by Laura Levine
“Nice to meet you,” Miles said, reaching out to shake my hand.
“Watch out for chocolate!” Bebe warned. “She’s covered in it. The woman’s a total mess.”
“Don’t mind Bebe,” Miles said to me. “Good manners aren’t her strong suit.”
Bebe whirled on him, fire in her eyes.
“Well, excuse me. Sorry if my manners aren’t up to snuff. I didn’t get a chance to work on them while my house was being bombed in Bosnia. Or when my family came to America with nothing but the clothes on our backs, our valuables sewn into the lining of my mom’s coat. Or when I worked my tail off building my business into what it is today.”
“Don’t blow a gasket, Bebe,” Miles said with a sigh.
But Mount Bebe was still erupting.
“Good manners don’t pay the bills. I do. And don’t you forget it, mister!”
“No worries about that,” he said bitterly. “You never let me forget who wears the pants around here.”
Yikes. This was a marriage in serious need of counseling.
“When you’re through hanging up those dresses,” Bebe snapped, “get started on dinner. And don’t overcook the pork chops like you did last time.”
“Your wish is my command,” Miles said, his voice dripping sarcasm.
“Remember,” Bebe barreled on, oblivious to his snark. “Not too much olive oil in the salad dressing, absolutely no garlic, no onions, no salt—Omigod, Lacey! How wonderful to see you!”
Dinner prep suddenly forgotten, Bebe was beaming at a gorgeous young thing standing in the doorway.
I recognized the gorgeous young thing right away. It was Lacey Hunt, an up-and-coming movie star whose latest release had garnered rave reviews and an adoring audience. With her red hair, green eyes, and splash of freckles across her pert little nose, Lacey had the kind of innocent girl next door look so appealing to the much sought after 18 to 24 horny young guy demographic.
“Lacey, darling!” Bebe cooed. “Come in.”
“Hope I’m not too early for my fitting,” Lacey said with a shy smile.
“No, of course not. The others were just leaving.”
Then she turned to us, shouting, “Everybody out! Now!”
I was only too happy to oblige, scooting out the door with Heidi and Miles.
As far as I was concerned, my makeover was history.
No way was I about to join the wretched ranks of Team Bebe.
Chapter 2
As Miles shuffled off to the kitchen to get started on his de-flavorized pork chops, Heidi took my arm in hers.
“Let’s go to my office and pick out a hair style.”
“I don’t think so,” I demurred. “I can’t go through with this makeover. To be perfectly honest, I hate Bebe.”
“Don’t let that stop you. Everybody does. And besides, I was so looking forward to working with your hair. I love your curls!”
I was flattered that she liked my curls, given that I’d spent half my life trying to tame them into submission.
“C’mon,” Heidi urged. “It’ll be fun.”
What the heck? I figured it couldn’t hurt to look at a few hair styles.
Heidi led me to her tiny cell of an office, furnished with only a desk and folding metal chairs. Above the desk was a framed poster of Bebe in designer togs, her hair extensions fanning out behind her, no doubt powered by an unseen wind machine.
“That thing is bolted to the wall,” Heidi said, following my gaze. “Impossible to take down. And believe me, I’ve tried.
“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to one of the metal chairs as she eased her tush onto the other.
“Is Bebe always this bad?” I asked.
“Actually, today’s one of her good days.”
“You’re kidding! How do you stand it?”
“Daily affirmations and fistfuls of Valium.”
“Have you ever thought of looking for another job?”
“All the time. In fact, just last week I was offered a terrific studio job, working on an A-list movie. It’s a dream come true. I begged Bebe to let me out of my contract, but she won’t let me go.”
“You’re under contract to her?”
“Ironclad,” Heidi sighed. “Two years ago, when Bebe offered me the job, I was struggling to pay my rent. So when she dangled a five-year contract in front of me, I jumped to sign it. The pay wasn’t great, but I was thrilled to have job security. Little did I know that Bebe wanted to lock me into a contract because no other hair and makeup artist in town would work with her.
“So here I am, stuck with Queen Bebe. In lieu of decent pay, she gives all her employees these stupid bomber jackets and expects us to be over the moon with joy.”
With that, she shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it on the back of her chair.
“And every time I hear her yap about how she came to this country as a kid with nothing but the clothes on her back, I want to upchuck. Lord only knows how many people she trampled on her way to the top.
“But enough about Bebe,” she said with a grin. “Let’s look at some hair styles.”
Heidi downloaded a picture of me from my cell phone onto a special software program on her laptop that let us magically see how I was going to look in any given hair style. We spent a highly enjoyable fifteen minutes or so checking out hair styles until we found one we both loved—a shoulder-length bob with beachy waves.
I floated out of Heidi’s office on Cloud Nine, imagining myself in my new blue cashmere sweater and beachy hairdo, when I suddenly remembered something that sent me plummeting back down to earth:
My CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-shirt!
What if Justin had followed Bebe’s orders and burned it? What if my treasured tee was nothing but a heap of ashes?
I had to find him—and fast!
* * *
Fortunately, Justin’s office was right next to Heidi’s, another sparsely furnished cell with a poster of Bebe above his desk. He was working on his laptop when I came charging into the room.
Thank heavens I didn’t smell burnt polyester.
“Where’s my T-shirt?” I blurted out.
He looked up at me with his luminous brown eyes, and for a minute, I got sidetracked by how cute he was.
But then I forced myself back to the topic at hand.
“You didn’t burn it, did you?”
“Nope, I didn’t burn it.”
That was the good news.
Then the bad news came skipping out from where it had been waiting in the wings.
“I gave it to Felipe, the gardener.”
“You did what?”
“Bebe would’ve killed me if she found out I’d returned it to you. So I gave it to Felipe. He said something about using it as a rag to clean his lawnmower.”
“A rag? To clean his lawnmower?” I blanched in horror.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how much the shirt meant to you. He’s already left for the day, but I’ll call him right now.”
He made a quick call to Felipe, who, in a blessed stroke of good luck, had not yet doused my T-shirt in WD-40. Even better, Felipe promised to hold it for me until I stopped by to get it.
I was weak with relief as Justin gave me Felipe’s address.
My beloved T-shirt had been saved!
“I feel so bad about this,” Justin said, awash in guilt.
“That’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay. Let me make it up to you by taking you out.”
This accompanied by a most appealing flash of his dimple.
“Out? Like on a date?”
“Yes. On a date.”
Yikes. This cutie patootie, at least ten years younger than me, was asking me out. I must admit I was a tad stunned. I’d just assumed that, with his taut trim bod, job in the fashion industry, and dimple that broke the needle on the adorable-o-meter, Justin was of the gay persuasion.
Apparently I’d assumed wrong.
“So how about it?” Justin asked.
Absolutely not. No way. He was far too young for me. I had to ignore the sparkies igniting my day-of-the-week undies and just say no.
“Sounds great,” were the words that actually tumbled out of my mouth.
Clearly I’ve got tapioca where my spine should be.
But who cared if I was a spineless wonder? I had a date with a world-class hottie!
I bid adieu to Justin and headed out to my Corolla, thinking that, between my date with Justin and my beachy new hairdo, maybe this makeover thing would be worth it, after all.
And back I climbed onto Cloud Nine.
Chapter 3
Back home, I found Prozac at her perch on the windowsill, hissing at full throttle.
“Prozac, stop making such a racket over a silly squirrel!”
She turned from the window to glare at me.
I refuse to be silenced—not when the evil alien from the Planet Acorn is plotting world domination!
“For crying out loud, Pro, he’s just eating a bagel.”
Indeed the squirrel had somehow nabbed a poppy-seed bagel and was nibbling at it with gusto.
Another glare from Prozac.
Today a bagel, tomorrow the world!
Actually, that bagel looked darn tasty. I was tempted to grab one of my own cinnamon raisin bagels to snack on, but then I reminded myself I needed to stay fit and trim for my date with Justin.
No, there would be no bagels in my future.
And I stuck to my word. You’ll be proud to know I did not grab a bagel.
Instead I grabbed a pint of Chunky Monkey.
What can I say? I’m nothing if not an unreliable narrator.
I was sitting on the sofa, spooning Chunky Monkey straight from the carton, thinking about Justin’s amazing dimple, when Lance showed up.
“So how’d it go with Bebe?” he asked, zipping past my living room to my kitchen. Seconds later, he returned with a spoon and joined me on the sofa, digging into my Chunky Monkey without a single “may I?”
Oh, well. Better on his hips, where they would soon be burned off at the gym, than on mine, where they would undoubtedly live happily ever after.
“What’s up with Prozac?” he asked, as my fractious furball continued her nonstop hissing.
“She’s obsessed with a squirrel that’s been hanging around the duplex lately, convinced he’s evil incarnate.”
“Can’t you get her to be quiet?”
“I tried, but it’s impossible. Trust me. Nothing will shut her up.”
Lance turned and shot Prozac a stern look.
“Prozac, be quiet. You’re getting on Uncle Lance’s nerves.”
And just like that, she stopped hissing and came trotting over to the sofa, where she bounded on Lance’s lap, batting her big green eyes.
Belly rub, please.
How very annoying. That cat listens to anyone but me.
“So?” Lance asked. “How was Bebe?”
“Awful. Just awful. Rude, arrogant, and downright insulting.”
“Funny,” Lance simpered, “she’s always been wonderful to me. I remember the first time she came to Neiman’s and her regular salesman, Sven, was away on vacation. I helped her out, and she was so gaga over me, she dumped Sven in a flash. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven either one of us.
“People always seem to like me. Cats, too,” he added as Prozac purred in his lap. “I’m charismatic. Everyone says so. And you, dear sweet cantankerous Jaine, I’m afraid you’re just not a people person.”
I refrained from asking why, if he was such a charismatic people person, he was still single.
“What did you think of Justin, Bebe’s personal assistant?” Lance asked. “A dreamboat, huh? I’ve been thinking of asking him out.”
“Forget it, Lance. Wrong team.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s not gay.”
“Don’t be silly. Nobody that cute could possibly be straight.”
“That’s what I thought at first, but he asked me out.”
“You?” he gasped, blinking in disbelief. “That’s impossible.”
You would’ve thought I’d just told him Ryan Gosling was dating the bearded lady at the circus.
“For your information, Lance, cute guys have been known to ask me out.”
“But he’s way too young for you.”
“How come he’s the right age for you but too young for me?”
“Because you’re a woman. Everyone knows a thirtysomething woman is fiftysomething in man years.”
What utter bilge. I was sorely tempted to bonk him over the head with my spoon, but I needed it to shove ice cream in my mouth.
“Be careful, hon,” Lance blathered on. “Lots of young guys dating older women are looking for a sugar mama. Someone to take them to fancy dinners and buy them expensive gifts.”
“That’s crazy. Justin’s way too nice to be a gold digger.”
“Dear, sweet, cantankerous, innocent Jaine. All gold diggers seem nice. It’s part of their charm. Whatever you do, don’t give him money.
“Oops. Gotta run or I’ll be late for yoga.” he said, nabbing a final scoop of Chunky Monkey before dashing out the door.
I gritted my teeth in annoyance. The nerve of that guy, thinking Justin was a gold digger.
The whole notion was absurd.
But then, as I scraped the bottom of the Chunky Monkey carton for stray banana chunks, doubts began to creep into my mind.
Justin was awfully young—and awfully cute. Why was he interested in a thirtysomething woman in elastic-waist pants and a chocolate-stained bra?
What if Lance was right and Justin was after me for the money I didn’t have? What if he was only looking for a sugar mama?
And just like that, I came tumbling down off Cloud Nine.
I swear, that place is harder to stay on than a diet.
You’ve Got Mail
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Exciting news!
Exciting news, darling! The opera is coming to Tampa Vistas! Lydia Pinkus, our ever-resourceful homeowners association president, has arranged for the famed Tampa Bay Opera Company to perform a series of operas right here in the Tampa Vistas clubhouse!
Needless to say, Daddy refuses to go. He claims all that singing gives him a headache. But the real reason he doesn’t want to go is Lydia. Anything Lydia organizes, he boycotts. I don’t understand what he’s got against the poor woman, who devotes so much time and energy to broadening our cultural horizons.
And speaking of culture, we’re reading Tolstoy’s masterpiece, War and Peace, for our women’s book club. At least I’m guessing it’s a masterpiece. Confidentially, I’m finding it quite a challenge. All those Russian names sound alike to me and I can’t seem to get through three pages without falling asleep.
I only hope I’ll be able to finish it in time for the meeting. Which, by the way, I’m hosting. I can’t decide what to serve for dessert. So far, it’s a toss-up between apple crumble and whipped cream fruit parfait.
Must run, sweetheart. Daddy just came home, and he’s making a ruckus about something.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Fasten Your Seat Belt!
Fasten your seat belt, Lambchop! You’re not going to believe what just happened. I was driving home from the supermarket—the same supermarket, by the way, where I once saw Meryl Streep thumping cantaloupes—when I tuned into Doctor Denise, one of those radio shrink call-in shows. I wasn’t paying much attention until I heard a woman come on the line telling Dr. Denise she was having an affair with a married man.
I was so shocked, I almost swerved into a lamppost. Because the adulterous woman was none other than Lydia Pinkus! I’d recognize The Battle-Axe’s grating voice anywhere.
Oh, glorious day! So Ms. High and Mighty Know It All has feet of clay.
As president of the homeowners association,
she’s an absolute tyrant—Stalin in support hose! This is the woman who banned my “Who Farted?” T-shirt from the clubhouse, who fined Nick Roulakis for painting his house the wrong shade of beige, who shows artsy-fartsy foreign movies with subtitles on Movie Night, and is constantly thinking of ways to torture us with her mind-numbing cultural activities.
Sooner or later (with a little help from me) her affair is bound to become common knowledge.
I can’t wait to see her fall from grace!
Love’n hugs from your ecstatic,
Daddy
PS. Speaking of mind-numbing cultural activities, your mom expects me to go to some stupid opera series Lydia has organized. No way! I hate operas. They never make sense. Any time someone gets stabbed, instead of bleeding, they sing!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Round the Bend
Oh, for heaven’s sakes. Your daddy has gone totally round the bend. He swears he just heard Lydia Pinkus on the radio, confessing to Dr. Denise that she’s having an affair with a married man. Can you believe it? Lydia Pinkus, the moral backbone of Tampa Vistas, having an adulterous affair? I’ve never heard of anything so preposterous!
If you ask me, Daddy’s the one who could use a little help from Dr. Denise.
XOXO
Mom
Chapter 4
The next morning dawned bright and cheery. Very cheery indeed.
In a miraculous turn of events, Prozac seemed to have lost all interest in the evil alien from Planet Acorn.
After a hearty breakfast of minced mackerel guts, she did not resume her perch on the windowsill. Instead she hopped on the sofa to give herself a thorough gynecological exam—totally ignoring the squirrel who was busy burying an orange under my neighbor’s azalea bush.