by Laura Levine
“Wish me luck,” I said to Kate as I headed off to see Daisy.
“You’ll be fine,” she assured me, retrieving Voodoo Tommy from her desk and resuming her stick pin torture.
* * *
Upstairs, I found Daisy at her vanity, dabbing lotion on her face. Propped up prominently on the vanity table was a picture of Daisy gazing lovestruck at Tommy, her chubby body nestled into his like a worn out pillow on a brand new mattress.
“Hi, Ms. Kincaid. I brought you those pages you wanted.”
Daisy held up a hand, silencing me, and then motioned me to a nearby armchair.
What the heck was this all about? I wondered as I plunked myself down. Why was Daisy staring at her face in the mirror, stock still?
At last, she spoke.
“So sorry, honey. I have to keep my face perfectly still for sixty seconds after I use Insta-Lift.”
“Insta-Lift?”
“A facelift in a jar!” she said, holding up a bottle of the lotion she’d been applying to her face. “Guaranteed to remove wrinkles for at least five hours.”
And indeed, looking at her closely, I saw only faint traces of the laugh lines that normally animated her face. I couldn’t help but be touched by her valiant attempt to breach the age gap between her and Tommy.
“You wanted to see the first chapter of Fifty Shade of Turquoise?” I asked, handing her the pages.
“Yes, I’m inviting Esme and Clayton over for tea so I can read it to them. I’m going to read them the whole book in installments as we write it.”
We? I don’t know if you’re keeping track, but according to my lightning calculations, Daisy hadn’t written Syllable One of our book.
“Won’t that be fun?” Daisy gushed.
“Absolutely,” I lied, dreading Clayton’s reaction when he realized the sexy hero of the book was a thinly veiled version of Tommy.
“Tommy said you wanted him to take a look at the pages, too?” I asked, hoping her answer would a bewildered “No.”
But alas, she was all on board with Tommy chucking in his two cents.
“Absolutely! Tommy has marvelous instincts!”
Yeah, right. Of a tenement rat.
“I’ll give you a buzz as soon as I finish reading what you’ve written. I know it’s going to be wonderful!”
And I left her applying Insta-Lift to the wrinkles on her cleavage.
* * *
I was more than a tad nervous when Tommy summoned me to the library later that afternoon.
Taking a deep breath, I headed into a wood-paneled room straight out of an English country manor—the walls lined with the same kind of thick leather-bound volumes that filled the bookcase in the office. Classics by Plato and Socrates, and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I couldn’t picture Daisy actually reading this stuff. I figured some decorator picked them out because they matched the furniture.
Tommy looked up from where he was sprawled out on a tufted leather armchair, leafing through a Tiffany catalog. No doubt planning his next gift from Daisy.
“Grab a seat,” he said, gesturing to a sofa across from him.
I sat down gingerly, wondering what havoc he was about to wreak on the first chapter of Fifty Shades of Turquoise.
“I read your pages,” he said.
And?
He rolled his eyes in disgust.
“Gloppy, gooey, sugary pap.”
Oh, crud.
“Daisy will love it.”
Hallelujah! I was off the hook!
“And you’re okay with it, too?” I asked.
“That depends.”
I should’ve known there’d be a catch somewhere.
“I need you to write Daisy a love poem for me.”
“A love poem?”
“Yeah, something sugary and stupid, like your book. You know. Stuff like ‘When I look at you, my knees go weak, and my heart skips a beat.’ Women eat that crap up.”
Clearly he was trying to cement his relationship with Daisy with the kind of writing he knew she liked. I hated the thought of aiding and abetting this slimeball, but I hated the thought of rewriting Chapter One even more.
“You write the poem,” he said, “and I’ll like Chapter One. You good with that?”
“I’m good,” I muttered.
“I thought you would be.”
Then he looked me up and down appraisingly.
“What do you say we improvise a little romance scene of our own?”
The nerve of this guy! Coming on to me after he’d just asked me to write a love poem for Daisy.
“Are you nuts?” I asked, when I’d recovered my powers of speech.
“I know. It sounds crazy,” Tommy said, “someone like me hooking up with someone like you. But I don’t mind a gal with a little extra meat on her thighs.”
“Yeah, well, I mind a guy with a little extra meat where his brain should be.”
Of course, I didn’t really say that.
Instead, I hauled myself out of there, wanting more than anything to whack him over the head with The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.
Chapter 11
For those of you wondering, I’m ashamed to admit I did not stick to Hapi’s diet. Heck, I didn’t even start it. One look at his suggested recipes—kale pudding, tofu casserole, turnip stew—had me running to my cupboard for emergency Oreos.
But that night I found myself in my kitchen, cutting zucchini into pasta-like strips for Hapi’s zucchini “noodles” with eggplant and tomato. Dickie was stopping by for dinner, and I was not about to let him know what a diet scofflaw I’d been.
I’d invited him over to worm his way into Prozac’s good graces, hoping that once Dickie gave her a few belly rubs and ear scratches, Prozac would be putty in his hands.
I was just opening a bottle of organic chardonnay when Dickie showed up—looking très adorable in freshly ironed chinos and chambray work shirt, his arms laden with tulips for me and kitty treats for Prozac.
Back when we were married, the only thing he’d ever shown up with was beer on his breath.
“How’re you doing, bunny face?” he said, putting down his gifts and wrapping me in his arms.
“Fine, now that you’re here.”
For that I was rewarded with a whopper of a kiss.
From her perch on the sofa, Prozac eyed us with disgust.
Puh-leese. Get a room.
Once I managed to pry myself from Dickie’s arms, I put the tulips in a vase and we settled down for our zucchini “noodle” dinner—me telling the most outrageous lies about how much I was loving Hapi’s draconian diet regime.
“I’m so proud of you, Jaine,” Dickie said, taking my hand in his, my lady parts melting like cheese on the burgers I wished we were eating. “You know what I always say: Eat Hapi to Stay Healthy!”
A disgusted meow from Prozac.
Who is this Hapi guy, and why do I hate him so much?
“Remember, Jaine,” Dickie said. “You’ve got to tell yourself every day: ‘I only eat foods that are fresh and healthy.’ ”
Another meow from Pro.
I only eat foods that aren’t nailed to the floor.
“Great advice!” I said, trying to sound as if I actually intended to follow it.
Much to my relief, Dickie stopped yakking about healthy eating, and as we chatted about this and that, I somehow managed to choke down my zucchini noodles.
(Thanks heavens for that organic chardonnay!)
After dinner, we headed to the living room to start in on Operation Wooing Prozac. As I told Dickie, the first and foremost way to Prozac’s heart is through her bottomless stomach.
“Hold out one of the kitty treats,” I instructed as we made the perilous approach to the sofa.
At the sight of Dickie walking toward her, Prozac bared her teeth in one of her more dramatic hisses.
“Did Roger have this much trouble with her?” Dickie asked, beads of sweat beginning to pop up on his brow.
&nbs
p; “Roger?”
“Your old boyfriend. The one you just broke up with.”
Damn. I really had to keep better track of my fibs.
“Right. Roger. Yes, Prozac gave him a rough time. But in the end, he won her over. And I know you can, too.”
But Dickie didn’t seem convinced. Looking more than a tad intimidated, he held out a shaky hand.
“This is the hand I draw with. You sure this is safe?”
“You’ll be fine,” I promised with a confidence I did not feel.
“Here, Prozac!” Dickie said. “Look what I’ve got for you. A yummy treat!”
Prozac eyed him warily as he moved in toward her.
If this idiot thinks he can win me over with a snack, he’s out of his mind, he’s lost his marbles, he’s—mmm, savory salmon innards!
And just like that, she snapped the treat from his hand and guzzled it down.
After which she looked up, impatient.
What are you waiting for, Hapi Boy? That salmon-flavored treat’s not going to jump into my mouth by itself.
“She wants more!” I cried jubilantly. “This time, sit down next to her and feed it to her.”
Dickie sat on the sofa and held out another treat in his hand.
Gone in a flash.
“Now try scratching her behind her ears!” I said, hovering nearby.
“You sure she won’t claw me?”
“I doubt it,” I said, watching Prozac as she curled up in a ball, belching salmon fumes. “She’s in a post-snack stupor.”
Dickie reached out to scratch her, and much to our joy, she let him.
But she still had that wary look in her eyes.
If this clown thinks I’m going to change my mind about him just because he’s giving me a little scratch, he’s got another think coming—Oh, Daddy! Higher! To the left! To the right. Now behind my tail. Aaaah!
Operation Wooing Prozac was working! Prozac was actually allowing Dickie to touch her—without bloodshed!
Emboldened by his success, Dickie scooped Prozac up into his lap, where she sat, purring.
“I think you’ve won her over!”
“I think I have,” he said, flashing me a radiant smile. “As I learned from Hapi, I can overcome any hindrance and move past it with exuberance. I am a positive force in the universe.”
He beamed with pride.
Down in his lap, however, Prozac’s tail was thumping in an irritated staccato.
Never a good sign.
Another affirmation? That does it. The man’s an idiot.
Without any further ado, Prozac leaped off Dickie’s lap, and as she did, I was horrified to see a big wet stain on his crotch.
“Oh, hell!” Dickie cried, jumping up. “She peed in my lap!”
So much for Dickie’s positive force in the universe.
Quickly he started unzipping his fly and taking off his pants.
In another time, another setting, I’d be thrilled.
Now I was just mortified. I raced to my closet and got him a pair of my sweats. Which I was even more mortified to see were too big around his waist.
Gaak! The new, improved Dickie had a waist smaller than mine!
“I’m so sorry about this,” I said, as he picked up his stained chinos.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “These things take time.”
But I could see a seed of doubt in his eyes.
And as he hurried out the door, I wondered how long he was going to put up with my cat from hell.
“Prozac Elizabeth Austen!” I cried the minute Dickie had gone. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
She gazed up at me, preening.
Very.
“I may never forgive you!”
You’ll be happy to know I proceeded to give her the cold shoulder the rest of the night.
And by cold, I mean frigid.
In spite of her plaintive mews, there were no love scratches. No belly rubs. No salmon treats.
And if you think I gave her even a single slice of pepperoni from the pepperoni and sausage pizza I ordered after Dickie left, you’re sadly mistaken.
Okay, so I gave her the sausage. But I didn’t smile when I gave it to her. Which had to have hurt.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: The Death of Me Yet!
Daddy’s Metrosexual Mohawk will be the death of me yet.
He keeps insisting that his hair wax has a tangy, manly smell, but I swear, that fishy goo can clear out a room faster than a bomb threat.
The other day we got on a long line at the supermarket, and one by one the people in front of us moved to another line! Today Edna Lindstrom sat down to join us at the clubhouse for lunch, and five minutes into the meal she had the waiter pack up her lunch to go. She claimed she had a headache, but I’m certain she couldn’t stand one more minute of Daddy’s stinky hair.
And you should see the looks Daddy has been getting. Like he’s roadkill at a buffet table.
It’s all so darn embarrassing!
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Smashing Success!
Well, Lambchop, I’m happy to report my new haircut is a smashing success. You should see the looks I’ve been getting! People are staring at me, awestruck!
And you won’t believe the good luck this haircut has brought me. Ever since I got it, my life has been a breeze. No lines at the supermarket. Or the post office. And the other night at the movies, a tall guy sat down right in front of me and not two seconds later jumped up and changed seats.
Your mom keeps insisting that my hair smells like rotting fish, but frankly, I think she’s just jealous of all the attention I’ve been getting.
Love’n snuggles,
DaddyO
PS. I’m having such a good time showing off my new haircut, I’ve decided to sign up for The Battle-Ax’s sculpting class and give the ladies a thrill.
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Fooey!
Oh, fooey. Daddy’s signed up for the sculpting class. I was hoping to escape from him and breathe some fresh air for a few hours.
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: What a Treat!
Just got back from our sculpture class. What a treat! Our instructor, Molly—a darling young sprite of a woman—was so sweet, so kind. I just know she’s going to be a wonderful teacher! I could see her wrinkle her nose when Daddy walked in the studio, but she was way too polite to say anything. Instead she sat him at a station closest to an open window to dilute the stench from his hair.
Molly urged us all to make something simple, like a vase or a canape plate. But once Daddy learned that Lydia, who has had prior sculpting experience, was making a torso of Sir Isaac Newton, Daddy insisted on making a replica of the Statue of Liberty. Molly tried to talk him into doing something less challenging, but Daddy was having none of it.
Daddy’s always had an insane urge to compete with Lydia. Every time he loses to her (and he always does), he’s convinced he’s been a victim of foul play.
But enough about Daddy.
I’m making a canape plate, which will be winging its way to you, honey, the minute it comes out of the kiln! Perfect for one of your festive Los Angeles cocktail parties!
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Babe Magnet
Back from sculpting class, Lambchop, where my new hairdo brought me good luck yet again! Our sculpting teacher, a very sweet young gal, gave me a prized seat right by a window.
And, like all the other ladies in the class, she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off me. This new haircut of mine is a babe magnet. Of course, you know how much I love your mom and wouldn’t dream of looking at another woman. But I must admit, it’s a kick getting so much attention.
> Most of the gals are making simple beginner projects, but not Lydia Pinkus, that world class show off. No, The Battle-Ax is making a bust of Sir Isaac Newton. Of course, hardly anybody knows what he actually looked like, so Lydia can get him all wrong and no one will know the difference. I’m sure she planned it that way.
Well, if she thinks she’s going to get all the “oohs” and “aahs” in this class, she’s sadly mistaken. I’ve decided to do a replica of the Statue of Liberty, certain to blow Lydia’s stupid “Fig” Newton out of the water!
Love’n hugs,
DaddyO
Chapter 12
Thank heavens Daisy liked Chapter One of Fifty Shades of Turquoise.
“Wonderful job, Jaine!” she cried, bustling into the office the next morning in her bathrobe, smelling of tea rose and Insta-Lift. “You must join us today when I read it to the others. Four o’clock, in the living room.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
I have to confess I was a wee bit nervous. Sure, Daisy liked my chapter. But she was really into this romance stuff. I just hoped Esme and Clayton would share her enthusiasm and I wouldn’t get sent back to the drawing board.
“Well, I’m off!” Daisy said. “Must get dressed. Tommy and I are driving out to Malibu for lunch. We just love the sea air.”
And off she sailed to prep for her date with Tommy.
Kate shuddered when I told her how Tommy had come on to me.
“Ugh!” She groaned. “What a sleazebag. I don’t care how good looking he is, he’ll always be repulsive to me.”
