Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (3 page)

Me, neither. I’ve always been adorable.

“You can’t let this Patti creature make you feel bad about yourself,” Lance said, with an indignant shake of his curls. “You’ve got to do something to boost your self-confidence.” His brow furrowed in thought. “You know what you need?”

“Yes,” I said. “A frosty margarita. But if memory serves, you’re all out of tequila.”

“You need a new look! An entire wardrobe makeover!”

His eyes shone with evangelical fervor. Lance has been dying to do a Henry Higgins on me for years.

“Forget it, Lance. I can’t afford to go shopping.”

“Okay, then, we’ll do the next best thing—

closet therapy. With me as your closet therapist.”

“My closet therapist?”

“Yes. I’ll get rid of all the ghastly clothes in your closet you shouldn’t be caught dead in and then put together some adorable outfits, so you can show Patti what a hot number you really are.”

“Really, Lance. I don’t care what Patti thinks of me.”

KILLING BRIDEZILLA

17

“Of course, you do. Now c’mon. It’s time for closet therapy!”

And with that he took me by the arm and marched me to my bedroom closet.

“Gaaack!” he cried, surveying its contents.

“It’s worse than I remembered.”

For some odd reason, Lance is convinced I have terrible taste in clothes. According to him, moths come to my closet to commit suicide.

“Anyhow, here’s how closet therapy works,”

he said, getting down to business. “You make three piles. The clothes you’re going to keep.

The clothes you’re going to give to charity. And the clothes so hideous even Goodwill won’t take them. Are you ready to start?”

I nodded with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Here we go.”

He grabbed a perfectly lovely striped blouse and held it up.

“Gaack! Polyester!” he shuddered, tossing it onto the floor. “Into the Hideous Pile. Omigod.

And look at this jacket. Where did you buy it? A Russian thrift shop? And a
Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs
T-shirt! I may go blind!”

It shows you how much he knew. That T-shirt happened to be a collector’s item.

I plopped down on my bed and watched as he tossed one perfectly usable item of clothing after another onto the Hideous Pile until my closet was a graveyard of wire hangers.

“Are you sure you can’t afford to go shopping?” Lance said, surveying the wreckage.

“No, Lance, I can’t.”

“Well, then, Houston, I think we’ve got a problem.”

18

Laura Levine

He was staring at a lone cocktail dress that had survived the massacre, when his cell phone rang. He checked his caller ID, then grabbed it eagerly.

“Hi, Kevin! Great to hear from you. . . .

When? . . . Now? Sure, I’m not doing anything.

I’ll be right over!”

He hung up and turned to me, smiling sheepishly.

“Don’t kill me, Jaine, but I’ve gotta go. I’m meeting Kevin at the movies. Did I tell you about Kevin? No? Well, I think he could be Mr. Right.

We met the other night on line at the yogurt parlor. He’s a nonfat cherry vanilla, just like me.

“Don’t worry,” he said, waving to the mountain of clothing in the Hideous Pile. “I’ll help you clean up this mess later tonight. Well, maybe not tonight. But tomorrow for sure. Or the day after.”

And with that he blew out the door so fast, he practically left exhaust fumes.

I got up with a sigh and plucked Prozac from where she was napping on the Hideous Pile.

Then, one by one, I began hanging my fashion rejects back in my closet.

When I was all done, I caught my reflection in the mirror on the back of the closet door.

There on my chin was the start of a blockbuster zit.

Yep, it was beginning to feel a lot like high school.

Chapter 3

It wasn’t easy turning
Romeo and Juliet
into an episode of
Friends
, but with a positive attitude and a fistful of Excedrin, somehow I managed it.

Two days later I had the finished pages in my hot little hands and set out to deliver them to Patti. We’d arranged to meet at the bridal salon where she and her bridesmaids were being fitted for their gowns.

“You’ll never guess who my bridesmaids are,”

she’d said on the phone when we’d set up the date. “Cheryl and Denise!”

Oh, yuck. Cheryl Hogan and Denise Gilbert were Patti’s two best friends from high school—

Denise, a striking brunette; and Cheryl, a delicate blonde with enormous Betty Boop eyes.

Together with Patti, they formed a most unholy alliance—the Terrible Trinity, I used to call them.

They had this way of collectively scanning you, zeroing in on your latest zit or bad hair day with the unerring accuracy of an MRI.

“Won’t it be fun,” Patti had gushed, “the four of us getting together again?”

Yeah, right. About as much fun as gastric bypass surgery.

20

Laura Levine

I made my way over to Cynthia’s Bridal Salon in the tony Montana Avenue section of Santa Monica, where the valet parking cost more than my car. I circled the block a few zillion times searching for a space on the street, but there hasn’t been an open parking space on Montana since D.W. Griffith was shooting
Birth of a Nation
, so eventually I had to admit defeat and toss my keys to the valet.

He drove off with a frightening squeal, and I walked the few steps to Cynthia’s, my palms gushing sweat. I told myself I was being ridiculous. I couldn’t let the Terrible Trinity intimidate me anymore. It had been almost twenty years since graduation. I was an award-winning writer with an impressive career writing toilet bowl ads.

Okay, so maybe writing toilet bowl ads wasn’t so impressive. And maybe the only award I’d ever won was the Golden Plunger award from the Los Angeles Plumbers Association. But it paid the rent, didn’t it? Well, not always. Sometimes I had to get cash advances on my credit card.

Which reminded me, if I didn’t pay my MasterCard bill soon, I’d be hit with another late fee.

And ditto for my Nordstrom bill. And Bloomingdale’s. Not to mention the bills from the phone company and my dentist. By now I was in a funk just thinking of all the money I owed.

All I can say is it’s a good thing I don’t make my living giving pep talks.

With a weary sigh, I pushed open Cynthia’s country French doors and headed inside.

Cynthia’s was a plush cocoon of ankle-deep carpeting and flattering lighting. Soothing clas

KILLING BRIDEZILLA

21

sical music tinkled in the lavender-scented air. I looked around and was relieved to see that Patti was the only customer in the store. Maybe there’d been a change of plans and Cheryl and Denise weren’t going to be there after all.

Patti stood on a raised platform in her wedding gown, a froufrou Renaissance-inspired number with a low-cut bodice, puffy sleeves, and enough material in the train to upholster a hotel lobby.

A seamstress knelt at her feet, pins in her mouth, making alterations, while an elegant older woman, her silver hair swept back in a chignon, stood by with a nervous smile on her face.

“Cynthia, how many times do I have to tell you?” Patti snapped. “I want the bodice lower.”

Was she insane? If that dress were cut any lower, it would be a belt.

“Are you sure?” the silver-haired woman asked, a noticeable tic in her left eye.

“Yes, I’m sure. I paid good money for these boobs. I want everyone to see them.”

She then turned and saw me. “Oh, hi, Jaine.

You have the script?”

“Right here,” I said, waving the pages. “I think it turned out very well.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

And at that moment I knew without a doubt that I’d be rewriting this script right up until she and Dickie said “I do,” sweating bullets for every one of those three thousand dollars.

I was standing there, wondering if it was worth it, when a stunning brunette stepped out of one of the dressing rooms. With a sinking sensation, I realized it was Denise Gilbert.

The dewy good looks of her youth had been replaced by an air of sleek sophistication. But 22

Laura Levine

basically she was the same beauty she’d always been—only thinner. Was there no justice in the world? Was I the only Hermosa High grad who’d packed on a pound or two?

“What do you think, Patti?” she asked, twirling around in her dress.

It’s not easy to look chic in a bridesmaid’s dress with big puffy sleeves and a bow in back, but somehow Denise managed to pull it off.

Patti’s eyes narrowed.

“The bow needs to be bigger.”

“But Ms. Marshall,” Cynthia protested, “if we make it any bigger, it’s not going to be very flattering.”

Of course it wouldn’t. That’s why Patti asked for it. You didn’t have to be Siggy Freud to figure out that the last thing Patti wanted was to be upstaged by a stunning bridesmaid.

“Besides,” Cynthia said, her tic more noticeable than ever, “I’m not sure we’ll have time to import more fabric in time for the wedding.”

Patti shot her a look that could melt steel.

“Make time.”

“Yes, of course. Of course.” By now poor Cynthia’s tic was out of control. “I’ll go see to it now.”

She and the seamstress scurried off into the back room, no doubt to hit the vodka bottle.

Throughout the preceding exchange Denise had just stood there, smiling pleasantly, her face an impassive mask.

“Jaine,” she said now, noticing me for the first time. “Patti told me you’d be here. How nice to see you.”

Her eyes raked me over.

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

KILLING BRIDEZILLA

23

Translation:
My God. She still has that same zit on
her chin.

“You, either,” I said. “So how’ve you been?”

“Wonderful,” she said. “I’m an attorney now.”

Thin
and
rich. How depressing.

“And what about you, Jaine? What have you been up to?”

“As Patti probably told you, I’m a writer.”

“Yes, she did mention it.
In a Rush to Flush?

Call Toiletmasters.
How clever.”

Was there just the tiniest trace of a snicker in her smile?

“And what else is going on in your life?”

“Yes, Jaine,” Patti chimed in. “I meant to ask you. Any men in your life? You married?”

“No, not married.”

I didn’t tell them about my ex-husband, The Blob, a guy who wore flip-flops to our wedding and watched ESPN during sex. Somehow I didn’t think they’d be impressed.

“Any boyfriends?” Denise asked.

“Yeah,” Patti echoed. “Any boyfriends?”

They shot me laser beam looks. And suddenly I was back in the hallway at Hermosa High, wilting under their supercilious gazes, a newborn zit ablaze on my chin.

“So, Jaine? What about it?” Patti wasn’t about to let me off the hook. “Any special guy in your life?”

“As a matter fact, yes.”

Where had that come from? The only special guy in
my life was the Domino’s delivery guy.

“I’m engaged to be married.”

Huh?

“To a doctor.”

What the hell was I saying?

24

Laura Levine

“Yes.” I persisted in my madness. “A neurosurgeon.”

Maybe it was some form of Tourette’s.

“Right,” said Patti. She and Denise exchanged sidelong glances, skepticism oozing from their pores. They weren’t buying any of this. Not for a second.

“Congratulations,” Denise said dryly.

“I just had the most wonderful idea!” Patti cooed, a nasty glint in her eye. “You and your neurosurgeon fiancé simply must come to my wedding.”

Okay, no need to panic. I’d just tell her my fiancé was out of town. Yes, he was in Africa, helping sick Africans. I’d tell her I was flying there to join him. And we couldn’t possibly make it to her wedding.

The words that actually came out of my mouth, however, went something like this:

“Francois and I would be delighted to come to your wedding.”

Francois??? Had I totally lost my mind??

I was about to commit myself to the home for the terminally mendacious when a pudgy woman in a polyester jogging suit walked in the shop.

She glanced around timidly, then waved when she spotted Patti and Denise.

Patti took one look at her and went ballistic.

“Cheryl!” she hissed. “You look awful.”

Cheryl? Was this frumpy woman with the frizzed-out hair the same delicate beauty I’d known in high school? At last I’d run into someone who’d packed on some pounds since graduation. But for some reason, it didn’t feel nearly as gratifying as I thought it would.

KILLING BRIDEZILLA

25

“For crying out loud, Cheryl,” Patti snapped.

“You promised you’d lose weight.”

Cheryl stood there, red-faced with shame.

“I’m sorry, Patti. I tried. Really I did.”

“Did you eat all the Jenny Craig meals I sent?”

“Yes,” she murmured, eyes lowered, like a kid called to the principal’s office.

“Probably all in one day,” Patti sneered. “You realize the wedding’s next week?”

Cheryl nodded.

“You’ll never lose the weight by then. And I can’t possibly have a fat bridesmaid. You know what that means, don’t you?”

Cheryl nodded again.

“You’re out!” Patti said, with all the finesse of a guillotine beheading. “You’re no longer in the wedding party.”

“I’m so sorry, Patti,” Cheryl mumbled, eyes still lowered.

“You should be. Do you realize how difficult you’re making things for me? Where the hell am I going to get another bridesmaid at this late date?”

She gazed in my direction for the briefest instant, but then looked away, having clearly dismissed me as unsuitable wedding party material.

“Oh, well,” she sighed, the bridal martyr, “I’ll manage somehow. I always do.”

At last Cheryl looked up, and I saw that her big blue eyes, always her best feature, were blinking back tears.

In spite of how mean she’d been in high school, I felt sorry for her. And actually, when I thought about it, Cheryl hadn’t really been all that mean. It was always Patti who’d been the 26