Death of a Trophy Wife (4 page)

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Exciting New Hobby!

Guess what, sweetheart? I’ve taken up the most exciting new hobby. Something I’ve wanted to learn for ages, along with origami and how to set the clock on the microwave.

I’ve joined a bridge club! You remember Lydia Pinkus, don’t you? The librarian here at Tampa Vistas? She’s teaching a bunch of us gals the rules of the game. And it’s so much fun! A lot more challenging than Go Fish, I must admit. I’ve been trying to get Daddy to play, but he’s not interested. Which is all for the best, I suppose. You know how he sulks when he loses.

Next week is my turn to host the gals for lunch. I can’t wait. I’m going to make either quiche or chicken salad in tomato cups. Doesn’t that sound lovely? And I’m going to serve it on my new luncheon china from the shopping channel. The show host said it was the exact same china Queen Elizabeth uses. Or maybe it was Queen Latifah. I forget who. All I know is, it’s gorgeous, and service for four was just $69.95, plus shipping and handling.

Oh, dear. Must run. The UPS man is at the door and Daddy’s making a fuss about something.

More later,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: It’s Here!

Great news, lambchop! It’s here at last! My Turbomaster 3000 convection oven! I saw it on an infomercial the other night when I was having trouble sleeping. The minute I saw it in action, I knew I had to have it. Would you believe this brilliant piece of culinary engineering can cook pork chops in five minutes? A rack of lamb in ten? And a turkey in just twenty-five minutes?!! Just think of all the money Mom and I will save on our energy bills!

And get this: Because I was one of the first five hundred callers, they threw in a free jar of their Turbomaster Secret Spice! A special blend of fifteen exotic spices. Guaranteed to make any dish come alive with flavor!

What a lucky break I couldn’t sleep the other night, huh? Otherwise I might’ve missed out on one of the greatest inventions of the 21
^st
century.

I can’t wait to get started cooking!

Love and kisses from,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Glorified Toaster Oven

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Your father’s gone and done it again. He’s fallen under the spell of yet another infomercial and bought some ridiculous contraption that he claims will cook a turkey in twenty-five minutes. If you ask me, his silly Turbomaster is nothing more than a glorified toaster oven. I can’t believe he was crazy enough to spend $200 on that hunk of junk!

You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? In three days he’ll lose interest in it, just like he lost interest in the slice ’n’ dicer, the yogurt maker, the brisket brisker, the Magic Juicer, and the Mr. Waffle waffle maker gathering dust in the garage. I swear, honey, with all the junk we’ve got sitting out there, we could open our own museum of unused cooking appliances.

Your disgusted,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: She Can Scoff All She Wants

Your mom is a very sweet woman, lambchop, and I love her dearly, but she sure knows how to rain on a fella’s parade. She hasn’t said it in so many words, but it’s clear she thinks my Turbomaster is a piece of junk. And she has the nerve to make fun of me because I ordered it from an infomercial! Look who’s talking—the woman who’s practically attached to the shopping channel by an umbilical cord.

Mom can scoff all she wants, but she can’t dampen my excitement. No, sir. Tonight I’m going to break in the Turbomaster with some magnificent five-minute pork chops. I’m headed out to the market right now to go shopping.

Bon appetit!

From your loving,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Im Possible!

I’ve got two words for your father: Im Possible! He went to the market to pick up a couple of pork chops and a carton of milk and just walked in the door with four bags of groceries. Filled with ridiculous food items we’ll never use. Garlic-stuffed olives. Anchovies in truffle oil. Pickled artichoke hearts. And a five-pound bag of unpopped popcorn. I ask you, what on earth are we going to do with five pounds of unpopped popcorn, other than open our own concession stand at the movies? Would you believe he spent $127 on all that junk when all he needed was two measly pork chops??!

And PS. He forgot the milk!

I
spent a restless night tossing and turning. When I finally managed to drift off to sleep, I dreamed I was standing at the altar, exchanging wedding vows with Vladimir, his goat Svetlana my maid of honor.

For once I was actually grateful when Prozac clawed me awake for her breakfast.

After fixing her some Hearty Halibut Guts and nuking myself a cup of Folgers Crystals, I hunkered down at the computer and checked my parents’ e-mails. Which is never a great way to start the day.

Don’t get me wrong. My parents are very sweet people, and I love them to pieces, but their e-mails should come with a warning from the Surgeon General:
The News You Are About to Receive May Be Hazardous to Your Mental Health.

Daddy is the main culprit, of course. The man has caused more ulcers than garlic and jalapeno peppers combined. I knew he’d drive poor Mom nuts with his Turbomaster contraption. And that she, in turn, would drive me nuts, in a daisy chain of unending aggravation.

But I couldn’t sit around fretting about my parents. In less than an hour, I’d be meeting with Marvin Cooper to show him my writing samples.

So I dusted off my sample book, praying Marvin would be wowed by my colorful array of toilet bowl brochures. Then I dug out my one and only Prada pantsuit from the back of my closet and proceeded to get dressed, accessorizing with a tasteful gold bangle and a pair of black slingbacks I’d bought on sale at Nordstrom.

When I’d spritzed my final spritz of perfume and wrestled my curls into submission, I checked myself out in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. Just goes to show what you can do when you choose your wardrobe wisely and stand really far away from the mirror.

“Wish me luck,” I called to Prozac.

She looked up from where she was napping on my computer keyboard and gave me an encouraging yawn.

Minutes later, I was tooling over to Mattress King.

Marvin’s Beverly Hills showroom was not in Beverly Hills, but in an area euphemistically called Beverly Hills Adjacent, by people who live there and wish they didn’t. Lots of successful business are located there, however, and Marvin’s was one of them.

A huge barn of a building, Mattress King’s floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows displayed a sea of thick, tufted mattresses. A sign in the window revealed that they were in the midst of a gala “Sleep-tacular.”

I bypassed the parking lot in the rear and took a spot down the street. I was, after all, trying to make a good impression, and an ancient Corolla with an
I Brake for Chocolate
bumper sticker does not exactly scream
Hire Me
.

Gathering my sample book and my courage, I trotted over to the store, took a deep breath, and headed inside.

The place was practically deserted. Which was not all that surprising at 10:30 on a Monday morning.

A portly guy in a blue blazer jumped up from where he was doing a crossword puzzle and hurried over to greet me.

“Hello, there!” he said, buttoning his blazer over his substantial gut. “I’m Lenny.”

And indeed his name tag informed me that he was “Sleep Specialist Lenny.”

“How may I help you get a good night’s rest?” he asked, running a hand over his comb-over.

He could start by getting Prozac to stop sleeping with her tail in my mouth, but I doubt that was what he had in mind.

“Actually, I’m here for a meeting with Marvin Cooper.”

“Through the door over there,” he sighed, kissing his sale good-bye. Then, noticing my sample book, he added, “Good luck.”

He smiled a sad-eyed smile, as if luck was something he’d run out of long ago.

I made my way through a door at the back of the showroom to a no-frills office area, with rental-quality furniture, metal file cabinets, and a coffee machine in a corner. A pale young receptionist was clacking away on her computer keyboard, peering at the monitor through a fringe of limp brown bangs.

When I told her I was there to see Marvin, she quickly ushered me into his inner sanctum. Unlike the reception area, Marvin’s office was decorated to the hilt, crammed with ornate antique furniture and froufrou vases, a riff on the Vegas Versailles theme I’d seen at Casa Extravaganza.

Marvin jumped up from where he was seated, his roly-poly body dwarfed behind a monster of a desk. “How nice to see you, Jaine!”

“What a lovely office,” I managed to say.

“Would you believe Bunny decorated it all by herself?”

I’d believe it, all right. No decorator in her right mind would take credit for this mess.

“It’s not really my style,” he shrugged, “but she got a big kick out of doing it.”

I could easily imagine Bunny decorating an office with absolutely no regard for the person who’d be using it.

“Please,” Marvin said. “Sit down, make yourself comfy.”

Me? Comfy? In Antique Alley? Not bloody likely.

I perched my fanny on a fussy little armchair across from his desk, hoping it wouldn’t give way beneath me.

“So,” he said, getting down to business, “let’s see your stuff.”

Discreetly wiping the sweat from my palms, I handed him my sample book.

I sat, fingers crossed, as he turned the pages, praying he’d like my ads. And indeed, he did seem to be smiling.

“Very cute,” he said when he got to my ad for Ackerman’s Awnings. “
Just a Shade Better
.”

He continued leafing through the book, that faint smile still on his lips. I just hoped he wasn’t faking it. He seemed like the kind of guy who might want to spare my feelings.

At last he slapped the book shut, and his faint smile grew into a full-fledged grin.

“I like it.”

Hallelujah!

“And I’d be happy to hear any ideas you want to pitch. Are you familiar with my commercials?”

“Of course.”

Anybody who’d ever turned on a TV in the middle of the night in L.A. was familiar with Marvin’s commercials. They were all the same: Marvin sitting on a throne in a cheesy ermine-trimmed robe and crown, waving a scepter and yapping about how his mattresses were fit for a king.

“I’m tired of that old slogan,
Fit for a King.
I want something new. Something with more oomph! You think you can do oomph?”

“Absolutely,” I assured him, having no idea what he was talking about.

“Great! Now let’s go look at some mattresses!” he said, jumping up. “To light your creative fire.”

With happy heart, I followed him out to the office reception area, where I noticed a pudgy woman in a jog suit standing at the coffee machine.

“Oh, Marvin!” she called out. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Marvin looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Of course,” he replied.

Reluctantly he led me over to the coffee table where the woman was now reaching into a box of the most heavenly looking Krispy Kremes.

“This is Jaine,” Marvin said. “She’s going to work on ideas for a new slogan.”

“How wonderful!” The woman shot me a warm smile. “The best of luck to you, dear.”

With her round apple cheeks, bright blue eyes, and graying Dutch bob, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Why on earth did Marvin seem so uncomfortable around her?

“Care for a donut?” she asked, holding out the box.

My eyes zeroed in on a chocolate-glazed beauty.

It was torture, but I managed to say, “No, thanks.”

“Since Marvin obviously isn’t going to introduce me,” she said, “I’m Ellen Cooper.”

“Cooper?” I asked. “Are you two related?”

Marvin’s eyes shifted nervously.

“Ellen and I used to be married.”

“That’s right,” Ellen said, still smiling her cherubic smile. “I’m a charter member of the First Wives Club.”

I remembered what Lance told me about Marvin dumping his longtime spouse for Bunny. So this was Wife Number One.

“Marvin and I were married for thirty years until Ms. Bunny came along.”

Uh-oh. I was beginning to sense some tension in the air. Ellen Cooper may have been smiling on the outside, but there was a definite edge to her voice.

“Aren’t you going to tell Jaine what I do here at Mattress King?” she asked Marvin.

“Ellen is our bookkeeper,” he snapped in reply.

“Correction, dear. Chief Financial Officer.” Then she confided to me, “Marvin was kind enough to let me retain part ownership of the business, thanks to his generous nature and some serious threats from my barracuda divorce attorney.”

By then Marvin was openly glaring at his ex.

“Let’s go check out those mattresses,” he said, yanking me away.

“Watch out for him, sweetheart!” Ellen called out. “He likes ’em young.”

Marvin hustled me out of there so fast, I barely had time to grab a donut hole.

Out in the showroom, business had picked up, and Lenny was now showing an elderly couple one of his “sleep-tacular” mattresses.

“One of my best salesmen,” Marvin said, nodding in Lenny’s direction. “He’s been with me since Day One.”

Guiding me by the elbow, he took me on a tour of the place, yapping about inner springs and coil count and memory-foam pillow tops. Surrounded by his beloved mattresses, his anger at his ex-wife quickly dissipated.

“Go on,” he said, pointing to a model called the Comfort Cloud. “Lie down and try it out.”

I gulped in dismay.

“You want me to lie down?”

Oh, dear. The last time I parked myself on a bed in front of a man (some time during the Lincoln administration) there was foreplay involved.

“Sure!” Marvin said. “You’ll never know how heavenly our mattresses are unless you take one for a test drive!”

Between the innerspring and the pillow top and lord knows how many layers of padding, this thing was The Incredible Hulk of mattresses. Awkwardly I climbed on board, my tush exposed for intimate inspection. Not quite the executive image I was hoping to impart.

When I stretched out on the tufted pillow top, my thighs expanded exponentially, as they always do in a reclining position. I cursed myself for not wearing industrial-strength pantyhose.

“Isn’t she a honey?” Marvin beamed, his tiny eyes glowing with enthusiasm. “Just like a cloud, huh?”

“Yes,” I echoed weakly. “Just like a cloud.”

And I have to admit, if I hadn’t felt so damn awkward, lying there with my thighs spreading like butter on a hotcake, it would’ve been quite cloud-like.

“So?” he asked. “Are you inspired yet?”

“I don’t know about her,” came a voice from behind Marvin, “but I sure am.”

I recognized the voice right away. And the blast of pungent perfume that accompanied it.

It was Wife Number Two. Bunny Cooper. Poured into skintight jeans and midriff-baring T-shirt. Emblazoned in rhinestones across the mountainous terrain of her chest were the words
Wild Thing
.

Tossing back her flaming red hair extensions, Bunny slithered onto a nearby mattress and assumed a pose straight out of
Playboy
.

All that was missing were the staples in her navel.

“Just a preview of coming attractions,” she cooed to her Marvy Man, puckering her lips in a kiss.

Marvin blushed.

“Bunny, please,” he said. “The customers are watching.”

And indeed, Lenny’s elderly customers had lost all interest in mattresses and were staring at Bunny. Correction. Mr. Elderly was staring. So hard, I thought his eyeballs would bust through his bifocals. Mrs. Elderly, on the other hand, was harrumphing in disgust.

Lenny seemed to share her disgust, pursing his lips in disapproval.

But their reactions paled in comparison to what I saw next.

There, standing not far behind them, was Ellen Cooper. All traces of the Norman Rockwell dame with the sweet smile who’d offered me a Krispy Kreme had vanished into the ether. Now her jaw was clenched tight, her eyes burned with fury.

Clearly, Marvin wasn’t the only one she was sore at.

If looks could kill, Bunny would be dead on a bed.