LITMIR.BIZ

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table, nursing a martini, silent and distant, like a guest who didn’t know the other people at the table very well.

      SueEllen was at the foot of the table, barking orders to Conchi. Heidi and Brad sat across from me, looking like they’d sell their souls for an In ‘N Out Burger.

      Conchi scurried around with our salad plates, eyes downcast, her dark hair falling forward on her face like a curtain she was trying to hide behind. The salad was endive and watercress in a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. It was about as filling as a piece of dental floss.

      The beef bourguignon on the other hand, looked spectacular. Generous chunks of meat in a lovely brown potato-and-carrot studded sauce. Conchi came out of the kitchen with two heaping platefuls, and my salivary glands sprung into action.

      Unfortunately, the heaping plates went to Hal and Brad. Heidi, SueEllen and I got portions the size of rice cakes. Heidi and I snarfed ours down with lightning speed; I practically scraped the design off my plate trying to finish every last drop. Once again, SueEllen nibbled at her food. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing one of her potatoes.

      Needless to say, nobody asked me if I wanted seconds.

      What’s worse, SueEllen actually expected me to be taking notes. That’s right. SueEllen wanted it to be a “working dinner.” While everybody ate, she picked up where she left off in the bathtub, in the saga of SueEllen.

      “I’ll just give you the broad strokes now,” she said, spearing a particle of carrot. “We’ll fill in the details later.”

      And so she was off and running, dominating the conversation with a non-stop commentary about how she left the South and moved to L.A. and became a model, and later a game show hostess, until she finally hit the jackpot and became Mrs. Hal Kingsley. When she came to the part about her job as a game show hostess, she demonstrated how she used to point out the contestants’ prizes, by making a flamboyant “L” with her arms. Left arm up in the air, right arm pointing to the imaginary prize. I only hoped she didn’t expect me to write about Game Show Hostess Positions in the book.

      When everyone else had finished their beef and their eyes were glazed over with boredom, Hal piped up.

      “SueEllen, honey, you haven’t touched your dinner.”

      Indeed she hadn’t. Her dollop-sized portion was still sitting there in the middle of her plate. Reluctantly, she shut up and started eating.

      Brad took advantage of her blessed silence.

      “Hey, Dad,” he said. “I got the new Ferrari brochure today.”

      SueEllen looked up from the pea she was pushing onto her fork.

      “Ferrari? What Ferrari?”

      Hal grinned sheepishly. “I sort of promised Brad a Ferrari for graduation.”

      “A Ferrari for an eighteen-year-old?” she said, abandoning the pea. “That’s ridiculous. He should be happy with a BMW like every other teenager in Beverly Hills.”

      “But Dad promised me I could get one.”

      “Can you imagine what the insurance will cost?”

      Hal’s face clouded over with doubt. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

      “But Dad, you promised.”

      “I did promise him, SueEllen.”

      “Well, if that’s your decision,” SueEllen said, a veil of ice descending in the room.

      Hal finished what was left of his martini in a single gulp.

      “Maybe SueEllen’s right, Brad. I’ve got to think it over.”

      SueEllen ate her pea with a satisfied smile.

      Why did I get the feeling that Brad Kingsley was about to kiss his Ferrari goodbye?

      Finally, SueEllen finished picking at her beef bourguignon, and Conchi was allowed to bring in dessert. Cherry cobbler, as advertised. Once again, Conchi served Hal and Tony hearty portions, after which she brought out golfball-sized portions for the gals. She put mine in front of me with an apologetic smile, then gave SueEllen hers.

      Then, just as she was about to serve Heidi, SueEllen snapped: “No, Conchi. No cobbler for Heidi. She’s too fat.”

      Heidi sat rigidly in her chair, flushed with humiliation. She looked to her father for help, but he kept his eyes on his cobbler.

      “Then may I be excused?” she said, voice wavery with impending tears.

      “No, you may not,” SueEllen said, scooping up a spoonful of her cobbler. “You’re going to have to learn to resist temptation, young lady.”

      And with that she put her spoonful of cobbler to her lips and ate it with gusto.

      “Mmm, delicious,” she said, licking her lips.

      Good heavens, the woman really was a sadist.

      “What do you think, Jaine? Isn’t it delicious?”

      “Actually,” I said, “I’m not hungry.”

      And it was true. For the first time all day, I’d lost my appetite.

      “Just taste it,” SueEllen cooed. “It’s divine.”

      “No, if Heidi can’t have any, I don’t think I want any, either.”

      Her smile froze. If her boobs hadn’t been silicone, they would’ve been quivering in indignation. This is it, I thought. This is where she sends me packing.

      But, no. I guess she decided she didn’t want to go through the bother of finding another writer willing to sit on her toilet bowl.

      “Oh, well, she said with a shrug. “Chacun à son goût.”

      That’s French for “I’ll get you later, bitch.”

      I drove home from the Kingsleys, unable to stop replaying the scene I’d witnessed at dinner. I’d seen SueEllen in full bitch mode, and it was not a pretty picture. Poor Heidi. My heart went out to her.

      I let myself in my apartment, filled with gratitude that I wasn’t a part of that dysfunctional family. Okay, so maybe my father bought used toupees, and maybe my cat occasionally peed on my pillow, but we loved each other, and that was all that counted. I scooped up Prozac from where she was napping on a pile of freshly laundered towels, and hugged her to my chest, feeling her purr. I carried her to the bedroom, still holding her to my chest like a furry vibrator.

      “Oh, Prozac. How nice. You didn’t pee on my pillow, after all.”

      No, as I was to find out very shortly, she peed in my slippers instead.

      Chapter Four

      The next day I was back on toilet bowl patrol. This time I knew enough to eat lunch before coming over, so I didn’t mind when Conchi served us a few radiccio leaves masquerading as a salad.

      I was more convinced than ever that SueEllen’s book didn’t stand a chance of getting published. The recipes were either too elaborate (…marinate your pheasant for two days in a clay pot…) or too expensive (…Take three pounds of beluga caviar….)And those endless anecdotes. All that mushy goo about her Aunt Melanie and life among the magnolia blossoms. Did she really think people wanted to read about a woman whose biggest accomplishment in life was pointing out prizes on national TV?

      No, the book was bound to be a bust. And frankly, my dear, I didn’t give a damn. I couldn’t stop thinking about how cruelly SueEllen had treated Heidi at dinner. Maybe that’s why all her other writers quit. Maybe they, too, got a glimpse of life behind the scenes At Home With SueEllen.

      A part of me (the noble sensitive part) felt like quitting, but another part of me (the part who likes being able to pay the rent) couldn’t pass up three thousand dollars a week. So I stayed put on the toilet, taking notes and

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