by Julia Dumont
She leaned back, disappointed, and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and rubbed them with her open hands. She was tired. She removed her hands from her face and looked right into the eyes of Pete Blatt. Her Pete Blatt. He wasn’t one of the fans, he was the guy holding the guitar, right next to Bob. Now that she recognized him, she realized he looked the same. Exactly the same. Only better. Not that he didn’t look his age——although next to Dylan he seemed like a kid--I mean, who doesn’t——but time had actually made him handsomer, fuller, sexier. She couldn’t tell if he actually still had freckles, but he did still have the kind of a face that seemed like it should have freckles.
Send friend request? You know it. Click. Okay.
Now. Back to voicemails.
Cynthia leaned back on the couch and looked at the list. Her mom had called earlier in the morning, before the Pete Blatt message——it must have been just after she’d left her.
It is sometimes easier to just not listen to every message. Less aggravating. But okay, here we go.
She listened to her mother talking about how she had picked out someone from the website who she wanted to meet.
Okay . . . okay . . . okay, Mom. I need a name. What’s his user I.D.? Why leave a message and not give me the number? What am I, clairvoyant, Mom? This just requires another phone call . . . another message.
She called her mother back and when she didn’t pick up, she left a very short message: “Mom. User number. Please.” Click.
She scrolled down through the voicemails. There were ten or fifteen new ones: Lolita, Lolita, Mom, Mom, Walter (Cynthia’s recent ex-short-term fling who she was currently looking to match with someone to get him completely out of her life. A nice guy for someone, but not her), Merriweather (what now?), Lolita, Unknown Caller.
Wait, this Unknown Caller person has a certain appeal. Unlike a lot of these people, I don’t know exactly what Mr. or Ms. Unknown Caller has to say. Beep.
“Hi, Cynthia, this is Tanya. You know, Lolita’s assistant from the grooming shop? Hi, well, I heard from her that you might be looking for some help with the dating service. I love what you’re doing and I’d really like to be a part of it. I’ve decided to leave the shop. I’m a bit burned out on dogs. I mean, I love them, but I think in the long run I might be more of a people person. Please give me a call at 323 . . .”
Cynthia smiled. She liked Tanya. She thought she was adorable. And she’d had short, but great, conversations with her over the past few months when she’d stopped by to pick up Lolita for lunch or something. She’d found out that Tanya had gone to Brown as an English major and was working on a novel. She liked the idea of hiring someone with more going on than just work. If there was one thing she knew about the matchmaking game it was that knowing things, having interests, and having a curious mind was a huge part of it. She also had gotten the strong impression that Tanya was on the same wavelength when it came to Lolita’s craziness. She loved Lolita, but also knew what a piece of work she was. Cynthia was not surprised that she’d want to get out of that shop. On the other hand, she could totally imagine working with Tanya. She looked at the long list of emails with resumes attached. She looked at the clock. She was already tired and the thought of weeding through all that was about as appealing as a sharp stick in the caboose. This was a simple answer. Cynthia loved simple. This girl was a known quantity and quality. Cynthia would clear it with Lolita before making any decisions, but it couldn’t hurt to just talk to Tanya.
She pressed the “Call Back” button.
Ringing, ringing . . .
“Cynthia?” asked Tanya.
“Exactly. How are you, Tanya?”
“I’m great. I’m guessing you got my message.”
“Good guess. So, I’m intrigued. I think this could work. Are you available immediately? Have you already given notice to Lolita?
“Actually, today was my last day . . . so, you know, that part’s cool. I could start anytime.”
“That’s fantastic. Aside from the fact that I really like you, this would mean that I don’t need to read more than a hundred cover letters and resumes. I think this could work out, but I’ll need to get back to you tomorrow. I’m in the middle of moving my office out of the house, right down the hill into an amazing building. You’ll love it. But, again, I’ll call you.” Cynthia would call Lolita to make sure she was fine with this. Why wouldn’t she be?
“Wow, that is so cool. I’m just down the hill in Hollywood. Amazing. I really hope it works out. I look forward to hearing from you. I have a resume and I’ll drop it off at your house.”
Cynthia had another call coming in. Oh. My. God. It was Max. Max was back. He was overdue. He always came back. He never could stay away. Like that damn cat in that damn song. It had been four months since she had left him stark naked atop that cold, windy bluff at Zuma Beach in Malibu. She was actually pretty shocked that he hadn’t called sooner. But she hadn’t pined for him like she had in the past. Max contact was a nice surprise, partly because she hadn’t been thinking about him. She hadn’t really missed him very much. But now that she saw his name, she did want to talk to him. If for no other reason than to hear his voice, which she would always love. A part of her hoped he was halfway around the world so that she could just have a nice conversation, say goodbye, and have it be over until next time.
“Oh, wow,” said Cynthia, “you know what, Tanya? I have another call. Sure, sure, drop off the resume any time. I’ll text you the address. Talk to you later.”
Tanya said goodbye, buoyed with new optimism . . . confident she had a job. If this worked out it would be so amazing . . . she’d only been unemployed for a matter of hours.
Beep.
“Max.”
“Sin.” He always called her Sin.
“So, in what far corner of the globe might you be?”
“I’m sitting on the beach in Nadi.”
“What the heck is a Nadi?”
“Fiji, baby, Fiji. Get on a plane right now and get down here. I guarantee you will never leave.”
Cynthia was getting another call. Holy cow: Jack Stone.
“Um, Max?”
“Yes, Sin?”
“I’m really sorry, but I’ve got a business call.”
“Business? What business? You mean your studio job?”
“Studio job? Are you kidding me?” This was just like Max to not remember any of the important details of her life. “Okay, Max, gotta go.”
“Hey! We haven’t talked in months. Who’s on the phone? Who’s so important?”
“It’s Jack Stone.”
“What, you mean the Jack Stone?”
“No, I’m talking about Jack Stone the plumber. Of course it’s the Jack Stone. Gotta go.”
“Wait. Sin! You would not believe the color of the ocean down here. It makes Malibu look like a black and white movie. Okay, I’ll buy you a ticket. First class. How’s that? Sin?”
Click. Cynthia let out a giggle. Okay, now that was fun.
She had set her phone to not go to voicemail until the eighth ring. She got a high volume of calls now and she often found herself in a situation where she had to take an incoming, but also needed a few seconds to wrap up with the outgoing.
Jack Stone. What on Earth is he calling about? I told him I’d get in touch when I got his list of dates together. Patience, man! C’mon, you gotta give me a little time. Not everyone on the roster is, you know, appropriate.
She took a deep breath.
“Hello, Jack?”
“Hi, Cynthia. How has the rest of your day gone?”
“Umm, well, pretty good I guess. Can’t complain. How about you?”
“Actually, the rest of my day has been a little bit of a pain in the ass. I don’t have an assistant anymore. Turns out Mariana did a lot more than I thought. I mean, I knew she was good, but she was some kind of organizational genius. She’s been gone for half a day and my life is a total mess all of a sudden.”
“Oh, well,
sorry to hear that. Is that why you called?”
“Yeah, well, I was wondering if you have anyone you’d recommend? I think I might hire someone who’s a little older, maybe a little less unstable, you know, not so prone to fantasies or whatever. This is weird to say. I hate thinking this way, but maybe someone who is a little less . . .”
“Attractive?” asked Cynthia. “Less of a temptation for you and her? Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess that’s it.”
“It’s funny,” she said, “I just interviewed a potential assistant myself. But she wasn’t right for you. Way too cute.”
“Yeah,” he said. “God, I hate that.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling, nearly laughing, “attractiveness sucks.”
“Yeah, well, anyway . . .” he said, sounding like he was wrapping up, “ . . . the other thing is, I feel kind of silly asking.”
“What, you want to borrow money from me?” she asked.
Jack Stone laughed very hard and that made Cynthia laugh too. She tipped sideways onto the couch, pulling her legs up and into a fetal position, her bare knees against her bare everything else, inside the oversized sweatshirt. She loved talking and giggling on the phone; she always had. She remembered when she was a pre-teen, before everyone had their own personal communication center at their fingertips and people in households had to actually share one phone line, she would dominate it for hours at a time. She’d lie on her side in her bed, knees pulled up just like now, wrapped in a cocoon of intimacy with an entire rolodex of contacts she had developed on her own, beyond her parents’ walls. It was her first memory of individuality, of grown-up self-indulgence——the first in a long string of firsts. Like all the sexual firsts, obviously, but also simple things like eating breakfast out, ordering what you want instead of what your parental units decide you’ll have. Or the first time you go for two or three days with no contact whatsoever with your mother, for instance. My god, had that felt good. Talking on the phone was like that. She remembered feeling free and powerful, like her contact with other people in the outside world was a much-needed escape and that her mother and father could wait.
“No,” said Jack Stone, after their laughter subsided, “I’ve got enough scratch to stretch ‘til payday, thanks.”
Cynthia loved how he played along with nonsense. There were a lot of men out there who weren’t really that interested or willing to take a silly idea and run with it. She loved days that unfolded spontaneously and she had the distinct impression that Jack would be a real adventurer in that way, the way that Max had been too. But she was really kind of sick of Max. It was easy to imagine forgetting all other men everywhere while spending time with Jack. She felt more ridiculous than ever that she had turned him down this morning.
“Well,” she said, “if you do run low, you know who to call. We could start a lemonade stand or something.”
“Thanks, Cynthia,” he said. “But I did have another question for you. Sort of an ulterior motive, I guess.”
“Hit me,” she said.
“I have tickets for this fundraiser thing tomorrow night. It’s some benefit, I don’t even know what for. It wouldn’t be a date, I know you’re seeing someone, but he shouldn’t mind. It’s totally platonic--kind of a client-relations thing for you. And nice company for me. You might even make some helpful connections. It’s over in the Palisades at the Steve Sternberg compound.”
“I know you mean the Steven Sternberg,” she said.
“Yeah, he’s a friend. Sorry. I know it’s late notice. Mariana was going with me as sort of a perk for her. I said yes to that before she went all bonkers on me. Anyway, now I’ve got this extra ticket. I actually hate these things, with all those Depps and J-Los and Clooneys running around. Steve and his wife are cool, though.”
“Are you kidding me?” she asked, sounding completely stunned.
“No, no,” he said, “they’ll all be there.”
“No,” she laughed, “I mean people actually call him Steve?”
Jack Stone cracked up. “People? No. I do. Actually, I usually call him the Stever, as in Leave it to Stever, but whatever. I won’t even tell you what he calls me. It’s definitely not something you’d want catching on. So, what do you think--wanna come?”
“Does he call you Jacky? Because I was wondering if anyone did.”
“No one who lived to tell the tale,” he said.
“Okay, Jacky,” she replied.
He laughed again. She loved messing with him and he seemed to like it.
“I may let you live,” he said, “if you come tomorrow night.”
A threat. A pretty sweet threat, though.
Cynthia had seen her share of Hollywood hoopla over the years, but partying at the Sternberg palace was not one of them. She wasn’t even a huge fan of his movies. She was almost always disappointed in them. But that wasn’t the point. It was Leave-it-to-Stever Sternberg, for god’s sake.
“Tomorrow night?” she asked, knowing full well that was what he had said. Twice. “Let me look at the calendar . . .” She wasn’t actually looking at a calendar. She had rolled over onto her back and was stretching her legs toward the ceiling. She knew that tomorrow night was free. Actually not technically free. She had planned on working, just like pretty much every other night since she had launched Second Acts. “Well, I guess I could cancel the White House bash. The leader of the free world will be heartbroken, but sure, yes. Let’s do it. Should I bring anything? Is it a potluck? My mom makes a mean Pepsi salad. I could probably get the recipe.”
“No, that’s okay. It says here Mario Batali is catering, so he probably has it covered. We could pass that recipe on to him, though. I’m sure it’s hard to find a really good Pepsi Salad recipe. Beyonce sang a couple of songs at the last one. No telling who will show up. Listen, I can come by and pick you up? You’re up in Beachwood? Let’s see . . . on Verbena, right?”
She tipped over and up into a posture-perfect sitting position . . . eyes wide. Wait. Jack Stone coming to her house?
“Hold on, you don’t need to do that. That’s silly. It’s in the totally wrong direction. Bel Air to the eastern end of the Hollywood Hills and way back over to the Palisades? That’s not gallant, that’s just goofus.”
“Ha, ha. Goofus and Gallant--Highlights Magazine. Hilarious. No, I know, but I’ll be coming from the Warner Bros. lot in Burbank. I’m meeting with Clint. I should be out of there by 3:30 or 4:00 and I can just swing over Barham and pick you up. I don’t mind at all. No problem.”
“Eastwood?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. Clint has this script about John Gilbert. The silent film star.”
“Huge heart throb, Garbo’s boyfriend. Garbo left him standing on the altar. Didn’t transition into talkies. Died drunk and penniless. That John Gilbert? Now there’s one uplifting bio-pic.”
“Tell me about it. I love Clint and I know it would be good. But after The Artist——that silent film that’s basically based on Gilbert, and of course Singin’ in the Rain, arguably the greatest musical of all time, which tells the same story——the difficulty of some silent stars to make the jump to sound——I just don’t know if the public would be up for yet another version that basically ends at the death and despair scene instead of overcoming it and getting all happy-dancy.”
“Exactly,” said Cynthia. She loved talking with him. “I mean, I’m into old Hollywood and everything, and even I wonder about it. Perhaps not a winner at the multiplex?”
“I’m not sure it’s even a winner in the art house. But who knows? Clint is Clint. If anyone could pull it off. Listen, I just realized I’ve gotta go. I’m supposed to be Skyping with Scorcese.”
Good god, what a namedropper. But is it really namedropping when every single one of your friends has a droppable name? You’d have to stop talking.
“Skyping with Scorcese,” she said. “Good movie title. Or a TV series? Band name? Something.”
“Okay, C
ynthia, see you tomorrow,” he said, turning to his laptop, but forgetting to actually hang up. “Marty! How are you! Wow, where are you? Is that the Taj Mahal?”
“Yeah, scouting. It’s beautiful. I got here fifteen minutes ago——after a nineteen-hour flight——and I already miss New York.”
Cynthia realized that she was basically listening in on the first episode of Skyping with Scorcese. Should she hang up out of courtesy or just keep quiet? Maybe take notes and pitch it herself?
“Imagine how I feel,” said Jack, “I miss New York every day of my life. Hold on, Marty . . . what the heck. Cynthia are you there?”
She immediately hung up. She really didn’t want to try to explain that she wasn’t eavesdropping. Especially because she totally was. She looked around the room. What a mess. Her dining room table and just about every other surface in her house was covered with files, photos, back issues of food magazines, newspapers, menus, tourism guidebooks, film schedules, museum brochures, Los Angeles-based novels and DVDs with bookmarks and post-its on everything. She did most of her research and planning online, but still she somehow accumulated all this stuff. Everywhere. Another reason why she needed an office.
Holy hoarder, Batman! Jack Stone is coming over.
She was usually relatively neat, but lately she’d been working really hard and eating out of Tupperware containers and leaving a garment or two . . . or three . . . oh, god . . . on the floor. Plus her cleaning lady was pregnant——about to pop, really——and she hadn’t found a replacement, like she said she would. Cynthia needed to get going. She had to do a total number on the house. This was such a crazy time to go hobnobbing with Stevie and Jacky. But, come on.
She still had two or three details to finalize. Putting these nights together was a little bit math and science——delineating the lives and interests of two strangers, seeing where their personas intersect, and capitalizing on that intersection——and a little bit magic. She needed time to meditate on these particular people and consider them in relation to the endless permutations on the Los Angeles experience. Sort of feel how these people, places, and things might best fit together.
