Authors: Laura Levine

Pampered to Death (3 page)

BOOK: Pampered to Death

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I
’ll spare you the details of the ghastly 300 calories posing as dinner except to say that by the end of the meal, I would’ve sold my soul for a Ding Dong.

A caste system was in effect at The Haven that night. Mallory and Armani were seated at what was clearly the “A” table, along with Clint Masters and Harvy the hairdresser.

I was interested to note that Armani (who came to dinner sporting a sequinned bow tie) had been somehow exempt from the diet regime, his doggie bowl filled to the brim with succulent steak tidbits. It was all I could do to refrain myself from bending down and grabbing a handful.

But, alas, that was not even remotely possible, as I was seated far from the pampered pooch at the designated “B” table, along with fellow outcasts Cathy and Kendra.

Cathy, oblivious to her untouchable status, was beside herself with joy at the thought of being under the same roof as not one—but
two
—Hollywood celebs.

“Just wait’ll I tell the gang at the Piggly Wiggly!”

Kendra, furious at having been banned to Siberia, shot resentful glares at the “A” table, where Harvy was hard at work sucking up to Mallory, going on and on about how fab she looked in the white silk jumpsuit she’d worn to dinner.

“Do you know how many women would kill for a waist like yours?” he gushed.

There were three of us right here at the “B” table at the top of the list.

“Isn’t that right, Clint?” Harvy asked his rugged dinner companion. “Doesn’t Mallory look fab?”

Clint agreed that Mallory did indeed look fab. But as he sat poking at some puny shards of cilantro, I couldn’t help wondering what a studly action hero like Clint Masters was doing at a diet spa. Why the heck wasn’t he at some macho hunting lodge, gunning down endangered species?

“So, Mallory,” I heard him ask. “What have you been up to?”

Thrilled to be in the spotlight, Mallory proceeded to fill him in on the minutiae of her life—sparing no details—everything from her “simply amazing” new pilates instructor (on call 24 hours a day) to the memoir she’d just signed a deal to write.

At the mention of the memoir, Clint’s megawatt smile seemed to stiffen.

“I read about that in the trades,” he said. “Sounds very interesting.”

“Oh, it will be,” Mallory assured him, with all the confidence of a woman who’d never written two consecutive paragraphs in her life.

“It’s going to be just fabulous!” Harvy piped up, in full tilt cheerleader mode.

“It would be,” Mallory said, “if only I could find a decent writer to collaborate with.”

And by collaborate we all knew she meant someone to write every darn syllable.

“The woman my publisher wants me to work with is totally unsuitable. Would you believe she actually showed up for our first meeting in Birkenstocks!”

“Incredible!” Harvy commiserated, rolling his eyes.

At her feet, Armani took time out from his steak tidbits to yap in disapproval.

“I can’t possibly work with a woman who wears Birkenstocks.”

“Of course you can’t!” cooed Harvy.

“So I’m absolutely desperate for a writer.”

Up until this point, Cathy had been entertaining the “B” table with a detailed summary of her own life as a supermarket checker, and her determination to lose five pounds and connect with Mr. Right (in her case, Earl in the Deli Section).

But now she took time out from her bio to pipe up:

“You’re looking for a writer? Why, Jaine’s a writer!”

Oh, for heavens sake. I write toilet bowl brochures, not best-selling memoirs.

But I couldn’t really blame Cathy for speaking up. I never did get to fill her in on the specifics of my resumé.

Mallory, who’d been sitting with her back to us, deigned to turn around.

“Which one of you is Jaine?” she asked.

Guess we hadn’t made much of an impression at our earlier introductions.

I raised a feeble hand.

She gave me the once over with her cat-like green eyes.

“So you’re a writer, huh? You don’t wear Birkenstocks, do you?”

“Nope,” I said, glad she couldn’t see the elastic waist on my L.L.Bean Comfort Fit pants.

“Well,” she challenged, “what have you written?”

Now I happen to be quite proud of my magnum opus,
You and Your Septic Tank
. After all, it did win the Golden Plunger Award from the L.A. Plumbers Association. But somehow I sensed it might fail to impress Mallory.

“Go on,” Cathy urged. “Tell her.”

“
You and Your Septic Tank
,” I gulped.

Mallory burst out laughing.

“No, really, hon,” she said, when she’d stopped giggling. “What did you write?”

“
You and Your Septic Tank
,” I repeated, with as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances.

“Oh, please,” she said, eyeing me as if I’d just emptied a septic tank into her Evian water. “I need a
real
writer.”

Normally at humiliating moments like these, I seek solace from my good buddies Ben & Jerry. But as that was out of the question, I just sat there staring at the graying blob of fish on my plate, wishing I could throttle both Mallory and Cathy. Who, incidentally, picked up where they’d left off on their yakathons, each dominating the conversations at their respective tables.

In between anecdotes, Mallory took great pleasure in driving Olga nuts, sending back her fish (undercooked), her string beans (overcooked) and demanding lime slices—not lemon—for her Evian water.

Not only The Haven’s owner and receptionist, Olga was apparently its sole waitress, bustling back and forth from the kitchen, trying in vain to satisfy her demanding diva.

And so the meal slogged on, calorie after depressing calorie. I was sitting there in the middle of a most diverting fantasy starring me, George Clooney, and a hot fudge sundae, when Mallory tinkled her glass with a fork.

“Attention, everybody!” she said, standing up to face us all. “I’ve got an announcement to make.”

Armani yapped excitedly, perhaps eager to hear the news, or perhaps hoping for some more steak. He’d daintily polished off his entire bowl, which I must confess, was a bit of a disappointment. I’d been planning to nab a chunk or two after everyone had left the dining room.

(Oh, don’t go shaking your head like that. I was starving. And a little dog spit never hurt anybody.)

“After five years as my personal hair stylist,” Mallory was saying, “Harvy is embarking on an exciting new phase of his career and opening his own hair salon! Harvé of Beverly Hills! Isn’t that just wonderful?”

Harvy beamed at the tepid round of applause that greeted this news.

“And as a token of appreciation for all the years we’ve been together—not to mention the best highlights in the biz—I’m pleased to announce that I am financing the whole venture!”

Wow. It looked like Harvy’s fanny kissing had paid off big time.

Mallory whipped out a folded check from the depths of her cleavage and presented it to him with all the fanfare of King Arthur dubbing a new knight.

Now it was Harvy’s turn to lead the applause, which he did with great fervor.

Everyone joined in, except Kendra who sat scowling at Mallory, arms clamped firmly across her chest.

And Armani, who’d decided to take a nap.

At which point, Olga came sailing out from the kitchen with dessert—which turned out to be three pathetic slices of mango per person.

Mallory sniffed at hers suspiciously.

“You sure the mango’s fresh?”

“It’s fresh!” Olga snapped, stomping back to the kitchen and cutting off any further discussion.

Three mango slices later, my first dinner in hell ground to a merciful halt.

Only five more to go.

I trudged back to my room, opting out of the after-dinner entertainment—an action-packed educational film called
Sugar: The Killer in your Cupboard
.

No sooner had I opened the door than Prozac hurled herself at me, practically frisking me for leftovers.

Needless to say, she had ignored the fat-free, carb-free, taste-free diet food I’d sloshed in her bowl. Now she was yowling at my ankles, demanding to be fed.

“Here, honey,” I said, tossing her the square of fish I’d saved her from my dinner plate.

(Trust me, it was not a sacrifice.)

She inhaled it with the speed of a Hoover, then looked up at me with hungry eyes.

So what else you got?

“I swear, Pro, that’s all I have.”

An outraged swish of her tail.

What??? No crab cakes?

She stalked off in high dudgeon and jumped up on top of the armoire, as far from me as she could possibly get.

Ignoring her beady glare, I climbed on my bed with my laptop.

How naïve I’d been when I’d packed it, thinking I’d be able to get started on that novel I’d always been meaning to write. I’d pictured myself working on my masterpiece stretched out on a lounge chair, a succession of papaya smoothies at my side.

Hah. There’d be no lounging around at this joint. And certainly no papaya smoothies. And how could I possibly write a novel in a state of semi-starvation?

Now I opened my computer and began composing a most reproving e-mail to Lance. I’d been calling him for the past several hours on my cell. Naturally the little weasel had been avoiding my calls (perhaps turned off by a death threat or two I may have uttered). But if he thought he was going to escape my wrath, he had another thing coming. In no uncertain terms, I told him what a stinker he was for sending me off to Diet Hell under false pretenses.

My anger spent, I then headed for the bathroom, where I intended to soak my blues away in a relaxing bubble bath.

But just as I was about to step in the tub, I was suddenly overcome by the aroma of fresh-baked vanilla cookies. Oh, dear. Was I having an olfactory mirage? Was I so hungry my mind was playing tricks on me? Or was someone actually baking a batch of cookies?

You’ll be relieved to know I had not gone bonkers. Not then, anyway.

It was just those dratted bubbles!

Would you believe the bath gel Olga had chosen for her guests was something called Vanilla Cookies ’N Cream?!

A little sadistic, n’est-ce pas?

Needless to say, I promptly abandoned the tub and took a brisk shower instead, my blues fully intact. Then I got in my jammies and turned on the TV, hoping to escape in an engrossing movie.

I groaned to discover that my TV got a grand total of five stations—two of them nearly white with snow. And the gods were surely conspiring against me that night, because every station I clicked seemed to feature luscious shots of mouthwatering food!

Click. There was Paula Deen, cooking a four-cheese mac and cheese. Click. A bunch of mafiosi on
The Godfather
were eating steaming vats of spaghetti and meatballs. Click. The Kansas City steak guy was busy cutting into a succulent series of filet mignons. Even the local news was running a feature on the best handmade ice cream in the county.

Everywhere I looked, calories taunted me.

Switching off the TV in disgust, I decided to go to sleep and put an end to this whole miserable day.

I beckoned to Prozac to join me in bed, but she just glared at me from the top of the armoire.

With a sigh, I turned off the light. But sleep wouldn’t come. Instead of drifting off to slumberland, I kept thinking about Paula D’s mac and cheese, dripping with cheddar. Finally, unable to ignore the racket coming from my growling stomach, I snapped on the light.

This was ridiculous. Maybe I should just check out in the morning and put myself out of my misery. But then I thought about Lance losing all that money. No matter how big a rat he was for tricking me into staying at this joint, I had to admit he meant well. I simply couldn’t walk out and waste all that dough.

No, I was going to have to quit bellyaching, put on my big girl panties, and do what I should have done all along:

Sneak down to the kitchen and raid the refrigerator.

Chapter 6

T
he hallways were deserted when I set out on my mission. It was after eleven and everyone had turned in for the night. As I would soon discover, this was one of those Early To Bed, Early to Rise joints intended to make people healthy, wealthy, and cranky in the morning.

Creeping along in my sweatsocks to muffle any possible footsteps, I made my way past the lobby and into the dining room, where the smell of steamed fish lingered unpleasantly in the air. The room was lit with shafts of moonlight, so I easily made my way past the empty tables to the swinging door leading to the kitchen.

Checking underneath the door, I smiled to see that the kitchen light was off—which meant Operation Raid the Refrigerator could continue as planned.

I pushed open the door, my heart full of hope. Surely Olga kept normal food on hand for her aerobics staff. Maybe I’d find some bananas or dinner rolls or possibly even some peanut butter. Lost in thoughts of a peanut butter and banana sandwich on a dinner roll, possibly washed down with a Chocolate Yoo Hoo, I was suddenly jerked from my reverie by the sight of someone sitting in the shadows at the big kitchen table.

Clearly one of my fellow inmates had beaten me to the refrigerator. Just when I was wondering who it could be (my money was on Chatty Cathy), I heard:

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Good heavens. It was Olga. I’d recognize that drill sergeant bark anywhere.

I flipped on the light, and sure enough it was the Diet Nazi, sitting fork in hand, with a Sara Lee cheesecake and a bottle of tequila.

And get this. She was eating the cheesecake straight from the tin!

Not that I haven’t done the same thing myself, but I don’t pass myself off as some kind of calorie crusader.

“I repeat,” Olga said, her steely eyes boring into me. “What are you doing here?”

Time to put on the old tap shoes.

“I . . . um . . . was thirsty, so I came for a Diet Coke.”

“Oh, please,” she sneered. “I know your type. You came to raid the refrigerator.”

“So what if I did?” I snapped, grouchy from hunger. “I’m starving. The last time I had a three hundred calorie dinner I happened to be in diapers. What’s
your
excuse?”

I shot a withering glance at the glob of cheesecake on her fork.

“Okay, okay,” she conceded. “So I’m cheating. If I let you share the cheesecake, will you promise to keep your mouth shut?”

“Absolutely!” I assured the darling woman.

My salivary glands sprang into action as she got me a fork and shoved the pie tin in my direction.

“Your half, my half,” she said, cutting into it, and giving me what was most decidedly the smaller half.

But I didn’t care. Much. It was cheesecake!

I wasted no time plowing into the creamy concoction, slathered—just the way I like it—with a thick layer of cherry goo on top.

“Want some tequila?” Olga asked, holding out the bottle.

“Er . . . no thanks. But if you’ve any got any Chocolate Yoo Hoo, I’ll take that.”

“No, I don’t have any Chocolate Yoo Hoo! This is a diet spa!”

“So I see,” I said, lobbing another meaningful glance at the cheesecake.

Her shoulders crumpled in defeat.

“Look, I know you think I’m a hypocrite, but you’d cheat, too, if you were as stressed out as I am.”

I didn’t bother to tell her I was fully capable of scarfing down a cheesecake, with or without stress in my life.

“Every year that bitch comes to The Haven and drives me crazy.”

I assumed the bitch in question was Mallory.

“Making snide cracks about how I need plastic surgery. Complaining about the towels. Sending back her food every five minutes. And those damn mangoes! The woman is obsessed with the things. She’s convinced they’re both an aphrodisiac and a diuretic. If they’re not on the set of her movies, she won’t perform. Honest. She has it written into her contracts. It’s the
No Mangoes, No Mallory
clause. Can you believe it?”

Indeed, it was hard to believe, I thought, sneaking a hunk of cheesecake from her side of the tin.

“I swear, if she asks me one more time if the mangoes are fresh, I’m going to strangle her.”

She slapped my hand, as I reached for some of her cherry topping.

“Of course, when we were working together, she was lucky to get a stick of gum, let alone a fresh mango.”

“You used to work together?” I asked.

“Years ago. We were both struggling actresses starting out at the same time. For a while, we even roomed together. But then Mallory made it big,” she sighed. “And I didn’t.”

She paused for a healthy slug of tequila.

“So I took the only part I could get. Trophy wife to a mega millionaire. Just my luck, by the time my husband died, he’d lost all his millions. Left me saddled with debt.”

As she sat there, clinging to her tequila bottle, worry lines etched in her brow, I couldn’t help feeling a tad sorry for her.

“All I had was the house and my jewelry. So I sold the jewelry, paid off the debt, and started The Haven. I did well for a while, too.” She smiled at the memory. “But I’m afraid I don’t have a good head for business. And after a while, the spa butterflies flitted off to other spas.

“Which is why,” she said, popping two of her vitamins, “I have to put up with the Mango Monster each year.”

By now, we’d polished off the cheesecake, leaving the pie tin Cascade Clean.

“I’m so sorry, Olga.” And I meant it. “I hope everything works out for you.”

“It will, if I can just hang on to the few customers I have left. Which reminds me. You’d better get out of here, before someone sees the light on.”

“Well,” I said, getting up to go, “thanks so much for the cheesecake.”

“I hope you realize,” she said, her gaze suddenly turning steely again, “it’s the last piece you’ll be seeing all week.”

“Of course,” I lied, fully intending to make frequent afterhours refrigerator raids. Lord only knew how many of those cheesecakes Olga kept stashed away. Only next time, I’d wait until I was sure she’d gone to bed.

But now I had to throw myself on her mercy just one more time.

“I don’t suppose you could spare a teensy piece of fish for my cat,” I said, doing my best impersonation of Prozac’s Starving Orphan look. “She’s so very hungry.”

“Oh, please. That cat could live for a month off the fat in her belly.”

“Honestly, Olga,” I said, ignoring her zinger, “you can’t imagine how the poor thing is suffering.”

“Oh, all right,” she said. “Just this once. But after tonight, the party’s over. Everything will be under lock and key.”

And as she walked over to get the fish, I saw that indeed there was a padlock on the refrigerator door. As there were on all the cabinets. So engrossed had I been in scarfing down my cheesecake, I hadn’t noticed the place was locked up tighter than Fort Knox.

So much for Operation Raid the Refrigerator.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Exciting News!

Exciting news, honey! I’m going back to school! Well, not full-time. I’m actually just taking one course: History of the Aztec and Incan Civilizations. My dear friend Lydia Pinkus arranged for a retired professor to teach the course one afternoon a week. And not only that, Lydia has been gracious enough to offer her own house as a meeting place.

(You remember, Lydia, don’t you, our local librarian and long-time president of the homeowners association? An amazing woman; we’re so lucky to have her here at Tampa Vistas.)

Anyhow, Lydia arranged for this absolutely marvelous course, and I decided to sign up. I asked Daddy if he wanted to do it, but he said if he wanted to study ancient civilization all he had to do was hang around the clubhouse.

Well, he can scoff all he wants; I’m enjoying the class to pieces, although I must admit, I keep getting the Aztecs confused with the Incans. Did you know that the Aztecs (or possibly the Incans) invented popcorn and chocolate? Isn’t that exciting?

Must run. Daddy just came home from the hardware store and is honking his horn in the driveway. He must have forgotten his house keys again.

More later, sweetheart—

XXX

Mom

PS. Omigod. I just took a look out the window. I think I may faint. It’s all too horrible. Will explain later.

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Bargain of the Century!

Hi, Lambchop!

You’ll never guess what I just bought. A complete set of garden gnomes. They were on sale—75% off! The bargain of the century! Gosh, those little guys are cute. I’ve got them all over the lawn, and they’re quite a sight. I bet our property values will skyrocket.

You’d think your mother would be grateful for a little gnome home improvement, but noooo. For some insane reason, she finds them unattractive. She actually called them “eyesores”! This from the woman who orders sequinned capri sets from the shopping channel. She actually wanted me to return them, and when I said, “Over my dead body,” she had the nerve to say, “Don’t tempt me.”

Naturally I’m leaving my little gnome buddies right where they are. As soon as the raves start coming in from the neighbors, I know she’ll change her mind.

Love & kisses,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Village of the Damned

I suppose Daddy told you about those ghastly gnomes he bought for our front lawn? I can’t believe it. The man goes to the hardware store for a simple hose nozzle and comes home with The Village of the Damned.

I took one look, and thought I’d go blind. The phone has been positively ringing off the hook with complaints from the neighbors.

Oh, dear. There’s the doorbell. I just hope it’s not the police.

XXX

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Outraged!

You’ll never guess who just stopped by. That godawful battleaxe, Lydia Pinkus—the woman who almost had me arrested just because I refused to pay an unfair library fine.

There she was, standing on our doorstep, her lips all pursed and pruny.

“As president of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association,” she said, “I’m here to ask you to take down those hideous lawn creatures.”

With that she handed me a piece of paper, some nonsense about me being in violation of the Tampa Vistas landscaping code, and giving me thirty days to take down my gnomes.

Well, if she thinks I’m going to be intimidated by a silly slip of paper, she’s got another think coming. Those gnomes aren’t going anywhere. And the only “hideous creature” I intend to keep off my property is Lydia Pinkus!

Love ’n hugs from

Your outraged,

Daddy

BOOK: Pampered to Death

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