by Laura Levine
I casually strolled over and picked it up.
“Wow, this is fascinating,” I said. “You can see the springs and everything.”
“More coils to the inch,” Carlton said, still standing over me like a hawk. “That’s what we give you here at Mattress King.”
He flashed me another dazzler smile.
By now I could tell I was never going to get rid of this guy.
There was no way out of it. I’d simply have to try my heist at another branch.
“Thanks so much for your help,” I sighed. “I’ll think it over.”
“You leaving? So soon?” His eyes widened in surprise. I got the feeling very few customers, especially those of the female persuasion, were able to resist his charms. “Don’t you want to at least try one out?”
“Some other time,” I demurred.
“Take my card,” he said, thrusting his business card into my hand. “Come back and see me if you change your mind.”
“Will do,” I said with a feeble smile, then scurried out the door.
Back in my Corolla, I got out my cell phone and was just about to call Information for the address of the nearest Mattress King when I got an idea. One that just might work.
I fished out Carlton’s business card and punched in his number.
“Mattress King,” he answered. “Where every customer is king.”
“Hi,” I said, doing my best to disguise my voice, “I was in your store last week and saw a mattress I really liked. The Comfort Cloud.”
“Oh, yes, the Mercedes of mattresses.”
“Anyhow, I’ve decided to buy it, and I’m wondering if I can order it over the phone with my credit card.”
“Of course you can,” he said, his voice brimming with excitement. “What size did you want?”
“California King.”
“Wonderful!” he gushed. I could practically hear him calculating his commission. “Have you got your credit card number?”
“Yes, here it is. It’s a MasterCard 5466—oh, darn.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The doorbell’s ringing. Hold on just a sec while I get it, okay?”
“Of course,” he said. “Take your time.”
I did not take my time. Au contraire. I put the phone down on the car seat and hightailed it back into the store.
Carlton looked up, surprised to see me.
“You’re back,” he said, covering the mouthpiece.
“Yes, I changed my mind.”
“I’ll be right with you; I’m just writing up a sale.”
“No problem,” I said, trotting over to the mattress sample.
Then, bold as brass, I picked it up and trotted back to the front door.
“Hey!” Carlton shouted, jumping up. “Where are you going? You can’t take that with you!”
Wanna bet?
I was out of there in a flash.
For a brief second it looked like he was going to chase me, but in the end, he did what I thought he’d do. He stood there, holding on to the phone, unwilling to let the commission on a Comfort Cloud slip through his fingers.
Chapter 9
Back home, I barely had enough time to shower, dress, and scarf down my now ice-cold Sausage & Egg McMuffin. Then I grabbed my car keys and raced out the door, praying I wouldn’t be late for my meeting with Marvin.
But I needn’t have rushed.
“Marvin isn’t here,” his mousy receptionist informed me when I showed up at the store. “Mattress emergency at the main warehouse.” Waving toward a row of no-frills plastic chairs, she said, “Have a seat. He should be back soon. And help yourself to a donut while you’re waiting.”
I looked over and once more saw a box of Krispy Kremes nestled next to the Mr. Coffee machine. Marvin may have had lousy taste in trophy wives, but he sure knew what he was doing when it came to office snacks.
I was still a bit peckish after my hurried McMuffin. But I wasn’t about to stuff my face with empty calories. No siree. Not moi. Instead I took out my briefcase and began fine-tuning my slogans.
You’ll be happy to know I kept this up for a whole thirteen seconds.
After which I tossed aside my slogans and made a beeline for the donut box. I was just about to reach for a chocolate-glazed beauty when Ellen Cooper came out from her office.
“Hi, there,” Marvin’s ex-wife said, flashing me a friendly smile. What a difference from the last time I saw her, when she was shooting death ray looks at Bunny.
But now she had returned to her apple-cheeked, Norman Rockwell persona.
“You here to present your ideas to Marvin?” she asked, pouring herself some coffee.
“Yes.” I tried not to sound as nervous as I felt. “I hope he likes them.”
“I’m sure he will.” Then a wary look crept in her eyes. “You’re Bunny’s friend, aren’t you?”
“Oh, no,” I assured her. I didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that any friend of Bunny’s was an enemy of hers. “I just met her recently. Through my neighbor, Lance Venable. Bunny’s one of his most loyal customers at Neiman Marcus.”
“This month she is,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Bunny’s fickle.”
In more ways than one, I thought, remembering Bunny’s recent tryst with Owen at Casa Extravaganza.
“Poor Marvin,” she chirped merrily, as if reading my thoughts. “Sooner or later, Bunny’s bound to break his heart.” Then she added with a wink, “And it couldn’t happen to a more deserving fellow! Well, good luck with your ideas, sweetheart.”
Then she trotted back to her office, no doubt to stick pins in her Marvin and Bunny voodoo dolls.
Alone at last with the Krispy Kremes, I plucked my chocolate-glazed beauty from the box. Then I took a seat opposite the receptionist, whose name, according to the nameplate on her desk, was Amy Flannagan. She sat hunched over her computer, her bony fingers tapping away at her keyboard. How she could work so close to all those donuts without grabbing one was a mystery to me.
A mystery I pondered as I gulped mine down in record speed. The last thing I wanted was for Marvin to come back and find me sitting there with a mouthful of Krispy Kreme.
But as it turned out, Marvin didn’t show up for another three hours. By the time he finally puffed in at around 4 P.M., I’d scarfed down two more donuts, checked my phone messages sixteen times, and read the latest issue of Mattress Digest from cover to cover.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Jaine!” Marvin cried, catching sight of me.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I lied.
“Some idiot in the main warehouse set off the sprinkler system and I had to make sure all the mattresses were okay.”
“I totally understand,” I said, hoping I didn’t have donut crumbs in the corners of my mouth.
“Come on in,” he said, waving me into his office.
I trotted after him and took a seat in the froufrou antique chair across from his desk.
“So!” Marvin beamed. “Ready to pitch your ideas?”
“Absolutely!” I faked a confident smile. “But before I begin, I want to return this to you.”
With great pride, I handed him my purloined mattress sample.
“Oh, you didn’t have to return it,” he said, tossing it aside. “We’re getting a new shipment any day now.”
For crying out loud. Can you beat that? I’d just run myself ragged for nothing!
“Okay,” he said, getting down to business. “Whaddaya got?”
With sweaty palms, I reached for my slogans and was just about to begin my pitch when his intercom buzzed.
“Yes, Amy?” Marvin said, speaking into the box.
“Your wife is on line one, Mr. Cooper.”
“Sorry, Jaine.” He shrugged apologetically. “This won’t take very long.”
Oh, yes, it did.
I sat squirming in that damn excuse for a chair, my palms getting sweatier by the minute, as Marvin held the receiver to his ear, nodding his head, and peri
odically murmuring, “Yes, dear.”
In the background, I could hear Bunny barking orders to him.
At last, he managed to hang up.
“I’m so sorry, Jaine, but Bunny needs me at the house. She’s throwing a party tonight, and she wants me home early.”
“That’s okay,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’ll come back another time.”
“I know! Why don’t you stop by the party tonight, and you can pitch your ideas to me then?”
“Are you sure Bunny won’t mind?” I asked, not exactly relishing the thought of running into her again.
“Of course Bunny won’t mind,” he assured me. “At our house, the door is always open.”
If he only knew how open.
“So is it a date?” he asked.
“It’s a date,” I said, girding my loins for a fun-filled evening with Her Royal Bitchiness.
I stopped off at Lance’s place on my way back to my apartment to see if he was going to Bunny’s bash.
Indeed he was.
“How did you find out about it?” he asked, as his tiny fluffball of a dog, Mamie, covered my ankles with slobbery kisses.
Mamie, unlike a certain pampered feline I know, is one of the most affectionate pets on the planet. I knelt down to give her a love scratch.
“You are the cutest-wootest wittle thing in all the world.”
“I know I am,” Lance said, “but how did you find out about the party?”
“Marvin invited me.”
“That’s odd. Usually Bunny’s the one who hands out the invites.”
Then I told him about my endless afternoon at Mattress King.
“You went to pitch slogans looking like that?” he asked, eyeing my outfit with no small degree of disapproval.
“What on earth is wrong with what I’m wearing? This happens to be an Eileen Fisher blouse.”
“Did you know your Eileen Fisher blouse happens to have a blob of chocolate on it?”
I looked down and saw the aforementioned chocolate blob.
Damn those Krispy Kremes.
“Honestly, Jaine. For your next birthday, I’m buying you a bib.”
“And for your next birthday,” I said, in my frostiest tone of voice, “I’m buying you absolutely nothing.”
“Oh, don’t get all pissy,” he said, putting his arm around me. “I only nag you because I love you. And I’m thrilled you’re coming to the party. We can hang out together and count facelifts.”
“All right,” I sniffed, somewhat mollified.
“By the way,” he said as I started to go. “Some goofy-looking guy stopped by your apartment today. I heard him knocking on your door and calling out, ‘Jaine, my beloved!’”
Oh, groan. Not Vladimir.
With a sigh, I trudged back to my apartment, only to find a bouquet of wilted flowers lying on my front steps. At least these hadn’t been filched from Mrs. Hurlbut’s yard. I could see the Reduced for Clearance price sticker on the cellophane wrapping.
When I picked them up, I noticed an envelope underneath. Inside was a poem from Vladimir:
TO MY BELOVED JAINE
I think you are a girl most fab
Here’s fifty bucks to pay for cab
Sure enough, along with the poem, I found five ten-dollar bills to cover the cost of last night’s cab fare.
In spite of myself, I was touched by the gesture.
Chapter 10
“Lance! Sweetie!”
Bunny stood at the front door of Casa Extravaganza, in another boob-and-fanny-baring outfit.
“How wonderful to see you, hon!” she called out as he headed up the front path. “Now the party can officially begin.”
Then she caught sight of me trailing behind him.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Okay, so what she really said was, “I didn’t know you were coming, Jaine.”
“Marvin invited me.”
“Did he? How nice.”
That was spoken with all the enthusiasm of a hostess discovering a cockroach in her centerpiece. After which she turned her spray-tanned back to me and directed all her charms on Lance.
“It’s going to be such a wonderful party!” she gushed, leading him inside. “All the best people are here. I’m serving dirty martinis, and I’ve even hired a fortune-teller! I’ve got her reading palms in the den. What a hoot, huh? C’mon, honey. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
With that, she linked her arm through his and whisked him away, leaving me alone on the doorstep.
Lance shot me an apologetic look and shrugged helplessly, trapped in her vise-like grip.
I followed them into Casa Extravaganza’s cavernous living room and saw about a dozen of “the best people” milling around. The gals were anatomically correct Barbies, complete with surgically tightened faces, man-made boobs, and clothes so trendy they practically had expiration dates. Most of the men affected the Hip Hollywood Producer look: jeans and a T-shirt topped off with a blazer. Ponytail optional. Which works well for hip Hollywood producers, not so well for guys with paunches and hair plugs.
If these were the best people, somebody better alert the gang at Newport.
Joining in the festivities were Sarah and Owen, both fashion rebels in their L.L. Bean togs, Sarah scowling into her drink, and Owen still sporting his Mattress King baseball cap. I was beginning to wonder if it was welded to his scalp.
Much to my surprise I also spotted Ellen Cooper, chatting with a handsome, silver-haired guy near the patio.
And over by a fireplace big enough to park my Corolla in, Marvin was deep in conversation with one of the T-Shirt & Blazer guys. I would’ve liked nothing more than to pitch my ideas to him and make a quick escape, but I felt funny about interrupting his conversation. Instead I just stood in the midst of the chattering guests, the party’s designated wallflower.
So much for me and Lance hanging out together and counting facelifts. By now he was cozily ensconced on a sofa, sandwiched between Bunny and Fiona, no doubt engaged in heavy-duty fashion chat.
And then I saw a sight that warmed my heart—Lupe circulating with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
“Hey, Lupe!” I cried, weaving my way to her side. “How’s it going?”
“Fine, Ms. Jaine,” she replied, with a timid smile.
My eyes zeroed in on her tray and saw one lone rumaki, a plump bacon-wrapped beauty with my name on it.
Or so I thought.
Just as I was about to reach for it, one of the Barbies popped up out of nowhere and grabbed it. I told myself not to be bitter. It was probably her caloric intake for the week.
“I’ll be right back with some more,” Lupe said, scooting off.
Counting the minutes till her return, I made my way over to a bar on the far side of the room. I longed for the company of my friend Mr. Chardonnay, but I simply could not afford to get tootled before a presentation.
“I’ll have a ginger ale,” I said to the stunning actor manning the bar.
“I’m sorry, but all I’m serving are dirty martinis.”
And indeed, the only bottles of booze on the makeshift bar were gin and vermouth.
“Don’t you have anything else?”
“Afraid not.”
“Haven’t you heard, Jaine?” I turned to see Sarah at my side, waving a martini glass. “Dirty martinis are Bunny’s favorite drink. This week, anyway. And whatever Bunny wants, everybody wants.
“So if you don’t like dirty martinis,” she said, polishing hers off with impressive speed, “you’re out of luck. Although, actually, they’re pretty good.”
With that, she signaled the bartender for a refill.
“It’s good to see you again, Sarah,” I said, making a feeble stab at conversation.
“Wish I could say the same. Nothing personal, of course. It’s just that these parties are so damn awful.”
She glared at Bunny, who was now busy raking Lupe over the coals.
“I can’t drink this!” Bu
nny screeched, holding out her martini in disgust. “It’s not in my Marilyn Monroe glass!”
Lupe whipped the offending glass away.
“Go get me another one, in the right glass this time.”
“Yes, Ms. Bunny.”
“And don’t forget the olive.”
Next to me, Sarah made a gagging noise.
“The hostess with the mostest,” she sneered. “She has to invite fifty people to her parties to get twenty to show up. The only reason I make an appearance at these things is because Owen insists.”
Her gaze shifted to Owen, who had now taken Mr. T-Shirt & Blazer’s place at the fireplace with Marvin.
“Sometimes I wish he’d never started working for my father. We were a lot happier when he was teaching.”
“Owen used to be a teacher?” I blinked in surprise.
“Yes, he taught high school physics when I first met him. Now all he wants to do is talk mattresses and hang out with Dad.”
Marvin wasn’t the only in-law he wanted to hang out with, but I wasn’t about to give her that newsflash.
“Does your mother always show up at these things, too?” I asked, eyeing Ellen as she chatted with her silver-haired companion.
“Yep. Bunny invites Mom so she can gloat about the divorce. And Mom shows up so she can gloat about her hunky new boyfriend.”
He was a looker, all right. The kind of foxy AARPster you see drinking mai tais at sunset on cruise ship commercials. I couldn’t help wondering what an uber-handsome guy like him was doing with the frankly frumpy Ellen. Something told me the answer involved her bank account.
“Meet the Coopers,” Sarah sighed. “Just one big, happy, dysfunctional family.”
She grabbed a fresh martini from the bartender and took a deep swig.
“Well, nice talking to you, Jaine. You should go to the den and try Bunny’s fortune-teller.”
“Is she any good?”
“Not really, but at least you get to leave the party for a while.”
As she shuffled away on unsteady feet, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Maybe there was some truth, after all, in that old ditty about money not buying happiness.
But all clichéd musings flew from my brain at the sight of Lupe returning with a fresh tray of hors d’oeuvres.
