by Laura Levine
“Actually, Walter, I’m engaged.”
“You are?” He blinked in amazement.
I couldn’t help but feel a tad irritated. What was so damn surprising about me having a guy in my life?
“Yes. My fiancé will be coming to the wedding tomorrow.”
Thank heavens for Miss Emily aka Rocky and the fabulous Brad aka Francois. Maybe telling Patti and Denise that whopper of a lie wasn’t such a stupid move after all.
Walter gulped, disappointed, and I took advantage of the momentary lull in the conversation to make my getaway.
“Well, it’s been fun chatting,” I said, practically burning rubber as I bolted to freedom.
By now the Devanes’ “little” party was wall-to-wall guests. Patti sashayed among them, arm in arm with Dickie, showing him off like a trinket she’d picked up at Neiman’s. Her stepfather, engrossed in conversation with another captain of industry, didn’t seem to notice or care that his wife was flirting shamelessly with the hunky reverend.
I joined the revelers and scooted over to Veronica, who was weaving her way among the partygoers in her chef’s jacket, holding a tray of those crab-stuffed mushrooms Conrad had touted. I grabbed one and gobbled it down. Sheer heaven.
“Have another,” Veronica urged. “All the skinny minnies here are afraid to eat anything more fattening than a celery stick.”
So I took another. And, if you must know, another.
“How come you’re out here serving?” I asked, between bites. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?”
“Yes, I should, but Patti sent home one of my waiters. She said his red hair clashed with her dress.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish I were,” she sighed. “Hey, it looks like you’re about to have company.”
She nodded in the direction of Walter, who was making his way across the room.
“Quick, where’s the bathroom?”
“Down the hall to your right.”
“Thanks.”
Grabbing one more mushroom for the road, I dashed down the hallway and ducked into the first room I saw.
It was not a bathroom, but a library of some sort, decorated in tufted Gentleman’s Club leather and hunting prints. What riveted my attention, however, was not the plush upholstery or the Currier & Ives prints—but Cheryl, sprawled out on the sofa, a bottle of champagne balanced on her tummy.
“C’mon in,” she said, waving me inside. “Want some champagne?”
She held out the bottle.
“No, thanks.”
Call me wacky, but I prefer my bubbly sans spit.
“I stole it from behind the bar,” she giggled. “I figured I deserved it for sitting through that stupid rehearsal.”
She raised the bottle to her lips and took a healthy slug.
“I still can’t believe I drove all the way up here to watch that nonsense. But Patti insisted. Said she didn’t want me to miss out on any of the fun. Hah! She just wanted me to feel like a fat fool while that skinny Swedish chick paraded around in my place. I should’ve told her to take her stupid wedding and blow it out her liposuctioned fanny.”
She held up the champagne bottle in a mock toast.
“Here’s to the bride. May she get herpes on her honeymoon.”
She took another slug of the bubbly and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Hey, why don’t we go back to the party and grab some hors d’oeuvres?” I suggested, thinking it would be wise to put something else in her system other than alcohol.
But Cheryl wasn’t listening.
“The miserable bitch,” she muttered, lost in thoughts of Patti. “She ruined my life.”
“The crab-stuffed mushrooms are fabulous,” I said, wondering how Patti had ruined Cheryl’s life.
Cheryl looked up, a flicker of interest in her glazed blue eyes.
“Crab-stuffed mushrooms, huh?”
“They’re really good.”
Then she eyed her champagne.
“Nah,” she said, succumbing to the lure of the bubbly. “I think I’ll stay here.”
“Well, it was nice running into you,” I offered lamely as I headed for the door.
“Jaine,” she called out from the depths of the sofa.
I turned to face her.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry I was so nasty to you in high school.”
“You weren’t so bad.”
“Oh, yes, I was,” she sighed. “And I’m paying for it now. I’m utterly miserable, if that’s any consolation.”
“It’s no consolation, Cheryl,” I said, meaning it. “I hope things get better for you. Just take it easy on that champagne, okay?”
“Sure,” she said, once more putting the bottle to her lips.
I dreaded to think of the sparks that would fly if Patti discovered Cheryl snockered under the Currier & Ives.
But when I got back to the party I saw that Patti was somewhat tootled herself.
As I stood in the entrance to the living room, she was still making the rounds of the party, her arm hooked proprietarily through Dickie’s. She stopped to chat with Denise and her significant other, a sleek bizguy who looked like he just stepped out of a Rolex ad.
“You guys having fun?” Patti asked, her voice loud and a bit slurred.
“Of course,” Denise replied. “We’re having a lovely time.”
“Not as much fun as last night, huh?” Patti said with a broad wink. “That was some bachelorette party. Did we get wasted or what?”
Denise nodded, smiling stiffly.
“We went to a male strip club,” Patti informed Mr. Rolex. “Talk about your hunk heaven, huh, Denise?”
Denise offered another stiff smile. Clearly it had not been her idea of a fun evening.
“But none of the strippers were as hot as my Dickie,” Patti said, nuzzling Dickie’s neck with a kiss.
Dickie blushed, both embarrassed and pleased.
It was then that I heard someone hiss:
“Drunken slut.”
I turned and saw Dickie’s parents standing not far from me. Mrs. Potter’s jaw was clenched tight with disgust.
“I can’t let him go through with it, Kyle.”
“Take it easy, Eleanor,” her husband said, putting his arm around her.
She jerked away from his touch.
“Don’t try to pacify me. Can’t you see what’s happening? Dickie’s nothing but a toy to her. Her latest plaything. She’ll be cheating on him before the ink on the marriage license is dry.”
Her husband sighed.
“Just look at the way her mother is flirting with the minister. Like mother, like daughter. Sluts, both of them.”
“Try not to worry, dear. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“You bet things are going to be okay,” Eleanor Potter said, her eyes steely with determination. “That bitch is not going to be my daughter-in-law. I’m going to see to that.”
“Eleanor, hush.” Her husband, having spotted me eavesdropping, gestured in my direction.
I smiled weakly and backed out into the hallway.
Oh, well. It was time I left the party anyway. As much as I would’ve liked to nab some more hors d’oeuvres, I couldn’t risk running into Walter.
So I made my way to the front door, wondering exactly what Eleanor Potter planned to do to stop Patti from becoming her daughter-in-law.
I was just about to let myself out when I heard Patti calling my name.
“Jaine, wait.”
I turned and saw her coming out into the foyer.
“Before you leave,” she chirped, “I’ve got something for you.”
My paycheck! O blessed day!
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Well, wasn’t that a happy surprise? I thought for sure she’d be one of those clients who kept me waiting for weeks before coughing up my pay.
Minutes later she came back—alas, paycheck-free. The only thing she had in her hot lit
tle hands was her dog, Mamie, whiter and fluffier than ever, with a pink polka-dot bow in her hair.
“Look who just came back from the groomers,” Patti cooed. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous?”
“Gorgeous,” I echoed, a stiff smile plastered on my face.
“She’s going to be Flower Dog at the wedding tomorrow.”
“Flower Dog?”
Now I’d heard everything.
“Yes, she’s going to walk down the aisle with a basket of rose petals in her little mouth.”
Poor Mamie. I could only imagine what nonsense she had to put up with. I was surprised she wasn’t wearing thong underwear and hair extensions.
“Anyhow, I was wondering if you could do me a teeny tiny favor and keep her at your place tonight.”
My place? Was she nuts?
“We’re all heading off to the rehearsal dinner, and I hate leaving her home alone.”
“What about your maid? Won’t she be here?”
“Oh, Mamie doesn’t like to be with servants. She wants to hang out with real people. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Real people?? Alert the media. Marie Antoinette was alive and well in Bel Air.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she said, thrusting the dog in my arms.
“Actually, Patti, I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”
The dog began licking my face, having picked up the scent of crab-stuffed mushrooms.
“Of course it is. Look how she adores you.”
“But, Patti. I’ve got a cat.”
“No problem. Mamie hardly ever bites.”
The next thing I knew, she was handing me a Neiman Marcus shopping bag.
“Here are her toys and food. She’s on a special diet.”
“But—”
“Keep her at your place tomorrow morning. I don’t want her underfoot while I’m getting dressed. Just bring her back about a half hour before the ceremony.”
Before I could voice any further objections, she was skipping back to the party.
“And don’t forget to bring that fabulous fiancé of yours!”
Then, flapping her fingers in a dismissive wave, she disappeared into the crowd.
I looked down at the bundle of white fluff in my arms, and a rush of sympathy washed over me. Like Dickie, poor Mamie was undoubtedly Patti’s Plaything du Jour. As soon as the dog got old and arthritic, her eyes clouded with cataracts, no longer a cute accessory, she’d be history.
“Okay, Mamie,” I sighed, stepping outside. “Ready to go slumming?”
Chapter 8
I drove home with Mamie in the backseat. She was having the time of her life, racing back and forth from one side of the car to the other, not wanting to miss one palm tree or street lamp.
My state of mind, however, was a tad less jubilant. I’d been insane to take her, of course. I fully expected World War III to break out the minute Prozac set eyes on her. Prozac likes being an only child.
But their meeting, much to my relief, was surprisingly uneventful.
Not that Prozac was happy about having a houseguest. Not one bit. The minute she saw Mamie, her eyes narrowed in disgust.
What’s THAT doing here?
“This is Mamie, darling. She’s just staying for one night. You don’t mind, do you?”
Get a clue, Sherlock. What do you think?
If she had fingers, I’m sure she would’ve given me one.
I put Mamie down to see how the two would interact, fully prepared to snatch one of them up at the first sign of trouble.
But there was no bloodshed. No fur flew. On the contrary, Mamie scampered over to Prozac and began sniffing her amiably, eager to be friends.
“See?” I said. “She likes you.”
Of course she likes me. What’s not to like? Just tell Fluffy here the feeling isn’t mutual.
She bared her teeth in a most unfriendly hiss.
I guess Mamie got the hint because she abandoned Prozac and began sniffing my hardwood floors with all the intensity of Long John Silver in search of buried treasure.
I, meanwhile, started unpacking her toys—a veritable Santa’s workshop of balls, bells, and stuffed animals. Not to mention a stuffed toy violin that actually played music, and a cell phone that actually rang.
Prozac gazed at the display through slitted eyes.
Jeez. Fluff-O gets enough toys to stock a Toys “R” Us, and all I get is a crummy rubber mouse.
Having sniffed her way around the room, Mamie now scampered back to join us.
“Hey, Mamie,” I said, picking up her cell phone. “Want to check your messages?”
But Mamie wasn’t interested in her toys. She went right back to Prozac, panting wetly.
Prozac eyed her with disgust.
Take a hike, Cottonball.
And in one fluid movement, Prozac slithered down off the sofa, across the room, and up onto the top of the bookshelf, where she gazed down imperiously at us peasants below.
Wake me when she’s gone.
“Oh, Pro. Don’t be that way.”
But she was going to be that way. With a final hiss, she curled up in a ball and turned her back on us. The cold shoulder treatment had officially begun.
I tried in vain to tempt her with dinner, but when I opened a can of Minced Mackerel Guts—a sound that normally sends her barreling to the kitchen at the speed of light—there were no little paws thundering across the linoleum.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, kid,” I said to Mamie, reaching into the Neiman Marcus bag to get her dog food. Imagine my surprise when I pulled out a tupperware container filled with tiny cubes of cut-up steak. And not the broiled hockey pucks I get at Sizzler either. This was filet mignon. I happen to know this for a fact because I helped myself to a couple of bites.
Yes, I know I should be ashamed of myself, mooching off a dog’s dinner, but I couldn’t resist. Besides I had only two or three tiny pieces. (Okay, five.)
And Mamie didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed quite taken with me. Ever since Prozac had retired to the bookshelf, Mamie had been following me around, staring up at me with worshipful eyes.
“Okay, sweetie,” I said, bending down to give her a love scratch. “Time for your dinner.”
I put some of her steak in a plastic bowl—why did I get the feeling she was used to eating off Limoges?—and set it down in front of her.
Unlike Prozac, who attacks her food with all the gusto of a longshoreman at a truck stop café, Mamie nibbled at hers daintily.
I watched with envy as she ate the succulent morsels.
With a sigh, I began scrounging around my barren cupboards to fix something for my own dinner. I finally rustled up some mini-tuna sandwiches on Saltines. Accompanied by a side of canned beets. One of these days, I really had to stock up on staples.
After dinner, I took Mamie for a walk. Her little nose went into overdrive, sniffing at every patch of grass and tree in sight, getting acquainted with her new neighborhood. Finally she settled on a lush patch of lawn in front of a neighboring duplex and left a poop the size of a Junior Mint. I scooped it into a baggie, although I doubted anyone would have noticed it, not without a microscope.
Back home, I tried to interest her in her toys again, but she only had eyes for me. All she wanted was to sit in my lap and stare up at me worshipfully.
Why couldn’t Prozac ever show me devotion like this? No wonder dog people were so crazy about their dogs.
I tried several times to coax Prozac down from the bookshelf, but she wouldn’t budge.
Oh, well, I told myself, as I got in bed and turned on the TV, Mamie would be gone tomorrow and Prozac would be back on the couch and eating like a sumo wrestler.
I spent the next couple of hours watching Rear Window, with Mamie curled at my feet. When it was over, I turned out the light to go to sleep. But sleep didn’t come. Sleep never comes easily without Prozac nestled in the crook of my neck.
I was just about to get out of bed and grovel fo
r her forgiveness when she sauntered into the bedroom.
With a single graceful leap she was on the bed.
Mamie, who knew better than to try anything stupid like joining us for a lick and sniff session, stayed put at the foot of the bed.
“Oh, Prozac. I missed you!” I took her in my arms and began stroking her. “Did you eat your mackerel guts?”
She yawned a cavernous yawn, sending a blast of mackerel fumes in my direction.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Then we curled up together, Prozac nestled in her usual position in the crook of my neck. And as I felt her warm body purring against mine, I finally relaxed.
No wonder cat people are so crazy about their cats.
I woke up the next morning, sun streaming in my bedroom window. I checked my clock radio and saw that that it was after nine. Prozac, the little angel, had let me sleep in for a change.
I stretched lazily in bed. The wedding wasn’t until two that afternoon and I still had the whole morning to get spiffed up.
I intended to give myself the works: manicure, pedicure, leg wax, eyebrow pluck. I’d luxuriate in a delicious bubble bath, after which I’d blow-dry my stubborn curls to silky perfection and slip into a slinky black cocktail dress I’d bought a couple of months ago, the only item to have escaped the wrath of Lance’s Closet Makeover.
I’d tried it on the other day, and much to my amazement it hadn’t shrunk in the closet like so much of my clothing tends to do. I could see myself at the wedding in my slinky dress, exfoliated and coiffed, my hunkalicious fiancé-for-hire at my side. And for the first time since this whole mess began, I had good vibes about the wedding. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a disaster after all.
So it was with a spring in my step and hope in my heart that I got out of bed and headed for the kitchen to fix breakfast.
And that’s where my trip to Fantasy Island came screeching to a halt.
The first thing I saw when I walked in the kitchen was my garbage can upended, its messy contents scattered on the floor.
The second thing I saw was Mamie rolling around in said garbage.
Her formerly pristine white fur was dotted with bits of tuna, low-fat mayo, petrified pizza crusts, and blobs of beet juice. All of it sprinkled with a generous coating of coffee grounds. Off to the side was a small puddle where she’d taken a tinkle.