by Julia Dumont
BZZZZ. Turquoise phone. Helena or Johnny.
“Hello, Second Acts. Cynthia here.”
“Goom? Schardy-boo?” Obviously a canyon connection.
“Hello … Johnny? I can barely hear you. Hello?”
“Ninna cannon … hode on…” Krrrrrrrrrr. Klunk. Zzzzpft. “HELLO. IS THAT BETTER? I GOT OFF SPEAKER. IS THAT BETTER?”
“Yes, much better. Is that you, Johnny?”
“Yes, yes … I’m on my way to Helena’s in the Palisades. I’m stopping to pick her up something. Champagne maybe? Hey, she does know about the underwear modeling, right?”
“Johnny?”
“Because some women are turned off by that.…”
“Johnny? Hello? Listen. She picked you out because of that one ad you sent me from the New York Times Magazine.”
“Oh, good. Really? Well, yes, that was a flattering spot. All me, though.”
“Oh, of course it’s all you. I had no doubt. Listen, Johnny: SHE HAS THAT AD ON HER REFRIDGERATOR. WELL, LAST I KNEW. SHE MAY HAVE IT PASTED ON THE CEILING ABOVE HER BED BY NOW.”
“Oh, okay. Good. Glad she likes it.”
BZZZZZ. Another phone. Which one? Wait, that’s my phone. Max. MAX! STRA1GHT TO VOICEMAIL! She turned off that phone and threw it onto the couch.
“Johnny, she loves it. And yes, champagne. Good champagne. Don’t bring up that ad … let her ask you. And she will ask you. And when she does, you, sir, are in like Flynn.”
“What? In like what?”
“Errol Flynn, Johnny … a romantic swashbuckling movie star of the ‘30s and ‘40s … way before your time. Well, way before mine too. Anyway, I digress. You should go for it!”
“Adios, master matchmaker!”
Master matchmaker. I like that.
Complete silence. Still early and no news really is good news. No cancellations, no meltdowns, no drama. At least in this pre-game stage it seems like everyone is migrating toward his or her respective position in an orderly fashion. As it should be. I mean these are grownups we’re talking about here, right?
I am freaking starving. To the kitchen.
Chapter 16
She listened for the phones while checking out the fridge and cupboards.
Good god, Mother Hubbard! The cupboards are freaking bare. I guess one has to actually shop once in a blue moon.
She grabbed an apple, a jar of peanut butter, and a carton of milk. When it came right down to it, this was really one of her favorite meals anyway——definitely her staple lunch. Not usually dinner, but what the hell. She loaded the items onto a plate, got a knife, and moved back to the couch. Wait, quick, sprint to the bathroom, empty bladder, check mirror: what the hell is going on with that hair?…and back to the couch. She did a running jump, like a cowgirl in a hurry mounts a horse. Don’t say mount. Okay, she was in the saddle for the long ride. She perused the stable. She loved them all. Giddy-up. Giddy anyway.
6:22
BZZZ. Purple phone. Lolita. Obviously.
“Hello, Lo.”
“Cynthia, he’s not here yet.”
“Well, what time is it——it’s not even 6:30.”
“I know, but I want him here now.”
“Lolita, he said he’d be there at 6:45! Please be patient!”
BZZZ. Green phone. Let’s see … the nudist and the ex-man.
“Listen, Lo, only call if you really need to, okay?” BZZZZ. Green phone!
“Oh, all right. But Cynthia …”
“Goodbye!” she said, flipping Lolita’s phone to silent. “Hello, Second Acts!”
“Cynthia, this is Sadie. He’ll be here any minute. Just so you know. We haven’t talked lately, but I’ve put a temporary hold on the transformation. For all intents and purposes, I’m still all man.”
Shit. What the …? Holy mama. Keep calm.
“Sadie,” said Cynthia, scrolling through the screens, looking for the nudist’s dating history in his bio. “Hold on, just checking something.”
Wait a second here: Ishmael, 1989-2003, living in Miami Beach, serious relationship with someone named Andy. Hmmm … not Andi, well, that’s good. But there are plenty of female Andys too. Hold on, hold on … did community theater there. Not conclusive. Musical theater. Now we’re getting somewhere. Wait … wait … bingo: President, Miami Chapter, Barbra Streisand Fan Club.
“Sadie, are you there? Hi. Okay, I can’t guarantee it, this is more art than science, but I would bet my 401K——worth something——that Ishmael will have no problem with your situation.”
“Oh, thank god. Also, by the way, what does being a nudist actually mean? You don’t suppose he’ll actually show up nude, do you?”
“Oh, I doubt it. You’d probably get a ticket for driving nude in Beverly Hills, don’t you think? But suffice it to say, getting him to take his clothes off will probably not be a problem.”
“Thank you, sweetie!”
“You go, girl…I mean, boy, I mean…you go, you!”
Meanwhile, Lolita was out of control. During her date with Diego she kept calling to whisper gossipy updates, snarky comments, and bad jokes. She was obviously not taking the date seriously. Cynthia started regretting setting her up with Diego, whom she adored.
Chapter 17
Over the next four hours, Cynthia fielded quite a few calls——four for directions, two just to say hi, two joyful play-by-plays, and one desperate cry for help from the ladies’ lounge at the Chateau Marmont.
Jade had suffered a barrage of small catastrophes. She’d left Dylan in the dining room and then proceeded to drop her hot-pink lipstick down the toilet, break a strap on her black “Chantelle” Rive Gauche Demi-Bra, and conjure up a headache and slight sore throat. “I need three extra-strength Advils—candy caplets, please … I cannot get those gel things down … and a cherry Propolis Lozenge, like, now!” Cynthia found herself feeling strangely delighted by the challenge of being the personal assistant to a bunch of impossibly demanding clients. She loved these people. She loved helping them. She was all-in, totally invested. Their dreams were her dreams and she was hell-bent on getting them to the promised land.
Thank god it was Marmont——Cynthia knew them so well there. Within minutes, Dominic Orlando, her old friend at the front desk, ventured into the ladies’ room——sending the more uptight guests squealing and scattering——to deliver a beautiful red silk bag containing the lady’s humble requests. As for the brassiere, he would personally sew the strap himself. He had worked as a costume designer and Cynthia knew that Jade would assume he was gay——all women thought that at first. But he wasn’t——far from it. He was the most notorious hetero letch in West Hollywood. Which is obviously saying a lot. He had impregnated a starlet or two or three in his day. One of these love bambini grew up to be a starlet in her own right. Actually won a best supporting actress Oscar a few years ago. Cynthia giggled to herself, imagining the estremamente-lusty Sicilian gazing deep down into Jade’s ample cleavage, angling for the slightest glimpse of nipple, stitching slowly, deliberately——his long nose much closer than it needed to be, his hands and lips aching to sample the merchandise. By all rights, he should have been despised, but women adored him.
Jade called Cynthia again while Dominic was sewing. She could hear him singing softly in the background.
“Bella donna! Bella donna! Bellisimo angelo! Mangiare per bella cena!”
“Cynthia, thank you sooo much. Dominic is so darling——he’s actually singing while he sews.”
Cynthia didn’t tell her that in addition to saying she was a beautiful girl and a beautiful angel, he also wanted to eat her for a beautiful dinner. Cynthia only hoped he could keep it in his pants and let Jade return to Dylan intact.
“Jade, sweetie,” said Cynthia, nonchalantly, “could you put Dominic on?”
“Cynthia wants to say hi,” chirped Jade, handing the phone over to the seamster-Lothario currently drooling over her.
“Buona sera, amore!” gushed Dominic, laying it on thick.<
br />
“Don’t you dare buona sera me, Mr. Orlando! Finish your needlework and release my client to her date.”
“Oh, Cynthia…you think so little of me?”
“No, darling,” said Cynthia, “it’s exactly because I think so much of you. I’m afraid my client may find you irresistible and leave Dylan, my other client, high and dry. And this is my livelihood we’re talking about. What’s good for my business is good for yours.”
“I hear you, la mio delizioso puttanesca,” said Dominic. He always talked to Cynthia in Italian food-ese.
“Dominic,” I said, “do you ever think with your head and not your cannoli?”
“Ha, ha!” he laughed. “Very funny, but please, when are you coming to see me? I miss il mio bellissimo tiramisu.”
Bzzzz.
Another call on the same phone: Dylan. “Dominic, please. I’m afraid I’m not on the menu tonight either. Gotta go. Grazie. Baci.”
Beep.
“Second Acts … Dylan is that you?”
“Listen, Cynthia … I’m starting to think I’ve been abandoned here. I polished off a three hundred dollar bottle of wine by myself. I gotta get going. I just asked for the check. I’m still getting over being left by a woman, you know——my wife. I’m no Hemingway macho man. I’m afraid I got the sensitive-artist gene. I’m really not in the mood for games.”
“Dylan, I know. Listen, do you like her? I mean, before she disappeared, were you having a good time?”
“Yes, but.…”
“I’m not sure what you were talking about at dinner, but I think you might have caused her bosom to heave a tad too wantonly. Do you have some kind of telekinetic bodice-ripping powers or something?”
Dylan laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I got a call from her from the ladies’ room. She’s had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction. One of her perfect 38-Cs nearly made a solo appearance at the dinner table. Which I realize wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world, but still——she needed a little time for unmentionable repair.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. You know why? Because she likes you. A lot. So, now that you know what’s going on in there, her absence might really make your heart——and possibly the rest of you——grow fonder, don’t you think?”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. PS, she doesn’t just like you. She’s hot for you.”
“Oh,” he said again.
“And, Dylan, if I were you or Jade for that matter, just thinking about the moment in which that delicate strand of lace unraveled and snapped——whatever delicious physics were at work——would make me even hotter. There is nothing like a broken bra to make one ultra-aware of the lovely cargo it’s carrying. It’s almost like you’ve got x-ray vision now. I’m just saying.”
“Okay, okay … I get it,” he said. “Wait, Cynthia, here she comes.”
“She looks good, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“X-ray vision?”
“Yes.”
“Feeling amorous, enamored, affectionate … full of blinding lust and heartbreakingly romantic infatuation? Just wondering.”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes. And yes.”
“That’s why I do what I do. Now get back to your Uri Geller bodice-ripping.”
“Yes.”
Beep.
Chapter 18
Another phone was buzzing: Dolores or Robert.
“Hello, Second Acts.”
“Cynthia.”
“Dolores?”
“Cynthia.”
“Dolores?”
“Cynthia.”
Okay this was getting silly. What was going on?
“Dolores, can you hear me? Maybe we’ve got a bad connection.”
“No, the connection is good. Really good. Cynthia, I’m just calling to say thanks. Robert is wonderful.”
Cynthia felt warm all over. This was what it was all about. “So, I want details,” she said. “I take it you’re having a good time?”
“‘Good’ does not begin to describe it. This man has…it…all. How have I lived this long in Los Angeles——on the Westside no less——and never even considered moving to the beach? I used to think the whole wealthy surf bum thing was stupid … some kind of perverse arrested development. But I am sitting in his library, Cynthia. He’s better read than I am, and that is saying a lot. He has more first editions than God. Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Dorothy Parker … all my heroes. Plus he’s got a minor addiction to certain trashy novelists and a particularly embarrassing reality TV show, just like me. And it’s all overlooking Paradise Cove. The moon is full. My heart is full. How did you know this would work for me, when I didn’t?”
“Dolores,” she said, basking in the glow of matchmaking heaven, “as happy as you are … I’m happier. This is why I do what I do. I had a strong hunch about you two and I’m beyond elated that it paid off.”
“Cynthia, hold on … he’s coming back. Have to run. He’s going to read me a little D. H. Lawrence.”
Cynthia shivered. “Okay, Lady Chatterley, get back to your lover.”
“Slow down, he’s not my lover yet. Wait, I take that back.”
Beep.
Cynthia closed her eyes and grinned. She reflected on just how much she enjoyed this whole thing. She realized that in some ways, she found contributing to the happiness of others much easier than trying to decipher the encoded mysteries of her own life. This was more abstract——a purer exercise with less personal risk. On the surface it was merely a fun game, but it was also incredibly rewarding——certainly in an emotional sense and hopefully financially as well. She had just been reading about the Greek philosopher Epicurus——how a poem of his from more than two thousand years ago had eventually helped usher in the Renaissance and modern science and, in many ways, society as we know it. His main thing was that pleasure is the absence of suffering. Well, her clients weren’t suffering in the extreme, but they did suffer from frustration and aloneness. She saw herself as sort of a pleasure chef. She assembled the ingredients and mixed them with the right herbs and spices and got it all simmering. Sometimes that was all it took. Sometimes she would need to stir the pot. She was a culinary artist of love … an epicurean of the heart.
Chapter 19
Bzzz.
“Second Acts, Cynthia at your service.”
“Cynthia, Ishmael here.”
Uh-oh, the man who was expecting a she but got a he instead.
“Ish, how’s my all-time favorite nudist doing?”
“I’m fine. Did you know that Sadie is actually Sam?”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I was told he’d be an ex-Sam by now. I take it Sadie is a few months down the road?”
“Yeah, well, what are you gonna do? I like Sadie-Sam as a person. Quite a lot, actually. And we all go through transitions.”
Whew. He’s not freaking out.
“Well,” said Cynthia, still not exactly sure where Ishmael was heading, “if you want to start fresh with a fully formed female, USDA certified, it’s no problem at all from my point of view. The customer is always right.”
“No way,” said Ishmael. “Listen, we’re having dinner at the Mondrian Hotel. I’d like to at least see Sam again. If things go well, I’m not opposed to waiting for Sadie.”
This is one open-minded fellow.
“Ishmael, I love you,” gushed Cynthia. “If at any time, you decide otherwise, call me. Call me anyway. Just to talk. Or let’s do lunch. This company is all about the consumer.”
“Okay, but for the time being, you can strike Sam-Sadie and me from the available roster and I’ll keep you posted.”
“You got it, Ish,” noticing that the Lolita phone was blinking silently. She wondered how long that had been going on.
“Lo-lee-tah, how goes it?”
Lolita saw this as an invitation for a soliloquy.
Diego had shown up in relatively normal clothes——
tasteful, with understated military accents. She would have preferred a full-fledged Prussian officer, but she let it go. They had had a lovely dinner at Michael’s in Santa Monica and then headed back to her place. At first her dogs wouldn’t even let Diego through the front door. She called them off, but never decisively enough to reassure him that they wouldn’t gnaw one of his legs off if he let his guard down or looked at Lolita the wrong way.
She had some kind of hot-cold temptress thing going on, encouraging, then pushing away. Diego was losing patience. Finally, after a few more drinks——she brought out some kind of ancient German brandy and poured two large snifters, way too full——they were both loosened up. They started punching her heavy bag, from opposite sides, back and forth, like some kind of slow-motion tetherball match. They were both pretty amazing physical specimens and could not help looking good to each other, especially after the brandy kicked in. They stumbled onto the couch and made out for a while, the dogs standing guard. They didn’t growl, just occasionally bared their teeth in an intimidating way.
Lolita got up and led them to the kitchen, like children to a nursery. “Diego, I’ll be right back. I know this is silly, but the babies need to be tucked in.”
She was gone for a while and just as Diego started to wonder if she was also reading the babies a bedtime story, she returned, dressed only in green leather lederhosen…the skirt kind, not the shorts kind. Diego felt like he’d wandered into a German porno circa 1965. His head considered the whole sexy fräulein thing as rather a hackneyed cliché, but his loins disagreed and won that argument in a hurry.
“Happy Oktoberfest,” she said, climbing on top of him.
“Ja!” said Diego, mystified, but deliriously happy. It occurred to him that “Ja!” might have been the only German word he knew. As she leaned over him, her breasts spilled through the outfit’s intersecting leather straps, which he noticed were embroidered with little German couples in explicit sexual positions. As far as he was concerned, the evening had taken a turn for the better.
Soon he was inside her. As they started rocking, another German phrase came to him, something he’d maybe seen on a TV show long ago. He thought it was actually an Oktoberfest cheer though he couldn’t be sure. He started softly, almost a whisper: “Ziggy, zoggy, ziggy, zoggy…oy, oy, oy!”, but then he brought the volume up. He didn’t really know what it meant, but it seemed incredibly appropriate. Lolita’s hair was in his face and she too joined in with, “Ziggy, zoggy, etc, etc.” She sat up straighter, arching her back, wrapping her arms around her head.
