Bob, they are really helping your case."

He changes tack now, which lets me know he's serious about wanting me at that party. "Samantha Jane Levin, it would give me great pleasure if you would agree to accompany me to a social event to be held this coming weekend."

"Give a girl plenty of notice, why don't you." I hear him groan but carry on before he has the chance to answer. "I'm afraid I can't come to the party with you, no matter how much you suck up to me."

"Why not? I promise I'll behave."

I snicker. Yeah, right, Robert Downey Jnr, behave? And I'm the Queen of England. "Well, let's see: first off, I hate those LA parties full of fake tits, fake tans, fake teeth and fake souls; second off, the last party I went to with you, I got puke all over my brand new suede boots which never cleaned off, thank you very much; and third of all, I am currently situated on 'the other side of the pond' and have no intention of flying for ten hours just to attend a social soiree with yours truly." Take that, RD of the J – a watertight alibi.

"You're in England?"

"Wales, to be more accurate, but I'll be in Jolly Olde England from Thursday. Sorry old chap," I said, affecting a plummy English accent, "no can help you out, eh what, tally-ho, pip pip and all that, chummy."

"You know, that's actually quite perfect, Sammy my love."

Now I'm suspicious; Bobby never calls me 'my love' unless... "Why is that?"

"The party is in London on Saturday."

"Shit."

His chuckle is almost Machiavellian; I sigh loudly, making sure he knows I'm doing this completely against my free will. "All right, Downey, you've got yourself a date. Send me the details."

"I appreciate it, Samwise. How about I book you a room at my hotel as a thank you?"

Damn straight. That's the kind of guy he is though, insulting me one minute then doing something really sweet the next. "You don't have to do that."

"I'd like to. Please."

"Okay. Thanks."

"No problem, kiddo. See you Saturday."

"See you. Give my love to Suz and the kids."

We ring off and I get back to my script; I need to have the revisions finished by morning or I'll have a short, shiny, bald pimple of a director on my back.