4 Decoupage Can Be Deadly

by Lois Winston

  “Right on!” shouted Marilyn, punctuating her agreement with a fist bump. The rest of Philomena’s entourage echoed the sentiment.

  “She made a statement, all right,” said Serena.

  “At our expense,” added Cloris.

  I studied the garish Bling! booth. A giant disco ball, centered over the display, hung from a steel girder. As it rotated, pulsating laser lights within the ball flashed the Bling! logo across the convention center. I’m sure the other exhibitors loved that. Was gangsta chic really the sort of statement Trimedia wanted to make?

  “So cathouse couture is the next big trend?” asked Tessa. “I must have missed that memo.”

  Philomena got up too close and too personal with Tessa’s nose, dragging Gruenwald along with her. “Are you calling me what I think you’re calling me, bitch?”

  Tessa didn’t flinch. She held her ground and offered Philomena a smile that was anything but friendly. “If the Manolo fits...”

  “Why you—! Alfred, you gonna allow her to diss your woman like that?”

  Gruenwald finally extricated his arm from Philomena’s and inserted himself between her and Tessa. “Now let’s all calm down.” He then addressed Naomi. “Your magazine has an established readership. We’re trying to tap into a new demographic with Bling! To do so, we need to go big and splashy.”

  “That doesn’t give her the right to trash our booth,” I said. “If you wanted to give her more display space than us, we should have been told about it weeks ago, not ambushed this morning.”

  Gruenwald glanced over at our reduced space, then down the aisle to Philomena’s enlarged area. “Well, what’s done is done. You’ll have to make do with the space you currently have. The show is about to open, and there’s nothing I can do at this point.”

  With that, Philomena did exactly what I’d expect a spoiled brat celebrity to do: she flipped us the bird. Then she looped her arm back through Gruenwald’s and they, along with the entourage and Gopher Boy, proceeded down the aisle to the Bling! display.

  “There’s no fool like an old fool,” muttered Naomi.

  The rest of us cast sideways glances at each other. Naomi’s longtime significant other had made a similar spectacle of himself not that long ago with our magazine’s former fashion editor. Marlys Vandenburg now resides six feet under, thanks to my not-so-dearly departed husband’s loan shark.

  In Naomi’s case, Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp, the former publisher of American Woman, had come to his senses, and the two had gotten back together. I wondered if Mrs. Gruenwald would be as forgiving of her husband’s lapse of sanity.

  “What do you think he sees in her?” asked Sheila. “She’s so crass and low-class.”

  “Beats me,” I said. “Maybe she’s stroking his ego. After all, he’s old enough to be her grandfather.”

  “Oh, she’s stroking something all right,” said Tessa, “but I guarantee it’s not his ego.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Janice. She screwed up her face and shuddered. “That’s one image I really didn’t want imprinted into my cerebral cortex.”

  “So the old geezer’s a horn dog,” said Nicole. “What the hell does she see in him?”

  “Can’t be his money,” said Serena. “She’s worth millions on her own.”

  “Well, it’s certainly not his looks,” said Tessa.

  “That’s for sure,” said Sheila. “The guy resembles Ernest Borgnine. On a bad day.”

  “Who’s Ernest Borgnine?” asked Tessa.

  “Marty? From Here to Eternity?”

  “Huh?”

  “McHale’s Navy?” I offered.

  When Tessa remained clueless, Sheila rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Google him.”

  Further conversation concerning Philomena and Gruenwald halted with the onslaught of the first wave of show attendees making their way down the aisles.

  Naomi clapped her hands together. “Show time, ladies.”

  Since our space had been chopped in half, we quickly revised our game plan for the day. Half the editors grabbed copies of American Woman and stepped toward the edge of the booth to hand them out as people passed by in the aisle, the job Naomi had originally assigned herself. The rest of us took up positions behind our remaining podiums where we proceeded to demonstrate various techniques or dispense information. We’d switch off hourly.

  While I decoupaged, Cloris decorated cupcakes, Tessa demonstrated scarf tying techniques, and Janice handed out refrigerator magnets listing the various signs of heart attack in women under forty. Oddly enough, chest pain wasn’t one of the symptoms. “Reading American Woman might save your life,” she told the women reaching for the magnets.

  ~*~

  By six o’clock when the show closed for the day, I remembered why I hated working trade and consumer shows. “My aches have aches,” I said to no one in particular. My feet burned from standing for hours in heels, but I knew if I slipped my shoes off for some relief, I’d never get them back on.

  I also knew from experience that we’d wait at least an hour in the cab or bus line to transport us to Penn Station. Hoofing it would get us on a train home much faster. If my feet survived the nearly mile-long walk. I meant to bring a pair of sneakers with me to switch into after the show, but I forgot to grab them as I rushed out the door that morning to catch the train into the city.

  “Did you notice the only booth space where Trimedia coughed up the extra dough for thicker carpet and padding is Bling!’s?” asked Jeanie.

  I hadn’t, but sure enough, when I glanced down the row, the Bling! carpeting rose a good two inches above the carpeting under our feet—including the twenty feet that used to belong to us. “Must be nice to have that kind of pull,” I said.

  Philomena and her entourage had darted out the moment the show officially closed for the day. The Bling! booth had been jammed non-stop throughout the day. Even when I walked past during a break, I hadn’t seen much of it, given the crowds of women gathered in and around the booth. Now that people were streaming out of the convention center, I wandered over to take a close-up. The others followed my lead.

  The décor matched the tackiness of Philomena’s outfit. “She makes Vittorio Versailles look sedate,” said Nicole.

  Vittorio Versailles was an over-the-top designer our former fashion editor had sliced and diced in an issue last winter. He’d threatened to sue Trimedia, but Ricardo the loan shark got to Vittorio before Vittorio’s attorneys had a chance to draw up the papers.

  “This booth seems more appropriate for one of those adult expos,” said Jeanie.

  “Oh?” asked Janice.

  “Not that I have personal experience,” Jeanie quickly added.

  “You think Bling! will be successful?” I asked Naomi.

  She shrugged. “Eventually people will wise up to the fact that the magazine is mostly ads. They’ll stop buying copies. Once that happens, ad revenues will dip, and the magazine will fold. I give it a year tops.”

  “Even with most of the ads for products Philomena’s endorsing?” asked Tessa.

  “Advertisers are fickle,” said Naomi. “As her contracts near expiration, the advertisers will be courting the next hot spokesperson. Philomena has no staying power.”

  “Yet she’s raking in megabucks right now,” said Serena.

  “I’d kill for an endorsement deal,” said Tessa. “I wouldn’t care if it only lasted a year or two.”

  “One can only hope Naomi is right,” said Sheila. She glanced around the garish exhibit. “I feel dirty just standing here.”

  “And yet her booth was mobbed all day,” I said.

  “For what? Lollipops?” She picked one up out of a large fishbowl on the back counter. “Omigod!”

  “What?” We all turned to stare at her. Sheila’s normally peach complexion was now as flaming red as her hair. “These aren’t lollipops.” She passed one to each of us.

  “They certainly aren’t,” said Tessa. “I wonder if the Trimedia board knows she’s p
assing out condoms with the Bling! logo emblazoned on them.”

  “Maybe you should put in a call to your Uncle Chessie,” said Cloris.

  Tessa’s Uncle Chester Longstreth sat on the Trimedia board. The connection had scored her the fashion editor position but hadn’t helped her when Trimedia forced us into what amounted to indentured servitude last spring.

  Tessa grabbed a handful of rubber lollipops and slipped them into her purse. “I might just do that.”

  “So what’s with the Marilyn Monroe impersonator?” I asked no one in particular.

  Tessa’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t know who that was?”

  “If I knew, would I be asking?”

  “That’s Norma Gene,” said Tessa.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You’ve never heard of Norma Gene?”

  “I know Norma Jeane was Marilyn Monroe’s real name, but she died decades before you were born.”

  “And she didn’t stand nearly seven feet tall,” said Sheila.

  Tessa rolled her eyes. “Do you people live under a rock?”

  “Hey, you didn’t know Ernest Borgnine,” said Cloris, sticking up for Sheila and me.

  Tessa turned to her. “Has Ernest Borgnine been on the cover of Us and People lately? Is he mentioned on Page Six? Or on TMZ?”

  “Doubtful, considering he’s dead.”

  “Well, Norma Gene has. Several times over the last few months.”

  “So, are you going to tell us who she is or not,” asked Janice.

  Good to know I’m not the only clueless editor on the American Woman staff when it comes to Norma Gene.

  Tessa heaved a huge sigh before answering. “Norma Gene is Gail to Philomena’s Oprah. They’re BFF’s.”

  “Is she a he?” I asked, curiosity winning out over political correctness.

  “Norma Gene is in the process of gender reassignment. Everyone knows that. You should really keep abreast of current events, Anastasia.”

  “I’ll add it to my to-do list.” I picked up a copy of Bling! and started leafing through the pages. Even though I’d been aware of Trimedia’s newest baby, I hadn’t paid much attention to the birth. The Bling! staff occupied offices on another floor of our building, and this was the first time I’d had a chance for an up-close-and-personal with the newest corporate rugrat.

  A quick scan of the Table of Contents piqued my curiosity. “What in the world is Vajazzling?” I asked as I flipped pages to find the article.

  “They’ve got an article about Vajazzling?” asked Nicole. “Are they including pictures?”

  “Oh yeah!” I stared at the eight-by-ten glossy depiction of a certain normally covered-up section of Philomena's anatomy. “This makes rubber lollipops tame, ladies.”

  “Let me see.” Serena grabbed the magazine out of my hands. Everyone else clamored around her to ogle.

  “Why would anyone want to do that to themselves?” asked Sheila.

  “I wonder if it’s painful,” said Cloris.

  “Not the Vajazzling,” said Tessa, “but the full Brazilian you get beforehand hurts like hell.”

  We all turned to stare at her. “You know this from personal experience?” I asked.

  She executed another eye roll directed toward me. “How can you work at a women’s magazine and not know about the latest trends in beauty and fashion?” She glanced up and down the aisle to make sure no one else was around. Then she unzipped the fly front of her designer trousers and pulled down a scrap of pink silk fabric to show off her own Vajazzling, a series of crystals decorating the upper area of her hairless nether region.

  “That’s sick,” said Jeanie.

  The rest of us concurred except for Nicole who seemed more than a little interested. “How long does it last?”

  “About five days,” said Tessa as she zipped up her pants. “Then they start falling off.”

  “And you paid how much for this?” asked Sheila.

  “Nothing. Many spas are giving them away free with a Brazilian, but it depends where you go. I’ve heard of places charging up to a hundred dollars.”

  “What a waste of money!” proclaimed our finance editor.

  Cloris elbowed me in the ribs. “So when are we going to see a column on the hot new craft trend of vagina bedazzling?”

  Naomi answered for me. “When hell freezes over.”

  ~*~

  My mother ambushed me the moment I arrived home. “Anastasia, we need to talk.”

  TWO

  I dropped my purse and keys onto the hall table and kicked off my heels. Catherine the Great, Mama’s enormous Persian cat, leaped from Mama’s arms, gave a disdainful sniff to my shoes, then headed for her favorite perch on the back of my living room sofa.

  “Mama, it’s after seven. I’ve been on my feet all day and haven’t eaten anything besides a cupcake (or three or four) since breakfast. Can’t it wait?”

  “No, it can’t. Lawrence is picking me up shortly. This has gone on for too long. I can barely look him in the eye.”

  I sighed. My mother had a way of carrying on a conversation that made sense only to her. “What’s gone on for too long?”

  “Your appalling lack of manners. I brought you up better than that.”

  “You’ve lost me, Mama. How about starting at the beginning, but before you do, where is everyone else? Did the boys and Lucille have dinner?”

  “Alex and Nick are off with friends, and I have no idea where the commie pinko is. She’s been gone all day, probably out rabblerousing with her commie pinko cohorts. If we’re lucky, she’ll get herself into so much trouble, the police will lock her up for good this time.”

  “Don’t start, Mama.” There was no love lost between my mother, a life-long member and past social secretary of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and my mother-in-law, the president of the Daughters of the October Revolution. Mama insisted Lucille and her octogenarian followers, all twelve of them, were plotting to overthrow the government.

  Unfortunately, circumstances beyond my control have forced me to share my home with both Mama and Lucille and forced them to share a bedroom. That goes a long way toward explaining the fun part of my dysfunctional family dynamic. I have the man I now not so fondly refer to as Dead Louse of a Spouse to thank for saddling me with his mother and so much more.

  “What about Mephisto?” Mephisto, whose real name is Manifesto (only my mother-in-law would name a dog after a communist treatise) was Lucille’s runt of a French bulldog. The Devil Dog and I had belonged to a mutual animosity society up until one dreadful day this past summer when he’d proven his worth. I now owe my life to Mephisto. Literally. Needless to say, we’d bonded. And that really doesn’t sit well with my mother-in-law.

  “What about him?”

  “Has anyone walked him?”

  “How should I know? She took the mongrel with her.”

  One less chore for me. I headed to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator in search of something to eat. The nearly empty interior reminded me I needed to squeeze in a trip to the supermarket tonight. I grabbed the last two eggs and the dregs from the vegetable crisper—half a tomato and a two inch chunk of slightly wrinkled zucchini. A search of the deli drawer uncovered a lone slice of cheddar cheese.

  If I only had a bottle of wine to go with my omelet.... But wine was a luxury I could no longer afford. Yet something else to blame on the man who’d dropped dead at a roulette table in Las Vegas, leaving me with debt the size of the gross national product of some third world nations.

  I set a frying pan on the stove to heat up, cracked the eggs into a bowl, added some milk, and began whisking the mixture together.

  “Anastasia, are you listening to me?”

  Actually, I had tuned her out, a skill I’d adopted as a teenager. I loved my mother, but I loved her best in small doses. Luckily, she was planning a sixth trip down the aisle. I hoped her marriage to Lawrence Tuttnauer lasted longer than her last four attempts at happily-ever-after. Mama’s husb
ands had a habit of dying on her shortly after the I do’s. Her last fiancé didn’t even make it to the altar, thanks to a crazy woman who stabbed him in the heart with one of my knitting needles.

  “Sorry, Mama. What did you want to discuss?”

  “When are you going to invite Ira and his family for dinner? It’s been over two months since their barbecue, and you’ve yet to reciprocate. It’s embarrassing.”

  Ira was Ira Pollack, my dead husband’s half-brother. No one knew of his existence until twelve weeks ago when he showed up on my doorstep. Ira was searching for his deceased father’s long-lost love, my curmudgeon of a mother-in-law. He’d since wheedled his way into our lives, playing cupid to Mama and his father-in-law. I was happy Mama had once again found a soul mate, but Ira’s arrival seriously complicated my already complicated life.

  I poured the egg mixture into the frying pan, adjusted the flame, and began cutting up the zucchini and tomato. As I chopped, I glanced out my kitchen window at the darkened apartment above my garage. Zachary Barnes, my tenant turned boyfriend, had once again jetted off to some remote corner of the globe on another photo-journalism assignment. Or possibly some covert government activity he swore he didn’t do. I had my doubts. Don’t all government operatives swear they aren’t government operatives?

  I sighed. Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody. Except Mama driving me nuts.

  “Exactly when have I had time to entertain lately? In case you’ve forgotten, I worked a second job all summer.” Although grateful for the extra paycheck I’d earned working weekends as the arts and crafts instructor at the Sunnyside of Westfield Assisted Living and Rehabilitation Center, the stint had taken both an emotional and physical toll on me. And almost gotten me killed.

  A brief getaway with Zack to Barcelona had proved no respite, either. Sometimes I think that along with leaving me with debt up the wazoo, Karl also tattooed a target on my back. Ever since he died, people keep trying to kill me. Even in Barcelona.

  “People do entertain during the week, dear,” said Mama.

  “Yes, people who arrive home from work at a reasonable hour and don’t have a houseful of responsibilities to contend with once they do get home.” Not to mention no husband and both a mother and mother-in-law genetically incapable of helping around the house.