More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) (30 page)

“He
did
follow her, didn’t he?” Jamie shot back before I could respond to the first question. “What did he find out?”

“He knew pretty early on that she didn’t send the pictures.” Hopefully, that would be enough to satisfy her curiosity.

“You’re not telling me something, I can see it. What else?”

Ugh
. Is it right to tell your boss what she doesn’t really want to know, even though she’s begging for it?
It’s a no win; lose big or go home.

“Titania has a boyfriend,” I said.

She stared at me.

“You wanted to know what he found out, and that’s what he found out. Titania has a boyfriend.”

She continued to stare.

“Frank—the investigator—got the guy’s name but… ”

“This is
such
a violation… ”

This was the Jamie I knew, her rage boiling up.

“I know; not ethical at all,” I said. “Pretending to be lesbian.”

“The audacity.”

“Incredible.”

“The nerve.”

“A...
dick
? It’s disgusting.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Get out!” Enraged, her face the shade of Chanel’s Pink Posey, she began moving toward me.
Shit
.

“I’m sorry you found out, Jamie,” I said, backing away. “You wanted to know and you’re my boss. What was I supposed to…? ”

“Get out now!”

Was I fired?
I ventured a tentative, “Permanently?”

She stopped, processing what I just asked.

“What? No, just get out of my office. And don’t say anything about this to anybody.” Her hand reached for the doorknob and stopped, adjusting her manner. “Thank you, Quinn.” Then she flung the door open, and I scooted through the opening, mumbling lame apologies for upsetting her. There was a small gust of wind behind me as the force of the closing door was accompanied by a
thwunk
that probably was heard in Chinatown.

There, staring at me, were the faces of my concerned colleagues, all of whom also answered to the temporarily (we hoped) unhinged Jamie Harris—to wit, Carolyn, Rafe, soon-to-be ex-assistant Titania, and Sameer, who remained seated, gazing at me with worried eyes, head waggling.

“She just needs a minute,” I said. “A deal went bad, and she needs to figure out how she’s going to handle it.”

As I said this, I made the effort not to look directly at Titania while, at the same time, trying not to completely avoid her. Instead, I allowed my eyes to meet each of those listening—
yes, acknowledge them and move on
—exactly like I’d learned at Toastmasters during college.

“Shit, not the Beyonce PSA against body mutilation,” said Carolyn with concern.

“No, I think that’s still a ‘Go.’ ”

“Not the Alex Rodriguez/Brian Williams ‘Tell the Truth’ project,” said Sameer.

“No.”

“Then what is it?” asked Titania.

Now I
had
to look at her.
Did she know?
Maybe she could see it in my face. Warning her was an option—one I considered for about two seconds. It was two seconds too long.

The door to Jamie’s office opened and there she stood, restored to full power with a smile on her face. Her skin was no longer that deep shade of emotional-looking pink, but was back to its usual Bobbi Brown Perfect Neutral and her hair had been brushed into place. Clearly, she was making an effort to seem her normal self.

Back when Jamie had first confronted me with the pictures, I was so angry with Titania, I’d imagined something like this happening. Dreams of schadenfreude had me hoping Jamie’s takedown of the Moldovan would go according to this script but, now that it was happening, it didn’t feel sweet at all. I just felt bad for the girl. I was also a little thrown because I thought Jamie at least possessed the wherewithal to keep it together until the end of the day, at which point she could ream the little Twitiot in private.

“Hello, everyone,” she said, surveying the floor. “You’re all hard at work, I see.”

It was obvious none of us was working—let alone with any diligence. But each of us got the message and turned our faces to what was on our desks. Our mental focus, however, was still fixed on what we suspected was about to become a raging storm.

“Good.” There was a long pause while she surveyed us all. “Titania, could you come in here, please?”

I felt Titania’s stare, daggers for eyes, as she crossed to Jamie’s office. I did feel guilty, but Jamie would have found out about her eventually, I reasoned. In fact, if Jamie’s demeanor was any indication, she’d already known something was amiss when I arrived that morning, possibly even suspected that Titania had a boyfriend.

Had I promised Titania I wouldn’t tell? No. Did I owe her some allegiance? Not really. If I owed anybody, it was Jamie, whom I had known far longer. And she was my boss. It was a pretty clear-cut situation, far easier than trying to decide whether you should tell your best friend that her husband is screwing around. But did I feel good about getting Titania fired? Not a bit.

As Titania went into Jamie’s office and closed the door behind her, I caught Sameer’s eye and shrugged, hoping to convey that I had no idea what was about to happen in there. Besides, no one else at the company needed to know.

Life is tough then you die, whether you’re born dirt poor in Islamabad or you’re a member of the Hilton family. If you can put yourself in another person’s situation in a real, empathic way, you’ll see there’s always some headache for him or her, just like there is for you. Even the rich celebrities I work with go through tough times. They’re first-world problems, but that’s only because the first world is the world celebrities find themselves in. Let’s say they’re no longer hot, they’re broke, and they get asked to do a Danny Bonaduce movie for $200,000. They never imagined when they co-starred with Brad Pitt or Sandra Bullock and commanded a million dollars a movie that they’d ever be groveling for a “C” horror picture to be shot in Kabukistan. But they have to take it to pay the bills. Don’t you think Don Rickles would rather be asked to do a TV show than to have to make the rounds of the low rent comedy circuit at age 87? On second thought, maybe he’s just happy he’s not in a retirement home.

The point is, I don’t know why Titania should have it any easier than anyone else. I didn’t know much about her past, but I’m sure there were struggles back in Moldova and probably a lot more struggles since coming to the U.S. It’s all relative; no matter what condition we’re born into, the human condition of wanting more than what we have is hard wired. For me, life is a struggle punctuated by occasional bursts of joy—everything, good and bad, shared with the women of The Muffia. I hoped, for her sake, that Titania also had some good friends who could help her through.

The Alzheimer’s benefit was a week away, and by this point, Lauren had enlisted all of the Muffs to help her. She’d put Maddie on the board, not only for her ability to keep the meetings moving, but so as to expand fundraising efforts into the legal community; Vicki was in charge of lining up the video crew to shoot the event, along with doing some tasteful social networking; Jelicka was the perfect pick to acquire items for the gift bags that would be handed out to guests; I was supposed to be lining up celebrities as both guests and auction items; Kiki was the logical choice to set up a first aid plan and to book the emergency personnel; Sarah, the ex-possibly-soon-to-be-rehired Williams-Sonoma employee, and arguably the Muffia’s most accomplished chef, had been working with participating restaurants to develop the ideal menu; Paige was making calls, and Rachel was in charge of the art. All in all, the Muffia might as well have been credited first on the Volunteer Committee.

Since the mystery of who’d sent the pictures had been solved and the threatened Internet exposure quashed, I’d been able to keep my job, which had made it far easier to contact all those celebrities. Titania’s ouster had so far not provoked the feared backlash from the Moldovan expat community and, though I remained vigilant when out late at night, I was pretty sure the threat was gone for good as well.

Kiki’s porn-producing neighbors had been shut down, the Muffs were enjoying my book club choice, and all seemed right with the world, even if there was still no man in my life. I was
so
okay with it, I even cancelled my membership on
NowLove
, determining that life is too short to go on bad dates, and I really wasn’t the gambling type. At least if you meet a guy in the course of living your life and decide to go out with him, you have some information ahead of time—

what he looks like, how he talks, and how he presents himself. You can read his body language, too, so the whole enterprise isn’t as big a risk.

I also decided I loved volunteering. I loved fundraising. The feeling of being able to contribute to something important was stupendous, and it was amazing how different and energized I felt worrying about something other than what I was going to wear—not that I’d given that up entirely. I really got it this time, on a visceral level: it can’t be all about you. Yeah, we hear it every day, but there’s a reason
why
we hear it—we need to be reminded. At least I do, or did. As I said, this time I got it.

Frank had vanished for good, it seemed, which made me sad because I felt like there had been something kindled between us at the end. I considered asking Lauren to find out if there was, in fact, a work protocol that might keep him from contacting me, but she had enough to worry about with the benefit.

Though it hardly compares, I now empathized even more with Maddie’s feelings about Udi. To wit; it was easier for a woman to put a man (or try to put a man) out of her mind than to imagine him not having her in his. So, apropos Frank, I tried not to think about him, but he still popped into my head. I’d gaze out a window—between attempts to lock-in a contract renewal for Naomi Watts’ Clairol campaign or a booking for Will Ferrell to hawk Windex in Malaysia—and visualize Frank turning to face me as he pulled off his mirrored shades and say, “Ms. Cunningham, would you come this way…?”

It was okay, though. The mind wanders, and K-Love says to let it. Though the mind may wander, thankfully, it does return.

Flowers spilled out of Grecian urns, tiny lights crisscrossed the patio and doves cooed in several large, white, antique birdcages strategically placed around the opulently accented home. Elegant women served imaginative-looking hors d’oeuvres, while spring-themed cocktails, along with any other alcoholic beverage one desired, were available from well-tended bars positioned around the palatial site of the benefit.

Lauren had outdone herself. It wasn’t all Lauren, of course. She had lots of help from the Muffia—all of whom she’d comped—and her sister, Kristin, had flown in from Chicago a week earlier to help with the final arrangements. Kristin was a publicist and known to the Muffs only by reputation. Among other coups, she had been the party planner for Chelsea Handler’s vodka launch—an event each Muff remembered for all the free bottles of vodka we got post launch. The two sisters had overseen the transformation of the swanky home of the head of E! Entertainment (and Kristin’s new squeeze) into a
luxe
fantasy location, and from all outward appearances, it was going to be a party no one would want to miss.

Kristin met E!’s CEO, Keith, at the vodka launch, and the two had hit it off immediately—funnily enough over Alzheimer’s disease. Turns out Keith’s father also had the “Big A” before he passed. Anyone who’s witnessed the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease first hand has a dreaded fear of getting it himself. So the fact that they’d both experienced this devastation created an immediate bond between them

Like Vicki says, “ ‘In the end, it’s either the big “C” Cancer, “A” Alzheimer’s, “S” Stroke, or “H” Heart Disease that’ll get you. And that’s exactly what it’s going to cost to keep you going—CASH.’ ”

“Rachel, you look so nice, but what’s with the red cloth bracelet?” Sarah said, joining Rachel and me standing in line for one of those themed drinks. “It doesn’t go with your outfit.”

“I’m trying a new outlook,” said Rachel. “It’s from Ruth.”

“Ruth who?”

“Bible Ruth,” I said, speaking figuratively. “It’s a new religion she’s trying.”

Sarah looked puzzled.

“It’s not new,” Rachel said.

“New to you,” I said. “Sorry, I should have been more precise.”

“How did
you
get it?” Sarah asked.

Rachel smiled. “It’s not actually the one she wore.”

“Duh,” said Sarah, realizing. “I’m so gullible. I didn’t even know you were religious.”

“I’m more spiritual,” Rachel said. “A searcher.”

“Does that explain why you became a lesbian or why the guys you date end up in paintings with their faces removed?”

Thankfully, Lauren appeared. She walked up and threw her arms around me. “Quinn, thank you. What a gorgeous dress!”

“It’s a Cate Blanchett cast-off from the Golden Globes.” One of the amazing perks of my job is having access to the designers who want stars to wear their gowns. This particular dress was a couple of years old but had never been worn by Ms. Moore. It was a shimmery, navy blue taffeta, strapless and fitted through the bodice to a skirt that went out from the waist; very simple, but so elegant and chic.

“Everyone just
loves
Viggo,” Lauren was saying. “I completely understand why you have a crush on him. And not only did he agree to be auctioned off for the cause, but he donated one of his paintings! I had no idea he was so talented. When I talked to you that day and you said he’d probably prefer to paint a kitchen, I wasn’t expecting oil on canvas.”

“Oh, he’s really good,” said Jelicka, joining the group, a cocktail with some sort of plumage firmly in her grip.

“I think he’s a tad overrated.” Rachel wasn’t as enthused.

“It turns out Viggo’s grandmother had dementia, so he really wanted to be involved,” I explained. “He’s even interested in being on the board for the next one.”

“What do you mean, ‘auctioned off’?” said Sarah.

“Sold to the highest bidder,” Lauren replied.