by Laura Levine
For Shawna’s sake, I just hoped he could resist temptation.
Chapter 9
After a refreshing bottle of lukewarm water, Olga announced that it was time for our “chores.”
Everyone at The Haven, she explained, was expected to pitch in and help out. Yep, that’s right. Having forked over hundreds of dollars a night to stay at this joint, we were now expected to take turns mowing the lawn, pruning the bushes, and weeding the organic garden.
I blinked in disbelief.
This was nothing but slave labor. Olga just didn’t want to spend money on a gardener!
Not surprisingly, when the chores were handed out, Mallory and Clint were excused and given “meditation” breaks. Olga claimed they’d get their chores later on. I could just imagine what those would be. Testing the cushions on the lounge chairs, no doubt.
The rest of us peons were put to work: Harvy and Kendra, mowing. Cathy, pruning. And me? I got all the fun of weeding that damn organic garden.
The morning fog had long since taken a powder, and as I crouched down to begin my stint among the vegetables, I could feel the midday sun searing into my back.
Before long, I was gushing sweat like a busted fire hydrant.
I was on my knees, yanking a dandelion from between the zucchinis and making imaginary arrangements for Lance’s funeral, when I heard Mallory’s voice drifting from above.
I looked up at what must have been her balcony and saw that her French doors were open.
A few more beats of chatter and I realized she was talking to a man. At first I thought it was Sven, come for a little afterworkout workout. What I did next was extremely tacky, but I just had to hear what was going on. So I scooted closer to the building to do a little eavesdropping.
“Care for some pinot grigio, darling?” I heard Mallory ask. “I’ve got some chilling in the minifridge.”
So the A-listers got minifridges. How nice for them. Something told me I’d be lucky to get fresh towels.
Soon I heard a cork pop and glasses clink.
Then the man began speaking again.
“To your new book, babe.”
Surprise. It wasn’t Sven, after all.
No, I recognized that deep gravelly voice from a zillion movie promos. It was Clint Masters.
Good heavens. Did Mallory have her eye on Clint, too?
I sat there, waiting for the next step in this real life soap opera.
At first they were just chattering about how great it was to see each other, how 2007 was such a wonderful year for pinot grigios, and how exciting it was that Mallory was writing a memoir.
Just your usual blah blah yakety yak.
I was about to give up and creep out of hearing range, but then I heard something that piqued my interest.
“You’re not really going to write about what you saw that day in my dressing room, are you?” Clint asked with a nervous laugh.
“Of course I am, darling,” Mallory trilled in reply.
“But if you do,” Clint said, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice, “you’ll destroy my career.”
“Sorry, sweetie, but nothing sells a memoir like a dishy story about a macho action hero who likes to dress up in ladies lingerie.”
Holy zucchini! So Clint Masters, reigning king of the Celluloid Studs, was a cross-dresser! Now that was a newsflash destined to hit the tabloids. No wonder Clint was staying at The Haven. He hadn’t come here to shape up. He’d heard about Mallory’s memoir, and had come to plead his case.
“Aw, c’mon, Mallory,” he whined. “I’ll be ruined.”
“Sweetie, you must have me confused with someone who gives a flying fig.”
Of course the word she used was not fig, but this is a family health food novel, so I’ll spare you the colorful four letters involved.
“Care for some more pinot grigio, darling?”
“No, I would not care for some more of your girlie white wine,” Clint snarled.
All traces of desperation had vanished from his voice. Now he was the action hero who single-handedly beat up an entire cell of Taliban terrorists, armed only with his bare fists and a Swiss army knife.
“Trust me, Mallory,” he growled, “you don’t want to mess with me.”
“Or what?” She laughed. “You’ll pistol whip me with your mascara wand?”
The next thing I knew, I heard the sound of glass smashing.
“For God’s sake, Clint,” Mallory gasped. “You almost killed me with that wine bottle.”
“Oh, well,” Clint said. “Practice makes perfect.”
Then the door slammed so hard, I wondered if it had come off the hinges.
I stood among the organic veggies, stunned.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but hadn’t Clint Masters just issued a death threat?
If Mallory was upset, she showed absolutely no signs of it at lunch. She sat at the “A” table—chatting with Harvy about an upcoming photo shoot and driving Olga crazy with special requests from the kitchen—seemingly oblivious to Clint, who sat next to her stabbing his lettuce shards much like he’d stabbed those Taliban terrorists.
The hours after lunch passed in a blur of treadmills, tai chi, and aqua-cise—the latter a particularly humiliating experience. The last time I willingly exposed my thighs to the public was at childbirth.
I told Olga I hadn’t brought a bathing suit, but unfortunately the Diet Nazi had a bunch of loaner suits. And soon I was squeezing myself into a black latex Mother Teresa model that made me look like a sausage in mourning.
Mallory took one look at my thighs and snickered.
“Liposuction, anyone?” I heard her whisper to Harvy.
Relief finally came when Olga gave us the rest of the afternoon off—hallelujah!—and it was time for my first massage. Truly, the highlight of my day.
Possibly, my life.
Darling Shawna, who I soon came to think of as The Miracle Worker, ushered me into a spa cubicle and proceeded to coddle me as I have never been coddled before. First she sat me down in a small wicker chair and handed me a cup of The Haven’s muscle-relaxing tea—imported, as Olga had told me on her orientation spiel, all the way from Tibet and brewed in the ornate urn I’d seen out in the corridor.
“It’s been steeped a full twenty minutes,” Shawna explained, “to bring out all its medicinal qualities.”
I shuddered to think what it would taste like.
But alert the media. It was actually quite nice. Naturally sweet and cinnamony. The best thing I’d had since last night’s cheesecake.
As I savored every mouthful, Shawna began giving me the most divine foot rub, first soaking my aching tootsies in warm water, then rubbing them with soothing lavender lotion.
When she had massaged my feet to the consistency of limp linguini, she settled me on the massage table. All the while smiling serenely, showing no signs of the stress I’d seen earlier in the gym.
As tinkly sitar music played in the background, she set to work easing every kink in my knotted muscles with her magic fingers. Before long—aside from the hollow pit formerly known as my stomach—I was feeling almost human again.
Now this was my idea of a spa.
Just when I was wishing the massage could go on forever—with only an occasional Chunky Monkey break—I heard soft moans coming from the next cubicle.
“Oh, Sven!” an unmistakable hush puppy voice crooned. “That feels sooo wonderful!”
It was Mallory, making noises normally heard in a porn flick.
I sneaked a peek at Shawna. Aside from a tiny tic in her temple, she showed no signs of being upset.
“Does Sven usually give massages to women?” I asked.
“All the time,” she replied evenly. “The gals just love him.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“Excuse me just a minute, will you?”
With that she walked over to a CD player on her work station and cranked up the volume on the sitar music, drowning out the moans of ecstasy
from the next cubicle.
Then she returned to the massage table, mission accomplished.
She’d managed to get rid of Mallory.
For the time being, anyway.
All too soon, my massage was over, and I spent the rest of the afternoon by the pool, lying dazed in a deck chair, trying to tune out Cathy as she blathered on about the merits of Paper Vs. Plastic. In case you’re interested (and even if you’re not): Plastic’s a cinch, because you just load a whole bunch of bags on the metal holders and drop in the groceries.
But paper, on the other hand—whatever you do, don’t get Cathy started on paper. That’s at least fifteen minutes of your life you’ll never get back. The trouble with paper is you’ve got to reach over and get each individual bag, and then you’ve got to pull it open, and heaven help you if it doesn’t have handles. (“The way some customers act,” Cathy huffed, “you’d think I’d just shortchanged them again.”)
Of course, what really bugged Cathy were the people who wanted paper and plastic. (“For heavens sakes, can’t they make up their mind?”) According to Cathy—and you will be quizzed on this at the end of the book—the world would be a better place if customers bagged their own groceries.
Needless to say by the time dinner rolled around, I was ready to eat the wallpaper.
The wallpaper, yes. But not the depressing retread of last night’s fish and veggie fiasco. Somehow Kevin the cook had managed to poach every iota of flavor from the ghastly gray blob of fish on my plate. I struggled to get down a few mouthfuls and saved the rest for Prozac.
Back in my room, I found her out on the patio, her pink nose up against the mesh screen, staring intently at a koi pond just a few yards away. As she watched the plump golden fish flitting about in the moonlight, I knew exactly what the little monster was thinking.
Bet they’d be yummy sautéed in butter sauce.
“Forget it, Pro. They’re for ornamental purposes only.”
Then she turned from the screen and began her patented Feed Me dance around my ankles. It had been ages since her Fancy Feast, and she was ravenous.
Hurrying to her food bowl, I tossed out the diet glop she had been ignoring, and gave her my Gray Fish ala Kevin.
Even Prozac, a world-class chow hound, sniffed at it in disdain. But she ate it anyway, and began howling for more.
“Hang in there, honey. I’m heading into town to get us some goodies.”
Indeed, I had not forgotten my plan to slip into town after dinner and swan dive into a pepperoni pizza. As soon as I’d wolfed it down, I’d pop in at the local convenience store for Prozac’s cat food, and a candy bar or three to tide me over until the next night.
“Soon,” I promised, “you’ll be feasting on Savory Salmon Guts.”
Prozac greeted that news with a bossy swish of her tail.
Okay, but make it snappy!!
Bidding her a hasty adieu, I grabbed my wallet and car keys and headed down the hallway. I was just about to slip past the lobby to freedom, when Olga jumped out from nowhere.
“Oh there you are, Jaine,” she said, grabbing my elbow. “We’re all waiting for you. I’m about to begin my lecture.”
Her lecture??? For crying out loud. Exercise all day, and a lecture at night? How much could a body stand?
She marched me into the lounge where the other inmates were seated—Mallory and Harvy, cozy on a loveseat; Clint and Kendra, glowering in nearby armchairs. Only Cathy sat at the edge of her chair, eager for the festivities to begin. I took a seat as close to the door as possible.
As Olga trotted over to the massive fireplace to begin her talk, I saw Mallory sneak a sip of vodka from a minibottle.
“Tonight’s lecture,” Olga announced, “will be Fun Facts About Trans Fats.”
Trust me. There are no fun facts about trans fats. Which quickly became evident from Olga’s lecture, a yawnfest that made Cathy’s paper vs. plastic dissertation seem like an HBO comedy special.
As Olga droned on, I shook my head in disbelief. The nerve of that woman. Lecturing us on healthy eating, when just last night she was stuffing her face with Sara Lee!
At last she ran out of fun facts and the lecture ground to a halt.
Cathy asked me if I want to join her in a game of Parcheesi, but I told her I was bushed and that I was going straight to bed.
Which was a lie, of course.
I did not intend to go anywhere near my bed. Instead I snuck out the back door and over to the parking lot.
By the time I got in my car, I could practically taste the pepperoni.
Chapter 10
I groaned when I saw the sign in the pizza parlor window.
CLOSED
Darn that Olga. If only she hadn’t yakked for so long, I might have made it in time.
Cursing her and her stultifying trans fat lecture, I checked out the only other restaurant on the town’s tiny main street, a froufrou French joint I shall call, for the purposes of this narrative, Le Petit Ripoff. You know the kind of place. Where the prices are sky high and the customer is never right. It was still open, but I wasn’t about to fork over thirty-seven bucks for a slice of duck in orange sauce.
I’d just have to make do at the local convenience store, a minimarket called Darryl’s Deli.
Great news. Not only was Darryl’s open, but to my eternal gratitude, Darryl turned out to be a discerning purveyor of fine chow.
Making my way down the narrow aisles to the prepared foods section, my eyes lit up at the sight of a ham and melted Swiss cheese sandwich on a gorgeous foccacia bun. I quickly tossed it into my cart, along with a side of cold pasta salad, and several cans of assorted fish innards for Pro. For dessert, I treated myself to a pint of fudge ripple ice cream. Normally I am a Chunky Monkey gal, but after my George Clooney/ hot fudge sundae fantasy, I zeroed in on the vanilla ice cream swirled with fudge. I even went a tad crazy and bought a small jar of imported fudge sauce.
My taste buds, which had been lying dazed in my mouth from the onslaught of Kevin’s gray fish, suddenly sprang to life. This was gonna be even better than the pepperoni pizza.
Grabbing a few emergency candy bars, I wheeled my cart to the checkout counter where a lanky guy with shaggy hair was sitting at the register reading a book. As I got closer, I saw the book was by P.G. Wodehouse, one of my all time fave authors. How interesting.
“Welcome to Darryl’s Deli,” he said. “I’m Darryl.”
God, what a great smile—the kind I’m a sucker for—with deep laugh lines around the edges.
Suddenly I was conscious of my baggy sweats and grungy mop of curls.
“You must be from The Haven,” he said.
Oh, crud. What if Darryl’s Deli had some sort of deal with Olga? What if he refused to sell food to customers cheating on their diets?
“Yes, I’m staying there,” I said, waiting for an alarm to go off and the Calorie Cops to come racing in and drag me back to Diet Hell.
But thank heavens he just started ringing up my sale.
“I figured you must be,” he said. “I know pretty much everybody in town, and if you lived here, I would have remembered you.”
There was that smile again. Was it my imagination, or was this guy flirting with me?
Oh, why the heck hadn’t I at least put on some lipstick?
“I get a lot of customers from The Haven. I hear the food stinks.”
“Straight out of Oliver Twist.”
“You poor kid.”
At last. Someone who understood my pain.
“Excellent choice,” he said, holding up the fudge sauce. “I see you’re a connoisseur of fine chocolate.”
Needless to say, I didn’t tell him that when it came to chocolate, I’d eat anything that wasn’t nailed to the shelf.
“Well,” he said, as he started to bag my stuff, “enjoy all your goodies.”
I looked down at the giant sandwich, the cole slaw, the ice cream, the fudge sauce, the candy bars and a Hershey’s Kiss I’d tossed i
n for good measure, and suddenly I was embarrassed. I did not want Darryl to think I was the kind of gal who could polish off this cholesterol festival all by herself. Of course I am that kind of gal, but I didn’t want him to think it.
Which is the only explanation I can offer for what I said next.
“Oh, but this isn’t for me.”
“It isn’t?”
“No,” I said with a carefree wave. “It’s for my roommate.”
He held up a can of cat food. “Your cat eats cole slaw?”
“Not my cat. My other roommate. My, um, my grandmother. Yes. Grammy Austen. Darling Grammy. Such a sweetie. She taught me how to crochet my first potholder when I was five!”
Oh, hell. Where was this stuff coming from? The real Grammy Austen is a kamikaze bingo player raising hell in her assisted living home in Altoona, PA. And the only thing she ever taught me was how to make a good martini.
“Anyhow,” I babbled, “the doctors wanted Grammy to lose some weight, so here we are. But the food at The Haven was so horrible, Grammy got the munchies and begged me to run into town for a snack. And I just couldn’t say no.”
Did I detect a hint of a smile on those killer lips?
“Well, I hope she gives you a bite of the sandwich. I made the bread myself.”
“You did?”
“I cook a lot of food for the store. You should try my cannelloni.”
Wow. Not only cute, but a cook, too!
“Nice meeting you,” he said, handing me my grocery bag. “And give my best to your grandmother.”
“Oh, I will.”
“And come back soon.”
No doubt about that.
I skipped out of the store with a song in my heart and a Hershey’s Kiss in my mouth.
True, I’d told that wee fib about Grammy Austen, but who cared? The bottom line is: I’d had a close encounter with a cannelloni-cooking cutie and I’d scored some fabulous chow.
At last lady luck had returned to my side.
But not, alas, for long.
Guess who was waiting for me when I came skipping up the path to The Haven with my goodie bag? Those of you who guessed “George Clooney,” go straight to the back of the class and put on your dunce cap.