by Julia Dumont
Bzzzzz. Lolita.
Day 1, Chapter 7
“C’mon, Cynthia! Pick up the phone.” Lolita had tried to reach her friend several times today already and she knew she was screening. “C’mon, you little starf*cker, you.” This was of course ironic, because the moniker was much more apt for her, and she knew it. Cynthia had never really dated anyone famous until today, at least that’s what Lolita thought. She had no idea that Cynthia had turned him down. Knowing that would possibly cause Lolita’s head to explode. On the other hand, she also didn’t know that they were going out the next night on what at least looked an awful lot like a date.
Cynthia stared at the buzzing phone.
I have to talk to her sooner or later.
She clicked on. “Lolita, my dear!”
“Don’t you dare ‘my dear’ me. What the hell is going on with you. I’ve left you at least ten messages!”
Not true. I counted them. Only nine.
“Oh really? I’m sorry. I just haven’t had time to check my messages. I’ve been driving and talking on the phone all day. What’s up?”
“What’s up? If you don’t fill me in on the Jack Stone operation right now, I’m coming over there and beating it out of you.” She was obviously kidding, but just barely.
“Listen, Lo, nothing is going on between us. He came to me to set him up with some women . . . that’s all. I’ll put you onto the pile. She would do this even though she was almost sure he wouldn’t be interested. But she didn’t see the point of telling her the truth, saying, Lolita, forget it. I’ve gotten to know him a little bit and the one thing he does not want is a woman who likes him for his E and Access Hollywood quotient. That was the truth, but what was the point?
“So, you’ll recommend me then?” asked Lolita.
“Yes, I promise.
“Because Wilfredo says we’d be good together,” said Lolita.
Cynthia paused a second.
“You’re talking about Wilfredo, the Chihuahua, right?”
“Right, he heard it from Jack’s dog.”
This may have been a mistake. Cynthia was appreciative of Lolita’s dogs’ uncanny ability to dig up new clients, but she was still skeptical when it came to Lolita’s reports of these deep doggy discussions.
“Listen, Lo. I’m sure Wilfredo and Scarlett talked it over, but I wouldn’t get my heart set on anything happening. Jack seems to be looking for someone more . . .” Oh, shit. Why am I going there?
“More what?” squeaked Lolita. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. I just got a vibe that what he had in mind was someone more . . .”
“More like you?” Lolita was steaming. She was responsible for hooking Stone into Second Acts. Well, her dogs were anyway.
“No!” squeaked Cynthia back. “God, you are paranoid.”
This was something that Lolita was particularly sensitive about. She knew a little something about it. Her mother had really been paranoid and she hated it when people threw that term around lightly. Lolita Albion’s privileged childhood had evaporated before her eleven-year-old eyes when her father took a one-way trip to Soledad Prison for pulling a gigantic Ponzi scheme. Not Bernie Madoff level, merely hundreds of millions of dollars, but decades before Madoff, so in that sense he was a Ponzi pioneer before his time. Her mother, already hanging by a thread from living in suspicion of him for years (sometimes people have reason to be paranoid) had a full-blown nervous breakdown, consumed by the demons of her unlucky chemistry, but no doubt exacerbated by her father’s betrayal of trust. She died a few years later, technically from heart failure, but Lolita believed it to be more like a broken heart.
Lolita was sent to live with her father’s vile sister, a bitter, lonely woman who took so little interest in her young niece, she barely noticed if she was fed and clothed, let alone nurtured. For Lolita, her real family would be her best friends, her protectors, her three furry angels: King, Max, and Wilfredo. They were always there for her. And all these many years later, defying logic, science, and mortality itself, they were still with her, still guarding over her, still there. Plus, sometimes she actually did feel paranoid and hated hearing it from Cynthia. But she had a sneaking suspicion she wasn’t telling the truth about Stone and she went for it.
“Okay, so you promise me you are not going out with him?”
“Yes,” said Cynthia. “I promise.”
“And you also promise that you have no plans to go out with him, spend time with him, hang around with him, etc, etc?”
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition up in here all of a sudden?”
“I knew it!”
“Knew what?! Lolita, what the heck is going on with you? I need to meet with him again. So sue me! Now if you want me to include you in the list of possible dates for him, I’m happy to do it, but please, stop with the enhanced interrogation tactics!”
The volume of the conversation had been steadily building and that last part was a very loud yell, bringing it all to a screeching halt. Silence. Breathing. They both felt kind of stupid.
“I’m sorry,” they said simultaneously. Then they stumbled over each other trying to establish that no, it was me, not you, who was out of line.
“But really,” said Lolita, “I don’t know what got into me. I had a really bad day and this was just a small part of it. Listen, I gotta go. I fired Tanya today, so I have a ton of work to do here.”
“What? Really?” Cynthia couldn’t believe it. This was not the way Tanya had characterized it.
“Yeah, well, I’ll tell you about it later,” said Lolita. “But I’d better get going. Okay. Talk soon. Bye-bye.”
What was going on with all these assistants getting fired all day long?
Cynthia almost cut in to say that she had interviewed Tanya only minutes ago, but since they had just gotten past the whole Jack Stone thing, she really didn’t want to blow everything up again. She’d talk to her about Tanya later, after things calmed down a bit.
“Okay,” she said, “goodbye.” Hoo boy.
Cynthia ate some leftovers. How did it get to be 11:30? She was tired, but really did have to clean up. She put some music on——a mix including Lady Gaga, Bessie Smith, Beyonce, Adele, Wanda Jackson, Mahalia Jackson, Joni Mitchell, and more. She’d been on an all-women-singers-all-the-time binge from all periods and genres. The more eclectic the better. She hated housecleaning with a vengeance, but something about the unlikely juxtaposition of country singer Loretta Lynn and Nicki Minaj made her happy, put a spring in her step. And in her mop.
Day 1, Chapter 8
In Beverly Hills, another cleanup was in progress. After firing Tanya, all the most distasteful parts of the dog grooming business were now, at least temporarily, Lolita’s responsibility. And she hated it. A lot. In a weird way, she thought of herself as a bit of a Hollywood player. She wasn’t an actress or director or producer, but being the front person of an upscale business that catered to that elite community gave her at least the convincing illusion that she was one of them, that they were her peers. Having to spend two hours at the end of the day vacuuming fur and scraping canine excrement from tabletops, when those “peers” were out sipping fine wine and doing their part to put the lounge into the Polo Lounge, brought the whole situation into clearer focus.
She turned to King, Max, and Wilfredo, who were watching her with concern. “You know, guys,” she said, “I’m not part of the elite of this town. I’m a peon, a lackey, a grunt. This shop and my life may sometimes have a slight patina of glamour, but it’s all a lie. This is a pathetic bottom-feeding enterprise!”
She looked at her hands.
“Dammit!” she cried. “Look at this. I have dog shit under my nails! No offense.”
“None taken,” said King. The other two dogs nodded their heads in agreement.
“And I have fur all over me!” she whined.
“So do we,” all three dogs whined back. Lolita usually appreciated their senses of humor, but not
now.
“Very funny,” she said. “But I also have it in my nostrils! Goddamn it. This is not my job!”
She dreaded the process of interviewing new people. She knew that she could be difficult and that in some ways, Tanya had been the perfect match--easy going, happy to do what needed to be done, and also a very attractive second banana when Lolita needed a day off or just wanted to play hooky. She knew for a fact that some of the younger clients——male and female——were coming in for Tanya, not for her. And not for the grooming. Tanya had really been the only employee who had ever worked out. The three before her were disasters. One actually robbed her. It was hard to find trustworthy, competent people and, in many ways, Tanya was a godsend.
Lolita washed her hands, locked up, and loaded the three dogs——one tiny, one large, and one enormous——into her adorable red sports car. She pulled out of the alley, and back around to Beverly Drive, slowing and stopping across the street from the shop. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and leaned on her elbows on the roof of the coupe that Dog Groomer to the Stars had provided. The dogs looked on from inside the car. God, she loved her business. She loved the neighborhood. Talk about location: Beverly Drive, between Santa Monica Boulevard and Brighton Way, two doors down from the Museum of Radio and Television, across the street from Taschen Books, tons of exclusive shops, a block from Rodeo Drive. The fact that she had even gotten in there was an absolute miracle. The landlord was a dog lover. Lolita gazed lovingly at the shop. It had been her dream and she made it come true with a combination of hard work and pure force of will. She had built something here.
“Get her back,” said King.
“But how?” she asked, staring at the beautifully etched and backlit copper sign she had designed for over the door.
“Apologize,” said Wilfredo in a whispery, nearly inaudible growl.
“Apologize,” she repeated, turning to the three of them. “You’re right.”
So she would call Tanya and apologize. She had to get her back. She would give her a raise. Maybe more perks . . . like better bonuses or even a small piece of the business. Whatever it took.
She got back in the car, stuck in her ear buds, and speed-dialed her soon-to-be rehired assistant. She pulled out into traffic, happily watching the well-heeled pedestrians, feeling absolutely blessed to be there. This was her neighborhood. This was her world. As long as Tanya was responsible for cleaning it when it got dirty, all was right in that world. She turned left onto Wilshire Boulevard. Ringing . . . ringing.
“Lolita?” answered Tanya, surprised to be hearing from her.
“Yes!” she said, relieved to hear her voice. “Tanya. How are you? I mean, wow, what a day, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Tanya, wondering where this was going. “You could say that.”
“Well, first, I want to say how sorry I am about today. I mean, what you did was very inappropriate, but that’s behind us now. And you were right. I’ve been guilty of some pretty wacky behavior myself from time to time. I see myself in you.”
“You see yourself in me?” asked Tanya, not exactly taking it as a compliment.
“Yes, that’s why I hired you. Sure I got pissed off today, but I want to tell you that there are no hard feelings on my end. Consider yourself un-fired. Let’s pretend none of this even happened. So, that’s it! See you in the morning?”
Long pause. Not because Tanya didn’t know the gist of what she was going say. She was just trying to determine the best way to put it.
“Wow,” she said. “You came dangerously close to issuing an apology there.”
“No, no,” said Lolita, turning onto North Canon Drive. “I definitely apologized. I used the word sorry, I remember.”
“Yeah, you said you were sorry for what I did. Listen, Lolita. Whatever. The fact is, though, I think I already have another job.”
“What? No you don’t. You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Not kidding.”
“Another dog shop? I was totally going to give you a raise anyway, so I’ll definitely match what they’re paying you.”
“Nope. Not another dog shop. Listen, Lolita. We had a good run, but I’m in the mood for a change. I’m doing something totally different.”
“What is it, if you don’t mind me asking.”
Tanya thought it might be unwise to divulge that information at this juncture. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Just something else.”
“Tell me, Tanya!” shrieked Lolita. It seemed like every drop of blood in her body rushed directly to her head. Her pulse was pounding in there like a kettledrum.
“Listen,” said Tanya, “I don’t need this.”
“No, wait, hold on!” cried Lolita. “Tanya! Why are you doing this to me? I’m sure we can work it out!”
Lolita knew it wasn’t safe to drive under the influence of what she was feeling at that moment. She clutched the wheel like a lifeline, spied a parking space and headed for it, aiming like a drunk person playing darts, somehow thinking that through mere concentration, she could overcome her hugely debilitating impairment . . . in this case, hurt, jealousy, and rage. She veered hard to the right——all three dogs howling with alarm——and slammed into the rear of a parked car.
It happened to be a Beverly Hills Police cruiser.
The two cops inside both banged their heads on the dashboard like synchronized crash dummies. They weren’t seriously hurt, but they were seriously infuriated. They inspected the damage to their car and the one in front of them, and the one in front of that.
They ambled toward Lolita like twin John Waynes. One leaned down to ask if she were okay, but she didn’t answer because she was still talking into her phone:
“Tanya? Hello? Are you there? Can you hear me now?”
Unfortunately, Tanya couldn’t hear her because she had hung up just before the crash. Also unfortunate was the fact that, when asked to see her license, after scrambling through her belongings, she realized that she’d left her purse at the shop. The officers were not amused.
It also didn’t help that the dogs all growled at them with such fury that they had to radio animal control.
Lolita, accustomed to finessing difficult situations, couldn’t charm her way out of this one. They took the dogs to the city pound and hauled Lolita downtown. Downtown Beverly Hills, but still. Her one phone call was to Cynthia, partly because she was a good friend who Lolita knew she could count on despite their recent difficulties, and partly because she just wanted to scream at her.
Unfortunately, though, when Cynthia’s phone buzzed, she didn’t hear it. She was working up some serious sweat equity with a vacuum in the living room. Moments before, Cyndi Lauper had come up on the mix, and Cynthia, closely related to her in spirit and name, had turned it way, way up.
The phone rings in the middle of the night,
My father yells “What you gonna do with your life?”
Oh, daddy, dear,
You know you’re still number one,
But girls,
They wanna have fun.
Day 2, Chapter 9
Cynthia woke up at 8:15. She showered and dressed and started a pot of coffee. Trying to eat more healthfully, she grabbed a yogurt and an apple and turned on her laptop. By the time the computer had fully booted up and the coffee was ready, she had already finished eating, so, just to have something to go with the coffee and as a reward for her original dietary restraint, she grabbed an oversized square of coffee cake, leftover from a brunch she’d had with Lolita a few days earlier.
Lolita, she thought: fantastic and infuriating. Fantastically infuriating. Cynthia remembered her words——“I’m way worse than your mother”——and realized just how true that statement was. They were so different in so many ways, but they really did have some similarities: loving and loyal, but erratic and in need of attention. A lot of attention. Approximately every waking hour of every day. How had she started yet another relationship that mirrored the one with her mother? How could
this happen this far down the road of life? She supposed it was because it seemed so comfortable, even when it was uncomfortable. And she really did love her and love being around her. Since first meeting, they had had a number of hilarious adventures together. So much fun. Being with her in public was a blast, always walking a fine line between hilarity and unmitigated social embarrassment.
Like the time about a month earlier when they went on a road trip north to Montecito for a wedding of an old college friend. It was an exclusive affair. It was at the Four Seasons Biltmore, right on the beach, a short walk from Oprah’s house. Theoretically, that is. Oprah actually came in a car. Somehow, the alchemy generated by their two personalities made Cynthia and Lolita the life of the party. They did their share of dancing with a variety of single men, from baby billionaire inventors to no less than three recently divorced reality-show producers. You simply cannot predict what will happen with open access to that much incredible champagne for that many hours in one day. It started at 2:00 PM and by 9:30, Lolita was slow dancing with the best man, the creator of a very popular sitcom, and Cynthia was doing the same with the mayor of Santa Barbara, whose wife had passed out in the lounge. Cynthia and the mayor were mostly concentrating hard, trying to put into practice a few almost-recalled ballroom dance moves they’d only half-picked-up over the years. Their behavior was almost totally innocent. Almost. But then Cynthia caught a glimpse of Lolita and her partner and realized that his hands were all over her——right there in plain view of the bride, the mother of the bride, and the mother of the mother of the bride——his arms snaking around, his hands down the small of her back to her ass, then back up, the hem of her short skirt trailing with them, his fingers inching up under her red, beaded, bombshell top, under which Cynthia knew for a fact there was nothing, just her more than ample ampleness.
Cynthia cast herself off from the mayor, coming to the defense of her friend’s honor, declaring, “Unhand her, sir!” After she said it, she realized it sounded less intimidating and more formal than she had intended, like old-movie speak, but it did work. The man retracted his tentacles and everything stopped for a moment. But then Lolita replied, “Cynthia, my dear, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your kind assistance in dealing with this untoward interloper.” Then, clutching the guy’s wrist and placing his hand back on her breast, she issued a direct order to her friend: “Now, please leave us alone so that said untoward interloper can proceed with getting even more untoward.” They all looked at each other and laughed hysterically. Cynthia returned to her mayor, who spun her ‘round and ‘round like a top, the only move he actually remembered, adding exponentially to the potency of the bubbly. Unfortunately, as had often been the case, Lolita’s dancing-mauling partner failed to mention that he was in fact married and his wife, a well-known actress, delayed on a flight from Barcelona, arrived ten minutes later, just as her husband’s lips, which had been exploring the nuances of Lolita’s lovely neck and collarbone, plunged from that precipice down the salty slope of her right breast. It was a beautiful moment but it ended ugly. This was the story of Lolita’s life in a lot of ways. She didn’t go looking for trouble, exactly. She was just very, very good at finding it. But the night wasn’t lost. No one died, no blood was shed——well, not too much anyway——and the two friends ended the evening by walking it off through the streets of Montecito together, singing and plotting their perfect romantic futures with honest-to-goodness true loves. Cynthia meant it. She wasn’t so sure about Lolita.
