Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For by Laura Levine

go ballistic if she knew.”
    “Let her go ballistic,” Becky said. “Grace is probably going to fire her, anyway.”
    “We can only hope,” Tyler said.
    “Hey, sweetie,” Becky said. “Want some soy steak? I’ve got plenty left over.”
    “No thanks, Beck,” Tyler said quickly. “I already ate.”
    His eyes shifted nervously, like a deer who’d just narrowly escaped a hunter’s bullet.
    “Well, I’d better be shoving off,” Nina said, grabbing her keys.
    “Me, too,” I chimed in. I got the feeling Tyler and Becky wanted be alone. Mainly because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other’s fannies.
    “Don’t go yet,” Becky said halfheartedly.
    “No, no. I’ll be going. And thanks for everything.”
    “Did you really like the dinner?”
    It wasn’t easy, but I managed to say yes.
    Nina and I said our good-byes and headed down the corridor to the elevator together.
    “Tyler’s a great guy,” Nina said.
    “Yes, he seems awfully sweet.”
    “An angel. And it’s about time.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Becky has this thing for rotten guys. She always goes for the nogoodniks. It comes from low self-esteem.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah,” Nina said, tossing a piece of bubble gum in her mouth. “I took psychology in nursing school. That’s her problem all right,” she said, blowing a big pink bubble.
    Right on, Dr. Freud.
    “But it doesn’t matter now,” she said. “At last, she’s found a winner.”
    The elevator came and we rode down, Nina blowing bubbles en route. I only hoped she didn’t work in neurosurgery.
    After saying good-bye to Nina, I retrieved my tofu shrimp from my pants pocket and tossed them in a trash can.
    Then I got in the Corolla and drove as fast as I could to the nearest McDonald’s.

Chapter 7

    T he only job in my in box was another resume, this one for a college grad whose career goal was “to do something, like, really fun.” I knocked it off quickly, which left me almost a week to work on the Passions campaign.
    For those of you interested in how a professional writer works on a major ad campaign, here’s my typical schedule:
    First I sharpen a bunch of pencils. Then I do the crossword puzzle, just to limber up my brain. Then I grab a snack. Then I scratch Prozac’s belly for good luck. Then I grab another snack. Then I check out the news headlines on AOL. Then I sharpen some more pencils. And so forth and so on until it’s time for Oprah, and Judge Judy and dinner.
    It’s disgraceful, I know. What can I say? I work best under pressure.
    And which is why, the night before my pitch to Grace, all I had to show for my labors were some sharpened pencils and a well-scratched cat.
    Oh, well. It was only six o’clock. If I worked non-stop for the next five hours, surely I’d come up with something. And then I realized: I was teaching my class that night. Damn. It looked like I was going to have to pull an all-nighter.
    Annoyed with myself for having frittered away so much time, I fed Prozac her dinner, wolfed down some ancient Tater Tots I found at the back of my freezer, and headed off to the Shalom Retirement Home.

    When I showed up at Shalom, I found a half-eaten package of Twinkies at my place at the head of the table.
    “For you, sweetheart,” Mr. Goldman said, with a wink.
    “Thank you,” I said, smiling weakly.
    “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, brushing cupcake crumbs from his vest. “I ate one.”
    Ah, nothing says I love you like used food.
    “Okay, class,” I said. “Who wants to read first?”
    As usual, Mr. Goldman’s was the first hand in the air.
    I looked around the class, hoping someone else would volunteer. But nobody so much as lifted a pinkie.
    “Okay, Mr. Goldman,” I sighed. “Go ahead.”
    He whipped out his notebook with a flourish and began reading.
    “My Gallbladder Surgery, by Abe Goldman.”
    With all the confidence of Lincoln reading the Gettysburg Address, Mr. Goldman proceeded to tell us about his