Death of a Trophy Wife by Laura Levine Read Free Book Online Page A

dipping a few degrees below freezing. “It would be a shame if you said the wrong thing at your pitch meeting and didn’t get the job.”
    Translation: You breathe one word of what you just saw, and you’re toast.
    “After all, you’re such good friends with Lance, and he’s such a dear. I’d hate for you to miss out on this opportunity. Almost as much,” she added, after a meaningful pause, “as I’d hate to see anything happen to Lance’s job.”
    Yikes. Was she threatening to get Lance fired, too?
    I was tempted to tell her to take her threats and shove them up her wingwang. But then I remembered my ghastly orange walls and my near-death bank account. Not to mention Lance’s job at Neiman’s. So I kept my big yap shut.
    “Don’t worry, Bunny. I won’t say a word.”
    “A word about what, dear?” she blinked, suddenly wide-eyed and innocent.
    At which point, to my great relief, the doorbell chimed.
    Bunny opened the door to Fiona.
    “Sweetie!” Fiona said, breezing in with an armful of clothes. “Just wait till you see the amazing Versace I picked up for you—
    “Oh, hello, Jaine,” she said, catching sight of me. “I didn’t realize you’d be here. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
    “Of course not,” Bunny said. “Jaine was just leaving.”
    At last she handed me my sunglasses.
    “C’mon,” she said to Fiona, “let’s go up to my room and try on clothes.”
    “So did that Dolce & Gabbana I brought the other day work out?” Fiona asked as the two of them tripped up the Tara-esque staircase.
    I didn’t stick around to find out whether her majesty gave her approval to Signors Dolce and Gabbana.
    Not missing a beat, I hustled my own sweet gabbana the heck out of there.

Chapter 7
    P oor Marvin, I thought, as I drove home, stuck with that cheating bitch of a trophy wife. Yes, I know he was no prizewinner himself, dumping Ellen the way he did, but he sure was paying his dues.
    I did not have time, however, to worry about the lifestyles of the rich and deceitful. If I expected to inject some badly needed funds into my checking account, I had to drum up mattress slogans.
    Back in my apartment, I hunkered down at my office desk, otherwise known as my dining room table, and opened a new file on my computer.
    Prozac, sensing I was about to begin a work session, jumped down from the bookcase where she’d been napping and plopped herself on my keyboard.
    She likes being part of the creative process.
    After depositing her on the floor where she belonged, I spent several productive minutes scratching her belly with my big toe.
    It’s always tough getting started on a new project.
    But I put my nose to the proverbial grindstone, and in no time my fingers were flying across the keyboard, pounding out mattress slogans.
    Oh, who am I kidding?
    In no time, I was standing in front of the refrigerator wishing I had something more interesting to eat than moldy Swiss cheese and martini olives.
    With a sigh, I returned to the computer, where I proceeded to do some more intense space-staring.
    Then I remembered the mattress sample Marvin had given me for “inspiration.” I didn’t really see how a bunch of exposed coils would inspire me, but it was worth a shot. So I brought it in from my car.
    The minute I did, I smelled trouble.
    Prozac looked up from her perch on my keyboard and gazed at it much like a lion gazes at an innocent gazelle.
    Just what I wanted! A new scratching post!
    That thing would be confetti in five minutes.
    “Forget it, kiddo. Ain’t gonna happen.”
    With that, I grabbed a legal pad and pencil and relocated to my Corolla, where I sat with the pad propped up against the steering wheel, gazing at the mattress sample I’d tossed on my passenger seat.
    After a while I began writing. Sad to say, it was only a grocery list.
    Clearly, inspiration wasn’t striking.
    Then I got a brainstorm. Why not lie down on my own mattress to get in mattress-selling mode? True, it was a tad