Death of a Trophy Wife (3 page)

Eternities passed as she explained the difference between a proton and a photon.

Finally she wound down. It’s a good thing. I was
this close
to getting whiplash from all that nodding.

“Gee,” she said, “it’s been fun chatting with you.”

“Yes, I learned so much.”

Which was true. I learned never to ask a chemistry professor about her job.

By then, I was desperate to make my escape from Casa Extravaganza. I’d long since given up hope of pitching myself to Marvin. I just wanted to go home and dig into my brunch leftovers.

I tried to make eye contact with Lance, currently engrossed in a lively discussion about the wacky world of hemlines. After a while I managed to catch his attention and shot him a desperate look.

Thank heavens, he got the message.

“Gosh,” he said, “look at the time. It’s been a hoot, Bunny, but Jaine and I have to make tracks.”

“So soon?” she pouted. “Can’t you stay a little while longer?”

No!
I wanted to shout.
Not one more nanosecond.

“Well,” Lance hesitated, “maybe just a few more minutes.”

Over my bored-to-death body.

“But, Lance,” I said, getting up and trotting to his side, “if we don’t leave right now, I’ll be late for my dinner date.”

“Your dinner date?” Lance shot me a blank look.

“
You’ve
got a date?” Bunny asked, as shocked as if I’d said I was about to climb Mount Everest in my pajamas.

“Oh, right,” Lance said, finally catching on. “Your date! Yes, you mustn’t be late for your date. I’ll just go change.”

And as he headed off to the cabana, a wonderful thing happened. Bunny finally remembered why I was there.

“Marvin, honey,” she said, hooking her arm through mine and leading me over to her husband. “I almost forgot to tell you. Jaine here is a writer. She wrote the most adorable toilet bowl ads!”

“Is that so?” Marvin looked up at me, as if noticing me for the first time.

“Yes, I’ve been handling the Toiletmasters account for several years now. Also Ackerman’s Awnings. And Fiedler on the Roof roofers.”

“I think she’d be perfect for the Mattress King account!” Bunny gushed.

Way to go, Bunny!
I shot her a grateful smile.

Marvin looked me over for a beat, no doubt wondering if he could trust me with his account.

I plastered on my most capable bizgal expression, glad I hadn’t opted to wear my
Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs
T-shirt.

I must have met with his approval, because the next thing he said was, “Why don’t you drop by my Beverly Hills showroom tomorrow morning, and show me your writing samples?”

“Great!”

And so it was with infinitely boosted spirits that I headed back up to Casa Extravaganza.

How do you like that? Bunny came through for me after all. Maybe I’d misjudged her. Maybe she wasn’t as big a bitch as she seemed at first glance. Maybe underneath that brittle exterior beat a heart of gold.

Yeah, right. And maybe hot fudge sundaes weren’t fattening.

I
t wasn’t till I got home to my bright orange walls that I realized I’d left my sunglasses at Casa Extravaganza. Oh, well. No biggie. I’d just pop by tomorrow and pick them up.

In the meanwhile, feeling slightly sweaty from my poolside adventure, I decided to hop in the tub for my second bath of the day. Soon I was up to my neck in strawberry-scented bubbles, lost in daydreams of landing the Mattress King account.

Just think of all the things I could do with the money. First, I’d get rid of these damn orange walls. Then I’d write a check to the friendly folks at MasterCard, who of late had not been so very friendly. Maybe I’d treat myself to a new cashmere sweater. Or a flat-screen TV. Or, better yet, membership in the Fudge of the Month Club.

Finally, when I’d run out of daydreams, I hauled myself out of the tub.

Then I slipped into my jammies and coffee-stained chenille bathrobe and toddled off to the kitchen for my long-awaited reunion with my brunch leftovers.

I opened my doggie bag (and Lance’s) and instantly began salivating at the cornucopia of baked ham, roast beef, smoked trout, lobster frittata, and blueberry muffins I’d managed to stuff inside the boxes.

At first I was just going to eat it à la Austen, which is to say straight from the Styrofoam boxes, but then I figured what the heck? Why not do a Martha Stewart and use actual dinnerware for a change? So I arranged it all on a pretty plate and set it out on the living room coffee table. Then I plopped down on the sofa with a wee smidgeon of chardonnay and my Sunday
Times
crossword puzzle.

Was this heaven, or what?

Unfortunately, I never did get to eat the trout. Prozac took one look at it, forgot all about the Hearty Halibut Guts I’d sloshed in her bowl, and swooped down on my plate.

Gone in sixty seconds.

But no matter. I still had the ham, the roast beef, and the muffins. Not to mention that yummy frittata.

Just as I was about to bite into it, there was a knock on my door.

Oh, rats. Why is someone always at the door when you’re about to chow down on a lobster frittata?

With a sigh I got up to answer it.

“Who is it?” I called out.

“Jaine, my beloved! It is I! Your own true love, Vladimir Ivan Trotsky!”

Oh, crud! I groaned in dismay.

Vladimir Ivan Trotsky is a guy my mom met on a Universal Studios tour when he was here in the States on a visit from Uzbekistan. Always on the hunt for my future ex-husband, Mom proceeded to give him my e-mail address.

Forget that the guy lived eight zillion miles away in a country without Ben & Jerry’s. Forget that I was not exactly eager to tie the knot after my horrendous first marriage, a rollicking four-year affair that made Dante’s Inferno look like an episode of
Leave It to Beaver
. Or that I was still licking my wounds from my last relationship with a water sports enthusiast named Robbie, who quickly flew the coop when I finally confessed the only water sport I truly enjoyed was soaking in the tub.

Forget all logic. My mom dreams of the day when I will once more trot down the aisle with a man at my side—any man, as long as he’s breathing, and sometimes I’m not even sure if that’s a requirement.

Anyhow, Vladimir checked out my picture on the Internet—a very flattering shot, I must admit, of me winning the Golden Plunger Award from the L.A. Plumbers Association—and had been bombarding me with marriage proposals ever since. Needless to say, I’d turned them all down, secure in the knowledge that he was eight zillion miles away in Uzbekistan.

Who’d ever think he’d show up on my doorstep?

Quel nightmare!

Reluctantly I opened the door to my would-be Romeo.

Oh, heavens. In person, he was even goofier than the photo he’d sent me, and that had been pretty darn goofy.

A short, skinny guy with a headful of tight black curls, he had a gap-toothed smile that made Alfred E. Newman look like a Rhodes scholar.

Now his slightly crossed eyes lit up at the sight of me.

“Jaine! My beloved!”

I shut my eyes for a second, hoping against hope he was a figment of my imagination brought on by an overdose of strawberry-scented bath bubbles. But alas, he was still there when I opened them again, grinning his Alfred E. Newman grin.

Somehow I managed to recover my powers of speech.

“Vladimir,” I croaked. “What are you doing here?”

“I come to propose marriage to you, of course.”

“But you’ve already proposed, Vladimir. At least seven times. And I’ve turned you down all seven times.”

“Yes, but this time I propose in person! Like my mama told me, ‘Once she sees you in person, Vladdie, how can she resist?’”

Oh, lord. Why are the nutcases always attracted to me?

“How on earth did you find my address?”

“Whitepages.com.” He nodded proudly. “They give me your phone number, too.”

I made a mental note to write a very nasty letter to those blabbermouths at whitepages.com.

“For you, my beloved,” he said, thrusting a bouquet of wilted daisies into my hand.

“Thank you.” I faked a smile as several dying petals fluttered to the floor.

“May I come in?” he asked, peering over my shoulder, “and see your charming home?”

Oh, foo. The last thing I wanted was to invite him in, but I couldn’t send him away, not after he’d traveled halfway around the world to see me.

And for those of you clucking at the notion of me inviting a stranger into my apartment, let me assure you there was nothing to worry about. The guy weighed as much as my right thigh. I could take him down blindfolded.

“Yes, sure,” I said halfheartedly.

As he trotted inside, toting a tattered shopping bag, I headed for the kitchen to put my dying daisies in water. Once again, I indulged in the foolish fantasy that somehow he’d be gone when I returned to the living room.

But nope, he was still there.

“What a beautiful abode!” he said upon my return, gazing in admiration at my orange walls. “A perfect setting for my princess! And what a cute kitty cat. Do you always let kitty eat human food?”

Prozac looked up, irritated, from where she’d been busy sucking up some roast beef.

Hey, mind your own beeswax, willya?

“Prozac, cut that out!” I whisked her off the sofa. “That’s supposed to be my dinner.”

“A thousand pardons!” Vladimir cried. “I interrupt your meal.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I lied.

“It looks delicious,” he said, practically drooling onto my plate.

“Would you care to join me?” I forced myself to ask.

“Maybe just a tiny bite.”

With that, he parked himself down on the sofa and began plowing through my chow like a John Deere at harvest time.

Prozac stared at him, wide-eyed. At last she’d met her match in the speed-eating department.

I quickly sat down next to him and tried to grab something before it all disappeared, but all I managed to nab was half a muffin and a square of frittata.

All the rest, down Vladimir’s gullet.

Prozac hissed as he popped the last of the ham into his mouth.

Hey, wait a minute! I was going to eat that.

“Delicious!” Vladimir exclaimed when there was nothing left on the plate except his reflection. “Never have I eaten such wonderful food! What a wonderful cook you are, my beloved Jaine.”

“Actually, I didn’t cook any of this.”

“Oh, but I can tell you are magnificent cook.”

At that, Prozac practically rolled her eyes.

Are you kidding? She needs Mapquest to find the oven.

“You know what would taste wonderful right now?” He patted his nonexistent tummy.

The rest of that frittata
, I felt like saying.
But you already ate it.

“A nice glass of tea.”

Ten minutes later, we were side by side on the sofa, sipping our teas, mine generously laced with Tylenol.

Vladimir had taken out a small photo album from his shopping bag and was showing me pictures of his family. I smiled gamely at photos of his babushka-ed mother and rifle-toting father. Between the two of them, they possessed a grand total of five teeth.

“And here is my beloved Svetlana!”

Svetlana was not, as you might have imagined, a local Uzbek lass, but his pet mountain goat.

“Svetlana is my very best friend in the whole world.”

No surprise there.

“I told her all about you, Jaine. She can’t wait to meet you.”

As if that is ever going to happen.

At last, we were through looking at the Trotsky clan.

“Gosh, that was fun, Vladimir.”

“Please, call me Vladdie.”

“Right, um, Vladdie. It’s been great catching up. But I’ve got a busy day ahead, and I’ve really got to turn in now.”

“But wait! I must read love poem!”

He took out a piece of none-too-clean paper from his pocket and unfolded it with a flourish. Then he cleared his throat and read:

Ode to My Beloved Jaine

I love your eyes of baby blue

To you I will be always true

Your lips are red as bowl of borscht

Marry Vladdie and you never get divorced!

Prozac looked up from where she had been examining her privates.

Whew. That stinks worse than my litter box.

“How sweet.” I smiled weakly. “But actually, my eyes aren’t blue. They’re hazel.”

“Yes, but blue so much easier to rhyme—Wait, I know! Listen to this!”

Another phlegm-filled clearing of his throat, after which he proclaimed:

I love your eyes of sparkling hazel
So big and round like onion bagel

“How very touching,” I managed to say.

“I knew you would love it. So how about it, Jaine? You marry with me?”

He looked up at me, practically panting with eagerness.

“I’ve already told you, Vladdie, I can’t possibly marry you.”

“But why?”

I figured telling him that on a scale of one to ten he was a minus forty-seven wasn’t the way to go.

“For one thing, I don’t even know you.”

“Of course!” He smacked his hand against his head. “Vladimir idiot to think you fall in love with me so soon. It takes time. At least until Thursday. In the meanwhile, you come meet my family here in the United States. My Aunt Minna and my cousins Sofi and Boris. Aunt Minna cook dinner for you tomorrow.”

No way was I about to meet his family. Absolutely not. I had to end this thing here and now. And I was just about to turn him down in no uncertain terms when he threw a curveball at me.

“I almost forgot!” he said. “I’m so busy staring at your beautiful hazel eyes, I didn’t give you your gift!”

Once more he reached into his shopping bag.

“For you, Jaine,” he said, handing me a beautiful white cable-knit sweater.

“This is lovely, Vladimir. You shouldn’t have.”

“Mama and Natasha made it for you.”

“Natasha?”

“Our pet lamb. That’s her wool. So what do you say, Jaine? You come meet my family?”

He looked up at me pleadingly with his slightly crossed eyes.

Oh, lord. I couldn’t turn him down now, not after his mother knitted me a sweater from their pet lamb. I’d go meet his Aunt Minna, have dinner, and that’d be that. Finito. End of romance. Before I knew it, he’d be back in Uzbekistan and I’d never have to see him again.

And so I said three little words that would live to haunt me for years to come:

“Okay, I’ll go.”