Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (4 page)

Laura Levine

nasty one, the instigator. Cheryl and Denise had been more of a Greek chorus, backing her up in her many acts of torture.

I had a fleeting impulse to put my arm around Cheryl and console her with the dusty Almond Joy in the bottom of my purse.

But I didn’t, of course. I had troubles enough of my own. In case you forgot, I had less than a week to find myself a fiancé. A neurosurgeon, yet. Named Francois.

“A neurosurgeon fiancé? Have you lost your mind?”

I was sitting across from my best friend, Kandi Tobolowski, at our favorite restaurant, Paco’s Tacos, a colorful joint with burritos the size of cruise missiles.

“How could you tell such a whopper?” Kandi stared at me, wide-eyed. “Couldn’t you have made him something more believable, like a dermatologist?”

“You’re missing the point here, Kandi. It doesn’t matter what sort of doctor he is. What matters is, he doesn’t exist.”

I stared morosely at my Chimichanga Combo Plate. Why the heck had I ordered such a caloriefest? I should be eating something sensible like Kandi’s mahimahi if I wanted to look decent for the wedding.

“I still can’t understand why you did it,” she said, taking a dainty bite of her fish.

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “It was just like the time in high school when Patti and Denise cornered me in the locker room and asked me if I KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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had a date for the prom. They knew I didn’t, but they wanted to see me squirm. So I lied and said I had one.”

“How’d you weasel your way out of that?”

“Well,” I said, thinking back to those long-gone days, “there was this guy at school I was interested in. His name was Dylan. He’d just transferred from back east. He had huge brown eyes and a sad soulful look. Everywhere he went he carried a copy of Nietzsche’s
Thus Spake Zarathustra
. For some reason, that impressed the heck out of me.

I couldn’t believe that there among the beach bunny heathens at Hermosa High was an actual eastern intellectual.

“So I decided to ask him to the prom. I figured what the heck. I had nothing to lose. I spent hours in front of the mirror, rehearsing what I was going to say. Finally I got up my courage to approach him. He was sitting in the schoolyard, staring out into the horizon, his copy of Nietzsche on his lap. Somehow I managed to sputter an invitation.”

“And? What did he say?”

By now Kandi’s mahimahi was forgotten on her plate. Kandi often forgets to eat, one of the reasons why she, unlike yours truly, can step on the scale at the doctor’s office without breaking into a cold sweat.

“He said yes.”

“Wow,” Kandi grinned. “So lying paid off.”

“Not exactly,” I sighed. “Don’t forget, I’d never actually had a conversation with the guy. He showed up at my house the night of the prom reeking of marijuana. That Nietzsche book of his wasn’t a book at all, but a hollowed-out box 28

Laura Levine

where he kept his drug supplies. The guy had a vocabulary of about six words and five of them were, ‘Hey baby, wanna get high?’”

“Omigod, this is as bad as my prom. I went with my cousin Barry. I could’ve killed him. He spent the whole night at the punch bowl flirting with Mrs. Handler, my English teacher. When I think of all the hours I spent shopping for my prom dress—”

“Kandi, could we please stick to my nightmare?”

“Right,” she said. “Sorry. So what did you do?”

“What could I do? I had to show up at the prom to prove to Patti and Denise that I had a date.”

“Did they see you?”

“They saw me, all right. In addition to being a pothead, Dylan was an awful dancer. And not just run-of-the-mill awful. Extravagantly awful.

He spun and dipped and swirled me so much, I felt like a human salad spinner.

“At a certain point, everybody cleared off the dance floor to watch us. I could see Patti and her gang standing on the sidelines, enjoying every second of my misery.

“At last the song came to an end. And that’s when Dylan gave me one final spin. Only this time, he let go of my hand. And the next thing I knew I was spinning across the floor and straight into Principal Seawright’s lap.”

“Omigod,” Kandi gasped. “You landed in the principal’s lap? What did he say?”

“If memory serves, his exact words were:
I believe this seat is already taken
.”

“Oh, wow.”

“If I live to be a thousand, I’ll never forget the expression on his face. I practically got frostbite KILLING BRIDEZILLA

29

just looking at him. Honest, Kandi, I thought I was going to die.”

Having finished my tale of woe, I picked up my fork to dig into my dinner and saw to my amazement that I’d somehow managed to polish off every bite of my Chimichanga Combo Plate. Can somebody please explain how I’d done all the talking and yet Kandi was the one whose dinner was practically untouched?

Well, that was it, I vowed. Not another bite of food would pass my lips. I simply could not afford to gain a single ounce for the wedding.

“Ah,” Kandi said, shaking her head solemnly,

“what a tangled web we weave when we practice to deceive.”

“What??” I gasped.

“I’m sorry, Jaine, but that’s what you get for lying.”

“My God, Kandi. Look who’s talking. The woman who pretended to be an alcoholic so she could meet guys at AA.”

“Oh, please. That’s entirely different.”

“And just how is it different?”

“Don’t you remember? I met that cute stockbroker. We dated for three months before he fell off the wagon and ran off with a barmaid.
My
story had a happy ending. For a while at least.”

The woman’s logic defies explanation.

“So what are you going to do about your date for the wedding?” she asked, pushing her refried beans to the side of her plate out of eating range.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“You want me to fix you up with one of the insects on my show?”

The insects to whom Kandi referred were the 30

Laura Levine

actors on
Beanie & the Cockroach
, the animated cartoon show where Kandi toils as a writer.

“I think Manny the Mole might be available.

He’s a really nice guy, if you don’t mind your neurosurgeon being 5’3” in his elevator shoes.”

“Let’s save Manny for plan B.”

“I know! How about an escort service?”

“An escort service? Are you crazy??”

“They’re listed in the Yellow Pages.”

Well, dear reader, if you think I was about to degrade myself by paying for a date with a guy who was just one step up from a male hooker, all I can say is—you’re a very perceptive reader.

“I’ll call first thing tomorrow,” I said, reaching for a forkful of Kandi’s refried beans.

KILLING BRIDEZILLA

31

YOU’VE GOT MAIL

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Marvelous News!

Jaine, honey, you’ll never guess who’s coming to stay with us. Roberto Scaffaro! I told you about Roberto, didn’t I, the darling young man I met in Rome the summer I graduated from high school?

He was a waiter at the pensione where I was staying. Every day after work he showed me around the city to charming places I never would have discovered in the guidebooks.

He didn’t speak a word of English and I didn’t speak any Italian but we used my Italian–English dictionary and had the time of our lives. I’ll never forget the night we ate al fresco on the Spanish Steps. Or is it al dente? I always get those two confused. All I know is that it was a picnic, and it was magnifico!

And to think that was all more than forty years ago!

Over the years we’ve exchanged Christmas cards, and then just the other day I got a letter from one of his children (Roberto’s English is still pretty terrible) telling me that Roberto’s wife died last year and that he’s coming to the states to visit his son who lives in Arizona. And he wants to stop off first to see me.

I wrote back and told him come right over “presto.”

That’s Italian for “quickly.” Or is it “prego”? Or is that a spaghetti sauce? Oh, dear. I guess my Italian’s still pretty terrible, too. Anyhow, I insisted he stay here at the condo, and I can’t wait to see him.

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Laura Levine

Of course, the place is a disgrace. I absolutely must change the curtains in the guest bedroom and get some new towels. I saw some fabulous Egyptian towels on the shopping channel, a whole set for just $29.95, plus shipping and handling. If I put in my order now, they’ll be here in time for Roberto’s visit.

I can’t possibly have him using the ratty old guest towels we’ve had since you were in kindergarten.

Must run, darling, and place my order before they sell out.

Arrivederci!

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Steams My Beans

Hi, Lambchop—

Have you heard the news? Your mother’s former lover is coming to stay with us. I consider myself a pretty open-minded fellow, but the thought of having her old “amore” stay under my own roof just steams my beans.

Your mom insists nothing went on between them, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know those Italian guys and their animal magnetism.

Oh, well. It’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type—

Whoops. Gotta go, sweetpea. The mailman’s here and I need to screen the mail for love letters from Italy.

Love & kisses from,

Daddy

KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Did You Ever Hear Anything So Silly?

Daddy’s impossible. He’s convinced Roberto and I were lovers! For heaven’s sake, Jaine, I met Roberto when I was eighteen years old, back in the years when young women waited to get married before they had “ex-say,” if you get my drift.

Honestly, Jaine, I think Roberto kissed me once the night before I left to come back home, but it was all so innocent. Now your father is running around acting like we left a trail of blazing mattresses across Italy. Of course, it doesn’t help that Roberto’s wife died last year. Daddy’s convinced he’s coming here to make me his new signora.

Did you ever hear of anything so silly? I’ll bet by now Roberto’s a fat middle-aged man with a potbelly and no hair.

XOXO,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Rigatoni Romeo

Just what I was afraid of. Another letter from your mom’s boyfriend. This time he sent his picture. Typical continental casanova. Tall, dark, and what some people might call handsome. You should’ve seen your mother swoon. You can’t tell me they weren’t a hot ticket back in Italy. If she thinks I’m helping her hang new curtains for that rigatoni romeo, she’s sadly mistaken.

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Laura Levine

I’m off to the library to return a book. And I just may stop off for a hot fudge sundae on my way home.

I’m supposed to be watching my cholesterol, but who cares if I clog my arteries? Certainly not your mother. She’s too busy fixing up the guest bedroom for her future husband.

Lots of love from your poor neglected, Daddy

Chapter 4

Isuppose I should be grateful that my parents are leading active lives in their retirement years.

And I am. But I’d be a lot more grateful if they weren’t such crazymakers.

When I say “they” I refer, of course, to Daddy.

He’s the prime crazymaker in our family, with Mom a pale sidekick in their white knuckle escapades.

Mom is not without her own quirks, however.

She was the one who insisted on moving three thousand miles away from a perfectly lovely house in Hermosa Beach—all the way to Tampa Vistas, Florida—so she could be close to the Home Shopping Channel. I tried to explain that she wouldn’t get her packages any faster that way, but my explanations fell on deaf ears. Besides, she said, it would be “fun” living in such close proximity to her favorite shopping channel hosts.

But it’s Daddy who holds the World Champion Crazymaker title. He has single-handedly driven more people to distraction than telemarketing, control top panty hose, and Hare Krishnas combined. I had no doubt that Mom’s relationship with Roberto had been as innocent as a Hallmark special. But I knew it was just a matter 36

Laura Levine

of time before Daddy turned this molehill into a Himalayan-sized headache. Sooner or later, somebody’s blood pressure would go soaring. (And by

“somebody,” of course, I meant me.) But that morning my parents were small potatoes in my supermarket cart of woes, overshadowed by my desperate need to come up with a “fiancé” for Patti’s wedding.

Which is why, right after breakfast, I started thumbing through the Yellow Pages under “Escort Services.”

I would’ve had an easy time of it if I’d been in the market for “a beautiful girl at my door guaranteed.” When it came to escorts, the Yellow Pages was definitely not an equal opportunity supplier.

All they had to offer were hot times with poutylipped nymphettes named Desiree and Angelique.

So I toddled over to my computer and tried my luck with Google. Unfortunately, when I typed in “Male Escorts,” the friendly folks at Google assumed I was an amorous stud looking to wine and dine my inamorata with dinner and a Judy Garland retrospective.

It took several clicks before I finally found what I was looking for. An outfit called Miss Emily’s Escort Service. Miss Emily, according to her Web site, promised to deliver
The Perfect Gentleman for
the Discriminating Woman.

I eagerly jotted down Miss Emily’s address and phone number and was just about to call her when the phone rang.

“Hey, Jaine.” Patti’s voice came on the line. “I read your script—”

My stomach sank. I just knew Ms. Difficult was going to hate it.

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“—and I really liked what you wrote.”

Well, mea culpa. I’d misjudged the dear woman. She was obviously a discerning connoisseur of fine writing.

“Yes,” she said, “it’s really nice. But I’ve decided to go in a different direction.”