Death of a Trophy Wife (7 page)

B
ack home, I barely had enough time to shower, dress, and scarf down my now ice-cold Sausage & Egg McMuffin. Then I grabbed my car keys and raced out the door, praying I wouldn’t be late for my meeting with Marvin.

But I needn’t have rushed.

“Marvin isn’t here,” his mousy receptionist informed me when I showed up at the store. “Mattress emergency at the main warehouse.” Waving toward a row of no-frills plastic chairs, she said, “Have a seat. He should be back soon. And help yourself to a donut while you’re waiting.”

I looked over and once more saw a box of Krispy Kremes nestled next to the Mr. Coffee machine. Marvin may have had lousy taste in trophy wives, but he sure knew what he was doing when it came to office snacks.

I was still a bit peckish after my hurried McMuffin. But I wasn’t about to stuff my face with empty calories. No siree. Not moi. Instead I took out my briefcase and began fine-tuning my slogans.

You’ll be happy to know I kept this up for a whole thirteen seconds.

After which I tossed aside my slogans and made a beeline for the donut box. I was just about to reach for a chocolate-glazed beauty when Ellen Cooper came out from her office.

“Hi, there,” Marvin’s ex-wife said, flashing me a friendly smile. What a difference from the last time I saw her, when she was shooting death ray looks at Bunny.

But now she had returned to her apple-cheeked, Norman Rockwell persona.

“You here to present your ideas to Marvin?” she asked, pouring herself some coffee.

“Yes.” I tried not to sound as nervous as I felt. “I hope he likes them.”

“I’m sure he will.” Then a wary look crept in her eyes. “You’re Bunny’s friend, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no,” I assured her. I didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that any friend of Bunny’s was an enemy of hers. “I just met her recently. Through my neighbor, Lance Venable. Bunny’s one of his most loyal customers at Neiman Marcus.”

“This month she is,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Bunny’s fickle.”

In more ways than one
, I thought, remembering Bunny’s recent tryst with Owen at Casa Extravaganza.

“Poor Marvin,” she chirped merrily, as if reading my thoughts. “Sooner or later, Bunny’s bound to break his heart.” Then she added with a wink, “And it couldn’t happen to a more deserving fellow! Well, good luck with your ideas, sweetheart.”

Then she trotted back to her office, no doubt to stick pins in her Marvin and Bunny voodoo dolls.

Alone at last with the Krispy Kremes, I plucked my chocolate-glazed beauty from the box. Then I took a seat opposite the receptionist, whose name, according to the nameplate on her desk, was Amy Flannagan. She sat hunched over her computer, her bony fingers tapping away at her keyboard. How she could work so close to all those donuts without grabbing one was a mystery to me.

A mystery I pondered as I gulped mine down in record speed. The last thing I wanted was for Marvin to come back and find me sitting there with a mouthful of Krispy Kreme.

But as it turned out, Marvin didn’t show up for another three hours. By the time he finally puffed in at around 4
P.M
., I’d scarfed down two more donuts, checked my phone messages sixteen times, and read the latest issue of
Mattress Digest
from cover to cover.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Jaine!” Marvin cried, catching sight of me.

“Oh, that’s okay,” I lied.

“Some idiot in the main warehouse set off the sprinkler system and I had to make sure all the mattresses were okay.”

“I totally understand,” I said, hoping I didn’t have donut crumbs in the corners of my mouth.

“Come on in,” he said, waving me into his office.

I trotted after him and took a seat in the froufrou antique chair across from his desk.

“So!” Marvin beamed. “Ready to pitch your ideas?”

“Absolutely!” I faked a confident smile. “But before I begin, I want to return this to you.”

With great pride, I handed him my purloined mattress sample.

“Oh, you didn’t have to return it,” he said, tossing it aside. “We’re getting a new shipment any day now.”

For crying out loud. Can you beat that? I’d just run myself ragged for nothing!

“Okay,” he said, getting down to business. “Whaddaya got?”

With sweaty palms, I reached for my slogans and was just about to begin my pitch when his intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Amy?” Marvin said, speaking into the box.

“Your wife is on line one, Mr. Cooper.”

“Sorry, Jaine.” He shrugged apologetically. “This won’t take very long.”

Oh, yes, it did.

I sat squirming in that damn excuse for a chair, my palms getting sweatier by the minute, as Marvin held the receiver to his ear, nodding his head, and periodically murmuring, “Yes, dear.”

In the background, I could hear Bunny barking orders to him.

At last, he managed to hang up.

“I’m so sorry, Jaine, but Bunny needs me at the house. She’s throwing a party tonight, and she wants me home early.”

“That’s okay,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’ll come back another time.”

“I know! Why don’t you stop by the party tonight, and you can pitch your ideas to me then?”

“Are you sure Bunny won’t mind?” I asked, not exactly relishing the thought of running into her again.

“Of course Bunny won’t mind,” he assured me. “At our house, the door is always open.”

If he only knew
how
open.

“So is it a date?” he asked.

“It’s a date,” I said, girding my loins for a fun-filled evening with Her Royal Bitchiness.

I stopped off at Lance’s place on my way back to my apartment to see if he was going to Bunny’s bash.

Indeed he was.

“How did you find out about it?” he asked, as his tiny fluffball of a dog, Mamie, covered my ankles with slobbery kisses.

Mamie, unlike a certain pampered feline I know, is one of the most affectionate pets on the planet. I knelt down to give her a love scratch.

“You are the cutest-wootest wittle thing in all the world.”

“I know I am,” Lance said, “but how did you find out about the party?”

“Marvin invited me.”

“That’s odd. Usually Bunny’s the one who hands out the invites.”

Then I told him about my endless afternoon at Mattress King.

“You went to pitch slogans looking like that?” he asked, eyeing my outfit with no small degree of disapproval.

“What on earth is wrong with what I’m wearing? This happens to be an Eileen Fisher blouse.”

“Did you know your Eileen Fisher blouse happens to have a blob of chocolate on it?”

I looked down and saw the aforementioned chocolate blob.

Damn those Krispy Kremes.

“Honestly, Jaine. For your next birthday, I’m buying you a bib.”

“And for your next birthday,” I said, in my frostiest tone of voice, “I’m buying you absolutely nothing.”

“Oh, don’t get all pissy,” he said, putting his arm around me. “I only nag you because I love you. And I’m thrilled you’re coming to the party. We can hang out together and count facelifts.”

“All right,” I sniffed, somewhat mollified.

“By the way,” he said as I started to go. “Some goofy-looking guy stopped by your apartment today. I heard him knocking on your door and calling out, ‘Jaine, my beloved!’”

Oh, groan. Not Vladimir.

With a sigh, I trudged back to my apartment, only to find a bouquet of wilted flowers lying on my front steps. At least these hadn’t been filched from Mrs. Hurlbut’s yard. I could see the
Reduced for Clearance
price sticker on the cellophane wrapping.

When I picked them up, I noticed an envelope underneath. Inside was a poem from Vladimir:

TO MY BELOVED JAINE

I think you are a girl most fab

Here’s fifty bucks to pay for cab

Sure enough, along with the poem, I found five ten-dollar bills to cover the cost of last night’s cab fare.

In spite of myself, I was touched by the gesture.

“L
ance! Sweetie!”

Bunny stood at the front door of Casa Extravaganza, in another boob-and-fanny-baring outfit.

“How wonderful to see you, hon!” she called out as he headed up the front path. “Now the party can officially begin.”

Then she caught sight of me trailing behind him.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Okay, so what she really said was, “I didn’t know you were coming, Jaine.”

“Marvin invited me.”

“Did he? How nice.”

That was spoken with all the enthusiasm of a hostess discovering a cockroach in her centerpiece. After which she turned her spray-tanned back to me and directed all her charms on Lance.

“It’s going to be such a wonderful party!” she gushed, leading him inside. “All the best people are here. I’m serving dirty martinis, and I’ve even hired a fortune-teller! I’ve got her reading palms in the den. What a hoot, huh? C’mon, honey. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

With that, she linked her arm through his and whisked him away, leaving me alone on the doorstep.

Lance shot me an apologetic look and shrugged helplessly, trapped in her vise-like grip.

I followed them into Casa Extravaganza’s cavernous living room and saw about a dozen of “the best people” milling around. The gals were anatomically correct Barbies, complete with surgically tightened faces, man-made boobs, and clothes so trendy they practically had expiration dates. Most of the men affected the Hip Hollywood Producer look: jeans and a T-shirt topped off with a blazer. Ponytail optional. Which works well for hip Hollywood producers, not so well for guys with paunches and hair plugs.

If these were the best people, somebody better alert the gang at Newport.

Joining in the festivities were Sarah and Owen, both fashion rebels in their L.L. Bean togs, Sarah scowling into her drink, and Owen still sporting his Mattress King baseball cap. I was beginning to wonder if it was welded to his scalp.

Much to my surprise I also spotted Ellen Cooper, chatting with a handsome, silver-haired guy near the patio.

And over by a fireplace big enough to park my Corolla in, Marvin was deep in conversation with one of the T-Shirt & Blazer guys. I would’ve liked nothing more than to pitch my ideas to him and make a quick escape, but I felt funny about interrupting his conversation. Instead I just stood in the midst of the chattering guests, the party’s designated wallflower.

So much for me and Lance hanging out together and counting facelifts. By now he was cozily ensconced on a sofa, sandwiched between Bunny and Fiona, no doubt engaged in heavy-duty fashion chat.

And then I saw a sight that warmed my heart—Lupe circulating with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

“Hey, Lupe!” I cried, weaving my way to her side. “How’s it going?”

“Fine, Ms. Jaine,” she replied, with a timid smile.

My eyes zeroed in on her tray and saw one lone rumaki, a plump bacon-wrapped beauty with my name on it.

Or so I thought.

Just as I was about to reach for it, one of the Barbies popped up out of nowhere and grabbed it. I told myself not to be bitter. It was probably her caloric intake for the week.

“I’ll be right back with some more,” Lupe said, scooting off.

Counting the minutes till her return, I made my way over to a bar on the far side of the room. I longed for the company of my friend Mr. Chardonnay, but I simply could not afford to get tootled before a presentation.

“I’ll have a ginger ale,” I said to the stunning actor manning the bar.

“I’m sorry, but all I’m serving are dirty martinis.”

And indeed, the only bottles of booze on the makeshift bar were gin and vermouth.

“Don’t you have anything else?”

“Afraid not.”

“Haven’t you heard, Jaine?” I turned to see Sarah at my side, waving a martini glass. “Dirty martinis are Bunny’s favorite drink. This week, anyway. And whatever Bunny wants,
everybody
wants.

“So if you don’t like dirty martinis,” she said, polishing hers off with impressive speed, “you’re out of luck. Although, actually, they’re pretty good.”

With that, she signaled the bartender for a refill.

“It’s good to see you again, Sarah,” I said, making a feeble stab at conversation.

“Wish I could say the same. Nothing personal, of course. It’s just that these parties are so damn awful.”

She glared at Bunny, who was now busy raking Lupe over the coals.

“I can’t drink this!” Bunny screeched, holding out her martini in disgust. “It’s not in my Marilyn Monroe glass!”

Lupe whipped the offending glass away.

“Go get me another one, in the right glass this time.”

“Yes, Ms. Bunny.”

“And don’t forget the olive.”

Next to me, Sarah made a gagging noise.

“The hostess with the mostest,” she sneered. “She has to invite fifty people to her parties to get twenty to show up. The only reason I make an appearance at these things is because Owen insists.”

Her gaze shifted to Owen, who had now taken Mr. T-Shirt & Blazer’s place at the fireplace with Marvin.

“Sometimes I wish he’d never started working for my father. We were a lot happier when he was teaching.”

“Owen used to be a teacher?” I blinked in surprise.

“Yes, he taught high school physics when I first met him. Now all he wants to do is talk mattresses and hang out with Dad.”

Marvin wasn’t the only in-law he wanted to hang out with, but I wasn’t about to give her that newsflash.

“Does your mother always show up at these things, too?” I asked, eyeing Ellen as she chatted with her silver-haired companion.

“Yep. Bunny invites Mom so she can gloat about the divorce. And Mom shows up so she can gloat about her hunky new boyfriend.”

He was a looker, all right. The kind of foxy AARPster you see drinking mai tais at sunset on cruise ship commercials. I couldn’t help wondering what an uber-handsome guy like him was doing with the frankly frumpy Ellen. Something told me the answer involved her bank account.

“Meet the Coopers,” Sarah sighed. “Just one big, happy, dysfunctional family.”

She grabbed a fresh martini from the bartender and took a deep swig.

“Well, nice talking to you, Jaine. You should go to the den and try Bunny’s fortune-teller.”

“Is she any good?”

“Not really, but at least you get to leave the party for a while.”

As she shuffled away on unsteady feet, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Maybe there was some truth, after all, in that old ditty about money not buying happiness.

But all clichéd musings flew from my brain at the sight of Lupe returning with a fresh tray of hors d’oeuvres.

I was at her side like a shot, thrilled to see a small army of succulent baby lamb chops lined up on her tray.

To hell with manners. I grabbed two.

“There’s going to be a buffet dinner later,” Lupe whispered. “They’re setting it up in the dining room now.”

Indeed, the tantalizing aroma of what I hoped was roast beef wafted my way. Maybe I could grab a bite after my pitch.

Which, at the rate things were going, wasn’t about to take place any time soon. Marvin, alas, was still entrenched in conversation with Owen, who was busy making notes on a cocktail napkin. Lord knows how long they’d be at it.

With a sigh, I headed back to the bar and ordered a dirty martini. After all, I needed something to wash down my lamb chops. I promised myself I’d have only a few sips, just enough to deaden the awkwardness of this ghastly party.

Drink and lamb chops in hand, I wandered out the French doors onto the patio, where I heard one of the T-Shirt & Blazers saying,
“God, I’d kill for a scotch.”

I took a seat on one of the patio chairs and scarfed down my three lamb chops. (Okay, so I took three.) My, they were good. By far, the highlight of the evening. After polishing them off, I sat there, staring out into the night, hoping to pass myself off as a soulful thinker rather than the social pariah I actually was.

The patio was bathed in moonlight, and in the distance the pool glistened, bright as a Home Shopping zirconia. Breathing deeply, I could smell the heady aroma of night-blooming jasmine.

The only jarring note in this picture postcard scenario was a rusty rake and a container of weed killer propped up against the patio’s stone balustrade. It looked like the gardener was still forgetting to put his supplies away. I only hoped Bunny wouldn’t notice it, or there’d be hell to pay.

After a while, tired of my soulful thinker act, I went back inside, only to find Owen still glued to Marvin’s side. Didn’t those two ever get enough of each other?

Once more, I sought solace from Lupe, who was now passing out melted Brie in pastry puffs. I plucked one and took a bite. Divine.

Happily munching on my Brie ball, I decided to take Sarah’s advice and pay a visit to the fortune-teller.

I found her ensconced behind a desk in the den, a striking brunette clad in a gypsy outfit straight out of a 1940s MGM musical: off-the-shoulder blouse, peasant skirt, and lace-up espadrilles—topped off with dangly hoop earrings and a colorful bandana headband.

“Come in,” she said with an accent meant to be Exotic European, but sounding more like Count Chocula. “I am the fabulous Fortuna. I see all. I tell all.”

I sat down across from her at what must have been Bunny’s desk, an ornate little number painted with tiny pink rosebuds.

Up close I could see a sprinkling of distinctly non-gypsy freckles underneath the fabulous Fortuna’s heavy make-up. If this woman was born in a Slavic nation, I was a full-blooded Cherokee.

“Let me see your palm,” she commanded in her hammy accent.

Surreptitiously wiping the last remnants of Brie from my hand, I showed her my palm.

“You have a very interesting lifeline,” Fortuna said, running her finger along a scar I’ve had since I was twelve.

“Actually, that’s a scar.”

“Really?” she said, flustered.

“I cut my hand trying to open a can of macadamia nuts.”

“Gee, it looks just like a lifeline. Oh, here. Now I found it.” She pointed to another spot on my palm. “It says you will live a long and healthy life.”

Not if I kept eating those Brie balls, I wouldn’t.

“Wait!” she suddenly cried, pressing her hands to her forehead. “I hear a noise coming from the spirit world.”

“I hear it, too. I think it’s just someone trying to get into the guest bathroom.”

“No, no. It’s a message for you. From someone dearly beloved who’s gone to the other side. Someone whose name begins with a
B
. Do you have a departed loved one whose name begins with
B?
”

I ran through my list of deceased relatives, which was fortunately quite short, but the initial
B
did not make an appearance.

“Nope, afraid not.”

“How about
G?
”

“No.”

“
C?
”

“Gee, all I can think of is my grandma’s dog Chester and we really weren’t that close.”

“How about
Z?
”

“Sorry,” I shrugged. “I guess whoever’s calling from the other side must have a wrong number.”

And then she threw in the towel.

“Oh, what’s the use?” she sighed, all traces of her accent gone. “I stink at this.”

“You’re not so bad. Maybe Chester really is trying to talk to me.”

“No, he’s not. It’s all a big act. I’m not really a fortune-teller. I’m an actress.”

And apparently, not a very good one.

“Everything I know about palm reading I learned from this stupid book,” she said, taking a copy of
Palmistry for Dummies
out from where she’d stashed it in Bunny’s desk drawer.

“See?” She pointed to a dog-eared page. “The book says right here that practically everyone knows someone dead whose name starts with a
B
.

“Dammit.” She slammed the book shut in disgust. “I oughta get my money back.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Nobody takes these things seriously.”

“Look, don’t tell Mrs. Cooper how I’ve been screwing up, willya? If I know that bitch, she’ll have me fired.”

At last. An accurate prediction.

“I won’t say a thing to Mrs. Cooper,” I assured her, getting up to go.

“Thanks.” She shot me a grateful smile. “I may stink at this stuff, but I hope good things are headed your way.”

Not that night, they weren’t. That’s for darn sure.