Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes (6 page)

Kandi was strangely silent on our way back to the Writers’ Building. I thought she’d be bubbling over with excitement at the giant nugget of gossip that had just been dropped in our laps. But she said nothing, just marched ahead grimly, her script clutched tightly to her chest.

“Kandi, is anything wrong?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice catching.

It was then that I noticed two teardrops oozing out from the rims of her sunglasses.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Remember the guy I told you about yesterday? The one I was so crazy about?”

“Oh, God. It’s not Quinn, is it?”

She nodded.

“We’ve been seeing each other for the past month.”

By now she was openly crying, tears streaming down her face, snot running from her nose.

“I’ve got to get a grip,” she said, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “I can’t let Stan and Audrey see me this way.”

But she needn’t have worried, because just then Audrey came storming out of the Writers’ Building, followed by a bewildered Stan. The two of them got in their matching Mercedes and drove off the lot in a cloud of expensive exhaust fumes.

“You know what you need right now?” I said.

“Intravenous doses of Zoloft?”

“You need a nice frosty margarita.”

She smiled wanly. “That does sound nice.”

Fifteen minutes later we were seated across from each other inhaling egg rolls and margaritas in a cozy booth at the Formosa Café. The Formosa is a popular Hollywood watering hole with worn leather booths and 8x10 glossies of long-dead celebrities hanging over the bar.

“He told me he wanted to marry me,” Kandi said, stirring her margarita morosely.

“He did?”

“Well, he said someday he hoped we could be together. Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, Kandi,” I sighed. “It’s not the same thing. When a man wants to marry someone, he says,
Will you marry me?
When he wants to get in a woman’s pants, he says,
Some day I hope we can be together.
”

“He said we could move in together as soon as his divorce was final.”

“His divorce? Don’t tell me he’s married!”

“Separated. His wife lives in Manhattan. They haven’t gotten along for years.”

“Or so he says. He could be flying back east and boffing her on the weekends for all you know.”

“No, he couldn’t be. He’s been with me every weekend.”

“He has?”

“Not every weekend,” she admitted. “But a lot of them. Well, one or two, anyway.” She took a mournful slurp of her margarita and sighed. “And all the while I thought he loved me, he’s probably been screwing V.D.”

“Actually, Kandi, I think he may have been having a thing with Audrey, too.”

“Audrey?” Kandi’s eyes widened with disbelief.

“Didn’t you see the look on her face when she saw him in bed with Vanessa?”

“No.” Kandi sniffled. “I was too busy trying not to cry.”

“It was definitely the face of a woman scorned. She was pissed to beat the band.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head, stunned. “V.D.
and
Audrey?”

Needless to say, I didn’t tell her about the blinding smiles Quinn had been flashing in my direction. Why make her even more miserable than she was already?

“That does it,” she said, angrily spearing an egg roll. “I’ve had it with men. From now on I’m going to lead a sexless monastic existence, like Mother Teresa. And you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Well, you have to admit, you haven’t exactly been burning any mattresses lately.”

She had a point there. The only men in my boudoir of late had been Mr. Clean and Mr. Bubble.

“Another round?” she asked.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m teaching my class tonight.”

“Oh, right. It’s Tuesday. I forgot. Guess I’d better get the bill.”

She signaled the waiter for the check.

“Gosh,” she said, flustered. “How embarrassing.”

“What?”

“When I waved at the waiter, some guy at the bar thought I was waving at him. And now he’s waving back at me.”

I looked over and saw a tall, sandy-haired guy in tight jeans leaning against the bar, smiling at us.

“He’s sort of cute, isn’t he?” Kandi whispered.

Some people never learn.

Chapter Six

I
t turned out that the cute guy in tight jeans was waiting at the bar for his date, another cute guy in tight jeans. Kandi and I paid the check and headed out to the parking lot.

“Want me to call you later?” I asked.

“Nah, that’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

I gave her a hug, and waved as she drove off in her Miata. I wasn’t really worried about her. I knew she’d be okay. Kandi has an amazing ability to rebound from failed relationships. Comes from years of practice, I guess.

Most of the time I’m glad I’m not Kandi. I’m glad I’m not taking chances and getting hurt. But every once in a while, when I’m lying in bed, watching old Lucy reruns in the middle of the night, with only my cat for company, I wonder if Kandi isn’t the smart one, after all. At least she’s trying.

I got into my Corolla and headed across town to the Shalom Retirement Home, where once a week I teach a class in memoir writing. Sad to say, I have no budding Mary Karrs or Frank McCourts in my class. Most of my students’ essays tend to be about things like
My Granddaughter’s Bat Mitzvah
or
My Son, the Orthodontist.
Every once in a while I’ll get something spicier like
My Son Married a Shiksa
, but that’s about as compelling as it gets.

But they’re a lively bunch, and I get a kick out of them. Most of them are in their eighties and many of them have never written before. It’s not easy to write at any age, let alone to start when you’re an octogenarian. In spite of their many infirmities, they’re still giving life a shot. And for that, I admire them.

I inched across town in heavy traffic, cursing my fellow drivers, especially the ones with cell phones glued to their ears.

When I finally showed up, ten minutes late for class, I was greeted by a round of applause from the handful of students gathered in the Shalom rec room. Ever since I’d told them about my job on
Muffy ’n Me
, they’d been treating me like Hollywood royalty.

“Author, author!” shouted Mrs. Pechter, a sweet woman with bosoms the size of throw pillows.

“We’re so proud of you, darling,” chimed in tiny, birdlike Mrs. Rubin. “Imagine! Our teacher, a famous TV writer.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’m not famous yet.”

“But you will be,” said Mrs. Rubin. “Just like the famous playwright Wendy Wasserman.”

“It’s not Wasserman,” said Mr. Goldman, the only man in the class. “It’s Wasserstein.”

“My son’s wife went to school with Wendy Wasserstein,” Mrs. Zahler announced.

“That’s nothing,” Mr. Goldman countered. “My cousin Mel once dated Neil Simon’s mother-in-law.”

“Are you sure her name isn’t Wasserman?” Mrs. Rubin asked. “I could’ve sworn it was Wasserman.”

That’s how conversations go at the Shalom Retirement Center.

“Okay, class!” I said. “Let’s get started, shall we? Who wants to read what they wrote this week?”

“So tell me,” Mrs. Pechter said, unwilling to let go of show biz, “what’s Wells Dumont really like? I saw him in a play once. Something by Shakespeare, I think. Such a handsome man.”

“Feh,” opined Mrs. Rubin. “He’s nothing compared to Quinn Kirkland. What a doll.”

The other ladies nodded in agreement.

“So what’s Quinn like?” Mrs. Zahler asked. “He a friendly sort of fellow?”

If they only knew.

“Yes.” I managed to restrain myself. “Quinn Kirkland is quite friendly, indeed.”

“And how about Vanessa Duffy?” Mr. Goldman asked, with a wink. “You think maybe she likes older men?”

He wasn’t kidding. A retired carpet salesman with enough chutzpah to fuel a space ship, Mr. Goldman only had eyes for women young enough to be his granddaughters. Like, for instance, me. For years, Mr. Goldman had been trying to get me to go out on a date with him. And for years, I’d been turning him down, a fact which didn’t seem to discourage him. Yes, if there was one fly in the Shalom ointment, it was Mr. Goldman.

I was grateful that Vanessa seemed to have supplanted me as the object of Mr. Goldman’s affections. Maybe this meant he’d leave me alone and quit asking me to go for moonlight strolls in the Shalom parking lot.

“So how about it?” he asked, his dentures twinkling merrily. “You think Vanessa would go for a guy like me?”

“You’ll find out on Friday,” I said.

I’d arranged for the class to be in the audience for the taping of my show. I figured a few loyal fans couldn’t hurt. And they were overjoyed at the prospect of being show biz insiders.

“I can’t wait,” Mrs. Rubin said. “Imagine. My first TV taping.”

“Big deal,” Mr. Goldman said. “I’ve been to plenty of TV tapings. I saw
Laverne & Shirley.
I saw
Blansky’s Beauties
. I saw
Joanie Loves Chachi
. That Joanie. What a doll. She had the warmies for me.”

The ladies groaned.

“As if,” Mrs. Pechter muttered, a phrase she’d no doubt picked up from her granddaughter’s bat mitzvah.

“Hey, I’ve got a great idea for a sitcom,” Mr. Goldman continued, ignoring his detractors. “They should do a show about me. I’m just as funny as that Seinfeld guy. Funnier, probably.”

“My cousin went to high school with Jerry Seinfeld’s mother.”

“Really? My brother-in-law once dated Joan Rivers.”

“Class!” I called out. “Maybe we could get started now.”

“They could call it
Goldman
. It would be all about my life in the carpet business. Maybe they could get Heather Locklear to play my girlfriend.”

“My daughter goes to Heather Locklear’s gynecologist.”

I sat back and sighed.

We never did get to read any essays that night.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

TO: Daddyo

FROM: Jausten

SUBJECT: What on earth?

What on earth makes you think Mom is having an affair?

TO: Jausten

FROM: Daddyo

SUBJECT: Wake up and Smell the Coffee
Oh, come on, Sweetpea. I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. I’ve seen enough
Oprah
to know when a woman’s cheating. Mom’s showing all the classic signs. She’s losing weight, she’s getting her teeth capped. She’s taking showers. Lots and lots of showers. She’s got something cooking on the back burner, all right, and I know who it’s with. That greaseball from the shopping channel. I saw them together in the clubhouse the other morning, making serious eye contact. He pretended he was giving her his autograph, but my bet is that they were making plans for a secret rendezvous.

TO: Shoptillyoudrop

FROM: Jausten

SUBJECT: What the heck is going on?

Daddy says you’re having an affair with that Koskovalis guy from the Shopping Channel. He says you’ve lost weight and are having your teeth capped and taking an inordinate number of showers.

What the heck is going on???

TO: Jausten

FROM: Shoptillyoudrop

SUBJECT: The Deep End

This time, your father has definitely gone off the deep end. I am NOT having an affair with John Koskovalis! Good heavens, I’ve only met the man once, at the clubhouse. I asked him for his autograph, and he gave it to me. End of story.

And as for those other accusations, just because I’ve joined a Jazzercise class and lost a few pounds and decided to make a lifelong dream come true by having my teeth capped, that doesn’t mean I’m having an affair. And, yes, I’m taking a lot of showers. It gets sweaty at Jazzercise!

PS. Are you sure you don’t want me to give your number to Ernie Lindstrom?

Chapter Seven

N
ews of the Vanessa/Quinn boff-a-thon spread through the studio like wildfire. Everyone was talking about it. On my way to my office the next morning, I saw Marco, the prop guy, huddled with Teri, the makeup lady.

“They had to send the bedspread to the dry cleaners,” I heard Teri say.

“And one of the stuffed animals, too,” Marco added.

Outside Stan and Audrey’s office, their secretary, Bianca, was deep in conversation with Danny, the production assistant, whispering something about statutory rape.

No doubt about it; Quinn and Vanessa were definitely the topic du jour. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the hookers on Santa Monica Boulevard knew about their fling.

Kandi was already in our office when I got there, sitting slumped behind the desk, pale and puffy-eyed.

“How’s it going, kiddo?” I asked.

“Quinn called me last night. At eleven o’clock. Wanted me to come over.”

“You didn’t, did you?”

“No, uh…of course not,” she stammered.

I shot her a look.

“Okay, I did, but just for a little while.”

“Kandi, what am I going to do with you?”

“Don’t worry. It’s all over. He acted as if nothing had happened. When I asked him how he could cheat on me with Vanessa, he told me to grow up and stop acting like a baby. He actually expected me to hop into bed with him.”

“Did you?”

“No way. That much of a masochist, I’m not.”

“So what did you do?”

“The only dignified thing I could do. With my head held high, I walked out of his house, down his driveway, and wrote
Screw You
in lipstick on the windshield of his Porsche.”

“That was taking the high road, all right.”

“Hey, Quinn’s lucky I didn’t kill him. I sure would have liked to.”

At which point we looked up and saw Bianca standing in the doorway. A sharp-faced young woman with small teeth and darting eyes, Bianca reminded me of a ferret named Freddy my sixth-grade class adopted as a science project.

Bianca had been Audrey’s secretary for the past seven years. According to Kandi, Audrey had lured Bianca with vague promises of a writing assignment. But seven years later, Bianca was still answering phones and picking up Audrey’s dry cleaning.

She was standing in the doorway now, fiddling nervously with a chopstick hair ornament that speared her dull brown hair in a French twist.