The List

By Debbie Bruce

Inspired by her 30th birthday, Julia Baker makes a ‘Just Do It’ list designed to make her ho-hum life shine. Chaos and comedy ensue as an eccentric group of supporting characters (an outspoken best friend, quirky step-brother, disconnected mother and some delectable love interests) both help and hinder her process through a journey of love, loss and what inevitably falls in between, life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debbie Bruce
• Release date: Jul 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476447988

Debbie Bruce

I like to write. So I do. Often.

Book preview

THE LIST

By

Debbie Bruce

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Debbie Bruce

All rights reserved.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Mike who said I should, Tyler & Dylan who said I could, and to Barry (the real Charlie) who said I would.

Chapter 1

It was Bruce Springsteen’s baritone voice reminiscing about the glory days that pulled me from a dreamless sleep. I silenced The Boss with a clumsy swipe to the snooze button followed by a small groan. Fifteen years of working in film and television had given me a healthy respect for the importance of beauty sleep, and 3:17AM was too damn late—or early depending on how you looked at it—to be woken up from any kind of sleep.

Come on, JD. Let’s get this over with, I mumbled sleepily to my cat as I toed on my slippers. JD lifted his head from the warm folds of the covers and considered me briefly, but then resettled his chin into his paws. My hazel eyes narrowed in what was meant to come off as a stern glare. Now, JD. Let’s go!

The only movement from my unapologetic orange cat was two lazy blinks and an ear twitch. Sighing in resignation, I tip-toed silently down the hall alone. Although JD and I were the sole occupants of my three-storey brownstone house, I’ve always felt that late hours and dark shadows required a certain amount of reverence.

When I turned on the bathroom light, a two-week hiatus from bathroom chores greeted me. I’m not usually untidy, in fact I tend to lean more towards the OCD end of the cleanliness spectrum, but a streak of work consisting of four auditions, a two episode guest spot as a forensic expert on a crop drama, three call-backs for an international commercial and a week-long continuity gig on the new Emma Stone flick made scrubbing toilets and emptying wastebaskets a low priority. Glancing at the Mickey Mouse clock hanging above the vanity, a housewarming present from my brother Charlie, I noted that I still had more than two minutes to wait. Timing was everything with this particular ritual I had woken early for, and it couldn’t be rushed. I used the remaining moments to re-cap a hairspray can, wipe a crusty toothpaste spill off the tiled counter and edit the sea of yellow sticky notes framing my vanity mirror. Once there was more mirror exposed than memos, I leaned over the countertop to spend the last 23 seconds studying my reflection.

I rarely see myself, Julia Baker, when I take a good look in the mirror; I’m usually searching for a distinct characteristic or mannerism that will nail the role I’m focused on at the time. Like the reluctant nun from the low-budget made for TV movie (sparse with the make-up, heavy on the wardrobe, shoulders hunched forward, motivation: Amy Adams in Doubt), the drug-addicted stripper in that high rated medical drama (sparse with the wardrobe, heavy with the make-up, shoulders thrust back, motivation: Marisa Tomei in The Wrestler) or the desperate woman in dire need of a laxative from the suppository commercial (sparse with details to friends, heavy with hope the commercial wouldn’t run nationally, shoulders slumped forward in humiliation, motivation: big fat paycheque).

I was 14 years old when I made my first onscreen appearance, my awkward teen years forever frozen in film as a gawky beanpole sporting the geek trifecta of braces, acne and insecurity. It was a feature film starring Gwyneth Paltrow that was shooting in our neighbourhood, a residential suburb west of Toronto, and Charlie had convinced me to come with him on a casting call for background extras he’d read about in the paper. My older brother wasn’t as interested in being in the movie as he was in simultaneously wooing Gwyneth away from Brad Pitt while taking advantage of the fully catered lunch so you had to admire his confidence if not his priorities. We were both hired as extras for the movie and although it wasn’t a very glamorous job (our task was to sit for eight hours on cold bleachers pretending to egg on two actors feigning a fistfight), I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Charlie found it a huge bore, and was further disgusted by the fact that Gwyneth wasn’t even on set that day. They should have put that in the ad, he’d griped.

Despite Charlie’s misgivings I caught the bug immediately, finding the behind the scenes access to the fabulously polished world of movie-making fascinating. After researching local casting agents in my area, I signed on with an agency that continued to get me more and more extra work. I held other jobs on and off throughout my teens, but by the time I was 17 I knew that I wanted to focus all my energy on a career in the entertainment industry. My flighty mother had no interest in my career aspirations and therefore offered no opinion on the subject, but to be fair, there were very few things outside the realm of Meredith’s self-absorbed vacuum that could hold her attention. What really mattered to me was my dad’s opinion, so I was both pleased and relieved when he fully supported my decision to pursue my passion. His only stipulation was that I get my high school diploma and that he accompanied me to each shoot. That was just fine with me, I was only three months away from graduating and genuinely liked spending time with my father. We had always been very close, which is why I stayed with him and not my mother after their divorce years earlier. A sound decision, Meredith had said on a voice message left for me hours after the divorce was finalized, steel drums from her Caribbean vacation tinkering in the background. My leaving the house is disruption enough. You and your father go about your routine and call me should you need to. Warm and fuzzy my mother is not. After graduation Dad and I scouted talent agencies that focused more on principal speaking roles, and six months later I landed my first national commercial for hand cream. We celebrated my success over ribs and fries at Swiss Chalet and never looked back.

Smiling at the memory, I returned my attention to Mickey and waited patiently for his oversized gloved hand to sweep past the 12 and bring with it the first moments of my 30th year of life. For months the impending arrival of my milestone birthday had me feeling an uncharacteristic restlessness. I tried to chalk up my birthday apprehensions to being in a business that stamps an expiry date on any un-Botoxed forehead over 22, but I knew there was more to this uneasiness than just job security.

JD lumbered slowly into the bathroom just as Mickey’s left finger touched the 12, confirming I was now officially thirty years old. I reached for the thermos I’d left out earlier, poured a small amount of champagne-laced orange juice into a tall crystal flute, and returned my glance to the mirror.

Happy Birthday, Julia Baker, I toasted, my companion reflection mirroring my sentiments. So this is 30, huh?

Although some faint lines were evident when I furrowed my brow, and the crinkles around my eyes remained a hair longer than I would have liked, I was content there didn’t seem to be too much of a change in my appearance from when I was 25. In fact one of the auditions I’d tried out for earlier in the week was for a 23-year old. I have what my agent calls a ‘timeless look’, which apparently falls somewhere between girl-next-door and girl-gone-wild. The ill-advised pixie cut my best friend Chloe had talked me into last spring had finally grown out, and my dark brown hair was just brushing against my shoulders. My olive complexion, regal cheekbones and long lashes may have been a clear nod to my mother’s DNA, but the smattering of freckles over the bridge of my nose were definitely a gift from dad. A brown blemish wouldn’t dare reside on the perfect skin of Meredith Follingsworth-Hamilton, but my freckles were like a cheeky wink from dad reminding me not to take things too seriously. And apart from wishing for a few more inches on my five foot ten frame, and a few less inches around the midsection—what women wouldn’t?—I was generally comfortable with my looks. Chloe theorized my relaxed attitude with body image was my subconscious rebelling against the relentless criticism doled out by Meredith over the years. Charlie claimed that self-esteem and good looks are in the genes—a statement made less potent by the fact that we’re not related by blood. I dismissed both theories and maintained I’m just the type of gal that usually doesn’t sweat the small stuff. Which made me wonder even more why the arrival of my 30th birthday brought this lingering sensation of discomfort and apprehension.

It’s like that feeling in the last few minutes of an important exam, I had attempted to explain to Charlie earlier that day, over lunch. It doesn’t matter how confident you are with the material, and it doesn’t even matter that you’ve already finished the test and are just waiting for the bell. There’s always a small part of you that is asking ‘Is it good enough? Did I do everything I should have?’

Can’t relate, Charlie responded, gracelessly stuffing an entire California roll in his mouth, yet still able to finish his thought, you may recall I never studied.

It’s a metaphor, Char, I laughed. I guess I’m just feeling very introspective with my birthday coming up. Here I am, on the eve on my 30th birthday and I’m not in a relationship, don’t have my career exactly where I want it and am still driving the same car I had in high school. I dipped my spoon in my soup and absently swirled it around. "And what’s even worse is that I’m an almost 30-year-old woman who is moaning about not being in a relationship, having a crappy career and being broke. How lame am I?"

Pretty lame, Charlie agreed, draining his coffee. "Especially considering the only reason you’re not in a relationship is because you’re too scared to commit, you have a very cool job that you love, and you’re the only person I know who actually has both investments and a retirement plan. He leaned back in his chair. Is this the part where you start lamenting about your ovaries drying up and are going to request some of my sperm?"

Ewww! I sputtered, dropping my spoon in the bowl. "You are so not allowed to say ‘sperm’ when I’m eating miso soup! I’m pretty sure I can still acquire some the old-fashioned way."

Whatever, Charlie grinned, pulling out a cigarette pack from his pocket. He was wearing khaki pants and a button down shirt, his wavy brown hair perfectly in place thanks to a secret cocktail of gel, mousse and hairspray. Charlie used more product in his hair than I did, and wasn’t ashamed to admit it. But I’ve learned the hard way that chicks seem to have this time clock thingy that suddenly activates when they enter their third decade. In my experience it tends to make them all act a little crazy. He shook his head, as if anything that motivated the female species was a mystery to him.

Men have also been known to get a little antsy with the onset of age, I pointed out, wiping away a drop of soup from the table. Just because you eased into 30 without a care in the world doesn’t mean that everyone can.

Charlie, five years my senior, shrugged casually. I don’t know, he continued, you’re not even 30 yet and you’re already getting antsy. What happens after you do that incredibly odd mirror-looking birthday ritual of yours? He touched a lit match to the tip of his smoke. What’s that about, anyway?

I thanked the waitress as she took my soup away. I don’t really know. It appeals to my dramatic nature, I suppose. To witness a personal milestone in the moment it occurs and to have complete control over my first thoughts and feelings each time I enter a brand new year of life, I answered, staring thoughtfully into space. I can’t really explain it. It just seems like there’s magic in that moment.

I get it Jules, I think it’s sweet. He stubbed his smoke out in the ashtray. Weird, but sweet. Just don’t over think stuff. You’re celebrating 30 years of life tomorrow, and life is something to be celebrated, not lamented. If you’re unhappy with anything in it, quit bitching and do something to make it better.

I smiled and shook my head. Just like that, eh?

Charlie sat back in his chair again and crossed his arms over his chest. Yup, just like that.

And as I stared in the mirror in the first moments of my 30th year of life with Charlie’s words echoing in my mind, an inspiration came to me which lifted the fog of my lament. I lifted JD from the counter, placed a noisy kiss on his head and then set him down on the floor before I headed downstairs.

I did not tip-toe as I walked into the kitchen, nor did I think twice about turning on the radio at such a late hour. In fact, I turned the music up louder to drown out the bowls and baking pans rattling together as I began gathering the ingredients for my killer Red Ribbon Cupcakes. Baking always settled me when I had a plan to formulate.

Chapter 2

Happy birthday, Julia! You home?

In here, I yelled back to Chloe, but my reply was swallowed by the confines of the oven as I pulled the last batch of cupcakes out.

I got your text, she continued from the front hall, apparently undeterred by a lack of response she could hear. What the hell were you doing up at 3:30 in the morning and, more importantly, what’s so pressing that I had to cancel Pilates to come see you—, there was a brief pause in her dialogue as she presumably pulled up my text to quote it verbatim, —Capital ‘N-O-W’, exclamation mark, exclamation mark’? Jeez Julia, you know I don’t like excessive punctuation in texts.

She’s right, I did know that. In fact I knew damn near everything there was to know about Chloe and had for over 20 years, ever since we bonded over our mutual admiration for glitter nail polish in grade three. Chloe was a pretty little thing, a slender blond-haired blue-eyed waif with delicate features that often had my dad likening her to a picture on a chocolate box. But she’s also the coolest, most sincere, down to earth person I’d ever met, and I’m not just saying that because she’s five foot one. We sat across from each other in Mrs. Ianni’s class, our close proximity due to our no-nonsense teacher’s alphabetic seating plan. The class had just begun a unit on sign language, and my hands were carefully crafting the letters to the alphabet in sync with my other classmates when I heard a strange noise. I looked over at Chloe, who was tapping her shoe loudly to get my attention.

I really like your nail polish colour, she whispered covertly, her eyes fixed straight ahead on the teacher. Is it ‘I’m Fondue of You’ purple by OPI?

I glared at her crossly, annoyed that I’d flubbed the ‘S’ to ‘T’ transition, but couldn’t help but be impressed with her acute observation skills. Not only did this brazen seven-year-old correctly identify the exact colour and make of my polish, but her well manicured hands continued to flawlessly execute the signs.

Our shared obsession for coloured toluene resulted in a manicure-themed slumber party that very night, followed by countless phone calls, shopping trips, gossip sessions and nursed broken hearts. We surfed all of life’s highs and lows together; Chloe sitting by my bedside the summer I got mononucleosis and standing by me when I chose to live with my dad after the divorce, and me wiping away her tears at her father’s funeral and weeping unabashedly over her shoulder as she married the love of her life.

Chloe’s wedding band caught the light and sparkled as she held her green-skinned Blackberry and came to a sudden stop at the kitchen. Balancing a tray of two non-fat lattes and a bouquet of flowers in her other arm, her almond-shaped eyes widened at the sight of four batches of cupcakes lined up neatly on my kitchen counter. Chloe cocked her head to the side slowly and gave me a look, but still said nothing as she carefully walked over to the kitchen table, taking care not to let any flour smudge her dark grey pants.

What’s going on? she asked in a sing-song voice heavy with exaggerated nonchalance. Do I sense an MFH story looming?

Chloe does not think it a coincidence that my mother’s initials are also a perfectly apt acronym for Mother From Hell. After witnessing many random acts of thoughtlessness from Meredith served up to me over the years, Chloe didn’t understand my tolerance for my mother and wished I would cut her out of my life with a swift kick in the ass on the way. I thought of Meredith more like a crazy aunt that swoops into town twice a year bursting with drama and fun, and then disappeared just as quickly leaving you drained and empty.

I placed the warm cupcake tin down, reached over to pluck the flowers from Chloe’s burden and buried my nose in the lovely purple orchids she knew were my very favourite. Despite the quantity of cupcakes in the room to possibly suggest the contrary, I felt positively cheerful and energized. My head was clear and my thoughts focused, despite the fact I’d been up for almost 24 hours. I’ll bet there was even a splash of colour in my cheeks.

Surprisingly, the cupcakes are not at all MFH-related, I assured her, getting a vase from the cupboard. She actually acknowledged my birthday with a collect call from the Cayman Islands. Although Meredith maintained it was merely coincidental her yearly ‘refresher vacations’ tended to coincide with my birthday, I was of the opinion a quick nick/tuck across the border helped her fragile ego deal with my tiresome habit of aging. And, I paused dramatically, she’s met a man who is simply ‘dee-vine’.

Chloe giggled at my imitation of Meredith’s terse British accent, more relaxed now that she knew there was no crisis looming. Good Lord, she muttered, taking a seat and opening the lid of her latte, "that woman eats men for breakfast, lunch and dinner. As she eyed the closest cupcake sitting on the counter, I could tell she was mentally calculating the caloric implications the treat would have on her strict diet regime. So if it’s not an MFH issue, what exactly is the reason I’m contemplating eating crap instead of sweating my ass off at Pilates?" Chloe asked, compromising with a chaste fingerfull of the sugary icing.

Grinning, I grabbed a whole cupcake. There’s going to be some changes in the Baker Household, I began, pulling the paper off.

Chloe cocked an eyebrow. Go on.

I had an epiphany last night that started with me feeling sorry for myself and ended with me feeling pretty damn good. I took a bite and continued. I have implemented a new motto for my newly minted 30’s: Get what you want.

Chloe looked around the kitchen. And what you want is to start an absurdly disorganized cupcake company?

I snickered. Not exactly. Easing down to the kitchen floor, I rested my head against the dishwasher and hoped I could verbalize the dizzying emotions my new focus elicited. It was like an exhilarating, energized sensation with just a smidge of apprehension. I was reminded of a similar feeling three years earlier, when I made the down payment on my house. After discovering the quaint little two-bedroom brownstone was on the market (that yes, was used as the location for a crack house in a Megan Fox/Colin Farrell shoot-em-up flick, but cleaned up quite well, thank you very much), I researched the pros and cons of home ownership. I then consulted with my barometer of reason, aka: my dad, whose practical and rational nature makes him my go-to guy whenever I have any big decision looming. He thought I should go for it, but I still fretted over the inevitable financial burden that a mortgage would bring. What if I missed a payment? What if the roof collapsed? What if I suddenly decided I needed a boob job but my savings were depleted? Every best-case/worst-case scenario was hypothesized, scrutinized and analyzed as I poured over spreadsheets and mortgage calculators, and I worried over the decision up until the very last moment. But when the morning came for me to turn my very own key in a door that was attached to a house officially in my name, all the worries evaporated. Tracing my fingers along the windowsill and looking out over my new backyard I had a feeling of absolute pleasure and pride, and not only did I fully accept my decision as a sound one, I wondered how I’d ever doubted myself in the first place.

So as I sat on my kitchen floor and thought about how I wanted to implement some changes that would enhance my life, and how it would take courage to loosen my predictable white-knuckled response to trying anything new without fully analysing every