The Muffia Page 8

  As he spoke, I found myself agreeing with the things he said, and I started feeling more comfortable and less like a harlot, though feeling like a harlot hadn’t been all bad. I agreed with him about being alone, but that feeling alone when you’re with someone else was actually worse—to see that person every day and lie next to him every night and realize that whatever connection you might have once had was now gone—and the choice of whether to stay or go was a mutual decision that never seemed to be made together without one person getting defensive.

  I was telling him my story when a couple came into the restaurant with their lips locked together. I couldn’t see them clearly—the place was too dark—but I detected a familiarity about the man.

  Cullen turned, following my gaze.

  “Somebody I know, maybe,” I said. “Not sure.” The guy kept leaning down to suck face with the woman. How gauche.

  A server led the couple in our direction and as they got closer, it was clear to me the man was Nate, as in Sarah and Nate, but the woman was definitely not Sarah. This woman had cleavage where Sarah was prone to good coverage. This woman wore a skirt and heels where Sarah wore Patagonia pants and flip-flops. His hands groping the woman’s ass made it pretty clear what was going on, and it at least partially explained the kiss in the stairwell at the last Muffia gathering. But now Sarah was pregnant. This sucks.

  Should I confront Nate? No. He’d just ask me not to tell Sarah. I could screw up his date, but that seemed like an immature thing to do as well. What I needed to do was report the sighting to someone in book club—not Sarah—and come up with a plan.

  The worst thing about Nate and his paramour’s arrival was that it took me out of the tryst I was looking forward to having with Cullen. In fact, I got very angry with Cullen for no reason at all.

  But timing’s everything, isn’t it? And the timing’s always going to be wrong to have sex with someone you’ve just met, to whom you’re legitimately attracted, after seeing a pregnant friend’s husband dry-humping another woman when he thought no one was looking. For that moment, I had a bad taste in my mouth about all men—including Cullen. I turned to face him.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Thanks for the wine and for the conversation and, well . . . thanks for the possibility.”

  Chapter 8

  “It’s not our problem, Maddie,” Quinn said into the phone from her talent agency the following day.

  “But I can help them,” I said. “That’s what I do—help people work out problems.” At least that’s what I try to do when I get a job.

  I was sitting in front of my computer in my home office where I’d been unsuccessfully trying to drum up mediation business for a few hours.

  “Sarah and Nate need to work it out,” said Quinn. “And there’s something else you should know—Sarah told Lauren so it’s probably OK that I tell you—she’s not sure Nate is the father.”

  “She’s not sure if—how long have you known this?” All right, I did sound a tad petulant, but I felt hurt, considering it seemed like I was the last Muff to find this out. Further proof that I was being punished for living outside the geographical Muff hub.

  “A few days. We didn’t think everyone needed to know right away.”

  “Weee—?” I was annoyed now. “I wish I’d known I didn’t need to know right away before I was having a really good time with the first guy I’ve been attracted to in years who was also attracted to me—whom I left in the Andalucia Tapas and Wine Bar because I thought my friend’s husband was screwing around on her. If I’d known they were screwing around on each other, then I could have said, ‘Hello, Nate. How are you? Nice to meet your paramour; Sarah’s isn’t half as nice,’ then continued kissing the man I was with instead of creeping out of there.”

  “You were already kissing him?”

  “Yes, we were kissing.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you, Maddie. You usually have your prospective partners' DNA analyzed first.”

  “Well, maybe it doesn’t sound like me, but we were kissing and I was . . . it was great.” It sort of blew me away that Quinn wasn’t horrified about Nate and Sarah, but intrigued instead with my kissing Cullen. “Did you know about Nate?”

  I heard her sigh. “Not exactly. But he’s always been a dog—and a doggy-dog, too.”

  When I reflected on it, Quinn was right. Nate was a dog. But that didn’t mean I had to like it. I suppose I have an idealized view of what a marriage should be even if it’s none of my business. “That’s too bad,” I said. “But I guess if Sarah doesn’t care . . . does she really not care?”

  “No . . . I mean, she says no, but how could she not care? Of course, I could be projecting—I’d mind. But maybe I’m just less evolved.”

  “You know . . .” I began. “I have a theory about ugly guys. Not that Nate’s ugly. He has a certain geeky charm. But he’s not really good looking, so the theory still applies. I find that if guys are attractive and women look at them a lot, they have more confidence. If Nate were better looking, he wouldn’t need to try so hard to get attention, ya know? I mean, that’s my theory, anyway.”

  As a mediator I try to understand the entire range and dimension of human behavior—mostly other peoples’, not my own—however odd or inexplicable it might be. But my job is to work out disputes—not to accept or justify the things people do that land them in the dispute in the first place; regardless of my acknowledgment that we’re all flawed and make mistakes that we know we shouldn’t, I’m still constantly astounded by the things we do.

  “How was I supposed to know you’d run into Nate?” Quinn went on, still defensive. “I couldn’t tell you before. It was private. It’s still private. Don’t tell anyone I told you.”

  “You knew. You and Lauren, which probably means everyone and I’m talking way beyond the Muffs.”

  “Lauren is getting much better about keeping a secret.”

  “Right.”

  “Can’t you find this guy? What’s his name?”

  “His name’s Cullen and he gave me his card but it’s just kind of weird how we met, you know, and to know in graphic detail what he could be doing right now with his Fleshlight.”

  “His what? Where’d you meet this guy?” She gasped. “Wait. You met him in—”

  “I met him in Babeland. Well, not in Babeland—next door. But I saw him in Babeland and I know what he bought.”

  “A Fleshlight?”

  “It's one of those metal-encased silicone cylinder things that guys put over their erect cocks.”

  “Whoa. Watch out for guys you meet in sex shops, right?”

  Quinn had gone all prim and proper on me. It was like all the sex talk was exotic and fun when it was over there, but when it was affecting her or someone she knew personally, she turned into a priss.

  “You were the one who told me to go there in the first place and you were the one who told me I had to loosen up and now you’re telling me to watch out after failing to tell me something that might have made at least my evening turn out a little better.”

  “Sheesh, I'm teasing, OK? Maybe you should go unwind with your own new toy."

  “I might,” I said, still annoyed with her. She didn't need to know that I'd brought myself to climax three or four times already today with that new toy.

  “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t go home with Frank Lassiter—whose real name is Orin Footlick, by the way. He's very cute, but we barely got through dinner before he started quizzing me on which celebrities I represented who might have parts for him in their movies, and I had to remind him that I book commercials."

  "How'd that go over?"

  "It didn't matter. He then tells me how he sees himself as a young William Shatner, only he's more talented, and that he'll be starring as the next Priceline spokesman, completely disregarding Shatner's history as Captain Kirk, pretty much the star of the most successful television show of all time. Please."

  I’d taken the opportunity to Google Frank Lassiter,
and his artificial persona’s web page came up. He looked remarkably like Ted Haggard, the defrocked evangelical male prostitute patron—perfectly coiffed with a toothy grin and a canned tan.

  “He asked me what I thought he could make if I were to negotiate a deal for him in traditional as well as new media platforms, and what I thought about crossover Twitter synergy. I couldn't wait to get out of there,” Quinn said sadly. “I’m giving up on meeting men the traditional way. If we lived in another culture, we could hire marriage brokers, but we’re on our own and LA’s not a warm, fuzzy world for the female serial dater over thirty. Hey, how about I come over on Friday and we compose profiles for Match.com?”

  “Can’t,” I said. “I’m going to a dinner party at Berggren’s.”

  “Another dinner party? That woman has too much energy. Doesn’t she ever get tired of entertaining?”

  To say Berggren has too much energy is an understatement. Berggren isn’t a member of the Muffia, as you’ve no doubt picked up, though she’s been dying to become one. Unfortunately, unless one of us were to die, that wasn’t going to happen. In the five years our Ladies’ Cliterature Club has been meeting, we’ve kicked out only one person—the inappropriately named Honor—who never read a single book and who none of us really liked. No one actually remembers how or why Honor attended any of the meetings in the first place—sort of a collective denial thing. At any rate, once she was gone we decided we didn't want anyone else.

  Berggren has a dinner party just about every other week. She loves putting people together and, kind person that she is, usually invites me. We’ve been good friends since our days in New York, when I was in law school, struggling away against my better judgment. She’d been an actor back then and had changed her name from Elizabeth to her mother’s surname of Berggren—like when Susan Weaver changed her name to Sigourney, only Susan/Sigourney did it first.

  Berggren and I have weathered feuds and the death of a friend, and when we found ourselves single moms in Los Angeles, we discovered we had even more in common. She’s far better than I am, however, at socializing—making the effort at both going out and meeting people, as well as staying home and inviting people to come to her. As an independent producer of small, successful Sundance-type films, she always has interesting types swarming around her—great writers, celebrity actors and an endless supply of beautiful young interns of both sexes. She’s also had the energy and fortitude to keep her dream of making small, quality films going. While most people who start out in their early twenties producing films for love more than money begin to grow tired of the constant struggle, Berggren still seems to thrive on it. I envied her energy.

  “Well,” said Quinn, “have fun. But let it be known that I was willing to come see you in Agoura Hills.”

  I hesitated before I spoke again. I’d never met anyone I wanted to sleep with at Berggren’s house and Berggren herself was always too busy to have a satisfying conversation with anyone in her effort to entertain everyone. Perhaps signing up for Match.com would be a better way to spend my Saturday night . . . Not.

  “Duly noted,” I said, finally, with optimism. Maybe this would be the dinner party that shattered my no go status quo.

  Chapter 9

  Before Friday rolled around, and with it the promise of Berggren’s dinner party, another onslaught of e-mails bounced off satellites and streamed through cables and modems to land on the computers of the members of the Muffia. As usual there was a delay from the time one person would send out a request for information and when all the responses came in. In the meantime, other questions would get asked, some answered, and pretty soon you didn’t know if you were commenting on Jelicka’s sister’s husband’s rug company, what florist in NY we should use to send an arrangement for Rachel’s gallery opening, or what Paige should do about being stalked by the dad of one of her tennis pupils. It wasn’t necessary for everybody to “Reply All,” but that’s what everybody did. When weeding through emails, I was always glad that we hadn’t signed up any new members—nine was enough, even if some of them didn’t even weigh in on some subjects, like Kiki whenever the topic was sex. I knew she had sex, but, like me, she didn’t enjoy discussing it via the Internet.

  Because of geography, I miss out on a lot of the in-person communication that goes on between the Muffs who live in closer proximity to each other. Consequently, I get most of my Muffia news by e-mail, usually long after most of the others know about it—Sarah’s fooling around and possibly getting pregnant by a guy other than her husband, for example. This little fling of hers had apparently begun a few weeks before I picked Deliciously Disturbed and Distracted as our next read.

  If Sarah was disturbed before I assigned that book—a fact clearly not in dispute— and I had become deliciously disturbed as soon as I cracked the book open, it hadn’t taken long for the rest of the Muffs to get disturbed in ways of their very own:

  MissJelickaG@aol.com: I just read an article about a woman who’s become a porn star at 50! What do you think? Might take my mind off my soon-to-be-ex-husband. I’d send the article but I can’t figure out how. Quinn, help! How do you do the link thing again? Signed, Luddite on Lantana Lane.

  vonhooter@gmail.com: What do you mean what do we think? Are we supposed to support your going porno? It could ruin your life!

  kookykiki@hotmail.com: Nothing surprises me anymore.

  vonhooter@gmail.com: BTW I was KIDDING. What do I know about porn? Just sounds scary. What does Roscoe say?

  victoriamendoza@mac.com: I don’t think she cares what Roscoe thinks. I think that’s the point. Kiki we need to get you a surprise or two.

  MissJelickaG@aol.com: BTW I’m NOT kidding, though I’d change my name to Mia Vanta Mann so if anyone’s life gets wrecked, it’s hers.

  cunningQuinn@Talentpool.com: If I were you, Jel, I’d just call one of those guys from the Geek Squad to help you with your computer . . .and other things. There’s gotta be some value added. Nerd Herders might be cuter though. I’ll check online to see if there’s a blog that’ll tell us for sure.

  victoriamendoza@mac.com: Go for it. Why not? Whatever. Life’s too short not to do porno. Especially if it pays well.

  cunningQuinn@Talentpool.com: Can I come to the set?

  LBSweet@aol.com: Does anyone know anyone who’s had that little “tightening” procedure? And I don’t mean on the face.

  MissJelickaG@aol.com: You mean vaginal rejuve? Don’t get your twat tightened, Lauren. I looked into it. You can’t have sex for like ten weeks and then it stretches out again in a year or two.

  MDCMediate.com: I kind of like the idea of porno for older people. You’d probably be good at it, Jel.

  MissJelickaG@aol.com: Thanks, M—I think. The woman’s kids and husband are cool with it and she’s really enjoying herself. The market’s growing and they’re looking for people. I’m not going to find a job with the geeks and nerds, that’s for sure.

  Sapizz11@connect.net: Just have an affair, Jel. It’s easier and less pressure. Think of the HiDef display of your bod, fine as it is, for all to see. Every hair, vein; every wrinkle (not that you have any).

  kookykiki@hotmail.com: Can’t believe you’re saying have an affair Sarah, after what's been going on with you and STDs and everything! But if you’re looking for a career, nurses are still in demand.

  vonhooter@gmail.com: Are you speaking from experience when you say it’s easier, Sarah? What part would that be?

  It had been my idea to do a sort of pseudo-reverse intervention on Sarah at a centrally located Starbucks one mid-week morning on my way to another role-play for the Olympic committee. I confronted her about the mess her life was in and how she needed to deal with it. She still hadn’t told Nate that he might not be the father of the baby, and soon she might lose some of her choices.

  “Nate was spotted with another woman,” I told her. "I saw him."

  She made a grimace then let out a resigned sigh. I was proud of her for taking it so calmly and not overreacting. I
f she had, she would have been a hypocrite. She went on to say something I didn’t expect—that after reading Disturbed (the whole book for a change), she actually felt more of a sense of belonging with other women and peace with her own choices; that, until then, she thought having sexual desires for many men at once wasn’t normal.

  “It’s not that it’s normal or not normal,” I said. “It’s that sometimes we need to keep our desires in check. Lucky girl wasn’t able to do that but maybe you need to try harder. You have kids—Nate Jr. and now this new little person.”

  “I know it’s irresponsible of me, Maddie, but I’ve come to accept that even though I love Nate, he’s never going to be everything for me—nor am I for him, apparently. That's too much pressure anyway. So instead of bemoaning the fact, I'll just have to fill my needs in other ways and if he does the same, so be it. We aren’t going to talk about it though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it would destroy the illusion.”

  The illusion of what? That everything was fine? That she and Nate are “happy”? Well, news flash: It’s pretty obvious they’re not happy, so keeping up the illusion isn’t working. Besides, in a marriage, if you’ve got to pretend to be happy, how happy can you possibly be? I’m all for sticking it out, weathering the tides and all that, but not at the expense of your health and sanity. Generally my modus operandi in life has been geared more toward breaking down illusions. That’s because a lot of people who build illusions can be dangerous. They often operate like members of religious extremist groups who concentrate so hard on what they see as the truth about God, upcoming Raptures, second comings, everlasting virgin fucking, future lives and things like that, that they’re totally missing what’s happening in front of them at that very moment—things like polar melt, the decline of democracy, corporate greed, poverty, even that their spouses doesn’t love them, circumstances that people might actually be able to do something about if they made an effort and didn’t shut themselves off in protective bubbles with the similarly fantasy-minded.