L.A. Affairs: I was intrigued by 'Mr. Perfect,' and tried to ignore the small voice in the back of my mind whispering that he was too beautiful, too rich and much too young for me. What a relief it was all true.
I didn’t learn much French in that class, but I did learn something about male perfection.
A Northern Californian, I’d divorced and fled to Los Angeles a year earlier to channel my sorrows into school. I was in my 30s but looked younger. I hadn’t dated since the divorce. When he arrived, I proudly showed him my beloved but admittedly run-down bungalow, outfitted with thrift shop furniture. A leafy vine leaped exuberantly through a crack in the ceiling. Mr. Perfect’s smile seemed a bit strained as he hurried me out to his car, a gray Peugeot convertible.
We drove to a small elegant restaurant on Abbot Kinney. Over mushroom risotto and Pinot Gris, Mr. Perfect told me about himself. His family lived in Bel-Air. He had gone to an Ivy League college. He had an unspecified position with his family’s corporation. He had been regarded as a wild child for unnamed foibles during college, but now his family looked forward to him settling down and taking the reins of responsibility.
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