said. “You interested?”
“What exactly did you have in mind as a salary?”
“Three thousand.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Three thousand dollars isn’t much. After all, the book will take months to write.”
“Not three thousand for the whole book, silly. Three thousand a week.”
Suddenly, the toilet didn’t seem so uncomfortable after all.
Chapter Two
“Three thousand dollars a week?”
My best friend, Kandi Tobolowski, sat across from me at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Pacos Tacos, where everything is defiantly fried in lard, and the combination plates have been known to send healthy men hurtling into cardiac arrest.
Kandi and I have been best friends ever since we met at a UCLA screenwriting course. We hit it off right away, in spite of the fact that she’s reed thin and has fabulous chestnut hair that never frizzes in the rain.
I’d told her all about my new job with SueEllen Kingsley, and now we were celebrating.
“Three thousand a week?” she said. “That’s fantastic.”
“I know,” I said, flagging down a passing waiter.
“Garçon,” I called out. “Give me a bottle of your very best champagne.”
The guy looked at me like I was nuts.
“We don’t have champagne, señorita.”
“Then bring us a pitcher of your very best margaritas.”
He nodded and headed off to the bar.
“Can you believe it?” I said, scooping a wad of guacamole onto a chip. “All I have to do is write down a couple of recipes, throw in a few anecdotes, and I bring home three thousand a week!”
“That’s great news, sweetie,” Kandi said. “But I’ve got even better news for you.”
“What could be better than three thousand dollars a week?”
“Tommy the Termite wants to go out with you!”
“Tommy the Termite? Who on earth is that? Sounds like a mafia hitman.”
“No, silly. He’s an actor from my show.”
Kandi is a writer for the animated cartoon series Beanie & The Cockroach. For those of you lucky enough to have never seen it, it’s a stirring saga about a chef named Beanie and his pet cockroach, Fred.
“His name is Ted Lawson. He’s very cute, and apparently he’s just broken up with his girlfriend.”
“Sorry, Kandi,” I said. “But I’m not dating an actor/insect.”
I scooped up another glob of guacamole, while Kandi took a tiny bite off the corner of a chip. Which is why Kandi wears a size six, and I wear a size—well, never mind what size I wear. Let’s just say it’s somewhere in the double digits.
“What am I going to do with you, Jaine? You sit alone in your apartment night after night, and when opportunity comes knocking, you hide under the sofa cushions. Do you want to wind up a crazy old lady who gives birthday parties for her cats?”
“What, may I ask, is wrong with giving a birthday party for one’s cat?”
Kandi’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you give Prozac birthday parties?”
“Yes, in fact, I do, and for your information she really enjoys them. I put a birthday candle in her can of Fancy Mackerel Guts, and afterwards we eat cake and ice cream.”
Okay, so I eat the cake and ice cream. But Prozac licks the lid.
Kandi shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re passing up a chance to go out with a wonderful guy to stay home and work on your relationship with your cat.”
“Sorry, but you’re going to have to tell this termite guy I’m not interested.”
“No,” Kandi said. “You’re going to have to tell him. I already gave him your number.”
“Kandi! How could you?”
“What’s the big deal? When he calls, just say no. You’ve had plenty of practice.”
“I will, don’t worry. And besides, if he’s so great, why don’t you go out with him?”
“I can’t.” Kandi’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I’m dating someone.”
“Really? Who?”
“A martial arts instructor!”
“How on earth did you meet a martial arts instructor?”
“He’s teaching a self-defense course at the studio. One of the producers on the lot got assaulted on the way to her car by an angry writer, and so now they’re making us study self-defense. Oh, Jaine, he’s such a doll. So manly and sure of himself. Unlike the cerebral wimps I usually waste my time on.”
“Does Mr. Manly have a name?”
“Matt Malone. Isn’t that a great name? It’s so No Frills.”
“How long have you been seeing him?”
“Well, he hasn’t exactly asked me out yet, but I know he will.”
That’s Kandi for you. Ever the optimist.
“It’s obvious he likes me. He keeps calling me up to the front of the class for demonstrations. Last night, I kicked him in the groin. Not really. But he showed me where to aim. God, it was sexy.
“I’m telling you, Jaine,” she said, dabbing at the guacamole with the tines of her fork. “This time I’ve met Mr. Right.”
I smiled weakly. Kandi meets an average of 2.38 Mr. Rights per month. And 2.37 of them turn out to be duds. The amazing thing, though, is that she never gives up. She sails from one guy to the next, never bloodied, never bowed. Unlike yours truly, who threw in the towel after one measly marriage.
True, it was the marriage from Hell. But lots of other women recover from bad marriages. Why didn’t I? I’ll tell you why: Because those other women weren’t married to The Blob. That’s what I call my ex-husband. I didn’t always call him The Blob. Back when we were still married, I called him My First Husband. I should’ve known I was in trouble when he wore flip flops to our wedding. I’ll spare you the painful details of the rest of our four years together. Let’s just say that by the time the divorce was final, I was ready to check into a convent and throw away the key.
“Here you go, señoritas.”
The waiter was at our table, with a pitcher of margaritas. He poured us each a frosty glass.
