by Laura Levine
“I suppose you ran into Owen just now.”
“Oh, right. Owen. Yes, I ran into him. Great guy, Owen. A real asset to the company. That’s what Lance says. Actually, I’m sure everybody says that. Owen has ‘asset’ written all over him.”
I tend to babble when I’m nervous, and the laser beam glint in her eyes definitely had me on edge.
“He was here dropping off some papers.”
Owen said he was picking them up. Now he was dropping them off. Those two had better get their stories straight if they were going to keep an affair going.
“Right,” I nodded. “Dropping off papers. Absolutely!”
Once more I held out my hand for my glasses, but she was not about to fork them over.
“I’m so happy you’re trying out for the Mattress King account,” she said, her smile dipping a few degrees below freezing. “It would be a shame if you said the wrong thing at your pitch meeting and didn’t get the job.”
Translation: You breathe one word of what you just saw, and you’re toast.
“After all, you’re such good friends with Lance, and he’s such a dear. I’d hate for you to miss out on this opportunity. Almost as much,” she added, after a meaningful pause, “as I’d hate to see anything happen to Lance’s job.”
Yikes. Was she threatening to get Lance fired, too?
I was tempted to tell her to take her threats and shove them up her wingwang. But then I remembered my ghastly orange walls and my near-death bank account. Not to mention Lance’s job at Neiman’s. So I kept my big yap shut.
“Don’t worry, Bunny. I won’t say a word.”
“A word about what, dear?” she blinked, suddenly wide-eyed and innocent.
At which point, to my great relief, the doorbell chimed.
Bunny opened the door to Fiona.
“Sweetie!” Fiona said, breezing in with an armful of clothes. “Just wait till you see the amazing Versace I picked up for you—
“Oh, hello, Jaine,” she said, catching sight of me. “I didn’t realize you’d be here. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Of course not,” Bunny said. “Jaine was just leaving.”
At last she handed me my sunglasses.
“C’mon,” she said to Fiona, “let’s go up to my room and try on clothes.”
“So did that Dolce & Gabbana I brought the other day work out?” Fiona asked as the two of them tripped up the Tara-esque staircase.
I didn’t stick around to find out whether her majesty gave her approval to Signors Dolce and Gabbana.
Not missing a beat, I hustled my own sweet gabbana the heck out of there.
Chapter 7
Poor Marvin, I thought, as I drove home, stuck with that cheating bitch of a trophy wife. Yes, I know he was no prizewinner himself, dumping Ellen the way he did, but he sure was paying his dues.
I did not have time, however, to worry about the lifestyles of the rich and deceitful. If I expected to inject some badly needed funds into my checking account, I had to drum up mattress slogans.
Back in my apartment, I hunkered down at my office desk, otherwise known as my dining room table, and opened a new file on my computer.
Prozac, sensing I was about to begin a work session, jumped down from the bookcase where she’d been napping and plopped herself on my keyboard.
She likes being part of the creative process.
After depositing her on the floor where she belonged, I spent several productive minutes scratching her belly with my big toe.
It’s always tough getting started on a new project.
But I put my nose to the proverbial grindstone, and in no time my fingers were flying across the keyboard, pounding out mattress slogans.
Oh, who am I kidding?
In no time, I was standing in front of the refrigerator wishing I had something more interesting to eat than moldy Swiss cheese and martini olives.
With a sigh, I returned to the computer, where I proceeded to do some more intense space-staring.
Then I remembered the mattress sample Marvin had given me for “inspiration.” I didn’t really see how a bunch of exposed coils would inspire me, but it was worth a shot. So I brought it in from my car.
The minute I did, I smelled trouble.
Prozac looked up from her perch on my keyboard and gazed at it much like a lion gazes at an innocent gazelle.
Just what I wanted! A new scratching post!
That thing would be confetti in five minutes.
“Forget it, kiddo. Ain’t gonna happen.”
With that, I grabbed a legal pad and pencil and relocated to my Corolla, where I sat with the pad propped up against the steering wheel, gazing at the mattress sample I’d tossed on my passenger seat.
After a while I began writing. Sad to say, it was only a grocery list.
Clearly, inspiration wasn’t striking.
Then I got a brainstorm. Why not lie down on my own mattress to get in mattress-selling mode? True, it was a tad lumpy, but I bet if I stretched out and felt a real mattress beneath me, the slogans would practically write themselves.
So I trotted back inside and stretched out on my bed, waiting for the mattress muse to show up.
Unfortunately, the only one who showed up was Mr. Sandman.
In no time, I was out like a light, only to be awakened several hours later by a loud pounding on my front door.
I hustled over to answer it and there on my doorstep was my would-be fiancé, Vladimir Ivan Trotsky, holding a bouquet of what looked suspiciously like my neighbor’s tulips.
Oh, lord. I’d forgotten all about my date with him. Tonight was the night I was supposed to have dinner at his Aunt Minna’s.
“Good evening, my beloved Jaine!” he said, handing me the tulips. “How beautiful you look!”
“Er, thanks,” I said, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
“Wonderful news!” He beamed.
The only wonderful news I wanted to hear was that our date was cancelled.
“I write you another poem.”
With that, he whipped a piece of paper from his pocket and began reading me his latest opus:
To Jaine, whose lips are red as beet
And also has such pretty feet
I cannot wait to tie the knot
Your Vladimir is hot to trot.
At this point, I could hear the faint sounds of Elizabeth Barrett Browning rolling over in her grave.
“I already told you, Vladimir. There will be absolutely no knot-tying. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course, my beloved Jaine,” he said, gazing at me with a lovestruck grin. Why did I get the feeling my message hadn’t quite penetrated his skull?
“You ready to meet my family?” he asked.
“Can’t wait,” I lied. “Just let me change into something more presentable.”
After putting the tulips in a vase, I scooted to my bedroom to throw on some slacks and a sweater. Then off to the bathroom for a quick splash of water on my face, a gargle of Listerine, and a hasty application of lipstick. I didn’t bother with perfume. No sense getting the guy any more excited than he already was.
All the while, I could hear Vladimir crooning what sounded like an Uzbek lullaby to Prozac.
When I came out into the living room, I found the little hussy sprawled in his arms having her belly rubbed.
“Pretty kitty,” Vladimir cooed. “You will love it in Uzbekistan. You and my goat Svetlana will be best friends.”
She greeted that news with a cavernous yawn.
Whatever. Got any tuna?
“All set,” I said, breaking up their little lovefest.
Vladimir leaped up at the sight of me, clutching his heart.
“Jaine, my beloved! You even more beautiful than before! In all my life I never see such beauty.”
The guy obviously didn’t get out much.
“Come, my beautiful future bride; it’s time to meet my family.”
“Look, Vladimir. H
ow many times do I have to tell you? This bride thing is not going to happen. I’m just going to dinner. That’s all. Get it?”
“Okey dokey! Vladimir understand. You still not in love with me. But don’t worry. You will be.”
On that ominous note, I headed off to meet the Trotsky clan.
Vladimir had borrowed his cousin Boris’s car for the occasion, a rusty hunk of junk that looked like it had spent its formative years in a demolition derby. At one time it may have been red; now it had oxidized into a crusty orange.
The passenger door squealed in protest as he pried it open.
I was just about to climb in when I heard an angry “Hey!”
I looked up to see Mrs. Hurlbut, my neighbor from across the street, standing in front of her prized tulip bed.
“I saw you take those tulips!” she shrieked at Vladimir, marching over to us.
“So sorry, lady!” Vladimir graced her with his goofy grin. “I could not resist.
“Beautiful flowers, for my beautiful flower,” he said, gesturing to me.
“Beautiful flower, my fanny!” she humphed.
“For you,” he said, handing her a half-eaten roll of Lifesavers.
“I don’t want any crummy Lifesavers,” she said, taking them anyway.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hurlbut,” I said. “I’ll be happy to pay for some more bulbs.”
“Okay,” she said, somewhat mollified. “I got ’em from a catalog in Holland. Cost me forty-nine bucks.”
For crying out loud, I could buy them at Home Depot for $4.99.
“I’ll write you a check in the morning.”
“Don’t forget the ten dollars I paid for shipping and handling,” were her cheery words of farewell.
With a sigh, I got into the rustmobile.
The less said about the drive over to Aunt Minna’s place, the better. I waited for Vladimir to offer to pay for the tulips, but I waited in vain. Instead I spent the entire ride listening to him yak about his goat, Svetlana, and enjoying the view through a gaping hole in the floorboards.
But at last we arrived at our destination.
Lucerne Terrace was a run-down apartment building in the Mid-Wilshire area, devoid of any interesting architectural features, including terraces. It had definitely seen better days, I thought, as we made our way up the cracked cement pathway to the front door.
Vladimir pressed a grimy button on the intercom and seconds later we were buzzed in.
We rode up to Minna’s apartment on a rickety elevator festooned with graffiti, one of which Vladimir pointed out as his own handiwork.
“Look!” he said. “I wrote that!”
There among the colorful compendium of four-letter words was:
Vladimir & Jaine & Svetlana
4 Ever!
Just what I always wanted. A ménage à trois with a goat.
Our creaky chariot screeched to a halt on the third floor. As we walked down the threadbare hallway, I smelled something delicious. Beef stew, maybe. Or London broil. Unfortunately, it was not coming from Aunt Minna’s apartment. No, when we reached Aunt Minna’s, a strange smell wafted out into the hallway. A heady aroma of cabbage and Clorox.
“Aunt Minna!” Vladimir called out, knocking on the door. “We’re here!”
Seconds later the door was answered by a short, squat woman with beady eyes and a most disconcerting mustache. She stood planted in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, an old-fashioned bib apron covering her printed housedress. Her feet were clad in sneakers with holes cut out for her bunions, and her coarse gray hair, I was fascinated to see, had been hacked into a cut last seen on Moe of The Three Stooges.
Never again, I vowed, would I complain about my own bad hair days.
“Aunt Minna,” Vladimir gushed, “this is my beloved Jaine.”
I wished he’d stop calling me that.
“So nice to meet you,” I said, managing a smile.
Her beady eyes raked me over.
Clearly she did not share Vladimir’s enthusiasm for yours truly.
Then suddenly she grabbed me by the chin.
“Open wide,” she instructed.
Incredulous, I opened my mouth and stood there like a horse on an auction block as she inspected my teeth.
“They all yours?”
“Yes,” I managed to say.
“Good.” She grunted, satisfied.
Having passed tooth inspection, I followed her and Vladimir into the living room, where I couldn’t help but notice an enormous portrait of Stalin hanging over a fake fireplace.
A dark-haired, mustachioed fellow about Vladimir’s age sat on a rumpsprung tweed sofa, eyes glued to a soccer game on TV. Wedged into a nearby armchair was a refrigerator of a gal, somewhere in her thirties, hard at work cracking walnuts in her fists.
“The American tootsie is here,” Aunt Minna announced before shuffling off to the kitchen.
“Jaine, my beloved,” Vladimir said, ushering me into the room. “Say hello to my cousins Boris and Sofi.”
Boris barely glanced up from the game to grace me with a curt nod.
Sofi, on the other hand, eyed me with great intensity. She had her aunt’s coarse hair, but unlike Minna’s “Moe” do, Sofi’s was caught up in a tight prison matron bun.
Lucky for Sofi, she had not inherited the family mustache. Unlucky for her, she had inherited a most forbidding unibrow. Which was now furrowed at the sight of me.
Following in the proud Trotsky family tradition, she greeted me with a grunt, simultaneously crushing a walnut in her beefy paw.
“I go help Aunt Minna in the kitchen,” Vladimir said. “You stay here, Jaine, and make friends with the cousins.”
With that, he dashed off, leaving me stranded with Boris and Sofi.
I sat down gingerly on an armchair littered with walnut shells and plastered on a stiff smile.
Making friends with these two wasn’t going to be easy.
My break-the-ice gambit (“So how do you like living in America?”) was met with a deafening silence, which continued for the next ten agonizing minutes, broken only by the occasional crunch of a walnut in Sofi’s fist. Not one of which she offered to share, by the way.
At last Vladimir came bouncing back into the room.
For once, I was actually thrilled to see the guy.
“Food is ready!” he announced.
Sofi pried herself from her armchair, sending a small shower of walnut shells onto the floor. Boris reluctantly abandoned his soccer game but turned up the volume so he could keep track of the score.
We trooped through an archway into a dining area, where a white lace tablecloth was set with dented silverware and a colorful collection of paper napkins filched from various local eating establishments. Mine was from Polly’s House of Pies.
Dinner Chez Trotsky turned out to be an eclectic affair.
First course was a watery cabbage soup featuring an Uzbek version of tortellini called chuchvara. Now I’m sure nine out of ten Uzbek housewives make a dynamite chuchvara. Sad to say, Aunt Minna was Housewife Number Ten. Hers were white doughy blobs the consistency of ping-pong balls.
“So,” Aunt Minna asked as I tried to hack off a piece of my ping-pong ball, “how much money you got?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Money! If you going to marry Vladimir, you got to pay dowry.”
Sofi looked up from her soup, scowling.
“Who says she’s going to marry Vladimir?”
“She will,” Vladimir assured her, “just as soon as she falls in love with me. Any day now.”
“Vladimir,” I protested, “I already told you. There’s not going to be any wedding—”
“Not for at least a week,” Vladimir said, ever the optimist. “Maybe two. So enough questions, everybody. Let my beloved Jaine eat her delicious cabbage soup in peace.”
“You got any cattles?” Aunt Minna asked, not willing to let this dowry thing go. “Cattles okay if you don’t got money.”
Well, not all of us. By now, I had given up on my ping-pong balls, and Boris had temporarily abandoned the table for his soccer game.
Eventually, the soup dishes were cleared away, and Aunt Minna waddled in with the main course—Domino’s pizza topped off with big white blobs of what turned out to be an Uzbek yogurt called katyk.
A note to the culinary adventurous: I don’t care how adventurous you are, do not under any circumstances try pepperoni pizza and katyk. You will, I guarantee, live to regret it.
Somehow I managed to swallow a few mouthfuls, washed down by Aunt Minna’s homemade pomegranate wine, a piquant little vintage with the distinctive kick of nail polish remover.
This trip to culinary hell seemed to go on forever, with Vladimir blathering sweet nothings in my ear, Sofi and Minna shooting me dirty looks, and Boris periodically jumping up to check the soccer score.
On the plus side, in between shooting me dirty looks, Aunt Minna and Sofi kept muttering about how “skinny” I was.
The last time I’d been called skinny was, well, never. So frankly it felt rather nice. And indeed, compared to Minna and Sofi, I was a bit of a waif.
I was hoping the meal might perk up with dessert. Perhaps a little something from Polly’s House of Pies. A banana cream pie sure would go a long way to erase the memory of that yogurt pizza.
But alas, for dessert, Minna trotted out lukewarm tea and cookies the consistency of hockey pucks.
“You like?” she asked as I took my first nibble.
“Dee-lish,” I replied, trying not to chip a molar.
At last, the ghastly dinner ground to a halt, and I asked if I could help with the dishes.
“No,” Minna grunted. “You too clumsy.” She glared at a tiny stain on the tablecloth near my wine glass. “You spill wine.”
I certainly did not spill any wine. That spot, I can assure you, was there when I sat down, along with several other colorful specimens. But I was not about to argue with the woman. After all, she had just fed me dinner. True, it was a spectacularly awful dinner. But it was dinner nonetheless.
Instead, I put on my most gracious smile and said, “I’m so terribly sorry.”
