by Julia Dumont
“Goodbye, my darling,” he said, kissing her cheek one more time. “If only you were looking for someone, but you still have your Max, right?”
Cynthia didn’t want to even go into this with him. Even though her thing with Max was on-again-off-again at best, she had used the Max excuse several times with Dominic, when he’d come on to her in the past. It was better to let him think that. He was a friend, but not really a confidant. And although she had never been that smart about men, and even though she had always had a little crush on Dom, she had never even considered stepping through the doors of his revolving tiramisu case. As delicious as it sounded, that would have to be the stupidest thing a girl could ever do.
“That’s right,” she said, exiting toward the valet stand, “I’m off the market.”
Day 1, Chapter 6
A few minutes later, while curving along Sunset Boulevard, she tried to catch up on her voicemails. Many of them were from clients. She was excited about the newcomers——she was proud of the match-ups she’d put together——and she needed to get back home to finish up the arrangements for this Friday and Saturday . . . very big date nights. One of the things that she really liked about the matchmaking business was always being up on what was going on around town. She enjoyed sifting through the social calendar and cultural listings and sending prospective couples off to expertly orchestrated evenings of burgeoning romance.
Beep. “Hi, Cynthia! Merriweather.”
Merriweather was an agent at C.A.A. She was divorced, with two grown kids. She worked long hours and did not have time to go looking for men. Second Acts was perfect for this kind of successful businesswoman. Cynthia derived lots of pleasure from helping her.
Merriweather continued: “There’s a little wrinkle in my Saturday. I can’t wait to meet Daryl. He looks so fabulous in his running shorts. I can’t believe he has actually run eleven marathons. Anyway, my daughter needs to drop her kid off at my place on Saturday . . . sort of an emergency. I might need to reschedule.”
Cynthia shook her head. Don’t these people realize how hard it is to get tickets and reservations?
She hit the Call Back button. Voicemail.
“Merriweather! It’s Cynthia. No worries. I will find you a babysitter if I have to do it myself. I’m great with kids. How old is it? I mean, he or she. Can he . . . they . . . work a cell phone? Just kidding. I’m on it.”
Another beep. “Cynthia, Roger here. I got your itinerary for Friday. I’m good with everything except the restaurant. I think I forgot to mention that I’m allergic to lobster. Deathly. So, I don’t really think I should take Selma to a restaurant called The Lobster. I realize it’s a romantic spot, chosen for its sweeping ocean views, but unless Selma has a thing for puffy, pimply idiots watering and wheezing through dinner and then possibly dropping dead in the parking lot, we’d better rethink. Thanks, let me know.”
People. How am I supposed to know these things if you don’t tell me?!
She’d change that reservation as soon as she got back. She listened to a few more voice mails as she turned onto Franklin, then finally headed up Beachwood Canyon, almost home. No major problems or hassles. The weekend roster had shaped up just fine. Better than fine. She was proud of this group. She had the strong inkling that several of these couples would really work out. Why was something so comparatively easy for them so difficult for her?
She pulled into her driveway and headed up the long, winding stairway to her front door. Her building was a three-unit art deco apartment house from 1936. She had lived on the second floor for three years. It was gorgeous and immaculate. The deco details, the view--everything. She had always been a huge fan of old movies and the feel of this place was just right.
And just recently, she had signed a lease on an incredible office space down the hill on Franklin Street, right in the neighborhood. She would move in next week. Walking distance. A rare privilege in L.A., or anywhere really. This was her neighborhood, her home base. The building housed a famous film actress-producer and a fantastic coffee house on the street level. Second Acts was on the top floor——great views, balmy breezes. She had decided it made sense to have a place clients could visit . . . a beautiful, cozy environment where they’d feel comfortable enough to open up and get personal about their wants and needs when it came to finding a mate. It would almost be like a therapist’s office . . . peaceful, luxurious and perfect for her uniquely personalized service. She would have everything she needed to help clients put their best feet and faces forward: a photo and recording studio for creating professional headshots, reels, and interviews; a private workroom for writing bios; a kitchen and conference/dining room. A cappuccino machine.
It was already her neighborhood. She loved the shops and proprietors and had structured arrangements and trades with some of them for discounts and freebies for her clients. One of her favorites was The Casbah, an exclusive spa nearby where her people could go ahead of time for exotic baths (from mud to mineral to god knows what), every method of massage (from deep relaxation to something called the “The Hurts-so-good Deep-Tissue Pummeling of Punishment,” which Cynthia had tried once and then couldn’t get out of bed for a week . . . but she was okay with that,) to wraps (from seaweed to beeswax to an herb and oyster-infused pseudo-mummification process for men and women that involved the wrapping of all appendages, that’s all appendages, not to mention nooks and crannies, which supposedly multiplied libido at a startling rate.) Cynthia hadn’t talked to anyone who had indulged in that particular process, but then who would know, since the proprietor, Adriana Gomez, a breathtaking beauty from south of the border, signed and notarized a solemn pledge of confidentiality for all her clients. And, really, who knows what anyone’s cock or breasts or balls or labia are wrapped in under one’s clothes, anyway. In any case, it seemed like a good trade off for Cynthia, because if meeting and connecting with new people requires the letting go of one’s defenses and being generally receptive in the erogenous zones, a trip to the Casbah was just what Dr. Feelgood ordered. If what Adriana said, that she stopped short of actual prostitution——and Cynthia did believe her, at least she was pretty sure she did——it was at least pretty much guaranteed that when clients stumbled out of there, they were more than ready for it. Any way you cut it, Adriana was at minimum a happy purveyor of high-class foreplay at five hundred dollars an hour. The Casbah and Second Acts were destined to share some clientele.
There was also a fantastic café next door that Cynthia planned to use for business or social meetings. It was owned and operated by Donald Griffin O’Brien, a charming Irish immigrant widower, who was already a good friend. Cynthia had consumed her weight in his espressos and pastries since she’d moved in up the hill four years ago. Donald got into the coffee trade by accident. He had no intention of opening a café. The Irish were not exactly known for their cappuccinos and croissants. He’d wanted to open a pub, but couldn’t get a liquor license right away. So he made due with less potent fare, found success, and never made the switch. The café was really quite pub-like, though, with music and singing and darts, and a long, wooden bar that had supposedly come from the lounge of the original Derby, the famous, long-gone hat-shaped Hollywood haunt. And he was much more bartender than barista. He was a singer as well and seemed to know the lyrics of every rebel song, from Kevin Barry to The Risin’ of the Moon, militant freedom songs that were now somewhat less in demand since the truces were signed and the troubles of the modern era had effectively ended. He constantly cursed the peace accord, since this “feckin’ peacetime has feckin’ decimated my singing career.” By “singing career” he just meant singing in his place and that nobody wanted to hear his beloved ballads of rebellion anymore. He was ridiculously well-read and hilarious and held court like some kind of caffeine-slinging James Joyce. Meanwhile, regular customers were well aware that Donald’s secret stash of hundred-year-old Irish whisky was available for the surreptitious spiking of all liquids——and solids for that matter——on t
he menu.
Donald was an incredible flirt and Cynthia had the sneaking suspicion that he was in love with her, but he may have just been in love with life and all its inhabitants. But he was dark too, burdened somewhat by the romantic gloom that the Irish often carry with them and he hadn’t been on an actual date in the five years since his wife Katie died. Cynthia repeatedly promised him since day one of Second Acts that she’d pluck a lassie out of the bloomin’ heather for him for no charge. He had been reluctant, but now, lo and behold, he finally agreed and was due to go on a date with one Adriana Gomez, that’s right, the Latin queen of high-end kinky massage from three doors down. It was such a great neighborhood.
Cynthia was building a screening room to view videos and slides with clients . . . very personal, very hands-on, exclusive and pricey. So far, the business had been about applying online first and meeting her clients on the fly——in coffee shops and in their homes, but it was not the right first experience. The website would still be the first touch with her clients, but as modern as that was, Cynthia decided that what set her service apart was the personal touch. These were her people. She needed to talk to them face to face whenever possible, in a place that made them feel special. Her clients were successful, busy people and often unable to get away, so some driving would still be involved. But she was busy too and there was a limit to how much driving one person could do . . . even in L.A. Especially in L.A. Almost best of all, there was parking behind the building with a private entrance for discreet comings and goings . . . perfectly safe and inviting for the shy and/or camera-shy. It all might have been a tad extravagant——especially in this economy——but she was of the firm belief that planning for success was the best way to make it materialize. Plus, with the ever-growing roster of clients, she realized that she needed to hire an assistant and she really didn’t want he or she wandering around her private space, rooting through her underwear drawers or whatever. She couldn’t wait to get into her very own office. She had just talked to the contractor and it was almost ready. Just a few finishing touches.
She had put an ad on Craigslist and Monster and a few other places and had gotten an enormous response: one hundred and twenty–seven resumes in three days. She would read through them tonight and hopefully hire someone immediately. She needed someone smart, but also pleasant to be around. In other words, someone who wouldn’t drive her bat-shit crazy. Not a lot to ask.
Speaking of which, Lolita had broached the subject of getting more involved in Second Acts sand had actually suggested she would even do it on a volunteer basis, not every week, but once in a while, when she was available. For Cynthia, just considering the logistics of Lolita’s less-than-predictable commitment was almost too much to discuss. Just thinking about working with Lolita drove her crazy. She knew that this was another sore spot with her friend. They hadn’t known each other very long, but their relationship had become a close, sisterly one——with all the good and bad connotations that implies. She had truly grown to love her, and god knows she appreciated her help in building the business. Lolita was a successful entrepreneur herself and Cynthia sought and respected her advice. But she also knew that Lolita was already busy enough. Lolita’s promotional skills were the best gift Cynthia could have hoped for. More would feel unfair to both of them. Cynthia needed help from an hourly wage earner . . . not a partner.
Cynthia entered her living room, threw down her purse and briefcase, and flopped facedown onto the couch. She only realized at the moment she hit the cushion just how tired she was. It was already 4:30——a long day of driving and hanging out with ridiculously handsome men who wanted her, or at least said they did. Not to mention drinking bourbon, albeit with coffee, on a Thursday morning. Fun, decadent, and extremely exhausting.
Maybe she’d just get out of her business-y clothes. They weren’t so business-y, this was L.A. after all, but they weren’t as comfortable as the old blue sweatshirt hanging on her closet door, that’s for sure. She walked to her bedroom and pulled off her high heels, skirt, blouse, and bra, and slipped the sweatshirt over her head. It was long, almost like a short dress, but not quite. So comfortable, so easy, so right. Felt like home. On any given day——it didn’t matter so much what time it was, as long as she knew she had no reason to go out again——a sweatshirt was her official at-home uniform. A pair of loose white socks completed the ensemble. She had never liked slippers. They seemed too much like actual shoes, so what was the point? She liked to be barefoot in the summer, but now, in February, she liked socks. She could zip and slip around the hardwood floors. There was a little bit of Risky Business in the concept and although she had long outgrown her crush on Tom Cruise from that era——for a variety of reasons, obviously (not simply the Oprah couch jumping, Matt Lauer berating, his overall disturbing level of pomposity and hyperactive fanaticism, and of course “Rock of Ages,” although any of these were more than enough)——she did still have a crush on him in that movie and the residual effect was that she loved being home in her underwear, wearing a soft, baggy shirt, and socks. So there.
She remembered that she needed to call Lolita. She felt pretty guilty that she’d let her misinterpret what was happening with Jack Stone, but she also really, really, really did not want to set her up with him. She knew it would end disastrously. It would be a mistake on so many levels: for Lolita, for Jack, and for Second Acts. Come to think of it, maybe she’d call her later.
She thought about Jack and laughed out loud, directly into the cushion, about how she had actually turned him down. She had never been accused of being a cock tease before, and certainly not with one of the world’s biggest movie stars and possibly one of the world’s biggest cocks, but she realized that it was possible that he could have interpreted it that way. She hadn’t meant to lead him on.
It was the bourbon. Well, it was also him. People like him simply shouldn’t be allowed to walk around being people like him and expect people like me to not even react, for god’s sake.
She laughed into the cushion again.
But even though he and his legendary equipment were ready, beyond ready, hell——locked and loaded——next to the pool, he’d been so gracious when I didn’t take him up on it. And so sexy.
She still wondered if she had made a huge mistake turning him down. But, then again, what about Pete Blatt, the unknown quantity that Cynthia had used as a red herring to rationalize turning down Mr. Perfect? She appreciated Pete for that alone . . . for pulling her back from the brink of personal and professional disaster. But she was also oddly, almost inexplicably intrigued by the idea of seeing Pete again. There was something about that time, that place in her life——like anyone’s life, she assumed——that held secrets necessary for understanding what had happened since. Maybe Pete was a clue. An incredibly cute clue. If time had served him well.
Okay, this is what Facebook was invented for.
She rolled over, swinging her feet around and planting them on the floor. She took out her laptop and turned it on, the C chord of the Macintosh start-up ringing out like a clarion call to action. Pete Blatt!
Facebook sign in: 1002 friends. Not bad. And the Second Acts page was growing even faster: 1423. She’d given away a prize for the one-thousandth “like”——a month’s subscription——and that had led to a huge spurt, more than four hundred new members in three weeks. She didn’t spend a lot of time working on it, but at this point there were lots and lots of satisfied customers who were hyping it better than she ever could.
Let’s see, Peter Blatt. Three of them.
Pete Blatt #1: lives in Florida. Friends: 6.
She peered at the fuzzy photo. The man was sitting on a really crummy couch, wearing a white t-shirt with something spilled on the front. He was smiling. And missing one tooth. Either that or it was a dead tooth that was too dark to be seen in this horrible photograph. In a funny way, it could have been Pete. In the worst possible way--if life had really, really not treated him well. The coloring was kind of rig
ht, so that was pretty scary. She squinted at it and clicked on it to enlarge it.
Gahh! Please, oh, please, do not tell me my Pete grew up to be that.
Pete Blatt #2: lives in California. Okay, now we’re talking. Friends: 7. Hoo boy. She screamed out loud when she saw the photo. This one was even worse. He too had the same basic coloring, but this one was clearly crystal-meth Pete. He was missing more than one tooth. In fact, she wasn’t sure he had any teeth. Job: Hate. Kill. Die. Religion: Hate. Kill. Die. Favorite quote: Hate. Kill. Die.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Cynthia jumped up and ran around the room screaming. Then she burst into laughter again. She was almost positive this wasn’t her Pete, but who knows? There’d been oceans of water under the bridge and maybe the bridge had fallen on top of Pete. Maybe he fell into the water. Maybe a speedboat came by and ran him over. Stranger things have happened. He was living in California, after all. But then she looked closer and he lived in Fresno. Okay, that seemed impossible.
Okay, take a deep breath. Pete Blatt #3:Lives in New York City. She was pretty sure Pete had been in the Midwest, but that was so long ago. Friends: 4,997. Whoah.
The profile picture was a dog. An actual dog. A handsome dog, but still. Okay, this Pete had a retriever. She liked this Pete better already. Interests: music. Job: music. About me: music, music, and more music. Photos: only a few. The aforementioned retriever. A picture of a guitar. Another guitar. Six, seven, eight more guitars. A picture of Bob Dylan? And some band members with some fans in the background.
Okay, this particular Pete Blatt is apparently a big Bob Dylan fan.
She scanned the fans’ faces looking for clues. She closed her eyes and tried to picture his face the way she remembered it and then opened it again, hoping to catch a glimpse of it in one of these faces. She scoured all their features, looking for her Pete’s nose, the one surrounded by freckles all those years ago. And then she gave up. He wasn’t there. No matter how much she tried, none of those faces bore any resemblance.
