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advantage of her blessed silence.
    “Hey, Dad,” he said. “I got the new Ferrari brochure today.”
    SueEllen looked up from the pea she was pushing onto her fork.
    “Ferrari? What Ferrari?”
    Hal grinned sheepishly. “I sort of promised Brad a Ferrari for graduation.”
    “A Ferrari for an eighteen-year-old?” she said, abandoning the pea. “That’s ridiculous. He should be happy with a BMW like every other teenager in Beverly Hills.”
    “But Dad promised me I could get one.”
    “Can you imagine what the insurance will cost?”
    Hal’s face clouded over with doubt. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
    “But Dad, you promised.”
    “I did promise him, SueEllen.”
    “Well, if that’s your decision,” SueEllen said, a veil of ice descending in the room.
    Hal finished what was left of his martini in a single gulp.
    “Maybe SueEllen’s right, Brad. I’ve got to think it over.”
    SueEllen ate her pea with a satisfied smile.
    Why did I get the feeling that Brad Kingsley was about to kiss his Ferrari goodbye?
    Finally, SueEllen finished picking at her beef bourguignon, and Conchi was allowed to bring in dessert. Cherry cobbler, as advertised. Once again, Conchi served Hal and Tony hearty portions, after which she brought out golfball-sized portions for the gals. She put mine in front of me with an apologetic smile, then gave SueEllen hers.
    Then, just as she was about to serve Heidi, SueEllen snapped: “No, Conchi. No cobbler for Heidi. She’s too fat.”
    Heidi sat rigidly in her chair, flushed with humiliation. She looked to her father for help, but he kept his eyes on his cobbler.
    “Then may I be excused?” she said, voice wavery with impending tears.
    “No, you may not,” SueEllen said, scooping up a spoonful of her cobbler. “You’re going to have to learn to resist temptation, young lady.”
    And with that she put her spoonful of cobbler to her lips and ate it with gusto.
    “Mmm, delicious,” she said, licking her lips.
    Good heavens, the woman really was a sadist.
    “What do you think, Jaine? Isn’t it delicious?”
    “Actually,” I said, “I’m not hungry.”
    And it was true. For the first time all day, I’d lost my appetite.
    “Just taste it,” SueEllen cooed. “It’s divine.”
    “No, if Heidi can’t have any, I don’t think I want any, either.”
    Her smile froze. If her boobs hadn’t been silicone, they would’ve been quivering in indignation. This is it, I thought. This is where she sends me packing.
    But, no. I guess she decided she didn’t want to go through the bother of finding another writer willing to sit on her toilet bowl.
    “Oh, well, she said with a shrug. “Chacun à son goût.”
    That’s French for “I’ll get you later, bitch.”
     

    I drove home from the Kingsleys, unable to stop replaying the scene I’d witnessed at dinner. I’d seen SueEllen in full bitch mode, and it was not a pretty picture. Poor Heidi. My heart went out to her.
    I let myself in my apartment, filled with gratitude that I wasn’t a part of that dysfunctional family. Okay, so maybe my father bought used toupees, and maybe my cat occasionally peed on my pillow, but we loved each other, and that was all that counted. I scooped up Prozac from where she was napping on a pile of freshly laundered towels, and hugged her to my chest, feeling her purr. I carried her to the bedroom, still holding her to my chest like a furry vibrator.
    “Oh, Prozac. How nice. You didn’t pee on my pillow, after all.”
    No, as I was to find out very shortly, she peed in my slippers instead.

Chapter Four

    T he next day I was back on toilet bowl patrol. This time I knew enough to eat lunch before coming over, so I didn’t mind when Conchi served us a few radiccio leaves masquerading as a salad.
    I was more convinced than ever that SueEllen’s book didn’t stand a chance of getting published. The recipes were either too elaborate (…marinate your pheasant for two days in a clay pot…) or too