Part 2 (1/2)

Then she looked down and saw what we all saw: The sixth chocolate.

You'd think she would have been embarra.s.sed. But no. Hurricane Joy, having spent all her venom, just shrugged and said, ”Never mind.”

As she tottered back into her office, the models broke out in a chorus of nervous whispers. But Travis and Ca.s.sie just rolled their eyes.

”This happens all the time,” Ca.s.sie said with a shrug.

Holy mackerel. And I thought I was a chocoholic.

I trudged up the path to my duplex in the slums of Beverly Hills, a modest pocket of no-frills dwellings far from the mega-mansions north of Wils.h.i.+re Boulevard. I was still shuddering at the memory of Hurricane Joy when Lance came bounding out from his apartment.

”So did you get the job?” he asked, his eyes lighting up at the sight of me.

”Yeah, I got it,” I sighed.

”Great!” he beamed, ignoring the cloud of gloom hovering over my head. ”Now you can have Joy fix me up on a date.”

”Forget it, Lance. The woman is a crook. She pads her client list with models and actors who don't even belong to the club. Most of the guys who do belong are a lot older and paunchier than you. I saw a grand total of five attractive male clients on her active client list, only one of whom was gay. And he lived in Rancho Cucamonga with six cats and a Maserati.”

”A Maserati, huh? Works for me! So set me up with an appointment ASAP.”

”I'm not setting you up with an appointment. Joy's fees start at ten grand a year, and there's no way you can afford that.”

”We'll see about that.”

And with a sly look, a lot like Prozac's just before she's about to pounce on a cashmere sweater, he trotted off into the night.

Back in my apartment, I checked my messages, praying that an a.s.signment had come in from one of my regular clients. Eagerly I scanned my e-mails for a note from Toiletmasters (Flushed with Success Since 1995!) or Tip Top Cleaners (We Clean for You. We Press for You. We Even Dye for You!) or Ackerman's Awnings (Just a Shade Better). But alas, my in-box was depressingly devoid of job orders.

For the time being, it looked like I was stuck with the G.o.diva G.o.dzilla.

YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Exciting News!

Exciting news, honey! I just ordered the most adorable Georgie O. Armani jacket from the shopping channel. Lipstick red with white piping. It'll be perfect for Valentine's Day. Daddy is taking me to dinner at Le Chateaubriand, Tampa Vistas's most elegant restaurant. Daddy promised he'd make the reservations today. He's probably getting me what he always gets me for Valentine's Day: a dozen roses and a bottle of Jean Nate. I'm getting him something he saw on an infomercial, some crazy gadget called a Belgian Army Knife. I wanted to buy him a watch from the shopping channel, but no, he had to have that silly Belgian Army Knife. He insists he can't live without it.

But enough about Daddy. Here's the really exciting news. Guess who's moved to Tampa Vistas. Lydia Pinkus's brother, Lester. You remember Lydia Pinkus, don't you, honey? One of my dearest friends and the president of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners a.s.sociation. Anyhow, her brother is the most charming man, a retired physics professor, a world traveler, and a former amateur boxer. And so distinguished. He looks just like the doctor on the Lipitor commercials!

He's staying with Lydia until he can find a townhouse of his own. And today he's taking me and Lydia and Edna Lindstrom to lunch at the clubhouse. Isn't that the sweetest thing ever?

Must run and get dressed.

Love and x.x.x,

Mom