by Laura Levine
Marvin jumped up from where he was seated, his roly-poly body dwarfed behind a monster of a desk. “How nice to see you, Jaine!”
“What a lovely office,” I managed to say.
“Would you believe Bunny decorated it all by herself?”
I’d believe it, all right. No decorator in her right mind would take credit for this mess.
“It’s not really my style,” he shrugged, “but she got a big kick out of doing it.”
I could easily imagine Bunny decorating an office with absolutely no regard for the person who’d be using it.
“Please,” Marvin said. “Sit down, make yourself comfy.”
Me? Comfy? In Antique Alley? Not bloody likely.
I perched my fanny on a fussy little armchair across from his desk, hoping it wouldn’t give way beneath me.
“So,” he said, getting down to business, “let’s see your stuff.”
Discreetly wiping the sweat from my palms, I handed him my sample book.
I sat, fingers crossed, as he turned the pages, praying he’d like my ads. And indeed, he did seem to be smiling.
“Very cute,” he said when he got to my ad for Ackerman’s Awnings. “Just a Shade Better.”
He continued leafing through the book, that faint smile still on his lips. I just hoped he wasn’t faking it. He seemed like the kind of guy who might want to spare my feelings.
At last he slapped the book shut, and his faint smile grew into a full-fledged grin.
“I like it.”
Hallelujah!
“And I’d be happy to hear any ideas you want to pitch. Are you familiar with my commercials?”
“Of course.”
Anybody who’d ever turned on a TV in the middle of the night in L.A. was familiar with Marvin’s commercials. They were all the same: Marvin sitting on a throne in a cheesy ermine-trimmed robe and crown, waving a scepter and yapping about how his mattresses were fit for a king.
“I’m tired of that old slogan, Fit for a King. I want something new. Something with more oomph! You think you can do oomph?”
“Absolutely,” I assured him, having no idea what he was talking about.
“Great! Now let’s go look at some mattresses!” he said, jumping up. “To light your creative fire.”
With happy heart, I followed him out to the office reception area, where I noticed a pudgy woman in a jog suit standing at the coffee machine.
“Oh, Marvin!” she called out. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Marvin looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“Of course,” he replied.
Reluctantly he led me over to the coffee table where the woman was now reaching into a box of the most heavenly looking Krispy Kremes.
“This is Jaine,” Marvin said. “She’s going to work on ideas for a new slogan.”
“How wonderful!” The woman shot me a warm smile. “The best of luck to you, dear.”
With her round apple cheeks, bright blue eyes, and graying Dutch bob, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
Why on earth did Marvin seem so uncomfortable around her?
“Care for a donut?” she asked, holding out the box.
My eyes zeroed in on a chocolate-glazed beauty.
It was torture, but I managed to say, “No, thanks.”
“Since Marvin obviously isn’t going to introduce me,” she said, “I’m Ellen Cooper.”
“Cooper?” I asked. “Are you two related?”
Marvin’s eyes shifted nervously.
“Ellen and I used to be married.”
“That’s right,” Ellen said, still smiling her cherubic smile. “I’m a charter member of the First Wives Club.”
I remembered what Lance told me about Marvin dumping his longtime spouse for Bunny. So this was Wife Number One.
“Marvin and I were married for thirty years until Ms. Bunny came along.”
Uh-oh. I was beginning to sense some tension in the air. Ellen Cooper may have been smiling on the outside, but there was a definite edge to her voice.
“Aren’t you going to tell Jaine what I do here at Mattress King?” she asked Marvin.
“Ellen is our bookkeeper,” he snapped in reply.
“Correction, dear. Chief Financial Officer.” Then she confided to me, “Marvin was kind enough to let me retain part ownership of the business, thanks to his generous nature and some serious threats from my barracuda divorce attorney.”
By then Marvin was openly glaring at his ex.
“Let’s go check out those mattresses,” he said, yanking me away.
“Watch out for him, sweetheart!” Ellen called out. “He likes ’em young.”
Marvin hustled me out of there so fast, I barely had time to grab a donut hole.
Out in the showroom, business had picked up, and Lenny was now showing an elderly couple one of his “sleep-tacular” mattresses.
“One of my best salesmen,” Marvin said, nodding in Lenny’s direction. “He’s been with me since Day One.”
Guiding me by the elbow, he took me on a tour of the place, yapping about inner springs and coil count and memory-foam pillow tops. Surrounded by his beloved mattresses, his anger at his ex-wife quickly dissipated.
“Go on,” he said, pointing to a model called the Comfort Cloud. “Lie down and try it out.”
I gulped in dismay.
“You want me to lie down?”
Oh, dear. The last time I parked myself on a bed in front of a man (some time during the Lincoln administration) there was foreplay involved.
“Sure!” Marvin said. “You’ll never know how heavenly our mattresses are unless you take one for a test drive!”
Between the innerspring and the pillow top and lord knows how many layers of padding, this thing was The Incredible Hulk of mattresses. Awkwardly I climbed on board, my tush exposed for intimate inspection. Not quite the executive image I was hoping to impart.
When I stretched out on the tufted pillow top, my thighs expanded exponentially, as they always do in a reclining position. I cursed myself for not wearing industrial-strength pantyhose.
“Isn’t she a honey?” Marvin beamed, his tiny eyes glowing with enthusiasm. “Just like a cloud, huh?”
“Yes,” I echoed weakly. “Just like a cloud.”
And I have to admit, if I hadn’t felt so damn awkward, lying there with my thighs spreading like butter on a hotcake, it would’ve been quite cloud-like.
“So?” he asked. “Are you inspired yet?”
“I don’t know about her,” came a voice from behind Marvin, “but I sure am.”
I recognized the voice right away. And the blast of pungent perfume that accompanied it.
It was Wife Number Two. Bunny Cooper. Poured into skintight jeans and midriff-baring T-shirt. Emblazoned in rhinestones across the mountainous terrain of her chest were the words Wild Thing.
Tossing back her flaming red hair extensions, Bunny slithered onto a nearby mattress and assumed a pose straight out of Playboy.
All that was missing were the staples in her navel.
“Just a preview of coming attractions,” she cooed to her Marvy Man, puckering her lips in a kiss.
Marvin blushed.
“Bunny, please,” he said. “The customers are watching.”
And indeed, Lenny’s elderly customers had lost all interest in mattresses and were staring at Bunny. Correction. Mr. Elderly was staring. So hard, I thought his eyeballs would bust through his bifocals. Mrs. Elderly, on the other hand, was harrumphing in disgust.
Lenny seemed to share her disgust, pursing his lips in disapproval.
But their reactions paled in comparison to what I saw next.
There, standing not far behind them, was Ellen Cooper. All traces of the Norman Rockwell dame with the sweet smile who’d offered me a Krispy Kreme had vanished into the ether. Now her jaw was clenched tight, her eyes burned with fury.
Clearly, Marvin wasn’t the only
one she was sore at.
If looks could kill, Bunny would be dead on a bed.
Chapter 6
I clambered down from the Comfort Cloud, eager to make my exit before Bunny ignited the mattress with her body heat.
“Guess I’d better be going,” I said, grabbing my sample book.
“Take this.” Marvin handed me one of those cutaway mattress samples, with the coils and padding exposed. “For added inspiration.”
“Good luck, Jaine!” Bunny waved at me, still in centerfold mode.
I thanked the Wild Thing for her good wishes and scooted out the door, the elderly couple right behind me.
“I still don’t see why we can’t buy our mattress here,” the man whined, casting a longing glance at Bunny.
“Forget it, Lester. We’re going to Macy’s.”
The perpetual morning fog that hovers over L.A. had burned off by now, and I squinted into the bright midday sun. I really needed to stop by Casa Extravaganza and pick up my sunglasses. If I hurried right over, I could get them from the maid before Bunny got home.
The more I saw of Mrs. Marvin Cooper, the more I wanted to avoid her.
I was still reeling over her tacky performance on the mattress. She knew the first Mrs. Cooper was standing there watching her. I’d seen her gaze up at her with a triumphant smirk. Eat your heart out, honey, were her unspoken subtitles. I won and you lost.
What a piece of work, huh?
I made my way over to my Corolla and was just about to get in when my cell phone rang.
It was my best friend and constant dining companion, Kandi Tobolowski.
She did not waste any time on preliminaries.
“That damn cockroach is driving me crazy!”
No, Kandi did not have a pest problem. The cockroach to whom she referred was the lead character on the Saturday morning cartoon show, Beanie & The Cockroach, where Kandi is gainfully employed as a writer.
“That prima donna jerk keeps flubbing his lines,” she sighed. “Anyhow, I need to get out of here. Meet me for lunch at Paco’s Tacos. My treat.”
Kandi makes scads more money than I do and is always offering to pick up the tab. I hardly ever let her, of course. Along with our noble brows and inability to carry a tune, we Austens have our pride, you know.
“Honey, I can’t. I’ve got so much work to do, and the last things I need are the calories from a heavy Mexican meal.”
“Meet you there in twenty minutes.”
“Make it a half hour. Traffic looks heavy.”
What can I say? When it comes to Mexican food, I simply can’t say no. And Thai food. And Italian. And—well, it’s quite a long list, and I’ve got a story to tell. So let’s get on with it, shall we?
A half hour later I was sitting across from Kandi at Paco’s Tacos, ordering the chimichanga combo plate from a most accommodating waiter.
Kandi, a pert little thing with a headful of enviably straight chestnut hair, perused the menu, trying to decide between the mahi mahi salad and the vegetarian tostada.
Unlike yours truly, Kandi has inherited the willpower gene, which is why she is able to maintain her Pert Little Thing status.
“I’ll have the mahi mahi salad,” she told the waiter. “And margaritas for both of us.”
No way. No margaritas for me. I had to keep my head clear for thinking up brilliant mattress slogans.
“Kandi, I can’t have a margarita in the middle of the day. I’ve got work to do.”
“Salt or no salt?”
“Salt,” I sighed.
“I’ve got the most fabulous news!” Kandi grinned, when the waiter had gone.
Kandi’s idea of fabulous news is the opening of a new Pinkberry, so I remained somewhat skeptical.
“Oh, Jaine,” she whispered, a dreamy look in her eyes. “I’ve finally met Mr. Right.”
“Again?” I said, scooping up a hunk of salsa onto a chip.
“This time, it’s the real thing! I swear! His name,” she said, with the kind of reverence usually reserved for the pope, “is Denny. And you’ll never guess how we met. He was in line behind me at Starbucks! Won’t that be the cutest story to tell our grandkids?”
“Ranks right up there with Rick and Ilsa running into each other in Casablanca.”
“I’ll choose to ignore that,” she said, arching an indignant brow. “Anyhow, he ordered a Venti Latte and I ordered a chai tea and we wound up sharing a lo-carb blueberry muffin!”
I managed to plow my way though half a basket of chips as she rambled on about the Divine Denny, who was, to her great delight, both a doctor and a Scrabble nut.
“I thought maybe we’d go on a Scrabble cruise for our honeymoon.”
“Your honeymoon? Don’t you think you’re rushing things just a tad?”
“You’re right, of course,” she said, nibbling at a corner of a chip. “I haven’t even planned the wedding yet!”
And she was off and running, lost in the pages of her own True Romance story. I remained on automatic pilot, nodding my head at periodic intervals as I daydreamed about my chimichanga plate.
“So what’s new with you, cookie?” she asked, when she’d finally run out of steam. “Anybody interesting in your life?”
“Right now, just the waiter,” I said, as he at last approached with our food.
Gosh, my chimichangas looked good, nestled on a bed of refried beans and rice, and topped with a luscious dollop of sour cream.
“Oh, foo,” she pouted. “You’re so boring.”
“Boring, am I? Well, for your information, there is a man in my life.”
“The pizza guy doesn’t count.”
“And it’s not the pizza guy.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up with excitement. “Tell all! I want every last detail, in living color.”
“Calm down. He’s not Mr. Right. In fact, he’s Mr. Couldn’t Possibly Be Any More Wrong.”
Wearily I told her about my visit from my would-be fiancé, Vladimir.
“I can’t believe I actually agreed to go out with the guy.”
Kandi looked up from a speck of mahi mahi on her fork and tsk tsked in disapproval. If it was sympathy I was after I was barking up the wrong girlfriend.
“That’s your trouble, Jaine. You’re way too fussy.”
“Fussy? For crying out loud, Kandi. The guy has a picture of his goat in his wallet!”
“How charmingly ethnic!” she said with a carefree wave. “Don’t be such a snob. It’s time you let go of your shallow Western values.”
“This from a woman who once waited three hours to get her shoes autographed by Manolo Blahnik!”
“That’s not the least bit shallow!” Kandi protested. “Manolo Blahnik shoes are considered works of art.”
“And to think, some people waste their money on Picassos.”
“Seriously, Jaine,” she sighed, “you’ve got to start opening yourself up to new experiences.”
“The only thing I want to open myself up to right now are these chimichangas.”
And without any further ado, I dug right in.
It was after one by the time we tore ourselves away from Paco’s.
“Give this Dimitri guy a chance,” Kandi said as she hugged me good-bye. “He might be The One.”
“His name is Vladimir, and the only thing he might be is certifiable.”
“Oh, honey,” she sighed. “No wonder you’re still single.”
I refrained from pointing out that I was not the only single person in our little duo.
Instead, I bid her a fond adieu and, several hours behind schedule, hurried over to Casa Extravaganza to get my sunglasses.
When I pulled up in the circular driveway, I groaned to see Bunny’s Maserati parked on the gravel.
Phooey. She was home. Oh, well. With any luck she’d be lolling by the pool, and I could get my glasses from Lupe.
I was heading for the front door when it suddenly opened and out came Owen Kendall, his Mattress King baseball cap aske
w on his head.
What was he doing here at this time of day? And why was his shirt only half-tucked in his pants?
Enquiring minds wanted to know.
“Hi, Owen,” I said, blocking his path. “What’s up?”
He took one look at me and practically jumped out of his skin.
“Er…Jaine,” he said, blushing furiously. “I was just picking up some papers for the office.”
Oh, yeah? Then where were they? I sure didn’t see any papers.
“Gotta run,” he muttered, brushing past me.
And as he hurried by I got a whiff of perfume. Not just any perfume. I’d recognize that scent anywhere. It was Bunny’s designer fragrance, the stuff she splashed between her cleavage with wild abandon. Owen positively reeked of it.
Now everybody let’s take out our calculators and add two and two.
I don’t know what you came up with, but I came up with dipsy doodle.
If I wasn’t mistaken, The Trophy Wife was having an affair with The Nerdy Son-in-Law.
I watched Owen drive off in his car, a late model BMW with vanity plates that read M KING II. Not exactly a nerd-mobile. Actually, now that I thought about it, Owen wasn’t a bad looking guy. He was tall and thin and, beneath that Mattress King visor, his eyes were a most appealing blue.
Something told me he might look good without clothes on, and I suspected that’s just how Bunny liked him.
I stood there, admiring the wisdom of that old you-can’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover gag, when I heard:
“Jaine, darling!”
I whirled around to see Bunny standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed into suspicious slits.
Now it was my turn to blush.
She knew that I’d seen Owen, and that I’d probably figured out what was going on.
“Hi, B-Bunny,” I stammered. “I just stopped by to pick up my sunglasses. I left them here yesterday.”
“Of course,” she said, with an icy smile. “Lupe found them by the pool. Come on in and I’ll get them.”
I headed inside, feeling very much like Little Red Riding Hood popping in to the big bad wolf’s place.
“Here they are,” she said, plucking my sunglasses from a table in the foyer.
I reached out to take them, but she was not about to hand them over.
