Pampered to Death

by Laura Levine

  Oh, please. She’d been nipped and tucked more times than a thrift shop prom dress.

  “Go see Dr. Frankel, honey,” Mallory urged, “and those icky crows’ feet of yours will be gone in no time.”

  Olga looked like she wanted to bop her over the head with a celery fizz. Instead she just handed her one.

  “Dear God, no!” Mallory moaned. “Not another celery fizz! Hasn’t anyone ever told you these things are revolting?”

  “You do, Mallory dear. Every year.”

  “Touchy!” Mallory replied brightly.

  I couldn’t tell if she was commenting on Olga’s emotional state or just mangling the word touché.

  “Let me introduce you to our newcomers,” Olga said, leading Mallory over to where Cathy and I were seated. “I never got a chance to do it earlier today.”

  “I can’t get over how gorgeous she is,” Cathy whispered as Mallory approached.

  And indeed, try as I might, I could not spot a single pore on the woman’s flawless face.

  Olga proceeded to make introductions, Mallory smiling blandly as our names were announced.

  All the while, Armani eyed us, fangs bared, as if we were the hors d’oeuvres.

  “I’m so thrilled to meet you, Ms. Francis,” Cathy gushed.

  “I’m sure you are, sweetie.”

  “Would you mind awfully autographing my cocktail napkin?”

  Cathy thrust the napkin in Mallory’s hand before she could object.

  “And could you personalize it? To Cathy with a C. And Kane with a K. It’s a good thing my parents didn’t name me Candy, huh? Otherwise I’d be Candy Kane! Or Sugar. Then I’d be Sugar Kane. Or Citizen. Then I’d be Citizen Ka—”

  “Kendra,” Mallory called out, clearly bored with Cathy’s name game, “get me a pen.”

  After her assistant had delivered the requested pen, Mallory scribbled her autograph on the cocktail napkin and handed it to Cathy. (For those of you who care about these kinds of things, she dotted the i in Francis with a happy face. And she spelled Kane with a C.)

  “I’ll treasure it forever, Ms. Francis!” Cathy assured her.

  “You do that,” Mallory said, then drifted over to the loveseat where Harvy and Kendra were seated.

  “You don’t mind moving, do you, hon?” she asked Kendra. “I want to sit next to Harvy.”

  Anyone could see this was not a question, but an order.

  Her brows knitted in a scowl, Kendra got up and moved to a nearby chair. Mallory took her assistant’s place, scooching next to Harvy and giving him an air kiss.

  In her arms, Armani growled like a jealous lover.

  “Olga, sweetheart,” Mallory called out, “would you mind getting Armani a doggie treat? He gets cranky when his blood sugar’s too low.”

  Swallowing her annoyance, Olga pried herself up from the armchair she’d sunk into.

  “No problem,” she lied, and trotted off down the hallway.

  The minute she was gone, Mallory whipped out two miniature vodka bottles from a fanny pack she wore around her tiny waist.

  “I’m such a bad girl,” she winked at Harvy.

  “Thank God for that,” Harvy winked back.

  Awash in giggles, they twisted open the caps on their vodka bottles and sneaked the booze into their celery fizzes.

  Nearby, Kendra sat fuming, clearly ticked off at being excluded from all the fun.

  Meanwhile, Cathy was in seventh heaven over her autographed cocktail napkin, yammering about how the minute she got home it was going in her scrapbook, right next to her ticket stub from Wicked and her 3-D glasses from Avatar.

  I was sitting there, trying to tune out her chatter and wishing I had a wee bit of vodka in my celery fizz, when Olga returned, arm in arm with a rugged Marlboro Man lookalike—a muscle-bound dude with chiseled cheekbones and slicked-back hair shiny with gel.

  “You all know Clint Masters, don’t you?” Olga said.

  “Clint Masters?” Cathy cried. “The movie star?”

  “Yes, Cathy,” Olga said, shooting Mallory a sly smile. “The A-list movie star.”

  And indeed this guy was an A-lister. True, his macho action movies were usually panned by the critics, but were immensely popular with the nineteen-year-old boys who determine what makes a blockbuster.

  “Sorry I’m late, everybody,” Clint said, flashing us a chemically whitened smile. “Just flew up from L.A., and my limo driver was late picking me up at the airport.”

  If Olga expected Mallory to be pissed at having to share the spotlight with another celeb, she was sadly mistaken.

  “Clint, honey!” Mallory waved him over to the loveseat. “What a wonderful surprise! Olga didn’t tell me you’d be staying here.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “No, she did not. Naughty Olga!” Mallory wagged a playful finger at her not-so-genial host.

  “It’s been forever since we’ve seen each other,” Clint said, braving Armani’s growl to peck Mallory on the cheek.

  “Not since Revenge of the Lust Busters. What a fun shoot that was!”

  I vaguely remembered a movie they’d made together about cops breaking up an international prostitution ring.

  “Scoot, Harvy,” she said, shooing away her hairdresser, “so Clint can sit next to me.”

  Harvy didn’t seem to mind having just been demoted. Summoning an ingratiating smile from what I was certain was a vast repertoire, he told Clint how great his hair looked and grabbed a seat near Kendra.

  “Olga, darling,” Mallory tsked. “I’m still waiting for those doggie treats.”

  Once again, she wagged an acrylic nail in Olga’s direction.

  Olga glared at that wagging finger, and as she stormed out of the room, I caught her wagging a most impolite finger of her own.

  Chapter 5

  I’ll spare you the details of the ghastly 300 calories posing as dinner except to say that by the end of the meal, I would’ve sold my soul for a Ding Dong.

  A caste system was in effect at The Haven that night. Mallory and Armani were seated at what was clearly the “A” table, along with Clint Masters and Harvy the hairdresser.

  I was interested to note that Armani (who came to dinner sporting a sequinned bow tie) had been somehow exempt from the diet regime, his doggie bowl filled to the brim with succulent steak tidbits. It was all I could do to refrain myself from bending down and grabbing a handful.

  But, alas, that was not even remotely possible, as I was seated far from the pampered pooch at the designated “B” table, along with fellow outcasts Cathy and Kendra.

  Cathy, oblivious to her untouchable status, was beside herself with joy at the thought of being under the same roof as not one—but two—Hollywood celebs.

  “Just wait’ll I tell the gang at the Piggly Wiggly!”

  Kendra, furious at having been banned to Siberia, shot resentful glares at the “A” table, where Harvy was hard at work sucking up to Mallory, going on and on about how fab she looked in the white silk jumpsuit she’d worn to dinner.

  “Do you know how many women would kill for a waist like yours?” he gushed.

  There were three of us right here at the “B” table at the top of the list.

  “Isn’t that right, Clint?” Harvy asked his rugged dinner companion. “Doesn’t Mallory look fab?”

  Clint agreed that Mallory did indeed look fab. But as he sat poking at some puny shards of cilantro, I couldn’t help wondering what a studly action hero like Clint Masters was doing at a diet spa. Why the heck wasn’t he at some macho hunting lodge, gunning down endangered species?

  “So, Mallory,” I heard him ask. “What have you been up to?”

  Thrilled to be in the spotlight, Mallory proceeded to fill him in on the minutiae of her life—sparing no details—everything from her “simply amazing” new pilates instructor (on call 24 hours a day) to the memoir she’d just signed a deal to write.

  At the mention of the memoir, Clint’s megawatt smile seemed to stiffen. />
  “I read about that in the trades,” he said. “Sounds very interesting.”

  “Oh, it will be,” Mallory assured him, with all the confidence of a woman who’d never written two consecutive paragraphs in her life.

  “It’s going to be just fabulous!” Harvy piped up, in full tilt cheerleader mode.

  “It would be,” Mallory said, “if only I could find a decent writer to collaborate with.”

  And by collaborate we all knew she meant someone to write every darn syllable.

  “The woman my publisher wants me to work with is totally unsuitable. Would you believe she actually showed up for our first meeting in Birkenstocks!”

  “Incredible!” Harvy commiserated, rolling his eyes.

  At her feet, Armani took time out from his steak tidbits to yap in disapproval.

  “I can’t possibly work with a woman who wears Birkenstocks.”

  “Of course you can’t!” cooed Harvy.

  “So I’m absolutely desperate for a writer.”

  Up until this point, Cathy had been entertaining the “B” table with a detailed summary of her own life as a supermarket checker, and her determination to lose five pounds and connect with Mr. Right (in her case, Earl in the Deli Section).

  But now she took time out from her bio to pipe up:

  “You’re looking for a writer? Why, Jaine’s a writer!”

  Oh, for heavens sake. I write toilet bowl brochures, not best-selling memoirs.

  But I couldn’t really blame Cathy for speaking up. I never did get to fill her in on the specifics of my resumé.

  Mallory, who’d been sitting with her back to us, deigned to turn around.

  “Which one of you is Jaine?” she asked.

  Guess we hadn’t made much of an impression at our earlier introductions.

  I raised a feeble hand.

  She gave me the once over with her cat-like green eyes.

  “So you’re a writer, huh? You don’t wear Birkenstocks, do you?”

  “Nope,” I said, glad she couldn’t see the elastic waist on my L.L.Bean Comfort Fit pants.

  “Well,” she challenged, “what have you written?”

  Now I happen to be quite proud of my magnum opus, You and Your Septic Tank. After all, it did win the Golden Plunger Award from the L.A. Plumbers Association. But somehow I sensed it might fail to impress Mallory.

  “Go on,” Cathy urged. “Tell her.”

  “You and Your Septic Tank,” I gulped.

  Mallory burst out laughing.

  “No, really, hon,” she said, when she’d stopped giggling. “What did you write?”

  “You and Your Septic Tank,” I repeated, with as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances.

  “Oh, please,” she said, eyeing me as if I’d just emptied a septic tank into her Evian water. “I need a real writer.”

  Normally at humiliating moments like these, I seek solace from my good buddies Ben & Jerry. But as that was out of the question, I just sat there staring at the graying blob of fish on my plate, wishing I could throttle both Mallory and Cathy. Who, incidentally, picked up where they’d left off on their yakathons, each dominating the conversations at their respective tables.

  In between anecdotes, Mallory took great pleasure in driving Olga nuts, sending back her fish (undercooked), her string beans (overcooked) and demanding lime slices—not lemon—for her Evian water.

  Not only The Haven’s owner and receptionist, Olga was apparently its sole waitress, bustling back and forth from the kitchen, trying in vain to satisfy her demanding diva.

  And so the meal slogged on, calorie after depressing calorie. I was sitting there in the middle of a most diverting fantasy starring me, George Clooney, and a hot fudge sundae, when Mallory tinkled her glass with a fork.

  “Attention, everybody!” she said, standing up to face us all. “I’ve got an announcement to make.”

  Armani yapped excitedly, perhaps eager to hear the news, or perhaps hoping for some more steak. He’d daintily polished off his entire bowl, which I must confess, was a bit of a disappointment. I’d been planning to nab a chunk or two after everyone had left the dining room.

  (Oh, don’t go shaking your head like that. I was starving. And a little dog spit never hurt anybody.)

  “After five years as my personal hair stylist,” Mallory was saying, “Harvy is embarking on an exciting new phase of his career and opening his own hair salon! Harvé of Beverly Hills! Isn’t that just wonderful?”

  Harvy beamed at the tepid round of applause that greeted this news.

  “And as a token of appreciation for all the years we’ve been together—not to mention the best highlights in the biz—I’m pleased to announce that I am financing the whole venture!”

  Wow. It looked like Harvy’s fanny kissing had paid off big time.

  Mallory whipped out a folded check from the depths of her cleavage and presented it to him with all the fanfare of King Arthur dubbing a new knight.

  Now it was Harvy’s turn to lead the applause, which he did with great fervor.

  Everyone joined in, except Kendra who sat scowling at Mallory, arms clamped firmly across her chest.

  And Armani, who’d decided to take a nap.

  At which point, Olga came sailing out from the kitchen with dessert—which turned out to be three pathetic slices of mango per person.

  Mallory sniffed at hers suspiciously.

  “You sure the mango’s fresh?”

  “It’s fresh!” Olga snapped, stomping back to the kitchen and cutting off any further discussion.

  Three mango slices later, my first dinner in hell ground to a merciful halt.

  Only five more to go.

  I trudged back to my room, opting out of the after-dinner entertainment—an action-packed educational film called Sugar: The Killer in your Cupboard.

  No sooner had I opened the door than Prozac hurled herself at me, practically frisking me for leftovers.

  Needless to say, she had ignored the fat-free, carb-free, taste-free diet food I’d sloshed in her bowl. Now she was yowling at my ankles, demanding to be fed.

  “Here, honey,” I said, tossing her the square of fish I’d saved her from my dinner plate.

  (Trust me, it was not a sacrifice.)

  She inhaled it with the speed of a Hoover, then looked up at me with hungry eyes.

  So what else you got?

  “I swear, Pro, that’s all I have.”

  An outraged swish of her tail.

  What??? No crab cakes?

  She stalked off in high dudgeon and jumped up on top of the armoire, as far from me as she could possibly get.

  Ignoring her beady glare, I climbed on my bed with my laptop.

  How naïve I’d been when I’d packed it, thinking I’d be able to get started on that novel I’d always been meaning to write. I’d pictured myself working on my masterpiece stretched out on a lounge chair, a succession of papaya smoothies at my side.

  Hah. There’d be no lounging around at this joint. And certainly no papaya smoothies. And how could I possibly write a novel in a state of semi-starvation?

  Now I opened my computer and began composing a most reproving e-mail to Lance. I’d been calling him for the past several hours on my cell. Naturally the little weasel had been avoiding my calls (perhaps turned off by a death threat or two I may have uttered). But if he thought he was going to escape my wrath, he had another thing coming. In no uncertain terms, I told him what a stinker he was for sending me off to Diet Hell under false pretenses.

  My anger spent, I then headed for the bathroom, where I intended to soak my blues away in a relaxing bubble bath.

  But just as I was about to step in the tub, I was suddenly overcome by the aroma of fresh-baked vanilla cookies. Oh, dear. Was I having an olfactory mirage? Was I so hungry my mind was playing tricks on me? Or was someone actually baking a batch of cookies?

  You’ll be relieved to know I had not gone bonkers. Not then, anyway.

>   It was just those dratted bubbles!

  Would you believe the bath gel Olga had chosen for her guests was something called Vanilla Cookies ’N Cream?!

  A little sadistic, n’est-ce pas?

  Needless to say, I promptly abandoned the tub and took a brisk shower instead, my blues fully intact. Then I got in my jammies and turned on the TV, hoping to escape in an engrossing movie.

  I groaned to discover that my TV got a grand total of five stations—two of them nearly white with snow. And the gods were surely conspiring against me that night, because every station I clicked seemed to feature luscious shots of mouthwatering food!

  Click. There was Paula Deen, cooking a four-cheese mac and cheese. Click. A bunch of mafiosi on The Godfather were eating steaming vats of spaghetti and meatballs. Click. The Kansas City steak guy was busy cutting into a succulent series of filet mignons. Even the local news was running a feature on the best handmade ice cream in the county.

  Everywhere I looked, calories taunted me.

  Switching off the TV in disgust, I decided to go to sleep and put an end to this whole miserable day.

  I beckoned to Prozac to join me in bed, but she just glared at me from the top of the armoire.

  With a sigh, I turned off the light. But sleep wouldn’t come. Instead of drifting off to slumberland, I kept thinking about Paula D’s mac and cheese, dripping with cheddar. Finally, unable to ignore the racket coming from my growling stomach, I snapped on the light.

  This was ridiculous. Maybe I should just check out in the morning and put myself out of my misery. But then I thought about Lance losing all that money. No matter how big a rat he was for tricking me into staying at this joint, I had to admit he meant well. I simply couldn’t walk out and waste all that dough.

  No, I was going to have to quit bellyaching, put on my big girl panties, and do what I should have done all along:

  Sneak down to the kitchen and raid the refrigerator.

  Chapter 6

  The hallways were deserted when I set out on my mission. It was after eleven and everyone had turned in for the night. As I would soon discover, this was one of those Early To Bed, Early to Rise joints intended to make people healthy, wealthy, and cranky in the morning.