How The Cookie Crumbles

by Ting, Melanie

  “We’re taking a break.” Domer looked down, embarrassed. No wonder; he sounded like a chick when he said that.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, when I got injured, she was so into taking care of me. It started to feel kind of suffocating. And then when we watched the Dallas game, she wouldn’t stop talking. I got bugged, we ended up arguing, and she got mad.”

  This was sounding familiar. I nodded, “Yeah, it was like that with Frankie, sort of.”

  “Really? Because when I watched the St. Louis game with her, she was fun. And she knows when to shut up.”

  “No, I don’t mean that part, she’s always great to hang out with. More like the suffocating part, like whatever you do, chicks always want more.”

  We both shook our heads, and drank some beer. “We’re too young for this shit,” I concluded and Domer nodded.

  Bear was only the millionth person to come up to ask about Aspen, but he did it backwards.

  “I don’t get this,” he motioned to Frankie, who was talking to D.J. across the room. “Is she not living with you?”

  “Yeah,” I told him.

  “Then, what about her?” he motioned to Aspen who was busy talking to Clarkie and Duper, now that Lovey had left. Her hair was damp, so I guess she had been swimming.

  “She’s my, um, special friend.” Fuck, this was just getting worse. I should have never brought Aspen.

  Bear started laughing, “Your special friend? That’s what my grandmother used to call a woman’s period, she’d ask my sisters, ‘Are you having a visit from your special friend?’”

  “Shut up!” Now I officially was a total idiot.

  He stopped laughing and started eyeing Frankie again.

  “So then… Frankie, right?” he asked, and I nodded. “Wasn’t she your girlfriend before?”

  I shrugged, “She’s a friend. Just doing her a favour and letting her crash at our place for a few months while she works here.”

  “Is she dating anyone?” Bear asked, checking out Frankie’s body in her sundress. Yeah, good luck with that, buddy. Frankie seemed to have resisted the charms of everyone she had met in L.A. so far. She was pretty picky. Of course, most of the guys had figured we had something going on, but now that I walked in with Aspen, it was tough to pretend that anymore. I guess it was kind of unfair that I didn’t want her dating anyone else. Just then Frankie looked up and smiled at me. She was too far away to hear anything, but I still felt guilty.

  “Nope. Knock yourself out, dude.”

  “Really, you don’t mind?”

  “Naw. Good luck.” He’d need it, and I was pretty sure she’d shoot him down.

  57. Possibilities

  Once the boys left on their three-week road trip, my life changed completely. I didn’t have to cook much, I hardly had to grocery shop, and cleaning the house was a snap. But more importantly, Jake had been taking up a lot of psychic space in my brain, and now that he was gone, I felt happier and more energetic. Of course, I felt lonelier too, since not having anyone around made the house seem big and empty. I decided to have my museum friends over for a dinner party.

  “So,” Franco declared, “We finally get to see the famous beach house, but sadly we don’t get to see the hunky athletes you live with.” He looked around expectantly, as if Luke and Jake might pop out wearing only jockstraps.

  Leon was busy checking out the décor, which was not up to his aesthetic standards. Good thing he didn’t see it before I redecorated a bit. “You do get how ironic it is that you work at an art museum and there is no original art in your home?” Jake had rented the place fully furnished, and the factory-made abstractions came with it.

  “Stop insulting Frankie after she kindly invited us over!” Sofia declared. “I’m still living at home, so I envy you, darling.”

  Franco wasn’t finished with his athlete fantasies. “You know, Frankie, there has been some very interesting discussion around the fact that you live with two professional athletes. It’s definitely got an air of kink.”

  “How nice to know I have a reputation, when I’m living a life of perfect chastity,” I replied. “More appies?” I had made up a platter of grilled bruschetta with tomato and basil, olive tapenade, or truffled goat cheese.

  “How can that possibly be?” Franco wondered, “You’re so lush, Frankie! You’re like sex on a stick! With that thick hair, that hourglass figure, and those tight dresses, you mean you just sashay through here and those hockey jockeys treat you with utter respect? I call bull on that!”

  “They have girlfriends,” I explained, although I hadn’t seen Theresa around at all lately. “I’m like a sister to them.”

  “Does that mean you haven’t had a date since you moved to L.A.?” Sofia demanded. “Here I was imagining that you were out clubbing every night.”

  My life was sounding pitiful. “Well, I wouldn’t mind changing that if you know any nice guys.…” I didn’t even need to add good-looking, since Franco and Leon were complete aesthetes.

  Franco demanded a look at my roommates, so I dug out a framed team photo from the drawer it had been stuffed into.

  “Good Lord, they all look stunned! Instead of ‘smile’ the photographer must have said ‘zombie,’ especially that one,” Franco said, wincing. “So, which ones do you live with?”

  I pointed them out, and Franco grimaced. “Not exactly the pick of the litter. Why don’t you go out with this one… very hunky in a macho way.”

  I peered closer, “Oh Nicholas Love, he’s dating an actress already.”

  Franco sighed, “Of course, like jocks everywhere. How about this one? He’s cute.” He pointed out a big guy with a familiar shock of blonde hair.

  “Chris Bauer, um, perhaps.” Chris had asked me for my phone number at the party, but then he too left on the long road trip. I wasn’t sure if he would call or not, but Franco was right: he was a cutie.

  “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Leon commented, “Frankie spends too much time with sweaty jocks already. She needs to meet someone more sensitive and artistic.”

  “Wonderful idea,” Sofia said. “You should work with me at the Museum fundraising events, you’re bound to meet someone there.”

  “Someone who’s 80-years-old perhaps,” Leon scoffed, “She should come with us to more gallery openings and meet actual artists.”

  “Cool it, guys! I can do both,” I replied. “I’ve got oodles of time this month.”

  “Great!” Franco said. “Think of it this way, you’ll meet successful people who are interested in art! Match.com has nothing on that kind of screening.”

  They were right. I had been domesticated too long, it was time to get out and have some fun in L.A.

  Sofia got me volunteering at some of the LACMA events. Usually, the crowds were overwhelmingly female, but once in a while, an eligible man would appear – and be immediately pounced upon by all those females. But I still got to hear art talks, see documentaries, and get a feel for all the necessary fundraising and community building events. I even got a job offer as a gallerina at a downtown art gallery.

  The biggest event was a black tie affair that Sofia and I got to dress up for. I wore my dressiest number: a lilac-pink, strapless, satin gown with Grecian draping and a slit up to the thigh. I put my hair up and added long glittery earrings.

  “Frankie! You look amazing!” said Sofia, who was wearing an architectural, one-shouldered, black silk dress with an uneven hemline. Sofia generally wore the asymmetrical jackets and skirts favoured by so many artsy types. But she usually sexed it up by wearing a black jersey catsuit underneath and showing off her trim body. She was about my height with dark brown hair too, but had a slim build and golden-hued skin. “But why on earth would you pack a formal dress for Los Angeles?’

  “I am famous for over-packing. And I would love to wear formal dresses every week. Whenever I’m vintage shopping, I’m drawn to the fanciest dresses, and I have an incredible selection which I rarely
get to wear.”

  Sofia and I were sitting at the greeting table, handing out nametags and welcome packages to everyone, when a gorgeous man in a slim-cut tux appeared in front of us.

  “Good evening, I am Antonio Pereira,” he said with a slight smile.

  “Oh hello,” Sofia and I both spoke simultaneously and smiled up at him. He was dark and handsome and perfectly groomed in that way that South American men have. There was a long pause as we looked at him happily.

  Finally he spoke, “It is very pleasant to have such beautiful women smiling at me, but perhaps not so much for the people lining up behind me.”

  “Sorry!” I started looking for his nametag and gala package.

  Meanwhile Sofia was wasting no time, tilting her head and smiling invitingly, “Buenas tardes. I am Sofia Diaz, and I work in the museum’s Corporate Development area.” If she had a business card, I’m sure she would have magically produced it. “I certainly hope you have a wonderful evening, and you’ll feel free to ask me for anything you need.”

  “Thank you, Sofia,” Antonio smiled back at her.

  “Here’s your welcome package.” I had finally found it. I couldn’t match Sofia’s smooth intro, but I gave him a full voltage smile, and our fingers touched as I handed him the envelope.

  “Ah, thank you.” He looked at me fully. “But I did not hear your name yet?”

  “Frances Taylor.”

  He nodded and thanked us. We cleared out the line-up, which was only two couples, and then Sofia made a face at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’m never trolling for men with you. When you turn on the charm, it’s like flipping a switch, and blam, you get the guy. I hate you. Well I would if I didn’t like you already.” Sofia flipped her long hair and laughed.

  Once everyone had arrived, we had some other volunteer duties, which consisted mainly of circulating and making sure that everything was running smoothly. It was an event for the Museum’s Avant-Garde membership group of young professionals, so the crowd was younger and hipper than most events. At the end of the evening, we ran into Antonio Pereira again, and he left his group to speak with us.

  “I hope that you ladies did not have to work too strenuously.” Even the accented way that he spoke English was hot. “The evening has been a success for the museum, I think?”

  “Very much so.” Sofia’s business brain had already done some mental arithmetic and calculated the museum’s take on the evening.

  “Ah, very good. So, Frances and Sofia, my friends and I,” he motioned to the group of men and women behind him, “are going for drinks at the hotel bar now. Would you like to join us?”

  “Certainly,” Sofia said firmly, before I could say no. “We’ll just get our things and meet you there.”

  As we walked away, I demanded, “How can you agree to go for drinks with someone we don’t know?”

  She smiled at me, and counted off on her fingers. “A) It’s in this building and we have our own way home. B) He’s extremely attractive and so are some of his friends. C) I checked him out. The guy has donated over 200 grand to L.A. museums and charities in the last few years. He’s good and good-looking!”

  “I don’t know, that doesn’t say anything about what kind of person he really is.”

  “Oh relax, Frankie!” Even when Jake wasn’t around, I was hearing that.

  Going to gallery openings with Leon and Franco was a riot. They knew tons of people, and because they had more dash than cash, they made an evening of drinking and eating their way through the gallery districts. I couldn’t keep up with the drinking, but I had fun sampling the finger food.

  My only beef was that openings were all about seeing people and being seen, and nobody looked at the work. I loved looking at the paintings and seeing what was new and different. One show was a fundraiser for an artist-run gallery and featured an art auction. The art being sold was by young and edgy artists, and a lot of it was pretty challenging. I was amazed at the broad spectrum of patrons attracted to the auction. Collectors here were a lot more daring than those back in Vancouver.

  The room was big enough for me to check out the art. Some of it seemed to be more for shock value, and a painting of a giant pair of breasts spouting streams of cola reminded me of Jake and Aspen’s relationship. I was attracted to the neon-y colours and layered forms of a large painting across the room, but when I got closer, it was disappointing. One thing that bothered me was when there was a big trend in painting, like decaying urban landscapes or diamond shapes, everyone just copied each other.

  “So, what do you think of the painting?” The voice beside me had a faintly Anglo accent.

  I turned and looked. He was half surfer dude and half hobo, with messy sun-bleached hair, dark tanned skin, an authentically distressed t-shirt, and cargo shorts. At the LACMA, I had learned not to judge people on the basis of appearances, since some millionaires prided themselves on their California casual images. So I smiled automatically and tried to think of a diplomatic response. Maybe he was thinking of buying the painting, and besides he was cute in a sunburnt way.

  “I think it’s very interesting, visually demanding, and yet showing a political narrative.” That was vague enough to keep any art patron happy.

  “Really?” He gave me a scornful look, and spoke in a mocking tone. “And what does that mean? Or are you just parroting something you heard earlier?”

  How rude. But I merely shrugged.

  He kept going. “It’s a shame I never get to hear what people really think.”

  “Why? Are you the artist or something?” I wondered.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  Oh goody, I didn’t have to be nice to him anymore. He wasn’t a donor; he was an artist. Artists were dime a dozen and dying to get into these shows.

  “Then I think it’s a shitty rip-off of Ryan McGinness and Daniel Richter.” It was. I walked away.

  Clearly I wasn’t a very good judge of artwork, since the rip-off painting later sold for $11,000 at the live auction. I asked Franco about the artist, and he was the encyclopaedia of knowledge as usual.

  “Oh, Cameron Smith. From Scotland with love. He’s pretty hot right now. Rumours of a bidding war to rep him in New York City and some big installation at Basel Miami. Apparently a bad boy, but good-looking and very charming, which the matrons of the arts love. I’ve not had the pleasure yet.”

  “I met him tonight, and he seemed rude,” I told him.

  “Rudeness can be charming to people who are used being sucked up to,” Franco replied philosophically.

  “Nobody sucks up to me,” I sighed. I was bottom of the pecking order at work and everywhere else, and I had to do all the sucking up.

  So I was very surprised to get a phone call at work a few days later.

  “Hullo Frankie, it’s Cameron Smith. I’m the artist you eviscerated last week.”

  “Oh hi.” I had been super rude, so was I going to get into trouble now? It wasn’t like he could get me fired, but he could give me a rep as a difficult person. “How did you get this number?”

  “I have connections. I’m not as friendless as you seem to assume. I couldn’t get your mobile number though.”

  I still wasn’t going to apologize. “Well, you started it.” I sounded like my brother Glen after pounding Allan into whining submission.

  “Yeah right, sorry about that. Something about beautiful women spouting nonsense about art puts me right off.”

  A compliment wasn’t going to make me soften. “So, what’s the purpose of this call?”

  “Ah Frankie, I sense you’re a cruel woman. I was wondering if you’d like to bring your brutal honesty to my studio and critique more of my work?”

  “Did your dominatrix leave town suddenly and you need a new source of pain?” I speculated.

  “No really, I’m tired of the bullshit, and I’d honestly like to hear what you think. It’s not some trick to get you into my clutches and exact some twisted revenge. Y
ou can even bring a friend if you don’t trust me.”

  I told him I’d think about it and call him back. Life was definitely getting more interesting these days. I could show Jake he wasn’t the only one who had moved on.

  58. Date Night

  “So? Did Antonio call you yet? He was so suave that night we went to the bar.” Sofia was sitting on a desk swinging her polished red Jimmy Choo pumps while I filed a backlog of correspondence. Didn’t these people know how to use email?

  “That reminds me,” I said, eying her shoes, “You’ve never taken me to that bargain shoe place you were telling me about.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Did he call?”

  “Yes! We’re going out dancing at a nightclub on Friday. Dancing! Can you believe it, a guy who wants to dance?” I smiled happily, then remembered that Jake liked to dance too and frowned.

  “Oh, swoon. So, what are you wearing?”

  “A black chiffon halter dress with full skirt and a jewelled cinch belt. Opera-length black satin gloves, a diamond cuff, and diamond and pearl drop earrings, all fake of course, but good fake. And my hair up.” I had planned everything during a long, boring meeting on travelling exhibitions.

  “Ooooo, very Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Sofia said, as she imagined it.

  “Yes, except with hips.” Nobody was mistaking me for the long and elegant Audrey Hepburn anytime soon.

  I met Antonio after work. He was wearing a beautiful suit, in a deep blue linen, with a white shirt. He also wore an expensive cologne that smelled amazing, unlike Jake’s cheap body wash. I breathed in happily as I buckled myself into his sports car. He drove smoothly through the city, taking us to a strangely retro Latin restaurant and nightclub.

  “It is perhaps not so trendy, but somehow I picture you here, Frances,” he told me smiling.

  The nightclub looked like something out of 1950’s Cuba. There was a dance orchestra and red leather booths around the dance floor. I had a Mojito, but Antonio ordered only a mineral water.

  “You’re not drinking?” I wondered.