More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) (6 page)

After an exchange at the water cooler, I hobbled to my desk, realizing the only person in our immediate area who had not returned from lunch was the newest member of our immediate team—Titania Cibulkova, a Moldovan immigrant by way of the Ivy league, who had become Jamie’s exclusive executive assistant—the very same assistant some of us suspected of having sex with our boss. And, as it happened, in a twist that I would soon come to find out was related, Jamie also had not returned from lunch.

Carolyn must have spotted my quizzical expression as I glanced from Titania’s desk to Jamie’s office—no cubiffice for Jamie— because she suddenly said quietly, “Things really heated up while you were gone.”

I felt my eyebrows rise.
Very interesting
... “Do tell.”

Carolyn took a sip of her Kombucha, got up, and strolled over.

Titania had arrived at Talent Partners four months earlier and worked a few different desks in the theatrical and literary divisions of the agency before landing with Jamie Harris. Titania was pretty and smart, and she dressed like a high-class secretary, but she did not strike me as gay. Not that I’d ever been particularly skilled at pegging a woman as lesbian unless her wardrobe was that of a bull dyke.

Both Carolyn and I noticed the furtive glances exchanged between Titania and Jamie prior to my leaving for Japan and surmised the two were beginning an office romance. Now, clearly, there had been developments.

Carolyn stood poised within whispering distance with her open bottle of Kombucha. “You like that stuff?” It smelled awful.

“It’s so good for you,” she said. “All the probiotics.”

“MMMmm.” I’d heard the latest spiel about how we need to put more bacteria into our guts because our food is, in fact, too clean. We must eat dirt is what they were saying. Dirt tasted better to me than Kombucha.

“Anyway,” she said sotto voce, her eyes on the entrance. “This is the third day this week the two of them have taken an extended lunch.”

“Are you sure they’re together?” It seemed like the logical question.

“I haven’t followed them, but watch what happens—Jamie will come back and half an hour later, Titania will show up.” Carolyn glanced up toward the entrance and immediately pivoted back to her desk. “Here we go.”

At that moment, Jamie strode across the floor, her burgundy leather Longchamp shoulder bag swinging alongside her. Peering beyond Jamie, I did not see the lovely Titania. I looked over at Carolyn who shrugged and mouthed the word “watch” before turning back to her computer screen.

Jamie Harris, if not the beauty so many of the agency’s clients were, knew how to maximize what she had. Average in every way, she was always well-coiffed and impeccably dressed—usually in expensive earth-tone suits by Jil Sander or Armani—always carrying a bag that enhanced what she was wearing. The Longchamp was my favorite.

She stopped at my desk. “Good trip?”

“Great trip,” I said, keeping it short. Jamie was not someone who enjoyed hearing an elaborate breakdown of events.

“What’s with the purple Croc?” she asked, clearly perplexed, having grown accustomed to seeing me in heels.

“Rolled my ankle running for the plane.”

She grunted unsympathetically. “Sorry to hear that. All the documents ready?”

“End of the day,” I said.

She looked like she might protest— that this was far too long—but she just smiled. “Good. When they’re ready, just give everything to Titania.” And with that, she turned toward her office door.

“Where
is
Titania?” I called after her.

“She’ll be here,” said Jamie over her shoulder.

A couple of hours later, my work still unfinished, Titania had not only returned, she was now inside Jamie’s office with the door closed. Thinking about what might be going on in there, I felt distracted and picked up my mobile without checking caller I.D.

“Hey babe, am I seeing you this evening?”

Steven.
If truth be told, picking up had less to do with not checking caller I.D. than sensing who it might be and picking up anyway—in other words, I picked up at one of those moments of weakness I’d been suffering.

“I’ve been thinking about our favorite piece of furniture,” he teased, his voice seductive.

Furniture was the furthest thing from my mind at that moment but, just to explain: I have this solid old dresser/sideboard thing that sits just off my kitchen and once belonged to my grandparents. Supposedly, it had been the focal point of the dining room in their Fresno farmhouse where buffet items were put out for big family dinners. Steven, however, liked it for sexual reasons because when I sat on top, naked and spread-eagled facing him (okay, it’s a little premeditated), my poontang was at the perfect height for his cock.

“Steven, please—we’re not seeing each other
any
more, remember? Besides, something’s come up.”

“You make me come up, I’ll give you that. Just thinking about putting your ass up on that dresser has me really needing to see you.”

“Then don’t think about it. I’m at work, and I have a lot to catch up on.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Realistically, I didn’t have to tell him anything; I knew that rationally. But I heard his voice, and all the good stuff flooded my brain, none of the bad. This is why
I must never pick up when he calls!

“I would have thought it might be sort of obvious,” I said, “with the trip and everything. We had an extra day in Tokyo and with the time difference… Plus, I rolled my ankle running through the airport.”

“Oh, Babe, you all right?”

“It’s a little swollen, but I’ll be fine.”
Good, Quinn. Not a trace of encouragement
.

“Do you want me to come over later and take care of you? I miss you, Babe, and I can think of a few activities that don’t require an ankle.”

“Sounds nice but… ” It did sound nice—the perfect antidote for all that was irksome, including the budding office love affair happening in front of my face at work. Irksome because when love was new, it was known to be infectious, and proximity to Steven would be very dangerous to my recovery. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I imagined him sitting at his glass desk in the corner office of his glass castle—hey,
The Glass Castle
—his dark, close-cropped curls with the start of gray catching the setting sun. A handsome, successful, married man in the prime of life, and I liked him—very much. In truth, I loved him. But he wasn’t mine; he had a family, and continuing on would just pile on bad karma. And since coming to the conclusion he would never leave his wife, despite all his protestations to the contrary, I’d decided that anything that might happen between us in the future would have to be on my schedule.
Ugh, what am I thinking?
Thinking something
might
still happen between us in the future was disturbing and self-destructive.

“I can’t,” I said again, my Better Me winning this round. “There’s an international corporate issue that’s come up, and I have to do due diligence.” This was not altogether untrue.

He gave it a couple more tries, but my resolve held.

So far, so good; I’d put him off. But I knew if I didn’t take further action, I might still cave to his will and my own longing. So I hung up and immediately decided to call a Muff for moral support. Which one, though? Well, including me, there are nine of us Muffs. Six have kids, three are divorced, two never married, a couple haven’t worked in years; one’s a vegan, one used to be into women, two still sneak cigarettes, one’s Buddhist, one’s Catholic, one’s Protestant, two are Jewish, two are Atheists, and all of us enjoy a good cocktail. We Muffs consider ourselves women of today who are smart and/or talented and/or attractive and/or lucky and/or of some means, even if those means are meager. But which member of Muffia should I call to help me deal with my weakening flesh in the face of adversity?

“
Match.com, Nowlove or PlentyofFish
? Which one should we sign up for?” I asked Vicki, the Muff I’d chosen for the online dating adventure.

A motor whirred into use in the kitchen on the other end of the line, the creation of a fresh anti-oxidant juice in progress. “Vicki?”

“Hold on, I’m checking the blogosphere.”

“What are you putting in that juice?” I hoped to be heard over the din. “Sounds like tree trunks.”

“Carrots, kale with some probiotic and wheatgrass thrown in. But I’m reading the opinion blogs while I’m doing it.”
Another probiotic freak.

Vicki was the best Muff to share the slings and arrows of online dating with because: (A) She had experienced adversity and would be able to withstand the probable vicissitudes of searching for love on the Internet; (B) Of the single Muffs with whom I might share this experience, her marriage had been over long enough to give her a healthy perspective; and (C) She was game.

None of the other Muffs was the right choice for one reason or another. Madelyn didn’t want to, Rachel was off men, and Jelicka was still wounded after her recent divorce—no matter what she said. Plus, she was pushing
Cougarlife.com
like she owned it. While I may be the right age for cougar status, I’m totally the wrong temperament. And I would never give money to a company that ran a jingle with the lyric, “Cougar life dot com, so many women to try.” So many women to
try
? What were we—a pu-pu platter? Clearly it was a site set up for cubs, not cougars.

The motor continued. If Vicki was talking, I couldn’t hear her.

“Should I call back?” I yelled.

The juicemaster went off.

“According to this blogger,” she said, “I think we’re good to go with any of those three. I know women who’ve met nice guys on each of ‘em, which proves… ” I heard her slurp her juice concoction. “
Mmm,
tastey. Sorry. I guess, you know, theoretically, there are good men to be found anywhere.”

Theoretically was a little speculative, but I was determined to remain upbeat about the prospects. “So you’re saying, ‘just pick.’ ”

“
Whoa
… ” Vicki was obviously reading something on her screen but offering nothing more.

“Bad review?”

She took another slurp. “The little bot fishes, or whatever they’re called, know I’m looking at dating sites, and suddenly I’m getting pop-up ads for other sites. I just got one asking me to try
Dateafarmer.com
.”

“If the idea of dating a farmer wasn’t just plain odd, that would be really creepy.”

“Don’t worry. When we hang up, I’ll search for gluten-free restaurants, missile launch systems and adult diapers. That will keep the data miners busy wondering about my ulterior motive.”

“You sound like Jelicka,” I said, slightly concerned. “You know, dating shouldn’t be this hard. I hope we don’t turn into a bunch of whiny, crotchety old women who start every sentence with, ‘Back in the good ol’ days… ’ ”

“Here’s one,” Vicki plowed on. “
Singlechristianteapartiers.com.
I’ll take
Dateafarmer
over
Singlechristianteapartiers
, I’ll tell you that much. What do you think about farmers?”

“Farmers are great and totally necessary, but to
date
?” I just didn’t see it.

“Aren’t they the new venture capitalists?”

“I don’t think so, Vick. In L.A., the definition of a farmer is a guy growing hemp on reclaimed land in Compton.”

Sameer appeared at the edge of my cubiffice, looking slightly put out. “My parents are farmers in Tamil Nadu, and my grandparents before them. Farming is a noble profession where I am from.”

“It’s noble everywhere.” I covered the phone. “When we were in Japan and I saw Viggo on that tractor, I thought,
where would we be without farmers
?”

Sameer waggled his head, turned and walked away
.
I watched him, wondering how much he’d heard.

“What if you could meet an organic egg producer?” Vicki was saying. “Or somebody growing sustainable aquaculture? That would be sort of cool.”

“If I had to choose, I’d take the entrepreneur cultivating superior quality weed in Mendocino. Weed might just save America. That’s not my line, by the way. I read it on
The Daily Beast
.”

“The product is appealing, but Mendocino is geographically undesirable,” replied Vicki.

“Let me look.” I typed
Dateafarmer
into the search bar. I still couldn’t envision myself with a farmer, but maybe if I saw some pictures.

“See the hottie in the overalls with no shirt? He raises organic chickens.”

Mmmmm, I sure did see him—Calvin—handsome, ruddy face, windswept sun-bleached hair, adorable crow’s feet at the corners of his blue eyes. “Good looking,” I agreed. “But why do I suddenly feel like a character in
The Grapes of Wrath
?”

“One wouldn’t think you’d be such a snob, growing up in Fresno.”

“Guess you
can
take the farm out of the girl, huh? Besides, my dad was an accountant.”

“I could see myself with a salt-o’-the-earth type like Calvin,” she said. “A strong man with big hands able to help us survive the coming apocalypse.”

“If there’s an apocalypse, no one is going to survive,” I pointed out, “big hands or not—that’s why it’s called an apocalypse.”

“Don’t tell Kiki. She’s working on the Brownie points so as to be saved.”

I continued clicking around
Dateafarmer
, and the presentation was pretty slick—the definition of “farmer,” rather generous— kind of like calling Kim Kardashian an “artist.”

“I think they’re using the word
farmer
as a metaphor of some kind,” I suggested. “Beaver mining, for example. Or digging for orgasms.”

“Such a skeptic.” Vicki laughed, not taking the bait as Jelicka would have, which is another reason I’d chosen her to talk this through with in the first place. She was a far more serious sort—not one to encourage my cynicism, which only seems to be getting worse despite my commitment to becoming a better person.

Sure, my ankle hurt, and I was suffering from jet lag, but why was it so hard to be less cynical? The brief reprieve I experienced after reading
The Glass Castle
was now
Gone Girl
—which happened to be another Muff read, only slightly less enjoyable.