Shoes To Die For Page 5

  It’s bad enough I’ve had to rehearse with him, but now Daddy wants me to read the part of Lady Worthington with him during his audition. He says he’s used to reading his lines with me. Honey, I’m a nervous wreck. I can’t wait till this silly audition is over!

  Love from,

  Your frazzled mom

  To: Shoptillyoudrop

  From: Jausten

  Hang in there, Mom. You know how Daddy is. This acting thing is just a Fad du Jour. He’ll get bored with it eventually. Just stay calm and don’t panic.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: The Little People

  Oh, Lord. You’ll never guess what I just saw! I was walking past the bedroom, and there was Daddy, taking bows in front of the mirror, and thanking “all the little people who made this award possible.”

  To: Shoptillyoudrop

  From: Jausten

  Okay, start panicking.

  Chapter 6

  I drove to Becky’s the next night, mulling over the latest news from my parents. Can you believe my father? He hadn’t even gotten the part yet, and he was writing his acceptance speech for the Oscars. Honestly, I don’t know how Mom puts up with him. She’s been doing it for forty years; I guess somewhere along the line she must have built up an immunity.

  I parked my car in front of Becky’s apartment building in West Hollywood. It was one of those seventies-era singles’ buildings that look like they were thrown together with Elmer’s Glue and particle board. She buzzed me in, and as I walked down the hallway to her apartment, I could hear stereos blasting through the thin walls.

  It was past seven and I was starving. Feeling guilty about that Eskimo Pie I’d had the night before (okay, two Eskimo Pies), I hadn’t eaten a thing all day except for a bagel and three Altoids. So when I rang the bell to Becky’s apartment, I was ready to eat the curtains.

  Becky opened the door, looking adorable in hot pink leggings and an oversized T-shirt. On her feet she wore chartreuse flip flops. Her toenails were painted hot pink to match her leggings, with tiny yellow daisies on each toe.

  “Hi, Jaine,” she said. “Come on in.”

  I stepped inside and blinked in amazement. The walls, like her hair, were Sunkist orange, and the furniture—rickety old pieces she’d probably picked up at garage sales—were painted black. I thought I’d died and gone to that great Halloween Party in the Sky.

  “Trick or treat!” I said.

  Okay, so I didn’t really say that. What I said was, “Great apartment.”

  “I decorated it myself,” Becky beamed.

  “It makes quite a statement,” I said, smiling weakly, thinking that the statement it made was Redecorate me!

  “Guess what?” Becky said. “I cooked us a steak dinner!”

  A steak dinner? My salivary glands went into overdrive.

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  And really. She shouldn’t have. It turned out that Becky was a vegetarian and the “steak” in question was a hunk of muddy colored tofu, doctored with several “secret ingredients” to make it taste like filet mignon. What it tasted like was congealed motor oil. Not that I’ve ever tasted congealed motor oil. I’m just guessing.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning of what ultimately turned out to be one of the Top Ten Worst Meals of My Life. Becky sat me down at her black dining table, set with orange place mats.

  “I’ll be right out with our appetizers,” she said, scooting into the kitchen, her flip flops slapping against her heels.

  Minutes later, she came back out with two “shrimp” cocktails, actually lumps of tofu rolled in paprika.

  “I can’t bear the thought of eating a poor defenseless shrimp,” she said, popping one of the nuggets into her mouth. “Go on, try it. It’s delicious. You’ll swear it’s shrimp.”

  I took a bite. It was like swallowing paprika-flavored mucous.

  “Yummy,” I managed to say, a wooden smile plastered on my face. There was only one way I was going to get through this meal, I decided. With a little help from my friend Mr. Alcohol. I reached for the glass of red wine at my place setting and took a grateful gulp. Only to find out it wasn’t wine, but grape juice.

  Fasten your seat belt, I told myself, it’s going to be a bumpy night.

  “Eat up,” Becky chirped.

  I looked at the pink slime balls on my plate. No way was I going to eat them. I gulped down my water and held out the glass.

  “Um…could I have some more water?”

  Becky trotted off to the kitchen. The minute she was gone, I shoved the “shrimp” in my pants pocket. The pants would have to be dry cleaned, but I didn’t care. It was worth it.

  “My, you sure ate those up in a hurry,” Becky said, when she came back with my water. “Want some more?”

  Not without a stomach pump, I didn’t.

  “No, no.” I managed another feeble smile. “I’ve had plenty.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “You’ve got to save room for steak!” She polished off the last of her slime balls. “Isn’t this fun? I hardly ever get to cook a meal for anybody. Whenever I invite my friends over, they always want to go to a restaurant.”

  I just bet they did.

  “I’ll go get our steaks,” she said, with an eager grin.

  Just as Becky was coming out of the kitchen with two steaming blobs of brown tofu, the front door opened and a dark-haired pixie in jeans and a tube top came bouncing into the room. Her hair was cut in a 1920s-style pageboy, with a thick fringe of bangs framing her delicate face. But at that moment, I wasn’t looking at her hair or her eyes or her delicate face. What grabbed my attention was her hand, which was clutching a McDonald’s bag.

  “Hi, Nina,” Becky said. “Jaine, this is my roommate Nina.”

  Nina and I exchanged hellos, my eyes still riveted on the golden arches. Then Nina joined us at the table. She opened the McDonald’s bag and took out a Quarter Pounder and a double order of fries. God, it smelled good.

  “Jaine’s going to be writing some ads for the store,” Becky said.

  “Super,” Nina said, flashing me a grin. “I just adore writers.”

  That’s what Becky said yesterday at Passions. Why did I get the feeling that the only thing either one of these girls read on a regular basis were the instructions on a Clairol bottle?

  “I don’t know how you can eat that yucky meat,” Becky said, as Nina squished a blob of ketchup on her hamburger bun.

  “It’s easy. Watch.”

  She took a big bite, the burger oozing out at the sides. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing it out of her hand.

  “Well, dig in!” Becky said to me.

  I looked down at the steaming mound of brown glop on my plate. Next to it was a mound of yellow glop, and another mound of green glop. The yellow glop, Becky informed me, was squash soufflé, and the green glop was bean sprouts.

  Nina looked at our plates and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  “I don’t know how you can eat that stuff,” she said. “I read about this woman who ate too many bean sprouts, and they clogged up her insides so bad, they had to cut her open and take out two feet of her intestines. They found poop in there that was six months old.”

  Nothing like some sparkling dinner conversation to go with my tofu steak.

  Nina shot me a look of pity.

  “Want some fries?” she asked.

  “No,” Becky said, “she doesn’t want any fries. Not with all that yummy squash. Right, Jaine?”

  “Well, maybe just a few,” I said, snagging myself a handful.

  I practically inhaled them.

  Nina popped the last of her burger in her mouth and licked her fingers. Would this torture never end?

  “I’d better get dressed for work,” she said.

  “Nina’s a nurse,” Becky explained. “She works the night shift.”

  I only hoped she didn’t regale her patients with tales of clogge
d intestines and petrified poop.

  Nina went to change, and somehow I managed to force down a respectable portion of the meal. There was enough estrogen in all that tofu to keep me going through menopause.

  When I was through, Becky scooted off to get dessert, a depressing assortment of sugar-free, fat-free cookies. Accompanied by an herbal tea a most unsettling shade of green.

  As I gnawed on a cookie, Becky filled me in on the kinds of ads Passions had run in the past.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Becky said. “Grace always says she wants to do something different, but she always winds up with a straight fashion shot and the Passions logo.”

  That was it? She could’ve told me that in two seconds back at the store. But, of course, by this time I knew why Becky had invited me over. She just wanted somebody to cook for. And I was happy to be her culinary victim. Okay, so I wasn’t exactly happy. Technically, I suppose you could say I was miserable. But, as I kept reminding myself, Becky was a sweet kid, and without her, I wouldn’t have had the interview in the first place.

  “Hey,” Becky said, when I’d managed to gag down a cardboard cookie, “how would you like to see some of my clothing designs?”

  “I’d love it,” I said. Anything to put an end to this god-awful meal.

  Becky jumped up and minutes later was back from the bedroom with an armful of her designer creations. Now I’m no fashion maven, as Lance would be the first to tell you, but the outfits were a tad strange. Lots of floral prints and black leather. Laura Ashley meets the Marquis de Sade.

  “Aren’t they awesome?” Nina said, coming out from the bedroom in her nurse’s uniform.

  “Awesome,” I parroted.

  Becky’s eyes shone with pride.

  And who knew? Maybe she really did have talent. Her clothing looked a lot better than some of the stuff that passes for haute couture on the Paris runways.

  I did my best to act enthused, and just as I was running out of oohs and aahs, the doorbell rang.

  Becky raced to get it.

  It was Tyler, looking even cuter than he had at Passions. At the store, he’d worn the tight trendy stuff they stocked. But he’d changed out of his spandex gear into khakis and a button-down shirt, looking very much like the aspiring novelist Becky had said he was. He’d washed out the gel that had kept his sandy brown hair slicked back, and now it flopped boyishly onto his forehead.

  He was a decade too young for me, but I still found him adorable. Apparently I wasn’t the only one. Because just then Becky threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. He kissed her back with a good deal of enthusiasm.

  A little birdie told me this was not a platonic relationship.

  “You’re Tyler’s girlfriend?” I blurted out. “The one he dumped Frenchie for?”

  They both nodded.

  “We’re trying to keep it a secret at the store,” Tyler said. “Frenchie would go ballistic if she knew.”

  “Let her go ballistic,” Becky said. “Grace is probably going to fire her, anyway.”

  “We can only hope,” Tyler said.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Becky said. “Want some soy steak? I’ve got plenty left over.”

  “No thanks, Beck,” Tyler said quickly. “I already ate.”

  His eyes shifted nervously, like a deer who’d just narrowly escaped a hunter’s bullet.

  “Well, I’d better be shoving off,” Nina said, grabbing her keys.

  “Me, too,” I chimed in. I got the feeling Tyler and Becky wanted be alone. Mainly because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other’s fannies.

  “Don’t go yet,” Becky said halfheartedly.

  “No, no. I’ll be going. And thanks for everything.”

  “Did you really like the dinner?”

  It wasn’t easy, but I managed to say yes.

  Nina and I said our good-byes and headed down the corridor to the elevator together.

  “Tyler’s a great guy,” Nina said.

  “Yes, he seems awfully sweet.”

  “An angel. And it’s about time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Becky has this thing for rotten guys. She always goes for the nogoodniks. It comes from low self-esteem.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Nina said, tossing a piece of bubble gum in her mouth. “I took psychology in nursing school. That’s her problem all right,” she said, blowing a big pink bubble.

  Right on, Dr. Freud.

  “But it doesn’t matter now,” she said. “At last, she’s found a winner.”

  The elevator came and we rode down, Nina blowing bubbles en route. I only hoped she didn’t work in neurosurgery.

  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

  The 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.”