Killing Bridezilla

by Laura Levine

  Lots of love from your poor neglected,

  Daddy

  Chapter 4

  I suppose I should be grateful that my parents are leading active lives in their retirement years. And I am. But I’d be a lot more grateful if they weren’t such crazymakers.

  When I say “they” I refer, of course, to Daddy. He’s the prime crazymaker in our family, with Mom a pale sidekick in their white knuckle escapades.

  Mom is not without her own quirks, however. She was the one who insisted on moving three thousand miles away from a perfectly lovely house in Hermosa Beach—all the way to Tampa Vistas, Florida—so she could be close to the Home Shopping Channel. I tried to explain that she wouldn’t get her packages any faster that way, but my explanations fell on deaf ears. Besides, she said, it would be “fun” living in such close proximity to her favorite shopping channel hosts.

  But it’s Daddy who holds the World Champion Crazymaker title. He has single-handedly driven more people to distraction than telemarketing, control top panty hose, and Hare Krishnas combined. I had no doubt that Mom’s relationship with Roberto had been as innocent as a Hallmark special. But I knew it was just a matter of time before Daddy turned this molehill into a Himalayan-sized headache. Sooner or later, somebody’s blood pressure would go soaring. (And by “somebody,” of course, I meant me.)

  But that morning my parents were small potatoes in my supermarket cart of woes, overshadowed by my desperate need to come up with a “fiancé” for Patti’s wedding.

  Which is why, right after breakfast, I started thumbing through the Yellow Pages under “Escort Services.”

  I would’ve had an easy time of it if I’d been in the market for “a beautiful girl at my door guaranteed.” When it came to escorts, the Yellow Pages was definitely not an equal opportunity supplier. All they had to offer were hot times with pouty-lipped nymphettes named Desiree and Angelique.

  So I toddled over to my computer and tried my luck with Google. Unfortunately, when I typed in “Male Escorts,” the friendly folks at Google assumed I was an amorous stud looking to wine and dine my inamorata with dinner and a Judy Garland retrospective.

  It took several clicks before I finally found what I was looking for. An outfit called Miss Emily’s Escort Service. Miss Emily, according to her Web site, promised to deliver The Perfect Gentleman for the Discriminating Woman.

  I eagerly jotted down Miss Emily’s address and phone number and was just about to call her when the phone rang.

  “Hey, Jaine.” Patti’s voice came on the line. “I read your script—”

  My stomach sank. I just knew Ms. Difficult was going to hate it.

  “—and I really liked what you wrote.”

  Well, mea culpa. I’d misjudged the dear woman. She was obviously a discerning connoisseur of fine writing.

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s really nice. But I’ve decided to go in a different direction.”

  My stomach headed south again.

  “You want a rewrite?”

  “Just a little noodling.”

  For those of you nonwriters out there, the precise English definition of “noodling” is: Back to Square One, Sweetie.

  “Come by the house and I’ll explain what I want.”

  “Can’t you tell me over the phone?”

  “I could, but then you wouldn’t have to drive halfway across town in Los Angeles traffic. What fun is that?”

  Okay, so what she really said was, “I’d rather tell you in person.” But I knew how Patti operated.

  “Can you be here in twenty minutes?”

  Only if I was Superman.

  I told her I’d try my best, then hung up, muttering a string of curses.

  “That woman has to be the most self-centered creature west of the La Brea Tar Pits.”

  Prozac looked up, affronted, from where she was lolling on my new cashmere sweater.

  “Aside from you, of course, darling.”

  It must’ve been the maid’s day off, because Patti’s mom answered the door when I showed up at their house. A trim, surgically tightened blonde in white capris and a cleavage-exposing sweater, she had Patti’s long-limbed figure and cold gray eyes. And her same charming manners.

  “You with the cleaning crew?” she said, eyeing me with disdain. “Use the back entrance.”

  She was just about the slam the door in my face when I piped up, “I’m not with the cleaning crew. I’m Patti’s writer, Jaine Austen. We went to school together.”

  She looked me up and down, still not terribly impressed. And then her face lit up with recognition.

  “Wait a minute. Aren’t you the one who fell into Principal Seawright’s lap at the prom? Patti told me all about it. What a hilarious story.”

  I’m glad one of us thought so.

  “C’mon, I’ll take you to Patti.”

  We trooped through her House Beautiful to a sunroom in the back, and then out the French doors onto the patio.

  Patti was seated at a wrought iron table with an attractive dark-haired woman, a plate of hors d’oeuvres between them. She bit into what looked like a yummy baby lamb chop and chewed it thoughtfully.

  “It’s nice, Veronica,” she said. “But a bit too lamb-y.”

  “Patti, dear,” her mother interrupted. “Your writer friend is here.”

  Patti looked up and frowned.

  “Mom, are you wearing my sweater?”

  “Yes, honey. I borrowed it. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course I mind. You know I hate when you borrow my stuff without asking. You’re getting it all stretched out with those silicone mountains of yours.”

  “Don’t be silly, sweetie,” her mom said, just a little too brightly. “My bust is the exact same size as yours.”

  She was right about that. They probably got a two-for-one special at the plastic surgeon’s.

  “Patti and I are the same size,” she said to me with no small amount of pride. “People are always mistaking us for sisters.”

  “Only the ones who can’t see the scars behind your ears,” Patti sneered.

  At that, her mom’s face clouded over, and with jaw tightly clenched, she spun around and headed back to the house, her heels clacking angrily on the patio flagstones. Clearly there was not a heck of a lot of love lost in this mother–daughter relationship.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute, Jaine,” Patti said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “As soon as I’m finished with the caterer.”

  I cooled my heels as she bit into a scrumptious-looking shrimp concoction, which she pronounced “too fishy.” She worked her way through the rest of the hors d’oeuvres (I was so glad I’d busted a gut racing over), finding fault with most of them.

  With each bite she took, the caterer’s smile grew stiffer.

  At last, Patti was through and the poor caterer got up to go.

  “You remember everything I want?” Patti asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said, her smile now so brittle I was afraid her cheeks were going to crack. “The lamb not so lamby, the shrimp not so fishy, the quiche a tad less eggy, and a scooch more peanut in the satay sauce.”

  “Perfect!” Patti chirped.

  As the caterer gathered up her platter, Patti summoned me over with a flick of her wrist.

  “Jaine, you remember Veronica from Hermosa, don’t you?”

  I looked at the attractive woman with chestnut hair and beautiful green eyes, but I had no idea who she was.

  “Jaine Austen!” The woman grinned, her smile at last genuine. “It’s Veronica. Veronica Hubbard.”

  “Veronica?” I blinked.

  Good heavens. What a change from the last time I’d seen her. Back in high school, Veronica had been a rebel grunger with spiky purple hair, decked out in black leather, her eyes rimmed with raccoon circles of mascara.

  “It’s me, all right.”

  I took in her glossy hair, fresh-scrubbed complexion, and immaculate cashmere sweater and slacks.

  She s
ure cleaned up pretty.

  “Veronica owns Hubbard’s Cupboard. She caters all the stars’ weddings.”

  First Denise, the high-powered attorney, now Veronica, Caterer to the Stars. Was I the only Hermosa High alum who was scrambling to pay the rent?

  “So good to see you, Jaine. How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, Jaine’s been fabulous,” Patti said with a sly grin. “Not only is she a successful writer, but she’s engaged to be married to a French neurosurgeon! I can’t wait to introduce him to the French ambassador. He’s coming to the wedding.”

  “Oh, Francois doesn’t speak French,” I said, determined to nip this foreign language thing in the bud. “He’s of French descent, that’s all. In fact, he doesn’t speak a word of it.”

  “I’ll bet,” Patti smirked.

  I felt like ramming a baby lamb chop up her nose.

  “Well, it’s great seeing you again, Jaine,” Veronica said, then turned to Patti. “I’ll just stop by the kitchen and check out the ovens before I go.”

  She shot me a sympathetic smile and scampered off to freedom.

  Oh, how I envied her.

  “Grab a seat,” Patti said, motioning me to Veronica’s recently vacated chair, “and I’ll tell you about the exciting new direction I want the script to take.”

  I lowered myself into the hot seat, but before Patti could share her exciting new direction, the French doors opened, and her mom came out onto the patio, clearly still miffed over their earlier exchange.

  “The models are here to interview for the part of your bridesmaid.”

  “Would you believe I have to hire somebody to be my bridesmaid?” Patti said with a put-upon sigh. “I could just kill Cheryl for gaining so much weight. Take down their names, Mom. And make sure they’re all size 2.”

  “Do it yourself, Patti. I’m not your secretary. And from now on, answer your own goddamn doorbell.”

  And with that, she flounced back into the house.

  “Mommie Dearest,” Patti said with a roll of her eyes. “You’d think nobody ever answered a door before.”

  Then she took my script out from under the pitcher where she’d been using it as a coaster for her iced tea.

  “Like I said on the phone, your script was fine, but I’ve decided to take it in a new direction. A little less Friends. A little more Grey’s Anatomy.”

  Grey’s Anatomy??? What the heck did that mean? Did she want a wedding, or an appendectomy?

  “The Friends approach was sweet, but I want to capture the sexual tension between the doctors.”

  I was back on Auto Nod as she nattered on about turning Dickie into Dr. McDreamy. At this point, Veronica’s assignment of making lamb “less lamby” was beginning to look like a cakewalk.

  “You understand what I want?” she asked when she finally finished yakking.

  “Sure,” I lied.

  “I need it ASAP.”

  “All righty,” I said, getting up and inching toward the French doors. “I’m on it.”

  I was just about to make a break for it when she got that nasty glint in her eye I’d come to dread, the same look Prozac gets when she’s about to pounce on my panty hose.

  “You and your neurosurgeon still coming to the wedding?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Of course.”

  “Something hasn’t come up to make you cancel? An out-of-town medical conference, maybe?”

  She was thisclose to snickering.

  “I told you we’ll be there, Patti. And I meant it.”

  “In that case,” she said, whipping out a thick sheaf of papers from a stack on the table, “here’s where I’m registered. I know you and ‘Francois’ will want to get me a gift.”

  Oh, great. Now I was going to have to use part of my paycheck—the same paycheck I was sweating blood for—to buy this dreadful woman a gift. Argggh.

  I grabbed her stupid registry and headed back inside to the sunroom, where I saw a row of models seated on a rattan sofa. The “bridesmaids,” I presumed.

  One of them, a reedy blonde with a Scandinavian accent, asked, “Can we go in now?”

  “Not if you value your sanity.”

  Can’t say I didn’t warn them.

  I was just about to head out the front door when I heard someone call my name.

  “Hey, Jaine. Wait up.”

  It was Veronica, hurrying toward me with her hors d’oeuvre plate under her arm.

  “Can you believe Patti? What a bridezilla, huh?”

  “King Kong with highlights.”

  “I’m on my fifth round of hors d’oeuvres,” she said as we walked outside together. “But she’s paying me through the nose. I couldn’t afford to say no.”

  “I guess that’s how she ropes in all her employees.”

  “I actually heard her tell the florist that the roses didn’t smell ‘rose-y’ enough,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “I wonder if Dickie knows what he’s getting himself into.”

  “I doubt it. Poor guy is blinded by love. Or lust. Or something. I was there when he and Patti reconnected, you know.”

  “You were at the reunion?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “I don’t usually go to those things. Why stir up miserable memories? But last year, curiosity got the better of me, and I made an appearance. I was talking to Dickie and Normalynne when Patti showed up, in full-tilt sex kitten mode. She had on a beaded turquoise gown, really short and tight, that left nothing to the imagination. Dickie took one look at her, and it was all over for Normalynne.”

  “Poor Normalynne,” I sighed.

  “Poor Dickie.”

  Our little chat was interrupted just then by a Rolls-Royce pulling up in the driveway.

  “Patti’s stepfather, Conrad Devane,” Veronica whispered, as an immaculately groomed man with a deep tan and graying-at-the-temples hair stepped out of the car. “He’s some kind of home builder. Makes more money than God.”

  “I can believe it,” I said, eyeing his suit, a three-piece number that looked like it was hand-tailored for British royalty.

  “Good afternoon, ladies!”

  He waved genially as he headed into the house. “He seems nice,” I said.

  “He is.” Veronica replied. “The only nice one in the family.”

  “Probably because he’s not a blood relative.”

  “Yeah. Way too many sharks in that gene pool.”

  “Well, good luck,” I said.

  “You, too.”

  Then we bid each other good-bye and got in our cars, happy to be heading out of shark-infested waters.

  Chapter 5

  Dreading the task of turning Romeo into Dr. McDreamy, I decided to procrastinate with a visit to Miss Emily’s Escort Service.

  Unlike my usual methods of procrastination—daytime TV, computer solitaire, and partying with my good buddies Ben & Jerry—this really wasn’t a waste of time. After all, the wedding was mere days away and I hadn’t even begun to line up a suitable neurosurgeon fiancé.

  So after a quick pit stop at my apartment for lunch and a belly rub (Prozac got the belly rub; I got the lunch), I got in my Corolla and set off to go fiancé shopping.

  Miss Emily’s was headquartered in Culver City, a once-drab industrial part of town that has in recent years become hip and gentrified and ever so happening. Miss Emily’s, however, was located in one of Culver City’s few remaining drab pockets. I drove past the hip happening cafés to a block of auto body shops, where I found her tiny storefront office jammed between Big Al’s Towing and the Acme Sheet Metal Company.

  Miss Emily may have been discriminating about escorts, but she was clearly willing to lower her standards when it came to real estate.

  I parked across the street and made my way over to the dingy office, my bad vibes strumming like a banjo. But I couldn’t rush to judgment. After all, I wouldn’t want anyone judging me by my office, aka my dining room table, complete with I My Cat coffee mug and said cat snoozing
in my in-box.

  No, I had to give Miss Emily a chance.

  I stepped inside her establishment, gulping at the sight of the moth-eaten carpeting and creaky file cabinets that had doubtless been around since the McKinley administration.

  In the center of the room, feet propped up on a battered metal desk, was a beefy guy with wiry black hair, making notes on a racing form.

  “Yeah?” he said, glancing up, his voice a gravelly rasp.

  “Um. I’m looking for Miss Emily.”

  He smiled, exposing a mouthful of gleaming (and, I suspect, store-bought) teeth.

  “I’m Miss Emily.”

  As he put down his racing form, I could see that his substantial gut was encased in a tight black T-shirt, the words Practice Makes Pervert emblazoned across his chest.

  Uh-oh. Time to skedaddle.

  “I’m Rocky. I bought the business from the old bat three years ago. So what can I do for you, honey?” he asked, shooting me an oily grin.

  Just tell him you’ve made a mistake and get the heck out of here.

  “You lookin’ for a fella? Sure you are. I can tell by that desperate look in your eye.”

  It’s not desperation. It’s nausea!

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he said, bounding out from behind the desk and putting a hammy arm around my shoulder. “Trust me. I’ll find you a fella that’ll knock your panties off.”

  “You don’t understand. That’s not what I’m looking for—”

  “You into girls? I can do that, too.”

  “No. No girls!”

  “Here, doll, have a seat.” He swept some X-rated magazines from a battered lawn chair and eased me down into it. “My clients don’t usually come down here in person. Usually the gals pick their dates over the phone.”

  He plopped down on the edge of his desk, legs crossed (thank heavens for that), and smiled his idea of an avuncular smile, exposing a hunk of cottage cheese between his teeth.