Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For by Laura Levine Page B

nodded again.
    “I ate there all the time!” Mr. Goldman said.
    Mrs. Stein smiled gratefully.
    “It wasn’t so hot,” he said, with a shrug. “The pastrami was too fatty.”
    Mrs. Stein’s lower lip began trembling, and before I knew it she was crying. Here it had taken me more than a month to get her to read, and thanks to Mr. Goldman, I doubted I’d ever see her in class again.
    “For crying out loud, Mr. Goldman!” I snapped. “You are the most irritating man I have ever met. In my entire life. You are like nails on a blackboard. Like slow drivers in the fast lane. Like cell phones in a movie. Can’t you just shut up and let the poor woman read!”
    Yes, I really did say that.
    The whole room sat in stunned silence. No one looked more stunned than Mr. Goldman. Suddenly the color drained from his face.
    “My heart!” he said, clutching his chest.
    And with that, he keeled over and fell to the floor.
    “My God,” Mrs. Pechter said. “He’s having a heart attack.”
    “Somebody call 911!” someone kept shouting hysterically. And then I realized I was the one shouting. I grabbed my cell phone and made the call. Minutes later, the paramedics came and loaded Mr. Goldman on to a stretcher.
    “Wait,” he said, in a feeble voice, as they were about to wheel him out the door. “I’ve got something to say.”
    “What is it?” I asked. “What is it?”
    “The Black Hills are in South Dakota,” he said, a faint smug smile on his face. “Not North Dakota.”

Chapter 8

    S leep was out of the question. I was up all night, calling the hospital, begging them to let me know how Mr. Goldman was doing. But because I wasn’t a relative, they wouldn’t tell me a thing.
    To say I had trouble concentrating on the Passions ad campaign would be putting it mildly. I felt about as creative as a washcloth. After a few fitful hours at my keyboard, the best I could come up with was:
    Put Some Passion in Your Fashion!
    I know it stinks, but you’d stink, too, if you thought you’d just given a helpless albeit irritating old man a heart attack. By the time the sun came up in Beverly Hills, I knew I’d blown whatever chance I had of landing the job.
    At 9 A.M . I typed up my ideas, fed Prozac her breakfast, then stumbled into bed for a refreshing half-hour of sleep.
    Then I padded off to the shower, where I stood under a spray of icy water, hoping to infuse some life into my body. Too tired to blow-dry the curls out of my hair, I yanked my mop into a careless pony tail.
    You’ll be glad to know that Prozac went nowhere near my Prada suit that morning. No, this time, I found her sitting on my last pair of pantyhose, happily clawing them to shreds. Oh, great. Now I’d have to go bare-legged.
    After sucking down some tap-water coffee, I got dressed, careful to tuck my price tags out of sight. Then I surveyed myself in the mirror. Let’s take inventory, shall we? Bags under my eyes the size of carry-on luggage. Bare legs that needed a shave. Topped off with a headful of Harpo Marx curls. If the folks at Prada had seen me, they would’ve taken out a restraining order to keep me from wearing their suit.
    I tried phoning the hospital one more time, but they still wouldn’t give me any information. Then I grabbed my car keys and headed out the door, praying that Mr. Goldman would live to drive me crazy again.

    “What happened to you?” Becky said, when I showed up at Passions. “You look like warmed-over dog poop.”
    Okay, so her actual words were: “Hi, Jaine.” But I could tell that’s what she was thinking.
    “Guess what?” she said. “Frenchie’s been in Grace’s office for the past hour. With the door shut. Grace was really steamed when she learned about Frenchie making fun of Mrs. Tucker. Isn’t it super? It looks like Frenchie’s finally getting the ax.”
    “What a nasty thing to say.” We turned to see Maxine, the bookkeeper, clutching a clipboard to her chest. The woman had an uncanny knack for