Pampered to Death

by Laura Levine

  “So fabulous to be here.” Mallory planted an air kiss somewhere in the general vicinity of Olga’s cheek. “Don’t worry about showing me to my suite. I can see you have your hands full with these two nobodies.”

  Okay, so she didn’t really call us nobodies, but I could tell that’s what she was thinking by the dismissive glance she’d shot in our direction.

  “I’ll have someone on your staff let me in,” she said to Olga. “But I just couldn’t check in without saying hello!”

  She paused to look around.

  “The place hasn’t changed a bit. That’s what I love about The Haven. Other spas are constantly making improvements, but The Haven stays the same year after year.” She paused to finger a frayed piece of mesh on one of the pool chairs. “That’s what makes it so charming.”

  Correct me if I’m wrong, but that was a bit of a dig, n’est-ce pas?

  “I’m so happy you approve,” Olga replied, icicles dripping from her voice.

  I’d sensed friendlier vibes at a shark tank.

  “Well, I’m off to my suite,” Mallory chirped. “Send up an order of fresh mangoes, will you, hon? I’ve got the munchies.”

  And away she sailed, high heels clacking on the flagstones.

  Cathy stared after her, slack-jawed.

  “Omigosh!” she gasped. “I can’t believe I get to spend a whole week with Mallory Francis!”

  “Me, neither,” Olga said with a weary sigh. “Me, neither.”

  The next stop on our itinerary was the Spa Therapy Center.

  A squat box of a building, clearly built decades after the main house, it held a rabbit warren of massage rooms, separated down the middle by a narrow corridor. At one end of the corridor sat a large urn, which was where, according to Olga, The Haven’s special muscle-relaxing tea—imported all the way from Tibet—was served daily.

  Olga showed me one of the massage rooms, a no-frills affair featuring a massage table, supply cabinet, and—over in the corner of the room—a large metal vat. At first I thought it might be some kind of high-tech hamper.

  But then Olga said, “That’s where we keep the seaweed for our detoxifying seaweed wraps.”

  “Seaweed wraps?”

  The only wraps I knew involved lunch meat and pita bread.

  “They suck up all the nasty toxins from your body. Most ordinary spas use a paste for their seaweed wraps. But here at The Haven we add real seaweed for extra detoxification.”

  With that, she lifted the lid and hauled out an enormous piece of bull kelp, the kind you see strung along the shoreline after a storm, usually buzzing with sand flies.

  “It’s been thoroughly sterilized,” Olga assured me, “and preserved in a protein-enriched brine. You can’t imagine how wonderful it feels to be wrapped up with one of these babies for forty-five minutes.”

  Now I’m as fond of a dip in the ocean as the next guy (so long as the next guy isn’t the captain of the Titanic), but the last thing I wanted was to get up close and personal with a piece of algae.

  But I nodded as if I actually believed her.

  “Okay,” she said, returning the kelp to its brine, “now it’s time for a tour of the kitchen.”

  At last, she was talking my language.

  Chapter 3

  The Haven’s gourmet chef turned out to be a gawky teenager named Kevin. He was busy chopping vegetables when Olga and I showed up in the kitchen, a huge outdated affair whose fixtures looked like they’d been installed sometime in the Coolidge administration.

  “I’m between chefs right now,” Olga explained, “and Kevin has been helping me out after school. He’s really marvelously talented.”

  “With the experience I gain here,” he told me solemnly from beneath a mop of unruly bangs, “I hope someday to get a job at Applebee’s.”

  So much for gourmet dining.

  But I didn’t mind. At home, my idea of fine dining is adding Dijon mustard to my Quarter Pounder, so I was certainly up for some simple fare. A T-bone smothered in A1 Steak Sauce would suit me just fine.

  “Mallory Francis and her people showed up a little while ago,” Kevin said.

  “I know,” Olga sighed.

  “I took them to their rooms.” He hacked away at some cilantro. “Mallory stiffed me on the tip.”

  “What a surprise,” Olga muttered.

  “And she wants mangoes for dessert tonight. She said to be sure they’re fresh.”

  “I’ll bet she did,” Olga said, a tiny vein beginning to throb in her forehead.

  She reached for a big bottle of pills on the large pine island that dominated the kitchen.

  “Vitamins,” she said, popping two of them in her mouth. “Have to keep up my energy.”

  Meanwhile, I was busy sniffing the room for any signs of dinner in the oven. But all I could smell was that damn cilantro. Oh, well. Maybe there were steaks marinating in the fridge. Or chicken breasts smothered in barbeque sauce. Or perhaps a nice cheesy lasagna, just waiting to be popped in the oven—

  My food fantasies were interrupted when Olga thrust a piece of paper in my hand.

  “Here’s a copy of tonight’s menu.”

  Now my heart didn’t actually stop when I read that menu, but it came pretty darn close. Quel nightmare. A depressing 300-calorie affair, it featured fresh garden salad, vegetable medley, and two words that sent my taste buds running for cover—steamed fish.

  What can I say? Unless it’s lobster, dripping with butter, I am not a fish fan. And steamed fish? That meant no outside crispy stuff. Just inside fishy stuff.

  Yuck.

  “Um, Olga,” I said, when I finally managed to regain my powers of speech, “I think there’s been a bit of a mistake here.”

  “What’s wrong? Did I misspell medley again?”

  “No, no. I’m here for the regular menu. The one with the steaks and pasta.”

  “Steaks and pasta?” Olga laughed gaily. “There are no steaks and pasta, Jaine. Didn’t you know? The Haven is a strict diet retreat. All our guests get 900 low-carb calories a day.”

  I most certainly did not know this joint was a diet place. Au contraire, Lance had been raving up his wazoo about what divine food they had. If I’d had any idea that I’d be giving up edible food for the next week, I would never have agreed to come.

  I mean, why on earth would I want to hang out at a place that did not believe in the dessert fairy?

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but you’re just going to have to issue my friend a refund. I’m checking out.

  “No can do,” Olga replied, her Valkyrie arms clamped firmly across her chest. “We don’t issue refunds here at The Haven.

  Oh, crud. This place must have cost Lance a small fortune. I couldn’t let all that money go to waste. The least I could do was stick it out for a few days.

  And so, in a moment to be filed in my Worst Decisions Ever department, I said:

  “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

  Back at my room, I found Prozac stretched out on the patio flagstones, soaking up the sun.

  “Horrible news, Pro,” I moaned, slumping down on the chaise next to her. “The Haven is a 900-calorie-a-day diet spa! How on earth am I going to live on nine hundred itsy bitsy calories a day?”

  She looked up at me in that comforting way of hers, as if to say:

  You could start by giving me a belly rub.

  “Nine hundred calories! Most of them from smelly green stuff.”

  And while you’re at it, could you scratch me behind my ears?

  “That’s a whole week without the three basic food groups: chocolate, pizza, and Chunky Monkey.”

  I don’t feel you scratching.

  “My God, Pro. Don’t you see what this means? I’m in diet hell.”

  She peered at me through slitted eyes.

  Aw, quit your beefing. If you ask me, this place is heaven. Why can’t we have a patio like this at home?

  At which point, my pity party was interrupted by a knock on my door. Weari
ly, I dredged myself out of the chaise and went to get it.

  I opened the door to find Olga standing there, with what looked like a fishing rod in one hand and an oversized hamster wheel in the other.

  “Your cat’s too fat,” she announced without preamble.

  Out on the patio, Prozac looked up in surprise.

  Surely she can’t mean moi?

  “She needs to work out. So I brought her some exercise equipment.

  “This,” Olga said, dropping the oversized hamster wheel on the carpet, “is a kitty treadmill. And this”—she waved the fishing rod, which I now saw had some fake feathers hanging from it—“is a Whirly Bird.”

  If you squinted really hard and were standing in the next county, the feathers on the fishing rod vaguely resembled a bird.

  “Yes,” she said, “we’ll whittle those ugly pounds off the two of you in no time.”

  Someone certainly flunked out of Tact 101.

  Olga marched out to the patio and, scooping Prozac into her arms, brought her back inside.

  Prozac bristled with annoyance.

  Hey wait a minute. I was in the middle of a very important nap!

  Then she wriggled free from Olga’s grasp and jumped to the floor, heading back out to the patio.

  But Olga quickly shut the patio door, closing off her escape route, and began waving the Whirly Bird.

  “Watch,” she said. “She’ll think it’s a bird and go chasing after it.”

  As if.

  Prozac took one look at that thing in action and practically rolled her eyes in disbelief.

  Lady, you gotta be kidding. If that’s a bird, I’m an Airedale.

  With that, she plopped down on the carpet and began an intense perusal of her genitals.

  “That’s funny,” Olga mused. “Most cats go crazy over the Whirly Bird.”

  “Prozac’s not like most cats.”

  “So I see. A little slow, is she?”

  Honestly, sometimes I swear Prozac understands English. She actually tore herself away from her genitals long enough to give Olga a most unfriendly hiss.

  I can’t say I blamed her.

  “Prozac is not the least bit slow,” I said, leaping to my pampered princess’s defense. “She happens to be smarter than many people I know.”

  Several of whom, I might add, are currently serving in Congress.

  “Well, let’s try the kitty treadmill,” Olga chirped, her enthusiasm undampened.

  Snatching Prozac from her genital exam, she deposited her on the treadmill.

  It was a lot like the exercise wheels you see in hamster cages, only instead of wire, the track was solid wood.

  “Now we’ll just tempt her with a dietetic kitty treat.” Olga pulled out a small can of something called Cardio Cat Nips and placed a few on the treadmill. “Made with no artificial colors, no artificial flavors, no artificial preservatives.”

  “Actually,” I pointed out, “those happen to be three of her favorite things.”

  Prozac, who has been known to nosh on unwashed gym socks, sniffed at the Cardio Nips in disgust, and then curled up on the treadmill to resume her perusal of her privates.

  “She’ll get the hang of it,” Olga said. “You’ve just got to be firm with her.” And then, her voice dripping with disapproval, she added, “She didn’t get this fat without an enabler.”

  Of all the nerve. By now, I felt like hissing at her myself.

  “I almost forgot!” Olga said. “Her cat food.”

  She trotted out to the hallway and carted in a basket of canned cat food.

  “It’s a low cal, low fat, vitamin-enriched, hairball control formula with special enzymes to promote healthy digestion.”

  Prozac eyed it warily as Olga popped the pull tab and held it under her nose.

  This was the last straw.

  One sniff and Prozac bolted across the room to hide under the bed.

  Never had I seen her so freaked. This is a cat who never hides under the bed. Not even during an earthquake.

  “A lot of cats don’t like it at first,” Olga said. “But she’ll get used to it in no time. Especially,” she sneered, “when there’s nothing else to eat.”

  Then, smiling what I considered a most sadistic smile, she headed for the door.

  Good heavens. The woman was a regular Diet Nazi. The minute she was gone, Prozac poked her head out from under the dust ruffle, and stared up at me with frantic green eyes.

  We gotta break outta this dump!

  Chapter 4

  I headed over to the lounge for cocktail hour, praying that actual cocktails would be served. If not cocktails, a simple glass of wine. Surely Olga could spare a hundred or so calories on some chardonnay.

  Not bloody likely.

  The cocktail Olga thrust into my hand when I showed up was a puke green concoction called a celery fizz. (Half celery juice, half club soda, and a sprig of arugula—for those of you masochistic enough to try it.)

  “Bottoms up,” Olga commanded.

  Good heavens. The woman actually expected me to drink it.

  I took a tentative sip, prompting my taste buds to recoil in horror.

  I do not exaggerate when I say the stuff tasted like carbonated lawn clippings. (Not that I’ve ever tasted lawn clippings, but they can’t possibly be worse than that ghastly celery fizz.)

  I thought about tossing it into a nearby potted palm when Olga wasn’t looking, but I was afraid it might kill the palm.

  “Let me introduce you to everyone,” Olga said as she ushered me into the lounge, where overstuffed armchairs and sofas shrouded in shabby chic slipcovers were scattered about like huge chintz mushrooms. Cathy, the pale blonde I’d met at the pool, was sitting in one of the chairs near the fireplace watching a rather anemic fire as it sputtered to stay alive.

  “Hi, Jaine!” she said, catching sight of me.

  I waved hello as Olga led me past her to meet two more fellow inmates who were sitting together on a loveseat.

  “Jaine, meet Harvy, Mallory Francis’s personal hair stylist.”

  A reed thin guy clad in fashionably wrinkled linen beamed me a dazzling smile.

  “Love your hair, sweetheart,” he said, eyeing my mop of unruly curls. “It’s so Nouveau Harpo Marx.”

  I suspected that was a bit of a slam, but I decided to take the high road and smiled anyway.

  “And this,”—Olga nodded at the woman sitting next to Harvy, a dour gal with wire-rimmed glasses and what I would soon discover was a permanent scowl—“is Kendra, Mallory’s personal assistant.”

  Kendra grunted a curt hello, her lips puckered in a sour expression. But that, of course, might have been due to the celery fizz.

  “Come sit by me, Jaine,” Cathy beckoned from across the room, patting the armchair next to her.

  Sensing Kendra was not enamored of my company, I took Cathy up on her offer, and trotted over to join her.

  “We’re closer to the snacks over here,” Cathy whispered as I sat down next to her.

  The snacks to which she referred, set out on a coffee table in front of us, were a depressing collection of carrot and celery sticks, garnished with some carelessly washed radishes.

  “This is going to be a lot harder than I thought,” Cathy said, picking up a celery stick with a sigh. “But it’s all going to be worth it in the end. I intend to drop at least five pounds while I’m here. Gosh, I still can’t believe I’m actually staying at The Haven.”

  “It’s unbelievable, all right,” I muttered.

  “I thought I’d die when I realized Mallory Francis was here, too. I see her all the time at work.”

  “You work for her, too?” I blinked, puzzled.

  “Oh, I don’t see her in person. I see her picture in the tabloids. I’m a supermarket checker—which isn’t easy, I can tell you. Standing next to those candy bar racks all day, it’s no wonder I’ve put on a few pounds over the years. Sometimes I think of chucking it all and going into cosmetology, but I can’t risk losing
my pension. Oh, well. Only twelve more years till retirement, but who’s counting. Haha. So what kind of work do you do, Jaine?”

  It took me a while to realize she’d actually taken time out from her bio to ask me a question.

  “Me? I’m a writer.”

  “A writer? Omigosh! First a TV movie star. And now, a writer! What books have you written?”

  I was about to tell her I was not a novelist but a freelance copywriter and as such the only book I’d ever written was a stirring opus for Toiletmasters Plumbers called You and Your Septic Tank. But I never did get a chance to break the disappointing news, because just then Mallory Francis made her grand entrance.

  And I do mean grand.

  “Sorry I’m late, everybody,” she crooned from the doorway.

  All eyes were riveted on her as she came sailing into the room on legs that wouldn’t quit, her tawny mane of sun-streaked hair billowing out behind her.

  My God, the woman was a walking Victoria’s Secret commercial.

  Perched in the crook of her arm was her petulant Peke.

  “Say hello to everyone, Armani.” Mallory prompted.

  Armani gave an angry yip, eyeing us with the imperious air of a dog who’d been a third world despot in a former life.

  Both Mallory and the Peke wore matching turquoise T-shirts, emblazoned with rhinestone lettering that said Danger. High Maintenance.

  “Olga, honey!” Mallory said, catching sight of our genial hostess.

  Once again, I sensed tension in the air.

  “You know I hate to complain—”

  Behind her back I could see Kendra rolling her eyes.

  “—but my towels are just the weensiest bit threadbare. I need some new ones ASAP. You know the kind I like.”

  “Yes,” Olga said, a nasty glint in her eye, “so fluffy you can hardly close your suitcase.”

  “Ha ha ha!” Mallory didn’t even try to make it sound like a laugh. “That’s what I love about you, Olga, you’re so very amusing.”

  Then she narrowed her eyes and added, “I see you still haven’t called that plastic surgeon I told you about. You really ought to, hon. The man’s a positive miracle worker. Not that I’ve ever been to him myself.”