one of your clients. Alyce Winters.”
“The name sounds familiar,” Joy conceded.
“It should. I’ve been leaving you messages every day for the past two weeks.”
“I’ve been busy,” Joy replied with a careless shrug.
“Six months ago I forked over ten grand for your so-called dating service. You promised you’d introduce me to my choice of millionaires, and so far I’ve had exactly one date—with a dumpy insurance salesman from Downey who spent half the date trying to sell me a term life policy.”
If you expected Joy to be contrite, think again. Never an empathetic soul on the best of days, Joy was now in an especially foul Mighty Maids-induced mood.
With all the tact and sensitivity of a rabid pit bull, she snarled, “Hey, honey. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not exactly a painting in the Louvre.”
Alyce gasped.
“You’re not fooling anyone with those hair extensions and that bargain-basement facelift. I’m a matchmaker, not a miracle worker. The insurance salesman was the best I could do for a Botoxed old bag like you.”
I’m sure Alyce’s face would have been contorted with rage if her muscles hadn’t been frozen solid.
There was, however, no mistaking the fire burning in her eyes.
“How dare you?” she managed to sputter.
“This is how,” said Joy.
With that, she gave her a powerful shove, which sent Alyce reeling up against a nearby Camry.
“Get lost, loser!” Joy screeched. “And don’t bother me again. You’re officially banned from Dates of Joy!”
Alyce and I watched in stunned disbelief as Joy marched over to her silver Jaguar, flung herself inside, and zoomed away.
“Never in my life has anyone ever talked to me like that.” Alyce’s lips somehow managed to bust through her filler and began trembling.
“I’m so sorry,” I tsked. “Would you like an Almond Joy?” I started fishing around in my purse for a bar I’d been snacking on earlier that afternoon. “I’m afraid I may have already taken a bite or two, but you can eat it from the other end.”
The offer of chocolate, usually a foolproof antidepressant, failed to cheer her up.
“No, thanks,” she said woodenly, brushing herself off and heading for her Mercedes.
As she walked away, I couldn’t help noticing she was crying.
The rest of her facial muscles may have been Botoxed to oblivion, but her tear ducts were working just fine.
I drove home, unable to forget those tears rolling down Alyce Winters’s cheeks. How could Joy have treated her so cruelly? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. By the time I got back to my apartment, I’d decided to quit my gig with Dates of Joy.
Yes, my mind was made up. And it stayed that way for a whole thirteen and a half seconds—until I saw the small mountain of unpaid bills piled up on my dining room table.
Oh, dear. As much as I wanted to, I simply could not afford to walk away from Joy Amoroso.
After sloshing some Minced Mackerel Guts into Prozac’s dinner bowl, I made a beeline for the fridge to pour myself a much-needed glass of chardonnay. I had just taken a few sips (okay, gulps) when the phone rang.
Wearily, I trotted over to answer it.
I did not think it was possible for my spirits to sink any lower, but the voice at the other end of the line sent them plummeting.
“Hello, sweetheart.” Oh, gaak. It was Skip Holmeier. “How’s my favorite green-eyed gal?”
“My eyes are hazel.”
“Actually I was talking about Prozac.”
“Oh. She’s fine.”
“So glad to hear it! She’s such an adorable kitty! Give her my love—and kisses, too.”
“Will do,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Anyhow, I’m calling because”—here he paused for a phlegm-filled clearing of his throat—“I was wondering if you wanted to see me again.”
Only from a Hubble telescope.
“I was thinking next Thursday? For lunch?”
Ordinarily under these circumstances I’d make up a tiny fib and tell him I was moving to Tasmania or had
“The name sounds familiar,” Joy conceded.
“It should. I’ve been leaving you messages every day for the past two weeks.”
“I’ve been busy,” Joy replied with a careless shrug.
“Six months ago I forked over ten grand for your so-called dating service. You promised you’d introduce me to my choice of millionaires, and so far I’ve had exactly one date—with a dumpy insurance salesman from Downey who spent half the date trying to sell me a term life policy.”
If you expected Joy to be contrite, think again. Never an empathetic soul on the best of days, Joy was now in an especially foul Mighty Maids-induced mood.
With all the tact and sensitivity of a rabid pit bull, she snarled, “Hey, honey. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not exactly a painting in the Louvre.”
Alyce gasped.
“You’re not fooling anyone with those hair extensions and that bargain-basement facelift. I’m a matchmaker, not a miracle worker. The insurance salesman was the best I could do for a Botoxed old bag like you.”
I’m sure Alyce’s face would have been contorted with rage if her muscles hadn’t been frozen solid.
There was, however, no mistaking the fire burning in her eyes.
“How dare you?” she managed to sputter.
“This is how,” said Joy.
With that, she gave her a powerful shove, which sent Alyce reeling up against a nearby Camry.
“Get lost, loser!” Joy screeched. “And don’t bother me again. You’re officially banned from Dates of Joy!”
Alyce and I watched in stunned disbelief as Joy marched over to her silver Jaguar, flung herself inside, and zoomed away.
“Never in my life has anyone ever talked to me like that.” Alyce’s lips somehow managed to bust through her filler and began trembling.
“I’m so sorry,” I tsked. “Would you like an Almond Joy?” I started fishing around in my purse for a bar I’d been snacking on earlier that afternoon. “I’m afraid I may have already taken a bite or two, but you can eat it from the other end.”
The offer of chocolate, usually a foolproof antidepressant, failed to cheer her up.
“No, thanks,” she said woodenly, brushing herself off and heading for her Mercedes.
As she walked away, I couldn’t help noticing she was crying.
The rest of her facial muscles may have been Botoxed to oblivion, but her tear ducts were working just fine.
I drove home, unable to forget those tears rolling down Alyce Winters’s cheeks. How could Joy have treated her so cruelly? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. By the time I got back to my apartment, I’d decided to quit my gig with Dates of Joy.
Yes, my mind was made up. And it stayed that way for a whole thirteen and a half seconds—until I saw the small mountain of unpaid bills piled up on my dining room table.
Oh, dear. As much as I wanted to, I simply could not afford to walk away from Joy Amoroso.
After sloshing some Minced Mackerel Guts into Prozac’s dinner bowl, I made a beeline for the fridge to pour myself a much-needed glass of chardonnay. I had just taken a few sips (okay, gulps) when the phone rang.
Wearily, I trotted over to answer it.
I did not think it was possible for my spirits to sink any lower, but the voice at the other end of the line sent them plummeting.
“Hello, sweetheart.” Oh, gaak. It was Skip Holmeier. “How’s my favorite green-eyed gal?”
“My eyes are hazel.”
“Actually I was talking about Prozac.”
“Oh. She’s fine.”
“So glad to hear it! She’s such an adorable kitty! Give her my love—and kisses, too.”
“Will do,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Anyhow, I’m calling because”—here he paused for a phlegm-filled clearing of his throat—“I was wondering if you wanted to see me again.”
Only from a Hubble telescope.
“I was thinking next Thursday? For lunch?”
Ordinarily under these circumstances I’d make up a tiny fib and tell him I was moving to Tasmania or had
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