Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For (7 page)

After saying good-bye to Nina, I retrieved my tofu shrimp from my pants pocket and tossed them in a trash can.

Then I got in the Corolla and drove as fast as I could to the nearest McDonald’s.

Chapter 7

T
he only job in my in box was another resume, this one for a college grad whose career goal was “to do something, like, really fun.” I knocked it off quickly, which left me almost a week to work on the Passions campaign.

For those of you interested in how a professional writer works on a major ad campaign, here’s my typical schedule:

First I sharpen a bunch of pencils. Then I do the crossword puzzle, just to limber up my brain. Then I grab a snack. Then I scratch Prozac’s belly for good luck. Then I grab another snack. Then I check out the news headlines on AOL. Then I sharpen some more pencils. And so forth and so on until it’s time for
Oprah,
and
Judge Judy
and dinner.

It’s disgraceful, I know. What can I say? I work best under pressure.

And which is why, the night before my pitch to Grace, all I had to show for my labors were some sharpened pencils and a well-scratched cat.

Oh, well. It was only six o’clock. If I worked non-stop for the next five hours, surely I’d come up with something. And then I realized: I was teaching my class that night. Damn. It looked like I was going to have to pull an all-nighter.

Annoyed with myself for having frittered away so much time, I fed Prozac her dinner, wolfed down some ancient Tater Tots I found at the back of my freezer, and headed off to the Shalom Retirement Home.

When I showed up at Shalom, I found a half-eaten package of Twinkies at my place at the head of the table.

“For you, sweetheart,” Mr. Goldman said, with a wink.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling weakly.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, brushing cupcake crumbs from his vest. “I ate one.”

Ah, nothing says
I love you
like used food.

“Okay, class,” I said. “Who wants to read first?”

As usual, Mr. Goldman’s was the first hand in the air.

I looked around the class, hoping someone else would volunteer. But nobody so much as lifted a pinkie.

“Okay, Mr. Goldman,” I sighed. “Go ahead.”

He whipped out his notebook with a flourish and began reading.

“My Gallbladder Surgery, by Abe Goldman.”

With all the confidence of Lincoln reading the Gettysburg Address, Mr. Goldman proceeded to tell us about his gallbladder surgery, how all the nurses flirted with him, how the surgeon said it was the biggest gallbladder he’d ever removed in all his years of practice, and how—when he was finally allowed to have visitors—Debbie Reynolds showed up with a big bouquet of roses.

“Oh, please!” Mrs. Pechter said, her huge bosoms heaving with indignation. “Don’t start with Debbie Reynolds again.”

“Yeah,” Mrs. Rubin chimed in. “Enough already!”

“Are you sure you weren’t hallucinating?” Mrs. Zahler asked.

“No, I wasn’t hallucinating,” Mr. Goldman snapped. “Debbie Reynolds visited me in the hospital!”

“Right,” said Mrs. Pechter. “Just like Tom Cruise came to see me when I had my corns lanced.”

The other ladies chortled gaily. Mr. Goldman glared at them and slammed his notebook shut.

Score one for Mrs. Pechter.

“Okay, who wants to read next?” I asked.

Mr. Goldman’s ignominious defeat in the war of words with Mrs. Pechter seemed to have given the other ladies courage. Several hands shot up. And I was thrilled to see that one of the volunteers was Mrs. Stein.

Lillian Stein was a recent arrival both at Shalom and in my class. A plump woman with large sad eyes, she reminded me of a child on her first day in kindergarten. For weeks I’d been hoping she’d read something, but she’d just sat in her chair, silently taking in the chatter around her.

And now, at last, she was raising her hand.

“Mrs. Stein!” I said. “I’m so glad you’ve got something you want to share with us. Go ahead.”

The other ladies murmured their encouragement.

With trembling hands, she unfolded a single piece of lined paper.

“My Husband, Max,”
she read, in a thin, barely audible voice.

“Speak up!” Mr. Goldman said. “We can’t hear you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Stein,” I said. “A little louder, please.”

She began again.

“My husband, Max, and I were married for fifty-two years before he died of a fatal heart attack.”

A wave of tsk-tsks rippled through the room.

“We met when I was working in the men’s department at Macy’s, and Max came in to buy a tie. I could tell he liked me because he wound up buying five ties. And two suits. And a coat.”

The ladies chuckled appreciatively.

“He asked me out on a date to go bowling. I didn’t much like bowling, but I said yes irregardless.”

Mr. Goldman’s hand shot up.

“Mistake!” he cried. “There’s no such word as ‘irregardless’!”

I could see what was happening. Still steamed at having been bested by Mrs. Pechter, Mr. Goldman was now taking out his irritation on poor Mrs. Stein. But he was right, of course. There was no such word as “irregardless.”

“Let’s save our comments for later, shall we?” I said. “Go on, Mrs. Stein. You’re doing beautifully.”

Looking somewhat shaken, Mrs. Stein resumed her narrative and told us about her honeymoon, how she and Max drove across country on Route 66, taking in such sights as the Grand Canyon and the Black Hills of North Dakota.

“Another mistake!” Mr. Goldman shouted. “You can’t get to the Black Hills from Route 66.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mrs. Pechter said. “Put a sock in it, Abe.”

“I’m just making a simple correction. After all, I was a traveling salesman for fifty years. I oughta know where Route 66 goes.”

By now, Mrs. Stein was close to tears.

“Mrs. Stein is not writing an atlas, Mr. Goldman,” I said. “She’s writing a memoir. Let’s listen to her, shall we?”

There was no mistaking the anger in my voice.

“Go on, Mrs. Stein,” I said, with an encouraging smile.

Reluctantly, Mrs. Stein picked up her paper, which was now damp with sweat, and continued.

“My Max was always a good cook, and after we settled in Los Angeles, he opened a restaurant. He called it Max’s Delicatessen.”

Once again, Mr. Goldman sprung to life.

“You owned Max’s Deli?” he asked.

Mrs. Stein nodded.

“On Fairfax Avenue?”

She nodded again.

“I ate there all the time!” Mr. Goldman said.

Mrs. Stein smiled gratefully.

“It wasn’t so hot,” he said, with a shrug. “The pastrami was too fatty.”

Mrs. Stein’s lower lip began trembling, and before I knew it she was crying. Here it had taken me more than a month to get her to read, and thanks to Mr. Goldman, I doubted I’d ever see her in class again.

“For crying out loud, Mr. Goldman!” I snapped. “You are the most irritating man I have ever met. In my entire life. You are like nails on a blackboard. Like slow drivers in the fast lane. Like cell phones in a movie. Can’t you just shut up and let the poor woman read!”

Yes, I really did say that.

The whole room sat in stunned silence. No one looked more stunned than Mr. Goldman. Suddenly the color drained from his face.

“My heart!” he said, clutching his chest.

And with that, he keeled over and fell to the floor.

“My God,” Mrs. Pechter said. “He’s having a heart attack.”

“Somebody call 911!” someone kept shouting hysterically. And then I realized I was the one shouting. I grabbed my cell phone and made the call. Minutes later, the paramedics came and loaded Mr. Goldman on to a stretcher.

“Wait,” he said, in a feeble voice, as they were about to wheel him out the door. “I’ve got something to say.”

“What is it?” I asked. “What is it?”

“The Black Hills are in South Dakota,” he said, a faint smug smile on his face. “Not North Dakota.”

Chapter 8

S
leep was out of the question. I was up all night, calling the hospital, begging them to let me know how Mr. Goldman was doing. But because I wasn’t a relative, they wouldn’t tell me a thing.

To say I had trouble concentrating on the Passions ad campaign would be putting it mildly. I felt about as creative as a washcloth. After a few fitful hours at my keyboard, the best I could come up with was:

Put Some Passion in Your Fashion!

I know it stinks, but you’d stink, too, if you thought you’d just given a helpless albeit irritating old man a heart attack. By the time the sun came up in Beverly Hills, I knew I’d blown whatever chance I had of landing the job.

At 9
A.M
. I typed up my ideas, fed Prozac her breakfast, then stumbled into bed for a refreshing half-hour of sleep.

Then I padded off to the shower, where I stood under a spray of icy water, hoping to infuse some life into my body. Too tired to blow-dry the curls out of my hair, I yanked my mop into a careless pony tail.

You’ll be glad to know that Prozac went nowhere near my Prada suit that morning. No, this time, I found her sitting on my last pair of pantyhose, happily clawing them to shreds. Oh, great. Now I’d have to go bare-legged.

After sucking down some tap-water coffee, I got dressed, careful to tuck my price tags out of sight. Then I surveyed myself in the mirror. Let’s take inventory, shall we? Bags under my eyes the size of carry-on luggage. Bare legs that needed a shave. Topped off with a headful of Harpo Marx curls. If the folks at Prada had seen me, they would’ve taken out a restraining order to keep me from wearing their suit.

I tried phoning the hospital one more time, but they still wouldn’t give me any information. Then I grabbed my car keys and headed out the door, praying that Mr. Goldman would live to drive me crazy again.

“What happened to you?” Becky said, when I showed up at Passions. “You look like warmed-over dog poop.”

Okay, so her actual words were: “Hi, Jaine.” But I could tell that’s what she was thinking.

“Guess what?” she said. “Frenchie’s been in Grace’s office for the past hour. With the door shut. Grace was really steamed when she learned about Frenchie making fun of Mrs. Tucker. Isn’t it super? It looks like Frenchie’s finally getting the ax.”

“What a nasty thing to say.” We turned to see Maxine, the bookkeeper, clutching a clipboard to her chest. The woman had an uncanny knack for materializing out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry, Maxine, but I meant it. I’ll be happy to see Frenchie go.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Maxine said, anger flashing in her tiny raisin eyes. “Frenchie’s a wonderful person! One of the nicest people I know.”

If Frenchie was her idea of wonderful, she definitely needed to get out more.

“Where’s Tyler?” Maxine asked, consulting her clipboard. “He should’ve been here an hour ago.”

“I don’t know,” Becky said. “I was just wondering the same thing myself.”

“Let me know when he gets here. I’m going to have to dock his pay.” She started to scuttle back to the cubbyhole where she kept the company books when the door to Grace’s office opened.

Frenchie came sailing out, a big grin on her face, not looking the least bit like someone who’d just been fired.

Grace followed her, her face drained of color, like she’d just been socked in the gut with a pair of brass knuckles.

“Listen up, everybody,” Frenchie said. “Grace has an announcement to make.”

Grace stepped forward and cleared her throat.

“After thirty years in the business,” she said, her voice barely audible, “I’ve decided to retire.”

Then she looked over at Frenchie, like an actor in a play who’d forgotten her lines.

“And…?” Frenchie prompted.

“And I’m selling the store to Frenchie.”

“What?” Becky gasped.

“You heard her,” Frenchie said. “She’s selling the store to me.”

Becky stood there, wide-eyed with disbelief. Maxine, on the other hand, didn’t look the least bit surprised. Was it my imagination, or did I actually see her wink at Frenchie?

“You can come back for your things later, Grace,” Frenchie said. “Why don’t you go home now?”

Grace nodded mutely, as Frenchie handed her her purse.

I’ve never seen anyone sleepwalking but I imagine they’d look a lot like Grace did as she stumbled out the front door.

“So you’re back,” Frenchie said, turning to me. “Here to pitch your ad campaign?”

I, too, nodded mutely. Frenchie seemed to have that effect on people.

“Come in to my office,” she said. Accent on
my.

I followed her as she marched back into Grace’s office and opened a large pine armoire. There among assorted loose-leaf binders and fabric samples were some bottles of wine. Frenchie searched until she found the bottle she was looking for.

“Château Neuf du Pape,” she said, holding up a bottle of fancy red wine. “Grace was saving this for a special occasion. And I guess this is it.”

She opened the bottle and poured some into a wine glass. Then she swirled it in the glass and sniffed. Nodding appreciatively, she took a healthy swig.

“Yummy,” she said, not bothering to offer me any.

Not that I wanted a glass of red wine at 10:30 in the morning. But it would have been nice of her to ask. Of course, by this time I already knew that Frenchie wasn’t exactly familiar with the concept of nice.

She took another swig of wine and looked around the room, surveying her new domain.

“First thing tomorrow,” she said, “I get rid of
that.
”

She pointed to the battered mannequin that Grace had saved from her first window display. “You hear that, Bessie?” she giggled. “You’re headed for the Dumpster.”

Poor Bessie, staring out at us from paint-chipped eyes, almost looked as if she knew what fate was about to befall her.

“You can throw out whatever ideas you’ve been working on,” Frenchie said. “I’ve already thought of a brilliant campaign.”