Read Online Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes by Laura Levine - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Levine
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line for that,” Quinn said.
Truer words were never spoken.
Somehow the actors managed to stumble through the rest of the run-through. But by now the script was the last thing on anybody’s mind. Which, Kandi insisted, was a good thing.
“It means they’ll leave your jokes alone,” she said.
And she was right. We barely made any changes to the script that night. Audrey, looking uncharacteristically harried, sent us home early. I asked Kandi if she wanted to come over for dinner, but she was headed off to an emergency session with her shrink, Dr. Ira Mellman. Kandi has been seeing Dr. Mellman once a week for as long as I can remember. By now, she’s probably paid off his mortgage and put his kids through college.
Sometimes I think seeing a therapist might be nice, but I know what Dr. Mellman charges, and all I can afford from him is a get-well card. Besides, I figure whatever problems I’ve got, I can solve with Dear Abby and a nice hot soak in the tub.
So Kandi and I said good-bye, and I drove home, stopping off for my own emergency therapy—a Koo Koo Roo chicken take-out dinner, with extra mashed potatoes.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I called out to Prozac as I walked in the front door. I found her napping on my brand-new Ann Taylor silk sweater. She opened her eyes and glared at me balefully, then began kneading my sweater with her claws.
“Prozac,” I wailed, “what are you doing?”
Of course, I knew exactly what she was doing. Getting even with me for leaving her alone all day.
I issued her a stern warning. “That kind of behavior simply won’t be tolerated, young lady.”
Okay, so I didn’t issue any stern warnings. What I said was, “Look what I brought for dinner, lovebug! Roast chicken and mashed potatoes and brownies for dessert!”
She sniffed at the take-out bag, then shot me a look that said, “Great. And what will you be having?”
She wasn’t kidding. I’m lucky I got to eat my half.
I know, I know. I shouldn’t feed her people food. I shouldn’t cave in to her emotional blackmail. I should be strong and firm and blah blah blah. What can I say? I’m a pillar of tapioca. If they gave free mileage for guilt trips, I’d never pay air fare again.
Prozac and I were stretched out on the sofa, Prozac alternately licking her mashed potatoes and her privates. I was gnawing on a chicken wing and going through my mail, when I came across a manila envelope. I opened it and pulled out a sheaf of papers. It was Lance’s sitcom idea.
“If The Shoe Fits”
A Treatment for a Half-Hour Pilot
By Lance Venable
Welcome to the wacky world of shoes, where bunions are funny and laughter’s just an instep away…
Ouch. This was going to be painful.
If The Shoe Fits turned out to be an ensemble comedy set in the shoe department of a high-end department store, starring a handsome yet hilarious shoe salesman by the name of Vance, an overbearing manager, a daffy ingenue salesgirl, and Vance’s pet parrot, Manolo Blahnik. The gimmick behind Lance’s show was that every week there’d be a famous guest customer. Or as Lance put it, “It’s Love Boat with arch supports!”
I won’t bore you with the excruciating details. Let just say that If The Shoe Fits made Muffy ’n Me look like something by Eugene O’Neill.
“Oh, jeez,” I moaned to Prozac, “what am I going to tell Lance when he asks me how I liked it?”
We were both about to find out, because just then there was a knock on the door.
“Jaine! It’s me, Lance.”
I thought of pretending I wasn’t home, but surely he knew I was there. With his x-ray hearing, he’d have heard me rattling around the apartment. I thought of pretending I was in the tub, but if I’d been in the tub, he would have heard the water running. I thought of making a break for it and sneaking out the back door, which seemed like a pretty good plan, until I remembered I didn’t have a back door.
Oh, well. There was no getting out of it.
“I’m
Truer words were never spoken.
Somehow the actors managed to stumble through the rest of the run-through. But by now the script was the last thing on anybody’s mind. Which, Kandi insisted, was a good thing.
“It means they’ll leave your jokes alone,” she said.
And she was right. We barely made any changes to the script that night. Audrey, looking uncharacteristically harried, sent us home early. I asked Kandi if she wanted to come over for dinner, but she was headed off to an emergency session with her shrink, Dr. Ira Mellman. Kandi has been seeing Dr. Mellman once a week for as long as I can remember. By now, she’s probably paid off his mortgage and put his kids through college.
Sometimes I think seeing a therapist might be nice, but I know what Dr. Mellman charges, and all I can afford from him is a get-well card. Besides, I figure whatever problems I’ve got, I can solve with Dear Abby and a nice hot soak in the tub.
So Kandi and I said good-bye, and I drove home, stopping off for my own emergency therapy—a Koo Koo Roo chicken take-out dinner, with extra mashed potatoes.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I called out to Prozac as I walked in the front door. I found her napping on my brand-new Ann Taylor silk sweater. She opened her eyes and glared at me balefully, then began kneading my sweater with her claws.
“Prozac,” I wailed, “what are you doing?”
Of course, I knew exactly what she was doing. Getting even with me for leaving her alone all day.
I issued her a stern warning. “That kind of behavior simply won’t be tolerated, young lady.”
Okay, so I didn’t issue any stern warnings. What I said was, “Look what I brought for dinner, lovebug! Roast chicken and mashed potatoes and brownies for dessert!”
She sniffed at the take-out bag, then shot me a look that said, “Great. And what will you be having?”
She wasn’t kidding. I’m lucky I got to eat my half.
I know, I know. I shouldn’t feed her people food. I shouldn’t cave in to her emotional blackmail. I should be strong and firm and blah blah blah. What can I say? I’m a pillar of tapioca. If they gave free mileage for guilt trips, I’d never pay air fare again.
Prozac and I were stretched out on the sofa, Prozac alternately licking her mashed potatoes and her privates. I was gnawing on a chicken wing and going through my mail, when I came across a manila envelope. I opened it and pulled out a sheaf of papers. It was Lance’s sitcom idea.
“If The Shoe Fits”
A Treatment for a Half-Hour Pilot
By Lance Venable
Welcome to the wacky world of shoes, where bunions are funny and laughter’s just an instep away…
Ouch. This was going to be painful.
If The Shoe Fits turned out to be an ensemble comedy set in the shoe department of a high-end department store, starring a handsome yet hilarious shoe salesman by the name of Vance, an overbearing manager, a daffy ingenue salesgirl, and Vance’s pet parrot, Manolo Blahnik. The gimmick behind Lance’s show was that every week there’d be a famous guest customer. Or as Lance put it, “It’s Love Boat with arch supports!”
I won’t bore you with the excruciating details. Let just say that If The Shoe Fits made Muffy ’n Me look like something by Eugene O’Neill.
“Oh, jeez,” I moaned to Prozac, “what am I going to tell Lance when he asks me how I liked it?”
We were both about to find out, because just then there was a knock on the door.
“Jaine! It’s me, Lance.”
I thought of pretending I wasn’t home, but surely he knew I was there. With his x-ray hearing, he’d have heard me rattling around the apartment. I thought of pretending I was in the tub, but if I’d been in the tub, he would have heard the water running. I thought of making a break for it and sneaking out the back door, which seemed like a pretty good plan, until I remembered I didn’t have a back door.
Oh, well. There was no getting out of it.
“I’m
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