Death of a Trophy Wife

by Laura Levine

  “Yikes,” I said, looking around. “They’ve got a whole other house back here.”

  “Neat, isn’t it?”

  “But what if it rains?”

  “It never rains on the rich. And if it does, they just buy new furniture.”

  Beyond the patio and down a flight of steps was the pool, a huge turquoise gem glittering in the sun—surrounded by lounge chairs, patio tables, and colorful striped cabanas. All set against a mini-Sherwood Forest of trees.

  “Wow,” I said, gazing at the vista in awe, “I never realized there was so much money in mattresses.”

  Bunny was floating on a raft in the pool, scantily clad in a hot pink micro bikini. Marvin sat at one of the tables, chewing on a cigar and going over spreadsheets with a skinny guy in a Mattress King baseball cap.

  And hunkered down on one of the lounge chairs was a chubby young woman, her nose buried in a magazine.

  “The gal with the magazine is Sarah,” Lance said. “Marvin’s daughter. She’s some sort of chemistry professor.”

  “That’s his daughter? But she’s Bunny’s age.”

  “Occupational hazard of marrying someone thirty years younger than you.”

  “What about the guy in the baseball cap?”

  “That’s Sarah’s husband, Owen Kendall. Started out as a lowly salesman, then married the boss’s daughter, and now he’s second in command. Classic case of The Son-in-Law Also Rises.

  “Well,” he said, squaring his shoulders, “time to make our grand entrance.”

  “Hello, everybody!” he called out.

  Bunny looked up and grinned.

  “If it isn’t my favorite shoe salesman! C’mon down!”

  My gut firmly tucked in my elastic-waist shorts, I followed Lance down the steps. Bunny scampered out of the pool in her bikini. Talk about itsy bitsy. I’d seen more latex in a Band-Aid. Then she slipped into a pair of sequined flip-flops and came trotting over to us, her Double-D’s leading the way.

  Once again, my nostrils were assaulted by her perfume, a distinctive bouquet of tea roses and Raid.

  After air kissing Lance, she introduced me to the gang. Marvin greeted me with a vague hello, Owen barely glanced in my direction, and Sarah looked up from her copy of Chemistry Today just long enough to grunt a curt “hi.”

  I waited for Bunny to tell Marvin I was a would-be writer of mattress commercials, but I waited in vain.

  Instead she said, “Why don’t you two head for a cabana and change into your swimsuits?”

  Time for my fashion fib.

  “Um. Actually, I forgot to bring one.”

  “No problem. We have tons of suits! We may even,” she added, eyeing my hips, “have one in your size.”

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

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I think I’ll just enjoy the sun in my civvies.”

  As Lance trotted off to a cabana to change, I plopped resolutely down on the chaise next to Sarah. Up close I could see she’d had the misfortune to inherit Marvin’s squinchy eyes and slightly bulbous nose.

  Like me, she had opted out of a bathing suit and was clad in modest Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless shirt.

  “Oh, you two,” Bunny said, wagging her finger at us. “Such spoilsports. Now I’m the only gal here in a bathing suit.”

  With that, she sashayed over to Marvin, showing off her flawless figure with every step. And it occurred to me that she liked being the only gal in a bathing suit, that she reveled in her starring role as the beauty with the body that wouldn’t quit.

  “Marvin, sweetie,” she cooed, wrapping her arms around his neck and covering him with chlorine kisses, “forget about business and come play in the pool.”

  “Later, hon,” Marvin said with an indulgent smile.

  “Well, don’t take too long,” she replied, doing her finger-wagging shtick. “Bunny misses her Marvy Man.”

  Next to me, Sarah rolled her eyes in disgust. Something told me there was no love lost between her and her recently acquired stepmother.

  “I know!” Bunny said. “Let’s all have gin and tonics!”

  “Lupe!” She shouted into an intercom on one of the tables. “Gin and tonics for everyone!”

  Oh, no. Not for me. The last thing I needed after that mimosa at lunch was a gin and tonic.

  “Thanks, Bunny,” I said, “but I don’t think I want one.”

  “Sure you do!”

  Sarah looked up from her issue of Chemistry Today.

  “If Bunny says you want one,” she muttered, “you want one. House Rules.”

  I don’t know whether Sarah meant for Bunny to hear her, but clearly she had. She sauntered over to us and plastered on a smile as phony as her Double-D’s.

  “Sarah’s so cute when she’s sarcastic. It’s part of her charm.”

  Then she kicked off her flip-flops and jumped in the pool, setting off a tidal wave of a splash and soaking both of us.

  “She did that on purpose,” Sarah snarled, shaking water from her arms.

  At this happy juncture, Lance emerged from the cabana in his Speedo, giving Bunny a run for her money in the Hot Bod department.

  “Come on in!” Bunny squealed. “The water’s divine!”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to put on a suit, Jaine?” he asked. “It’ll be fun.”

  “I’m sure, Lance,” I said, shooting him a filthy look.

  “Well, okay,” he said with a shrug.

  Then he dove into the pool, where he and Bunny splashed around, playing some kind of pool tag, Bunny shrieking like a five-year-old. With every shriek, Sarah winced. And I could see Owen was looking none too happy with the constant racket, either. Only Marvin seemed oblivious to the noise.

  Now Bunny began tackling Lance in the water, throwing herself all over him. If he were straight, I’d think she was coming on to him.

  “Your friend better enjoy it while it lasts,” Sarah said, following my gaze. “He’s her flavor of the month. Sooner or later she’ll dump him.”

  No great loss, I thought. Bunny wasn’t exactly BFF material. Clearly she’d forgotten about her offer to pitch me as a potential employee.

  I was sitting there wishing I’d stayed home with my brunch leftovers when the maid came tottering down the flagstone steps with a tray of highball glasses.

  “It’s about time, Lupe,” Bunny called from the pool. “Give one to Jaine.”

  She was determined to make me drink that damn gin and tonic, wasn’t she?

  Lupe held out the tray, her hands trembling. Poor thing was terrified.

  “Better take it,” Sarah whispered. “Her majesty will make a stink if you don’t. And whatever you do, don’t take her Marilyn Monroe glass.”

  Sarah pointed to a fancy crystal highball glass with the letters MM etched in the center.

  “She bought a set of them at an auction. Supposedly they once belonged to Marilyn Monroe. Nobody’s allowed to drink out of them except her royal highness.”

  And indeed, all the other glasses on the tray were no-frills plastic pool glasses.

  “Gracias,” I said to Lupe, taking one of the peasant drinks.

  “Just pretend to drink it,” Sarah advised. “Bunny’ll forget all about it. She has the attention span of a gnat.”

  After serving Owen and Marvin, Lupe headed over to the pool where Bunny and Lance were waiting for their drinks.

  And then tragedy struck. Lupe stumbled over Bunny’s flip-flops. I looked on in alarm as the two remaining glasses tumbled, spilling gin and tonic onto the tray. Luckily Lupe was able to catch the Marilyn Monroe glass before it fell.

  “For crying out loud!” Bunny screeched. “Can’t you watch where you’re going? You’ve got to be the clumsiest creature on earth.”

  Lupe just stood there staring at the ground.

  “Now go fix us some new drinks. I swear, Lupe, one of these days, I’m going to report you to La Migra.”

  At the mention of the immigration
authorities, Lupe looked up, her eyes wide with fear, then scurried up the steps.

  “You shouldn’t threaten Lupe like that, sweetheart,” Marvin chided. “She doesn’t realize you’re kidding.”

  “Who’s kidding?” Bunny said, stomping out of the pool. “If she breaks my Marilyn Monroe glasses, I’m turning her in. I paid a fortune for those things.”

  Then she plopped down on a chaise at the other side of the pool, about as far away from me and Sarah as she could get. I guess she figured our cellulite was contagious.

  “Lance, honey,” she said, patting the chaise next to her, “come sit next to me.”

  Lance joined her on the skinny side of the pool. And with a put-upon sigh, Bunny launched into a dissertation on the Difficulty of Finding Decent Help—the highlights of which included what a klutz Lupe was, how the pool man didn’t clean out the filter properly, and how the gardener kept forgetting to put away his supplies.

  “Just look,” she said, pointing to a bottle on the flagstone steps. “He’s left his damn weed killer out again. Honestly, Marv, we ought to fire the lot of them.”

  “Calm down, honey,” Marvin said, holding out his drink. “Here. Have some of my gin and tonic.”

  “You know I don’t drink from plastic,” she pouted.

  Several uncomfortable minutes later, Lupe came back down the steps with fresh drinks. And this time, she wasn’t alone. Following her was a willowy gal with spiky white-blond hair, dressed to the nines in a flowing two-piece pants set.

  “Bunny, darling!” the woman cried, floating down the steps in a cloud of chiffon and air kisses. “I had no idea you were having a party! So sorry to interrupt, but I just had to stop by and show you these fabulous outfits!”

  And indeed draped over her arm were a bunch of garment bags.

  “Wait till you try them on, sweetie! They’re to die for.”

  “Not now, Fiona,” Bunny snapped, still in a snit about the servant situation.

  “Of course, darling,” the willowy gal said smoothly. “I certainly didn’t mean to interrupt your fun.”

  Trust me, if there was one thing she wasn’t interrupting, it was fun.

  “Take the clothes inside, Lupe,” Bunny said. “And bring Fiona a drink.”

  “Yes, Ms. Bunny,” Lupe said, hurrying back up the steps, eager to make her escape.

  The newcomer stood there for an awkward beat until Bunny finally remembered her duties as a hostess.

  “Fiona, you’ve met Lance before, haven’t you?” she said.

  “Of course.” Fiona smiled warmly.

  “And that’s his friend, Jaine,” Bunny said, with a bored wave in my direction.

  “Hello, there!” Fiona said, trotting over and extending a perfectly manicured hand. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Bunny’s personal stylist.” She handed me her business card, which read:

  FIONA WILLIAMS, CELEBRITY FASHION CONSULTANT.

  Good news for Bunny. Apparently she’d just been upgraded from Bimbo to Celebrity.

  “Not that Bunny needs my help,” Fiona hastened to add. “She’s got a fabulous sense of style.”

  This gal certainly knew where her croissant was buttered.

  “C’mon over here and keep us company,” Bunny called to her.

  She’d glugged down her drink in record speed and seemed to be back in festive spirits.

  Fiona joined Bunny and Lance on the other side of the pool and the three of them started doing fashion chat, yakking about Giorgio and Calvin and the rest of the gang.

  Here on the cellulite side of the pool, Sarah had her nose buried in Chemistry Today, reading it as avidly as I read the menu at The Cheesecake Factory. And over in the Business Section, Marvin and Owen were still talking profits and losses.

  All of which left me sitting there like a lump.

  “So,” I said, turning to Sarah, “Lance tells me you teach chemistry.”

  Somehow she managed to tear herself away from her magazine long enough to say, “Yes, I’m a professor at UCLA.”

  “Wow. What’s that like? Very interesting, I’ll bet.”

  How wrong I was.

  Sparking to her subject, Sarah started telling me about one of her lab courses, rambling on about compounds and ions, mole fractions and sigma bonds, electromagnetic spectrums and heaven knows what else. I, of course, understood not a syllable of what she was saying. But I nodded and smiled as if she was actually making sense.

  Eternities passed as she explained the difference between a proton and a photon.

  Finally she wound down. It’s a good thing. I was this close to getting whiplash from all that nodding.

  “Gee,” she said, “it’s been fun chatting with you.”

  “Yes, I learned so much.”

  Which was true. I learned never to ask a chemistry professor about her job.

  By then, I was desperate to make my escape from Casa Extravaganza. I’d long since given up hope of pitching myself to Marvin. I just wanted to go home and dig into my brunch leftovers.

  I tried to make eye contact with Lance, currently engrossed in a lively discussion about the wacky world of hemlines. After a while I managed to catch his attention and shot him a desperate look.

  Thank heavens, he got the message.

  “Gosh,” he said, “look at the time. It’s been a hoot, Bunny, but Jaine and I have to make tracks.”

  “So soon?” she pouted. “Can’t you stay a little while longer?”

  No! I wanted to shout. Not one more nanosecond.

  “Well,” Lance hesitated, “maybe just a few more minutes.”

  Over my bored-to-death body.

  “But, Lance,” I said, getting up and trotting to his side, “if we don’t leave right now, I’ll be late for my dinner date.”

  “Your dinner date?” Lance shot me a blank look.

  “You’ve got a date?” Bunny asked, as shocked as if I’d said I was about to climb Mount Everest in my pajamas.

  “Oh, right,” Lance said, finally catching on. “Your date! Yes, you mustn’t be late for your date. I’ll just go change.”

  And as he headed off to the cabana, a wonderful thing happened. Bunny finally remembered why I was there.

  “Marvin, honey,” she said, hooking her arm through mine and leading me over to her husband. “I almost forgot to tell you. Jaine here is a writer. She wrote the most adorable toilet bowl ads!”

  “Is that so?” Marvin looked up at me, as if noticing me for the first time.

  “Yes, I’ve been handling the Toiletmasters account for several years now. Also Ackerman’s Awnings. And Fiedler on the Roof roofers.”

  “I think she’d be perfect for the Mattress King account!” Bunny gushed.

  Way to go, Bunny! I shot her a grateful smile.

  Marvin looked me over for a beat, no doubt wondering if he could trust me with his account.

  I plastered on my most capable bizgal expression, glad I hadn’t opted to wear my Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs T-shirt.

  I must have met with his approval, because the next thing he said was, “Why don’t you drop by my Beverly Hills showroom tomorrow morning, and show me your writing samples?”

  “Great!”

  And so it was with infinitely boosted spirits that I headed back up to Casa Extravaganza.

  How do you like that? Bunny came through for me after all. Maybe I’d misjudged her. Maybe she wasn’t as big a bitch as she seemed at first glance. Maybe underneath that brittle exterior beat a heart of gold.

  Yeah, right. And maybe hot fudge sundaes weren’t fattening.

  Chapter 4

  It wasn’t till I got home to my bright orange walls that I realized I’d left my sunglasses at Casa Extravaganza. Oh, well. No biggie. I’d just pop by tomorrow and pick them up.

  In the meanwhile, feeling slightly sweaty from my poolside adventure, I decided to hop in the tub for my second bath of the day. Soon I was up to my neck in strawberry-scented bubbles, lost in daydreams of landing the Mattress King account.
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  Just think of all the things I could do with the money. First, I’d get rid of these damn orange walls. Then I’d write a check to the friendly folks at MasterCard, who of late had not been so very friendly. Maybe I’d treat myself to a new cashmere sweater. Or a flat-screen TV. Or, better yet, membership in the Fudge of the Month Club.

  Finally, when I’d run out of daydreams, I hauled myself out of the tub.

  Then I slipped into my jammies and coffee-stained chenille bathrobe and toddled off to the kitchen for my long-awaited reunion with my brunch leftovers.

  I opened my doggie bag (and Lance’s) and instantly began salivating at the cornucopia of baked ham, roast beef, smoked trout, lobster frittata, and blueberry muffins I’d managed to stuff inside the boxes.

  At first I was just going to eat it à la Austen, which is to say straight from the Styrofoam boxes, but then I figured what the heck? Why not do a Martha Stewart and use actual dinnerware for a change? So I arranged it all on a pretty plate and set it out on the living room coffee table. Then I plopped down on the sofa with a wee smidgeon of chardonnay and my Sunday Times crossword puzzle.

  Was this heaven, or what?

  Unfortunately, I never did get to eat the trout. Prozac took one look at it, forgot all about the Hearty Halibut Guts I’d sloshed in her bowl, and swooped down on my plate.

  Gone in sixty seconds.

  But no matter. I still had the ham, the roast beef, and the muffins. Not to mention that yummy frittata.

  Just as I was about to bite into it, there was a knock on my door.

  Oh, rats. Why is someone always at the door when you’re about to chow down on a lobster frittata?

  With a sigh I got up to answer it.

  “Who is it?” I called out.

  “Jaine, my beloved! It is I! Your own true love, Vladimir Ivan Trotsky!”

  Oh, crud! I groaned in dismay.

  Vladimir Ivan Trotsky is a guy my mom met on a Universal Studios tour when he was here in the States on a visit from Uzbekistan. Always on the hunt for my future ex-husband, Mom proceeded to give him my e-mail address.

  Forget that the guy lived eight zillion miles away in a country without Ben & Jerry’s. Forget that I was not exactly eager to tie the knot after my horrendous first marriage, a rollicking four-year affair that made Dante’s Inferno look like an episode of Leave It to Beaver. Or that I was still licking my wounds from my last relationship with a water sports enthusiast named Robbie, who quickly flew the coop when I finally confessed the only water sport I truly enjoyed was soaking in the tub.