by Julia Dumont
Jack Stone smiled. “No, no, far from it,” he said, gazing deeply into Cynthia’s eyes. No one had spoken to him quite like this and he liked it. “I have plenty of very ugly warts. How much time do you have?” he asked, lifting his coffee cup and clinking it with hers.
“All day,” she replied, unclasping her watch and putting it in her pocket.
Mariana walked in from the patio. She was drying her long brown hair with a black towel, leaving a trail of drips across the floor. Her body was ridiculously perfect. Her tiny wet bikini barely qualified as clothing. The cream-colored fabric was beyond translucent, just shy of transparent. Water trickled gently in tiny tributaries, over the edge of her nearly invisible bikini bottom, disappearing into the damp, dark, lovely triangle between her thighs. Cynthia found herself staring a little too hard. This was way past mere nudity . . . far more erotic. The kind of vision that she supposed would cause even the straightest of women and the gayest men shiver a bit. The only thing left to the imagination was how Stone could have possibly resisted her. Cynthia had to give him credit. Not succumbing to this girl’s charms was a testament to the sincerity of the story he’d told her.
“You must be Cynthia,” said the woman, extending her delicate hand to shake. Her gamine fingers were the kind that every girl wants and every man surely wants to be touched by. Breeding. Beauty. Intelligence. And a heaping helping of sensuality, the kind that is simultaneously classy and slutty. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Mariana.”
“I know,” said Cynthia, feeling a little uncomfortable, knowing what she now knew about her.
“Mariana, dear,” said Stone, “you realize you’re still fired, right?”
“Yup,” she replied, padding across the tile floor and down the hall, presumably to put some clothes on. Presumably. Who knows, maybe this was as dressed as this girl ever got. “Just wanted to get one more swim in.”
“Look at that,” said Jack, shaking his head in admiration. “That ass is a miracle.”
“I’ve gotta hand it to you,” said Cynthia, “Celebrity obsession aside, I admire your restraint.”
“Yeah, well, her father is my producing partner. So, you know, don’t give me too much credit.”
“Well, that explains it,” she said. “Let’s get back to your warts.”
“Yes, absolutely,” he said, suddenly looking a little shy, like he might be about to spill secrets. He pulled open a large lazy Susan, spinning it slowly, revealing that it was stocked to the hilt with booze. “But maybe we should add a splash of Maker’s Mark to our coffee.”
“Umm . . . it’s 10:15 A.M.”
He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Hmm. So it is,” he said, pouring more bourbon into his coffee than there was coffee. “But it’s five o’clock somewhere. Maybe Paris.” He counted the time difference in his head. “Maybe not. But who cares?”
“Certainly not me,” said Cynthia, pushing her coffee cup in his direction.
Day 1, Chapter 2
Marjorie Amas used a variety of magnets——old cartoon character fast food giveaways from when her daughter was young, real estate calendar magnets, assorted plastic mini-fruits, and the like——to pin the Second Act headshots to her refrigerator. She made herself a third cup of tea and stepped back to consider the eight men Cynthia had chosen for her.
Her first reaction was that they were all too old. Of course they were all considerably younger than she was, but that was beside the point.
Let’s see . . . Thomas Jordan, M.D. He has his own practice in Santa Monica. Not bad. He’s got a nice smile. “Opera enthusiast?” Give me a break. I am not going to try to like opera again. I can’t figure out what’s even going on. And that date with that other opera buff was a nightmare. Two hours before the show spent on tutoring me in preparation. And for what? A story that could be summed up in three simple sentences: Man loves woman. Woman loves another. Everyone dies. Great. And then an hour in the car while the suitor sang the whole thing again, translating the Italian after every line. Fantastico. I’ve had it with opera nerds. I’d rather see a movie, have a good meal, and make some real off-stage passion.
She found a red pen in a kitchen drawer and drew a large “X” through Thomas Jordan’s face. So long, Pavarotti wannabe.
Okay, Rupert Diamont. Entertainment lawyer. West L.A. “Cat lover.” Sorry, allergic.
Big red “X.”
Marjorie examined the stats and statements of every man on that Frigidaire, eventually crossing out all of them. She was tough. This was why she was alone. Of course, she blamed her daughter.
How could Cynthia even think I’d be vaguely interested in this bunch of losers? Doesn’t she even know me?
She took them down, balled them up and deposited them into the recycling bin.
She sipped her tea and dialed Cynthia . . . who didn’t pick up. Great. She’s hobnobbing with Hollywood royalty and sticks me with a stack of nincompoops.
She glanced over at her computer. She sat down and turned it on. Cynthia didn’t know it of course, but Marjorie was actually much more competent on the internet than she let on. She had delved into certain racy websites on her own. Not porn . . . she had typed in some sex-oriented keywords once and found herself bombarded with a cavalcade of obscene images that she was still trying to erase from her memory. No, she had gotten into the habit of seeking out tamer sensual stuff like photos of young athletes, especially swimmers, with their skimpy speedos and lean, muscular physiques. Margie’s deceased husband had been a swimmer——“a champion breast stroker” he’d always joked——and she’d never really gotten over those broad shoulders. She had a thing for Olympian Michael Phelps. Downloading photos of him had become her secret hobby. She’d made a folder of them on the computer desktop. She had even gone to see him when he did a book signing at the Beverly Center. She’d printed a tall stack of pictures, waited in line, and then presented him with them all to be autographed. His handlers quickly insisted that the rule was one per customer, but Marjorie could tell that Michael himself would have been glad to oblige. He had looked at her with a sly smile and obvious recognition that they had something special together. He had touched her hand in a way that spoke volumes and she was absolutely positive that he would have signed each and every one of them if his moronic assistant hadn’t ushered Marjorie out of the store, patting her on the back like she was some kind of demented super-fan . . . which she obviously was. Truth be told, she knew she was, but she was beyond caring how crazy she did or didn’t look. Bottom line, her closet would be a veritable shrine, plastered with inscribed photos instead of merely being home to one: “To Margie—the lovely photograph lady! Sorry I couldn’t sign them all! – Michael Phelps.” In any case, it had been fun to meet him and she cherished the memory.
She found the Second Acts site, used her password to get into the site and went to the available men section. She scrolled through faces, so many which were handsomer and younger than the selection Cynthia had dropped off. Now this was what she was talking about. And then, one seemed to literally jump from the screen and kiss her on the lips, he was so appealing, so romantic looking, so damn hot.
Wow . . . Dominic Orlando. Now he has the kind of old-world look I love. And he’s sixteen years younger than I am. Perfect: not too old, not too young. The kind of dark eyes you want to fall into and never come out. He also looks kind and sensitive. And somehow kind of innocent. And he works in a luxury hotel that could obviously have its advantages. And he likes to swim. Bingo.
Of course, Margie had totally misinterpreted Dominic’s calculated romantic gaze in the photo as “innocent.” She had no idea that he was a personal friend of Cynthia’s or that he was one of the all-time great womanizers in Hollywood. He had so many notches, his belt had fallen to pieces, leaving nothing at all to hold his pants up. He was legendary and despite his epic reputation as a Lothario, women still loved him. He was a lovable letch. But Margie could only see the lovable part.
Now that’s the guy I want to m
eet.
She called Cynthia again, and again, but she still didn’t pick up. Cynthia was enjoying her second coffee with bourbon, poolside with a handsome movie star, who, try as he may to confess his faults, remained unconvincing.
Marjorie left her daughter a message: “Hi, honey. I found someone I’m interested in and I’ll check his box on the site. Have a nice day and say hello to Mr. Stone for me. He knows me. Remember? I once took a picture of him on the patio at The Ivy Restaurant? My camera bumped his martini, which spilled all over his shirt. Even though he insisted he could handle it, I’m sure he appreciated me helping to clean him up. And interrupting that boring business meeting he was having with his agent and some grumpy producer . . . that had to be a welcome break from those stuffed shirts. Also, do you think he might sign a few photographs for me? Maybe ask him? Okay, then, that’s all. So, let me know when I can see the man I chose. I’m kind of anxious to set up something. Okay, now I’m talking too long. Okay, I really should hang up now because . . .”
BEEEEEEEP! You have exceeded the time allotted for your message. If you would like to listen to your message, press one. If you would like to record a new message, press two. For other options, press 3.
Margie wondered what the other options were, but decided to let the original message stand, and hung up. But then she called back. “Hi, honey. It’s Mom again. I just wanted to say goodbye properly. So, goodbye, and give me a call when you get this. Even though I know you won’t. You never return my calls. So why do I even leave them? Why even have voicemail if you’re not even going to call people back? Or is it just me you don’t call back? Anyway . . . oh, did you know that Pete Blatt is back in town . . . and he’s still single? I just heard from my friend Martha that she heard from her friend Sally, that somebody she knows bumped into him on Ventura Boulevard and that he’s single.”
BEEEEEEEP!
Day 1, Chapter 3
After four cups of bourbon-laden coffee, Cynthia was a little jittery and dizzy——that speedy-blurry electric buzz. They had moved into the sunken living room overlooking the pool and the rest of the universe, and she had slipped deep into the soft leather couch. It was too soft, really . . . the kind of sofa that, if you actually tried to sit up straight, you’d end up with a backache. It was far better to surrender to its recesses and lay there like you were ready to nap, or be sexually violated, or both. The view, the relaxed opulence, the whole thing, was pretty much heaven.
“And so,” said Jack Stone, now on his umpteenth anecdote that, although purportedly divulged to highlight his faults, only magnified his devastating appeal, “that was how that ended. Sure, she is a fabulous actress and a so-called sex symbol, but she’s really kind of soulless compared to you . . . and certainly not as beautiful.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes and blushed again, wondering which starlet he was talking about now. But suddenly she realized her bladder was very full.
“Thanks, Jack. By the way, does this dump have indoor plumbing?” It amazed her that somehow she’d reached this very familiar place with Stone. He got her sense of humor and she didn’t hold back.
“No,” he laughed, gesturing with a nod toward a hallway lined with art that looked suspiciously like original cubist collages, “but there’s a very nice ‘Johnny on the Spot’ right through there.”
“Are those what I think they are?” she queried, squinting and pulling herself up high enough over the back of the couch to get a better look, then gasping slightly.
“If you’re thinking three Picassos, two Braques, and one Gris . . . yes,” he said. “Gifts from my agent. I’m thinking about re-gifting, though. I’m not that into Cubism. You want one? I gave a Matisse painting to my friend Will Ferrell recently. Not because I like him so much——I was just sick of looking at that green-and-purple-faced old woman. I bet he’s pawned it off on someone else by now.”
Jesus. It must be strange to be so rich that nothing is irreplaceable. Some wealthy people are married to possessions. Stone seemed like he’d be perfectly happy to bulldoze the place and start over at the drop of a hat.
“Oh, well,” she said. “I would have taken the Matisse off your hands.”
“Too bad,” he said, smiling again, this time with a hint of impishness, an unmistakable trace of innuendo. “Maybe there’s something else I can give you.”
Cynthia felt herself blush. Wow. She was getting the distinct impression that he liked her. Whatever fine line separated joviality and desire seemed to have been crossed.
This was kind of a dream come true, but possibly a nightmare, career-wise. She wanted his business and the word of mouth that would flow if he found Second Acts worth recommending to his fellow A-listers. Plus, she wasn’t stupid or drunk enough to believe that she was that special. Stone was clearly a pick-up artist, whether he thought of himself like that or not. One way or another, he’d left an endless trail of bewitched, bothered, and bewildered beauties in his wake without even breaking a sweat. Cynthia realized that even in the best possible version of this fantasy——at its most deluded and fairy tale-like——how long could it actually last?
But good god, he is sexy. I have the distinct impression that if I simply reach out and touch his hand or shoulder or smile a slightly suggestive smile, we would spend the rest of the day rolling around his bedroom. Or deep within the quicksand of this couch. But no, I will resist him. The byword is “professional.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that business and pleasure don’t mix. Like oil and water. But unfortunately, oil is incredibly beautiful when it’s floating on water. The way the light catches it. Dazzling. Intoxicating as a matter of fact. They don’t mention that when they’re dishing out clichés in the cliché line at the ol’ cliché cafeteria. What am I talking about? Now her bladder was about to explode. “Oh, okay. To the ladies’ room it is,” she smiled, lifting the cup to her lips for one last sip. She realized she had already taken the last sip a moment earlier——there was nothing there. Thankfully. But she pantomimed finishing it off anyway. “God, that’s good,” she said, smacking her lips and wondering if he noticed she was drinking air.
She stood up and, although she wasn’t terribly tipsy, she was certainly more so than usual for a weekday morning. As she moved toward the hallway, she remembered another daytime drinking episode. The memory fluttered into her mind like a sexually charged butterfly, distracting her and obliterating any interest she might have had in the priceless artworks she was passing . . . a memory named Pete Blatt. She couldn’t believe it: Pete Blatt again.
Cynthia had gone to high school with Pete and they’d fooled around once. She had come to think of it as the Pisco Pete Incident. It involved the aforementioned potent Peruvian libation, a large bag of Cheetos, and a fun, drunken swirl of messy sexual exploration.
Cynthia had thought about a lot of her first boyfriends lately, but especially Pete. He was incredibly quiet, but cute, talented, and so in love with her. Maybe more so than anyone ever. She wondered if that were actually true. She considered it and decided that it probably was. She wondered what he had turned into. It had taken her years to realize how deeply that afternoon of erotic fumbling was etched into her heart. She instantly saw the sunlight filtered through her childhood curtains, smelled the Cheetos, tasted the Pisco on Pete’s lips and the sweat on his skin. Sitting with him there on her bed, the bed she’d been tucked into every night by her parents when she was little, was so wrong and so right. Even now it was crystal clear in her mind’s eye: their absurdly skinny, angular bodies, covered in peach fuzz; the tan line——something you barely see anymore——that described her hip and belly and bottom and back and blossoming breasts like a bright white bikini. It was erotic to her, god knows it must have driven him insane; the freckles around his nose; his nervous sexual yearning . . . from those beyond blue eyes, to his flushed cheeks, to his twitching, twanging erection. Such innocence, such desperation——like an adolescent opera——like they were sharing an exotic, illicit drug. Utterly intox
icating. It was funny and sexy and bigger than life usually gets.
She remembered something she’d totally forgotten. When she’d first taken off her top, he’d gasped and couldn’t speak. He’d tried but was literally rendered mute. He’d reached out, his hands trembling, her flesh waiting. She remembered his fingertips were calloused from playing the guitar and that he’d been concerned that they’d be too rough. Unable to form the words, he’d pantomimed it. She’d appreciated the sweetness of that. She’d whispered, “Maybe you should kiss them instead. You know——if you want to.” His eyes widened and he nodded like some kind of adorable, sex-crazed zombie. He moved in, first tentatively, gingerly tasting her right nipple with the tip of his tongue, like he was afraid it might be poison, like this whole thing was some crazy trap he’d been lured into. But then he licked it like a lollipop——watching in awe as it reacted——and finally took it all in, devouring it like a hungry man or a starving baby. Or both. He was ravenous. He placed one of his hands on her left breast, like he was just holding it there so it couldn’t get away, letting his other arm dangle at his side. She lifted that hand, placed it on her lap, pushed it between her legs, and squeezed her thighs together. Two tidal waves of warmth——one emanating from her chest, the other from below——merged. She felt like she was melting inside. She placed her other hand on his knee and slowly traveled upward, grabbing on like a joystick in a video arcade. It was hot and hard and fantastic.
It exploded.
And then Pete threw up.
In retrospect, not all that satisfying, of course, but still, when it came to the mysterious, electrifying, otherworldly thrill that kind of brand-spanking newness provided, nothing in grown-up life came close. Strange that she was thinking about him now. Why in traffic earlier? Why here, in the house of this major movie star? Weird.
