Sleeping With Dogs and Other Lovers

by Julia Dumont

  Chapter 28

  Then Cynthia noticed a cartoon dog sitting all alone. The dog had a huge head with a big, creepy smile and she realized that it had been watching them for a long time. This dog seemed familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. It wasn’t Scooby Do and it definitely wasn’t one of the Disney dogs. She stared and stared and then it hit her. It wasn’t the dog that was familiar——it was the shoes. This dog of unknown cartoon vintage was wearing Cynthia’s mother’s shoes. What are the freaking odds?

  Cynthia couldn’t believe it. Why? Why was she doing this to her? And why the hell did she tell her mother she was coming here? Why did she ever tell her anything? She knew why she came. She was there for one reason only: to spy on her.

  She was furious. But Paul was so nice and so gracious when it came to her mother that she didn’t want to look like a shrill, ungrateful child in front of him. In fact, she was pretty sure that if he knew her mother was inside that stupid dog, he would invite her over. That’s just how nice he was.

  She had to get rid of her without Paul even knowing she was there. When he looked away momentarily, Cynthia tried pantomiming messages (Get lost! Go! Leave! Am-scray oggy-day!), but the damn cartoon dog just sat there motionless with that same creepy smile. She knew her mother could see her and understood perfectly well what she was trying to get across, but she just kept sitting there, pretending not to understand. It reminded Cynthia of their relationship in general. Her mother had made an art of pretending not to understand what Cynthia wanted——playing ignorant——so that she could push her own agenda, unencumbered by Cynthia’s actual wants and needs.

  While this was going on, Cynthia continued to get texts and calls. She had instructed everyone to use the same number tonight. She obviously couldn’t carry a pile of phones around in a Betty or Jane outfit. Not a lot of pocket space in prehistoric times or the jungle.

  She had to get to her mother. She would excuse herself to go to the restroom, and on the way over stop and say a few choice words to rid the beach of the creepy canine.

  “Paul, I mean Tarzan,” she said. “Me need go to ladies’ room. Me be right back.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep an eye on Marilyn and the octopus. I may be crazy, but I’m thinking Thomas Jefferson over there might be moving in on them, looking for life, liberty, and the pursuit of something, possibly a three-way.”

  Cynthia left in pursuit of creepy dog. “Mom!” she shrieked as she approached. But her mother got up and scurried away into the crowd. “Stop!” she cried to no avail. She darted between a couple of gigantic dancing sea turtles, zig-zagging through the throngs. Unfortunately, she didn’t get far before she bumped into someone she knew.

  Chapter 29

  “Jane!” said a woman dressed incredibly provocatively——in the manner of the classical court of 18th century Vienna. Think Madame Mozart from Amadeus——wig, mole, deep, deep cleavage—except a more beach-friendly version. She was wearing a white, ruffly, translucent, gauzelike skirt on the bottom, through which one could see nearly everything. A tiny thong supposedly covered her lady bits, but for all intents and purposes, it could have just been the slightest sliver of a shadow.

  She was with a distinguished-looking guy. Mid-forties, handsome, bearded, sunglasses, white dress shirt with three buttons open——revealing just enough tan. His brown-gray hair was tousled in the way that only rich hair is——as if by the rarified breezes of Monaco or Cannes. It was pretty dark but he looked so familiar, like maybe a European novelist or actor. Then it came to her.

  “Lolita.”

  “What?”

  “You know.”

  “What?”

  “This guy is the spitting image of a 40-year-old Maximilian Schell. He looks like his character in that Matthew Broderick movie…what’s it called?”

  “The Freshman?” said Lolita with a wry smile.

  “Exactly,” said Cynthia.

  “Gee, I hadn’t noticed. But I can’t believe we’re both here!” she squealed, pogo-ing excitedly, her boobs nearly bouncing out of her bodice. “Cynthia, this is Maximilian! And vice versa!”

  They walked with Cynthia to her table and Lolita suggested they make it a foursome. Everybody had already eaten dinner, but dessert was on the way. Cynthia declined, saying she and Paul would rather dine alone, but the doctor was incredibly polite and insisted.

  Lolita slid onto the bench next to Paul.

  “Me Tarzan,” he grunted cheerfully.

  “Me drunk!” cheered Lolita.

  Cynthia rolled her eyes and turned to Maximilian. His face was mostly in shadow, but she could tell that he really was a dashing guy.

  “So, Maximilian,” she said, “how’s your night going so far?”

  “Well, Sin,” he said, “a lot better now.”

  Chapter 30

  Cynthia could not believe her ears. She leaned in closer and, sure enough, this was her Max in disguise as well as in costume.

  “Good god!” she hissed in what was technically a whisper, but way too loud. “What about Not in my face!?” Lolita and Paul both noticed.

  “Is she bothering you, Maximilian?” asked Lolita, “Because she can certainly be a pain in the ass sometimes.”

  “Better than being the ass itself all of the time,” whispered Cynthia.

  She was trying to put the pieces together. Max was obviously there to mess with her. But was Lolita in on it? Did she know he was her Max? Who contacted who?

  “You know,” said Lolita, pouring another glass of red wine to the brim and then spilling at least half of it down her front, “I think I wanna sit next to my mate. I mean date.”

  “I think we should all stay where we are,” said Cynthia.

  But the men had already jumped up and switched places. Now Cynthia was across from Max, who was next to Lolita. He was helping her mop up with a napkin. Such a helpful guy.

  Cynthia’s phone buzzed. It was Ishmael again. His date with Sadie-Sam had been going for a couple of days. He had left her-him in a room at the Mondrian to take a business call, wandered around making deals for twenty minutes, and then completely forgot what floor the room was on. He didn’t have the key and, par for the course, was not wearing pants. Cynthia called the front desk and some poor bellhop was dispatched to sort him out.

  Cynthia felt better temporarily that she had come to the aid of a client in need, but when she returned to the conversation, someone new had joined the foursome, making it the most awkward of five-somes. That’s right, Paul was now sitting at the right hand of the creepy cartoon dog. Cynthia glared at the dog, but it continued to pretend it didn’t know who Cynthia was. Luckily, the dog didn’t recognize Max. She had only met him once for a few minutes a few years earlier. For Margie, Max resided in the realm of bad-boyfriend myth more than the real world. Plus, Margie’s eyesight wasn’t what it once was and Cynthia could tell that she could barely see anything through that mask and in the dark anyway.

  Max, jealous of the doctor and possessive of Cynthia, started playing footsie with her under the table. She couldn’t call him out on this because she didn’t want to screw up her date with Paul and had also sworn up and down to her mother that she was no longer seeing Max. Plus she was enjoying it.

  But damn him! Just when I was thrilled about going out with someone else, he shows up again. I like Paul!

  Paul sensed that things were getting a bit strange. He was suspicious about the Maximilian Schell dude wearing sunglasses at night. And what was with this sinister-seeming dog who kept asking personal questions in an incredibly strange cartoon voice——everything from his boxers versus briefs vote, to his intentions regarding his date, to his holiday office hours, to various gynecological conundrums. He asked Cynthia to dance, partly because he wanted to and partly to flee the madness that seemed to be building at the table. She said yes, partly for the same two reasons, but mostly to get away from Max and to figure out how to save her date with Paul before it turned into a total disaster.

 
Max started flirting heavily with Lolita in retaliation. He played a game in which he tossed grapes, pretending to aim for her mouth, but really trying to lodge them in her cleavage. When he’d scored a few, he retrieved them with his tongue, smacked them loudly, and started over. Lolita giggled wildly. Max noticed her tattoo.

  “What an adorable little question-mark heart you have on one of your exquisite boobcycles, Madame,” he said, moving in for closer inspection. “Whatever your questions d’amour may be, I’d be more than happy to try to answer them. You know, I have a heart-shaped birthmark. It’s in a private spot, though … so, you know, you’d have to search for it.”

  “Oh, Maximilian,” Lolita shrieked, “I bet you do have all the answers.” She held his head down, as if trying to drown him in a mammary sea. The laces on her bodice were untied. Her clothing seemed to be coming off piece by piece.

  Cynthia was watching like a hawk from the dance floor … straining to hear the Max-Lolita repartee. She did catch the reference to the birthmark and was becoming more and more incensed. How did this even come about? Max couldn’t have known she’d be at this party. It had to be Lolita——she’d let it slip to her. But how did they even meet? At that moment, it was a moot point: she hated them both. She dragged the perplexed doctor back to their seats. She was torn because she actually did like Paul, but she was intensely crazy about Max, and disgusted with herself because of it. The more he flirted with Lolita, the more Cynthia flirted with Paul, who, at this point was more than a little perplexed. He seemed a bit irritated by the sexfarce atmosphere that was enveloping the evening.

  Chapter 31

  Night fell. Full moon. Bonfires, torches, wildness. Halloween meets Lord of the Flies. The promoter of the event, an angular kid in a Bowie t-shirt who seemed to be barely twelve years old, introduced the headliner.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Dead divas and zombie presidents! Great costumes, by the way!” He was interrupted by applause. “And you,” he continued, pointing to a couple dressed up as dead-enders in long beards and tattered robes, carrying signs urging all to repent because the end was near, “if what you say is true, that we only have a couple of weeks left, we had better get this most excellent party started. So, without further ado, I am happy to introduce——I mean happy, I really love this girl——Adriana Vivani!”

  Oh my god, thought Cynthia, it’s the singer who sang that song I liked. And that was playing in the background on Max’s message. What a coincidence.

  Vivani leaped from the crowd behind them, flashing a dazzling smile, and moved toward the stage in the sexiest outfit of the night: blue jean cut-offs, high up her thighs; a tight-white top made of the sheerest surgical gauze, crisscrossed around her, mummy-like, leaving her belly and other triangles of porcelain skin exposed; and combat boots. She was incandescent … the aura of a true star. A lithe and ravishing blonde, her features seemed under the influence of multiple ethnicities, giving her an international flavor … Norah Jones here, Beyoncé there, Scarlett Johansson everywhere. It was all working for her. Cynthia watched, envying her youth, her beauty, and her fame. But she was also so happy for her, for anyone blessed with such grace and presence at such a young age. Vivani was probably twenty-one and had written that amazing song. It was so wise, so poignant, and so funny. Where did that come from? Where did she come from? Three weeks ago Cynthia had never heard of her and now she was everywhere, somehow landing on the playlists of everyone she knew.

  Adriana Vivani seemed to be moving in slow motion as she passed their table, waving to fans, blowing kisses, her hair blowing just right in the cool Malibu breeze. Suddenly, she stopped. She looked around as if she’d forgotten something. And she had. She turned and took a few steps back. She bent down and put her hand on the shoulder of a guy dressed up as Maximilian Schell——Cynthia’s Max. With her other hand she held his and she moved in even closer to whisper something, her full lips actually brushing against his ear. He reached over and touched the back of her head in an incredibly intimate way, and whispered something back. She giggled slightly and even in the flickering bonfire light, Cynthia could see that Vivani blushed. She kissed Max, not on the cheek, but in the crook of his neck, and then his lips, and then held his hands in hers for a moment before continuing toward the stage.

  All at once, Cynthia knew that it wasn’t a recording of Vivani on that accidental voicemail, she had actually been there with Madeline and Max, in the flesh. Cynthia was starting to wonder if Max had slept with every single woman on the beach. What would the percentage of Max conquests be in any random gathering in Los Angeles? In Europe? In space?

  Vivani took the stage, announcing that she would start her set with a brand-new song she had just written while staying down the road at Shutters in Santa Monica.

  “It started with Proust, but it’s dedicated to someone I truly care about … wait, where is she? I see her: My Madeline. She pointed into the crowd and Cynthia saw her old intern——the one she hadn’t even remembered, who she had accidentally spooned with, who had turned into a beautiful young woman who was in love with another beautiful young woman. And they both had been with Max.

  The stage went dark and everything got quiet. Then a pin spot——not too bright, just a warm glow——illuminated Adriana’s perfect face. She held the phallic microphone to her lips and, for a moment, all you could hear was the surf and the sound of her breathing. She noticed it and in a brilliant stroke of improvisation, she began breathing deeply and slowly, in and out, in rhythm with the waves. The audience joined her in this wordless expression of unity between singer and sea. It felt primal and sexy and smart, and the audience would have happily hung with it for twenty minutes if she’d wanted them to. But she started to sing. A Cappella. And the audience fell silent again.

  I thought I knew what love could be,

  Each time it pulled its shit on me,

  But when the arrow strikes the heart,

  It all comes easily.

  Oh, tell me where have you been?

  My, my Madeline.

  You’re deep down under my skin,

  My, my Madeline.

  Cynthia’s anger subsided a bit. What a heartfelt love song … a sweet ode to a cookie and a girl. But then the band kicked in with a driving, Ramones-like wall of noise. Apparently this was the tougher side of Adriana.

  One, two, three, four!

  Others think they can make my girl,

  They think-think-think that they can rule her world,

  Their freaking fantasies are full of holes and cracks,

  Except the dick who rocks us to the max…

  Oh, yeah.

  Except the dick who rocks us to the max.

  What? Excuse me? Rewind. What did she say? Cynthia thought for a second she was hearing things. But then Adriana repeated the line.

  Except the dick who rocks us to the max…

  Oh, yeah.

  Except the dick who rocks us to the max.

  Cynthia was trembling.

  Oh, tell me where have you been?

  My, my Madeline.

  You’re deep down under my skin,

  My, my Madeline.

  Chapter 32

  First Lolita and now this? Her blood was boiling. She shot a glance at the dick in question, who had a look of surprise, guilt, and pride on his face. He was like a kid caught with his hand deep inside a cookie jar, but who nonetheless remained pleased with himself … pleased to be pilfering as many cookies as possible.

  As everyone got up to dance, Cynthia stormed Max. She yanked him from his seat by the arm, literally vaulting him off the ground. She held up her fists, ready to clock him. There were drunken revelers in costume dancing euphorically all around them. The situation struck Max as kind of funny.

  “Sin, look. While everyone else is experiencing beach-blanket bliss, we are circling each other like boxers in a ring. Except without the punching.”

  Cynthia punched him hard in the chest.

  “Correction,” he said with a la
ugh. “Exactly like boxers in a ring.” The laugh probably didn’t help his cause.

  “You fucking son of a bitch,” she screamed, swinging at him again, this time clipping him in the mouth.

  “Sin, we had an understanding: the in-your-face rule! I didn’t mean for any of this to be in your face. It was an accident. It’s not what you think.”

  “It’s worse than I think!”

  Cynthia got another call. Straight to voicemail.

  “Listen,” he said, “you and I weren’t together. My wife had left me. I was a little confused. I met that singer at a seminar! I haven’t seen her since! We’re just friends anyway!”

  “Yeah, right, a dick friend who rocks her to the max!”

  “No! She means max, as in maximum! You’re getting a little paranoid, Sin.”

  “Paranoid? I heard the three of you on the recording, you idiot!”

  “What? No, that’s impossible. I mean I was there, but you’re all mixed up, Sin! My god you look beautiful in the moonlight.” Max was still making moves on her. He was like a charm monster that would not die. He. Just. Kept. Coming. “But listen, I mean it,” he said.

  “Do you know why my wife kicked me out?”

  “Let me think … because you’re an unbelievable asshole?” She feigned a punch——merely causing him to duck and weave——but she kept her fists up, still considering taking another shot.

  “But wait!” he yelped, holding his hands out, keeping her at bay. “You said yourself you weren’t looking for monogamy! I know, I can be an asshole sometimes, but do you know why? Why I couldn’t make the marriage work? Because I wanted you!”