Part 6 (1/2)

OmiG.o.d. What if he was having a heart attack right here in my living room? If only I knew CPR. Or the Heimlich maneuver. Or the name of a good cardiologist! I stood there, on the brink of calling 911, when I realized Skip wasn't having a heart attack.

He was merely staring, awestruck, at Prozac, who had gone back to examining her privates.

”Egad, what a beauty!”

Prozac looked up and preened.

So I've been told.

”She's the spitting image of Miss Marple!”

”Miss Marple?”

”My dearly departed cat,” he explained and then raced to the sofa to scoop up Prozac in his liver-spotted arms.

”What's the little angel's name?” he asked.

”Prozac, and she's no little angel.”

”Of course, she is. Aren't you, snook.u.ms?” he said to Prozac, rubbing his nose against hers.

She wriggled back in disgust.

Hey, buddy. Ever hear of breath mints?

Leaving Skip cooing sweet nothings in Prozac's ear, I went to the kitchen to put the roses in a vase.

I debated making a break for it from my kitchen window but eventually nixed the plan. Mainly because I don't have a kitchen window.

When I got back to the living room, Skip was still cooing.

”Why, you're the cutest snook.u.ms in Snook.u.ms Land. Yes, you are!”

”I'm the only one who's allowed to talk nauseating baby talk to my cat!” I felt like saying. But instead I just smiled brightly and said, ”So! Where are we headed off to?”

He looked up at me vaguely, still in a love trance. And then he remembered.

”Oh, right. Our date. I made dinner reservations at Simon's.”

Now it was my turn to go weak in the knees.

Simon's just happens to be one of the most expensive steak joints in L.A. And I, for one, could not wait to wrap myself around one of their juicy top sirloins.

But then I felt a twinge of guilt. Was it fair to make Skip pay for an expensive steak dinner when I knew I'd never go out with him again? Maybe I should just tell him I had a headache and cut the date short then and there.

Oh, what the heck? If his Rolex and fine Italian loafers were any indication, Skip was rolling in dough. Taking me for an expensive steak dinner would be the tiniest drop in his bucket of millions.

”Sounds wonderful!” I smiled.

Somehow Skip managed to tear himself away from Prozac.

”Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he said, blowing her a kiss.

Prozac gazed up at him lazily.

Yeah, right. Whatever. Don't forget to bring back leftovers.

Tucking my arm into his elbow, Skip escorted me out to his car, a hulking monster of a Bentley, built no doubt when Queen Elizabeth was in diapers.

After a bit of a struggle, he managed to pull open the Brinks-like pa.s.senger door, and I slid onto an enormous bench seat, looking around for a seat belt.

”Afraid this model didn't come with seat belts,” Skip explained.

Of course it didn't. They hadn't been invented then.

He popped around to the driver's side and spent several minutes squinting in the dim light, trying to fit his key in the ignition. Finally, I guided it into the right slot, and off we went.

Simon's was in the heart of Beverly Hills, about a five-minute drive from my duplex.

Five minutes, that is, when a normal person is driving the car.

Skip, however, maneuvered the QE2 at a maddening fifteen miles an hour, humming to himself and ignoring the furious honks of the drivers behind us.

At long last we got to the restaurant. We could've walked faster.

I perked up, however, when Skip handed over the Bentley to the valet and we headed inside the posh steakerie. Instantly I was overcome by the heady aroma of prime steaks sizzling on a grill.

Dimly lit and very men's clubby, the place oozed old leather and new money.

Off in the bar, a jazz pianist was tinkling the ivories, while a tuxedo-clad maitre d' stood vigil at a podium.

”Ah, good evening, Mr. Holmeier!” said the maitre d', rus.h.i.+ng to our side. ”Right this way, sir.”

Clearly Skip was one of his more valued patrons.

Visions of top sirloins danced in my head as the maitre d' led us across the dining room. All around me I saw people digging into juicy T-bones. It was all I could do not to reach over and grab a bite.

The maitre d' gestured to a prime corner booth, and I scooted into it, wondering if I should order bacon bits with my baked potato.

Skip slid in from the other side. For a minute I was afraid he was going to sidle up to me and make thigh contact, but much to my relief, he kept a respectable distance between us.

Even in the flattering glow of the restaurant's lighting, I could see that his blond nest of a toupee did not match the graying shrub of real hair growing beneath it.

”So,” Skip said when the maitre d' had left us with our menus and slithered off to greet more carnivores. ”Tell me all about yourself.”

He flashed me what I was certain were a very expensive set of dentures.

”Well-” I began.

But before I could get out one syllable about Yours Truly, Skip b.u.t.ted in with: ”And what about Prozac? How old is the little darling? How long have you had her? What do you feed her? Certainly not commercial cat food, I hope!”