by Laura Levine
I followed her as we hiked across the foyer. A wide curving staircase with gleaming mahogany banisters ascended to the floor above. I almost expected to see Scarlett O’Hara come skipping down the steps, twirling her parasol.
The living room was huge, with hardwood floors, an exposed wood beam ceiling, and a fireplace as big as my kitchen. I took a seat in one of the many overstuffed armchairs dotted throughout the room. The maid asked me if I wanted anything to drink, and seemed relieved when I said no.
As she skittered away, presumably to do battle with dirty windows, I glanced down and saw a grease stain on my blouse. Probably from the french fry that dropped in my lap. Oh, great. Now I’d have to spend the entire interview with my blazer buttoned. Which wasn’t going to be easy, since I’d bought the blazer two sizes too small. It was on sale at Ann Taylor, the only one they had left, reduced seventy percent. I went ahead and bought it, figuring I’d never have to button the damn thing.
Now I sucked in my gut, and was struggling with the buttons when I heard:
“You’ll never last a week.”
I looked across the room and for the first time I noticed a young girl nestled in an armchair underneath a huge bay window.
She was a chubby kid, about 15, with soft brown eyes and an old fashioned Dutch Boy haircut. Something about her looked vaguely familiar. And then I realized—Good heavens, she was me—at fifteen. Not that I have brown eyes; mine are green. And when I was 15, I wasn’t quite as chunky as this girl. But there was something about her that reminded me of the young Jaine Austen. Maybe it was the book she was reading. Stiff Upper Lip, by the British humorist P.G. Wodehouse. When I was a teenager, I was crazy about his books. In fact, I still am. But it’s not every day you see a teenager reading Wodehouse.
“Nobody ever lasts a week,” she said, looking up at me from under her thick bangs. “Sooner or later, they all quit.”
So that’s why SueEllen was willing to hire a writer from the Yellow Pages. No reputable writer would work for her.
“She’s nice at first, but then she turns mean. You’ll see.”
“So your mom’s tough to work for, huh?”
The kid looked at me as if I’d just offered her a worm for lunch.
“SueEllen isn’t my mother,” she said with all the warmth of Christina Crawford talking about Joan. “She’s my stepmother. My real mother’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”
And with that she picked up her book and began reading. Conversation terminated.
“Miss Austen?”
The Hispanic maid was at the door, still clutching her Windex. I only wished she had some stain remover for the grease spot on my blouse.
“Mrs. Kingsley will see you now,” she said.
I got up to go. I tried to button my blazer, but it was no use. SueEllen Kingsley would have to accept me as I was, grease stain and all.
“Nice meeting you,” I said to the kid in the chair.
“Whatever,” was her jolly reply.
I followed the maid up a flight of stairs and down what seemed like an endless hallway. If I’d known how big this place was, I would’ve worn hiking shoes.
Halfway down the corridor, we ran into a bubbly blonde carrying a portable massage table. She weighed about as much as my right leg.
“Hi, Conchi,” she said to the maid. Then she turned to me, beaming me an impossibly white smile. “I’m Larkspur O’Leary, SueEllen’s masseuse.”
Larkspur O’Leary? And I thought my mom was bad naming me Jaine Austen.
“You must be the new writer,” she said.
“No, not exactly. I’m just here for an interview. I haven’t got the job yet.”
“Oh, you will. You look very capable. And besides, SueEllen’s desperate.”
She beamed me another smile, almost blinding me in the process.
“Here’s my card.” She handed me a pastel pink business card, with her name printed in a flowery script. “I use a special method of massage that breaks down the fat cells and gets rid of cellulite.” She let her glance linger on my thighs, which, I have to admit, are home to a happy colony of fat cells.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Well, see ya,” she said. Then she started down the hallway, swinging her massage table as if it were a bag of Fritos. For a tiny thing, she was awfully strong.
“Oh, and good luck,” she called back. And then she added, with a wink, “You’re going to need it.”
I smiled weakly and followed Conchi down the endless hallway. At last we reached our destination. Conchi opened the door to a bathroom straight out of Architectural Digest, gleaming with marble, gold fixtures and light streaming in from overhead skylights. At first I thought she’d taken leave of her senses. Why on earth would she be bringing me to the bathroom? Clearly the woman had been sniffing too many Windex fumes.
“Ms. Austen, I presume?”
I looked over and saw my prospective employer, SueEllen Kingsley, stretched out in a tub so big, it could hold the entire cast of Friends, and still have room left over for Drew Carey.
The first thing I noticed about SueEllen were her boobs. Two perfect pink globes, bobbing in the water like cantaloupes. Later I would notice her tawny hair, her tiny waist, and her fine-boned face with an unlikely smattering of freckles on her nose. But not at first. No, all I saw at first were those incredible boobs.
“Like ’em?” Sue Ellen asked, following my gaze. “They’re a birthday gift from my husband.”
Talk about a gift for the gal who has everything.
“Hal’s a plastic surgeon. All the stars go to him. He gives great liposuction,” she added, taking a none too discreet glance at my thighs.
I was getting a bit miffed at the way everybody seemed to be taking potshots at my thighs. Okay, so I’m no supermodel, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.
“That’ll be all, Conchi,” SueEllen said, waving the maid away with her loofah sponge.
Conchi scurried out of the room, like an infantryman trying to stay out of the line of fire.
“Have a seat,” SueEllen said, gesturing to the toilet bowl. I sat down on the toilet lid, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the grease spot on my blouse, and trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt.
“I hope you don’t mind my interviewing you in the bathroom,” SueEllen said.
“Not at all,” I lied.
“But this is where I work,” she said, washing between her toes. “I get my best ideas in the bathtub.”
“Me, too, actually. It’s where I thought up the slogan for one of my biggest clients, Toiletmasters Plumbers.”
Okay, so Toiletmasters wasn’t exactly a Fortune 500 company. But at the moment, it was the shining star on my resume.
“In a rush to flush? Call Toiletmasters! You thought of that?”
I nodded modestly; the woman was actually impressed.
“That’s wonderful, honey. I can see you’re just oozing with talent. Have you ever ghostwritten a book?”
“Yes,” I said. “Once.”
“What was it about?”
“Uh, it was sort of a…memoir.”
Please don’t let her ask me what it was called.
“What was it called?”
I took a deep breath, and spat it out. (Sensitive readers may want to skip the following sentence.)
“I Was Henry Kissinger’s Sex Slave.”
“Really?” SueEllen said. “So was I!”
“What?”
“Only kidding,” she said, laughing at her own gag, her incredible breasts bouncing like buoys in the ocean.
“Ha ha,” I managed weakly.
“I suppose you want to know what my book is about.”
“Of course.”
“It’s about entertaining.”
I smiled a genuine smile of relief, grateful that there were no space aliens involved.
“Sounds great.”
&nbs
p; “Oh, it will be,” she said, sudsing a long lean cellulite-free thigh. “You are looking at the next Martha Stewart. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen my name in the papers, but I’m just about the most popular hostess on the Beverly Hills party circuit. People kill for invitations to my parties. So now I’m going to share my entertaining secrets with the public. I’ll give recipes and talk about how to hire a caterer and tell all sorts of marvelous anecdotes from my past. I’ve led a very colorful life, you know.”
I didn’t doubt that for a minute.
“So how about it,” she said. “You interested?”
“What exactly did you have in mind as a salary?”
“Three thousand.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Three thousand dollars isn’t much. After all, the book will take months to write.”
“Not three thousand for the whole book, silly. Three thousand a week.”
Suddenly, the toilet didn’t seem so uncomfortable after all.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2003 by Laura Levine
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-6335-3