Authors: Laura Levine

Pampered to Death (7 page)

BOOK: Pampered to Death

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Now he’s out in the garage painting a campaign sign. Would you believe he actually wanted to use the slogan,
Time to Get Rid a Ya, Lydia!
I told him if he did, he could meet me in divorce court. Well, he finally backed down and promised he’d come up with something else.

Anyhow, what with all the fuss and bother of Daddy’s campaign, I haven’t even had a chance to go over my notes for my Aztec and Incan History course. Oh, well. It will be a treat just to get out of the house and away from Campaign Headquarters.

Love from your frazzled,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Thought I’d Die

I just got back from class, and I swear I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life. There we were in Lydia’s living room as our marvelous teacher, Professor Rothman, told us the most fascinating story about how the Incans (or possibly the Aztecs) invented freeze dried food, when suddenly we heard someone shouting over a bullhorn, “Save the Gnomes! Vote for Hank!”

Needless to say, that “someone” on the bullhorn was Daddy.

“Good heavens!” Lydia cried, jumping up out of her seat. “What is that man up to now?”

Then she raced over to her front window to look outside. Unfortunately everyone else followed her, so they all got to witness my humiliation.

There was Daddy in his Camry, shouting through a bullhorn as he drove, one of his godawful gnomes attached to the top of the car.

And the worst part—the very worst part—was the huge banner he had on the side of the Camry. In big bright red letters was his new campaign slogan:

PINKUS STINKS
!

Honestly, honey, I thought I’d die.

I apologized profusely to Lydia, but she just took me in her arms and hugged me, saying, “You poor thing. You have to live with him.”

And I could see that everyone in the room agreed with her. Professor Rothman even took me aside and gave me the name of a colleague of his, a psychiatrist, and urged me to book an appointment for Daddy ASAP.

“Meds might help,” he whispered.

Needless to say, I didn’t hear a word of the lecture after that.

I was so unhappy I couldn’t even begin to eat the homemade lemon tarts Lydia served after class. Well, technically, I did manage to force down a few mouthfuls. In fact, I might have finished off the whole slice, but I tell you, honey, I could barely taste a thing.

I was way too furious.

Just wait till your father gets home.

XXX

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Deserted!

You’re not going to believe this, lambchop, but for some crazy reason, your mom has quit as my campaign manager.

My own wife, deserting me in my hour of need! All because of an innocent little campaign sign.

But fear not! I can win this battle on my own. I am nothing if not self-reliant.

You know my motto: When the Going Gets Tough, the TOUGH—OH, DAMN, THE CAP LOCK KEY IS STUCK AGAIN. GOTTA GO GET YOUR MOM TO FIX IT.

TO BE CONTINUED—

DADDY (AKA “MR. PRESIDENT”)

To: Jausten

From: Sir Lancelot

Subject: Babaganoush To Die For

Sorry I missed your calls, sweetie. All eight of them. Crazy day. Had dinner at a new falafel place in Westwood. The babaganoush was to die for!

Hug hug, kiss kiss,

Lance

Chapter 11

U
naccustomed to a snack-free diet, Prozac clawed me awake the next morning at some ungodly hour, yowling at the top of her lungs to be fed.

“Prozac, please,” I groaned. “Show me some mercy.”

But all she showed me was her little pink throat as she kept on yowling, kicking it up a notch for good measure.

Reluctantly I tore myself out of bed and staggered to the bathroom to open one of Delphine’s twenty-five dollar cans of cat food, every muscle in my body throbbing from yesterday’s brutal exercise regimen.

The minute the Fancy Feast hit her bowl, Prozac dove in, inhaling it—according to my lightning calculations—at about two bucks a bite.

Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I hobbled over to the French doors to check the weather.

The sun was just beginning to illuminate the sky, and like yesterday, everything was blanketed in a thick early morning fog.

I stood there, rubbing my aching calves and thinking about the e-mails I’d been foolish enough to read last night before climbing into bed. I cringed at the thought of Daddy in his
Pinkus Stinks
Gnome-Mobile. No wonder Mom quit as his campaign manager.

But Mom’s anger was nothing compared to how steamed I was at Lance. Can you believe that guy? Sending me off to diet boot camp while he stuffed his face with babaganoush!

Just as I was thinking how much I’d give to baba his ganoush, I happened to see a most unusual sight—a nearlynaked man streaking out from The Haven’s back door.

In spite of the fog, I knew it was Sven. I could tell by his Speedo.

Looked like somebody had spent the night burning mattresses with Mallory.

Once again, my heart went out to Shawna. Her marriage had hit a speed bump, all right. But I didn’t have time to commiserate, because by now Olga was hammering on my door, yelling at me to get dressed for the nature hike.

A new day’s agony was about to begin.

But I didn’t care. I’d made up my mind to break out of diet prison. Yes, indeedie. It was time to take off my big girl panties and call it quits. As much as I hated to see Lance’s money go to waste, I planned to check out that afternoon. Just as soon as I had one more heavenly massage from Shawna.

Once my muscles had been pampered to mush, I’d pack my bags and be winging my way back to L.A. With a pit stop at Mickey D’s, of course.

Out in the lobby, Kendra informed us that Mallory was not coming on the nature hike.

“Why on earth not?” Olga asked.

“She says she’s too tired.”

Of course she was tired. Who wouldn’t be after a night of sexcapades with Sven and his Speedo?

And the galling thing was that Olga didn’t voice a single objection. If I’d tried a stunt like that, she’d be dragging me out of bed by my ears. She obviously had a separate set of rules for Princess Mallory. Or maybe she was just happy to be rid of her.

We started our trek up Mt. Olga, and in no time I was wheezing like a busted radiator. Everybody else seemed to be dragging their heels, too. Everybody except Cathy. Still gunning for the role of Diet Nazi’s pet, she plastered a bright smile on her face as she huffed up the slope.

“C’mon, everybody,” Olga barked, with a deafening blast of her whistle. “Let’s step up the pace! What’s wrong with you people today?”

“Some stupid cat woke me at the crack of dawn,” Clint grunted. “That’s what’s wrong. The damn creature was yowling like a banshee.”

“I know,” Harvy said, suppressing a yawn. “I heard it, too.”

“Me, too,” Kendra chimed in.

“That must’ve been Jaine’s cat, Xanax,” Olga pointed out, just in case they wanted to form a lynch party later.

“Her name is Prozac,” I managed to gasp between wheezes.

“Whatever,” Olga said, completely uninterested in what I’d chosen to name my beloved pet. “All I know is she needs to lose weight. I hope you’re making her use that treadmill.”

I wisely refrained from mentioning that the only thing Pro had been using it for was to catch up on her naps.

“Oh,” Cathy piped up, “so that’s
your
cat I’ve seen out on the patio scratching the furniture.”

Great. First the little fink acted shocked over my goodie bag, and now she was ratting out Prozac.

“You scratch it, you replace it!” Olga happily informed me.

“I wanted to bring my cat, Mr. Muffin,” Cathy said, “but he gets so cranky when he travels.”

“He couldn’t be worse than her little monster,” Clint snarled.

Well! I wouldn’t be going to any more of
his
movies, that’s for sure.

Eventually we made it up the hill and back down again with our lungs still intact.

Cathy stayed glued to my side throughout the whole ordeal, renewing her pledge to be my diet buddy, jabbering about Mr. Muffin and his crush on the neighbor’s Rottweiller.

“It’s so adorable the way he’s always running next door to play with her!” Cathy gushed.

I’ll bet he was. Even a Rottweiller had to be more fun than a Cathy chat-a-thon. Ten to one, Mr. Muffin was having the locks changed as we spoke.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of sweat, pretty much a carbon copy of yesterday’s exercise hell.

Mallory showed up for our aerobics class, once more dressed to seduce, practically doing a pole dance with her exercise bar and lingering behind afterward—no doubt to set up a rendezvous with Sven. All the while, Shawna smiled serenely, as if she had no idea about the whoopsie doodle fest going on between the two of them.

After aerobics, I headed off for a fun session of slave labor in the garden (it was my turn to prune the hedges).

Like I said, just another day on the chain gang.

Until lunch, that is.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

Lunch started out peacefully enough. Mallory was at the “A” table yammering about Mallory, Cathy was at the “B” table yammering about Cathy, and I was lost in a George Clooney Chocolate Éclair Fantasy.

But it soon became obvious that Mallory was in an extrapicky mood.

“Olga dear,” she said, holding out her water glass. “My water’s lukewarm. It needs ice.”

Olga nodded with a brittle smile and took away the offending glass. Seconds later, she trotted out from the kitchen with a glass studded with ice cubes.

Mallory waved her away.

“Oh, that’s way too many!” she said. “I wanted a few cubes, hon. I didn’t want to build an igloo.”

Swallowing her annoyance, Olga once again went back to the kitchen.

I was beginning to think Mallory didn’t really care about the water, that she was just playing with Olga. The smile on her face told me she was getting her jollies sending her former show biz colleague back and forth to the kitchen.

“How’s this?” Olga asked, having returned from the kitchen with yet another glass of water.

Mallory eyed it critically.

“It’s not tap water, is it?”

“Nope, it’s Evian, just like you always drink.”

“I can taste the difference, you know.”

She took a sip and wrinkled her nose.

“You forgot the lime wedge.”

It was with Herculean effort that Olga managed to restrain herself.

Her jaw clenched tight, she headed back to the kitchen and soon returned with a lime wedge on a plate.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Mallory said, as Olga slammed the plate down on the table.

Just like a cat letting a mouse scamper away only to pounce again, Mallory waited until Olga was at the kitchen door before calling out, “On second thought, honey, I think I’d rather have an iced tea.”

“Now you want iced tea?” Olga asked.

“Yes, sweetie. With a slice of mango.”

Olga stood there, shoulders rigid. I could practically see wisps of steam coming from her ears. For a minute I was convinced she was about to explode. But no, she just stormed into the kitchen and minutes later, came out with Mallory’s iced tea.

By now, we were all caught up in the drama playing out before us, waiting to see how long Mallory would continue this obnoxious game.

Olga handed Mallory her iced tea. Mallory picked up the mango slice and wrinkled her teeny nose.

“Are you sure the mango’s fresh?”

And then, at long last, the volcano erupted. This was the mango that broke the camel’s back.

“Of course, it’s not fresh, you nitwit!” Olga snarled. “It’s out of season!”

Well, whaddaya know? Someone had actually dared to cross Princess Mallory. What on earth would the demanding diva do now?

(Call for a public flogging, was my guess.)

“Excuse me,” Mallory said, with forced calm. “I must’ve heard wrong. Did you just call me a nitwit?”

“Yes, I did.” Olga clamped her arms across her chest in defiance. “And I meant every syllable. I am sick and tired of you treating me like your personal slave and catering to your every whim, especially your insane fixation with mangoes.”

Fire flashed in Mallory’s eyes.

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

“A certified lunatic, that’s who! Every crew you’ve ever worked with hates you. You know what they call
Mad About Mallory
behind your back?
Mad
AT
Mallory
!”

“That’s not true!” Mallory huffed.

“You bet it is. You drive everybody nuts with your mango mania! If it weren’t for you and your damn mangoes,” Olga ranted, spittle flying from her mouth, “that poor assistant director down in Mexico would’ve never gotten into that horrible accident.”

“It’s not my fault Pablo crashed the car!” Mallory cried. “He was a lousy driver!”

“Of course it was your fault!” Olga snapped. “You made him drive out in a hurricane to buy your damn mangoes, you self-centered bitch!”

By now heads were swiveling back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. At the “A” table, Clint was eyeing Mallory with undisguised loathing. And here among the peasants, Kendra wasn’t bothering to hide her glee. If she could have, I’m sure she would’ve been waving a “Go, Olga!” pennant. Only Harvy seemed to show any sympathy for his boss, tsking and patting Mallory’s hand.

But Mallory had had quite enough.

“I’m outta here,” she said, shoving back her chair. “The only reason I come to this dump every year is because I feel sorry for you.”

“Oh, please,” Kendra muttered. “She hasn’t felt sorry for anybody but herself in decades.”

“This place is a joke!” Now on a rant of her own, Mallory waved dismissively at her surroundings. “The carpets are threadbare, the walls are dingy and the damn silverware is mismatched.”

Cathy began checking her silverware.

“And you?” Mallory eyed Olga with scorn. “You’re the biggest joke of all! Everybody knows you eat the candy you confiscate.”

(See? I told you so!)

For the first time Olga looked taken aback. Which just fueled Mallory’s fire.

“Your special herb tea, imported from Tibet?” she sneered. “Oh, it’s imported all right, all the way from Costco!” She turned to the rest of us. “And that “vitamin” bottle she keeps in the kitchen? Filled with nothing but Valium!”

Next to me, Cathy gasped in surprise.

And I must admit, I was a tad shocked myself. I remembered the pills Olga swigged down in the kitchen on my orientation tour. I never dreamed she’d been popping Valium.

“You’re a disgrace to the spa industry,” Mallory sniffed, scooping up Armani from his bowl of chicken tenders, “and I intend to tell everyone I know just what a hellhole this place is.”

Then she stalked out in high dudgeon, Armani giving an angry yip of disapproval in her wake.

“Omigosh,” Cathy whispered. “Wait’ll the gang at the Piggly Wiggly hears about this.”

BOOK: Pampered to Death

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