FIRST DATE

I wasn't looking forward to dinner. I didn't want to be social. But this was our first date. Ben, a television writer, wanted to go. I'm also a writer. When we met three months ago, I told him I was working on a "spec" screenplay and was looking for a writing partner...was he interested? He was... and though I thought he was really adorable in a sandy-colored, tousled hair, faded jeans way, I kept that to myself. But, two days ago, he asked me to go with him to a party in Malibu. Like a date! Well, it did beat a Tinder swipe.

Ben was gainfully employed as a showrunner for an hour drama, and his exec producer, Susan, and her well-respected theater director husband, Jack, had invited him to a pop-up dinner for a phenom L.A. pizza chef. Now, pizza is my favorite food group, but I was cranky. I had recently been hired to write for a new sitcom called "Women in Lockup" (an "Orange is the New Black" wannabe) but, before my contract even entered a computer, the show was cancelled. Job security--not a show biz perk.

So, not more than two hours after receiving this career-crushing news, Ben was to pick me up and take me to a party with people I didn't know who were probably all gainfully employed. Who needed that? I texted Ben and cancelled. He answered by actually calling me to say he was picking me up, period. He wasn't trying to be insensitive, he explained, as he was being insensitive. He was determined to help me forget my disappointment by taking me out of my tiny canyon bungalow, feeding me my favorite food, and pouring me some California merlot he knows I love. OK. We'd only been writing together for a few months, mostly on weekends (he has a real "paying" job, you remember) so how could he know that I needed to wallow in my misery for at least twenty-four hours? Well, he did know I loved merlot. Merlot won.

When we arrived at the house high up on a hill in Malibu, Susan led us outside to a large flagstone terrace where a few guests, all dressed in black (the uniform of the west side L.A. set) were already mingling and sipping wine. I plastered a smile on my face (I'm an expert phony smiler--a needed attribute to survive in "Hollywood"), dreading the moment when I'd have to talk to strangers I didn't want to know. At least not tonight. Susan introduced us. Ben amused them with a witty story about his show (he's good at making conversation), but what would be my lame contribution? My life's in "turnaround?"

A new couple arrived, dressed in obligatory black. He in black linen trousers and a black polo shirt...she in a black mini-skirt, black tee and black Prada sandals. Ben at least blended in with his black linen shirt and faded jeans (always appropriate in L.A.). With my faded jeans and mane of auburn curls, I'd worn a white linen shirt. I was wearing leopard sandals, however, which gave my "ensemble" a throw-away Melrose Avenue "thing." But, being unemployed, which breeds insecurity (a showbiz malady), I mourned my lack of black.

Ben fetched me a glass of merlot from the outside bar and I took a big gulp as we were introduced to the new arrivals, Bob and Carol, friends from Susan's PBS days. A documentary filmmaker, Bob had happily "sold out" to work in reality television. Carol worked in advertising. After the initial hellos Bob asked me the inevitable dreaded question. I told him I was a television writer.

"Great! What are you working on?"

I sipped my merlot with ladylike flourish. "I'm in development," I answered. A euphemism for nothing.

Bob laughed. "Me, too. I'm developing my golf game." I gave him a genuine smile and decided the evening might be salvaged.

Susan and Jack's house sat on a cliff with a spectacular view of the ocean. If you looked down their sloping hillside property, you could see the Pacific Coast Highway and the rooftops and patios of houses lower on the hill.

Ben was in the midst of a story I'd already heard, so I grabbed a handful of chips (another favorite food group) and walked to the edge of the terrace. The sun was setting and the sky was shocking pink along the ocean horizon. Cars were rushing up and down PCH and I wondered if any of the drivers noticed the vivid sunset, or whether they were too busy talking on their cell phones. Directly below, black-clad guests at another party mingled around a pool on a drab cement patio of a sprawling faux-Neutra, mid-century house. Tall, skinny cypress trees surrounded the terrace. I hated those trees... too thin, like most of L.A. (to be fair, I'm thin, just not "too" thin). As if to coordinate with the house, 60s rock music drifted upward as partygoers danced around the pool (though how the women managed in ridiculously skinny four-inch heels was a mystery). I tried to imagine the owners of such an ugly house. Definitely entertainment lawyers. Who else would buy an over-priced Motel 6?! My eyes drifted to the neighboring rooftop. There, lying on his back, spread-eagle in the middle of the roof was a man in chinos and a Hawaiian shirt... motionless. I watched him for a while, but still no movement. I called for everyone to come quickly... "there's a dead body below!" Why I said "quickly," I hadn't a clue. If the man was really dead, he wasn't going anywhere in the immediate future.

Susan scrounged up a pair of binoculars as the others stared at the body. No one thought he was dead except me. Ben suggested that the man was probably a "B" movie director, resting after a day of dealing with studio heads. Jack asked why a "B" movie director, giving Ben an opening to expound on his theory that "B" movie directors wore colorful Hawaiian shirts as a cheerful uniform to brighten their days of incessant studio interference, adding that "A" movie directors tend to favor calm, monochromatic polo shirts. Everyone actually thought seriously about this for a minute until Carol wondered if the man was in the midst of a new hatha yoga meditation.

Susan looked through the binoculars. "I think his eyes are open," she said as she handed the binoculars to me. His eyes were open. I watched them carefully for thirty seconds. They didn't blink.

"OK, smarty," I said and gave the binoculars to Ben. "You tell me what director, 'A' or 'B' lies on his back, not moving, staring at the sky, not blinking. That guy's deader than a Neiman-Marcus mannequin."

Ben looked. Bob, Carol and Jack looked. They all looked at me. I dialed 911 on my cell. After a dozen rings (seriously??) an upbeat "Britney" finally answered, convincing me that only women named "Vera" should answer emergency calls.

I explained to Britney who I was, where I was and what we saw. Cheerfully, she thanked me for calling, promising to report my body (well, not my body, Mr. Hawaiian Shirt's body) to the nearest police precinct, then said, "have a nice day."

The evening was showing promise. I had done my civic duty. Now we all had something to talk about other than work, or in my case, lack of it. Who was he? Was he even in show business? Everyone automatically assumed as much... L.A. is a company town, after all. But, maybe he was a drifter picked up by some homicidal maniac and lured to that rooftop to be murdered.

After I gorged on more chips, the chef brought out his first pizza offerings and arranged them on a long table at the end of the terrace. These pizzas were not my N.Y. pizzas, but California nouvelle pizzas such as arugula and pine nuts or goat cheese with sun-dried tomatoes. I actually like these pizzas, but I'd definitely move back to Manhattan if the pizza joints in L.A. started making tofu pizza. They can make Prozac pizza for all I care (heaven forbid we Angelenos be seen as hyper or edgy), but tofu?? My transplanted N.Y. mind balks at tofu.

Led Zeppelin blasted from the party below as we ate our pizza and I continued to wonder who the man was lying prone on a Malibu rooftop. The sun was now down. I sat next to Ben and sipped my merlot. I had already eaten two slices of barbecue chicken and one of goat cheese and olives and was taking a pizza break. Being outside, sipping merlot, eating fancy pizza with lights shining in the terrace's lemon trees, candles glowing in and outside the house, reminded me just how seductive L.A. can be. Ben reached over and held my hand. That was the first time we'd ever touched that way. Goosebumps ran up my spine. the gesture was so simple, yet sexual.

The talk turned to politics, the second favorite topic of conversation in a town filled with Hollywood types who want to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom, ending my handholding reverie. I stood up to check on Mr. Hawaiian Shirt. The glow of the lights shining up from PCH offered just enough illumination to see that he was still there, still in the same position, still... still. It had been over an hour since I'd called 911. I called again. This time "Effie" answered. A definite Vera type. I was in competent hands. After I repeated my story, Effie assured me that the police had been notified and would he there any minute. She did not wish me a nice day.

A sinfully rich chocolate cake was brought out to the table. I don't do desserts (one food vice I don't have) so I grabbed another piece of now-cold pizza. Suddenly, we heard a gunshot and automatically hit the deck, but after lying on cold flagstone for a few moments, our comfort trumped our fear and we got up. Ben brazenly looked over the edge of the terrace and began to laugh. We rushed to see what was so funny and saw that a movie screen had been added to one end of the faux-Neutra house's terrace. A vintage gangster movie was playing. Bogie drew a gun and fired. The shot reverberated off the hillside. I half expected to see Mr. Hawaiian Shirt rise up and return fire. But, he stayed motionless.

It had been a few hours since I first called 911 and I was getting angry. Where were the police? Where was the CSI team? Didn't anyone but me care about Mr. Hawaiian Shirt? Ben pulled me into his arms and sympathetically volunteered to call 911 again. But, I now felt that this was my body on that roof! I needed to take care of him. I dialed 911. Effie was still on duty and I put her on speaker as I vented my frustration. She finally cut me off.

"Look lady," she said. "Switch to decaf. Yours is not the only dead body in L.A."

That said it all. I hung up. Silence. Ben put his arms around me again. I leaned against his chest as I fought back tears. "Next time, I think we'll just go to the movies," he whispered. I grabbed another piece of cold pizza. This time I tried the arugula with pine nuts.