Read Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla for Free Online

“a beautiful girl at my door guaranteed.” When it came to escorts, the Yellow Pages was definitely not an equal opportunity supplier.
    All they had to offer were hot times with poutylipped nymphettes named Desiree and Angelique.
    So I toddled over to my computer and tried my luck with Google. Unfortunately, when I typed in “Male Escorts,” the friendly folks at Google assumed I was an amorous stud looking to wine and dine my inamorata with dinner and a Judy Garland retrospective.
    It took several clicks before I finally found what I was looking for. An outfit called Miss Emily’s Escort Service. Miss Emily, according to her Web site, promised to deliver The Perfect Gentleman for the Discriminating Woman.
    I eagerly jotted down Miss Emily’s address and phone number and was just about to call her when the phone rang.
    “Hey, Jaine.” Patti’s voice came on the line. “I read your script—”
    My stomach sank. I just knew Ms. Difficult was going to hate it.

    KILLING BRIDEZILLA
    37
    “—and I really liked what you wrote.”
    Well, mea culpa. I’d misjudged the dear woman. She was obviously a discerning connoisseur of fine writing.
    “Yes,” she said, “it’s really nice. But I’ve decided to go in a different direction.”
    My stomach headed south again.
    “You want a rewrite?”
    “Just a little noodling.”
    For those of you nonwriters out there, the precise English definition of “noodling” is: Back to Square One, Sweetie.
    “Come by the house and I’ll explain what I want.”
    “Can’t you tell me over the phone?”
    “I could, but then you wouldn’t have to drive halfway across town in Los Angeles traffic. What fun is that?”
    Okay, so what she really said was, “I’d rather tell you in person.” But I knew how Patti operated.
    “Can you be here in twenty minutes?”
    Only if I was Superman.
    I told her I’d try my best, then hung up, muttering a string of curses.
    “That woman has to be the most self-centered creature west of the La Brea Tar Pits.”
    Prozac looked up, affronted, from where she was lolling on my new cashmere sweater.
    “Aside from you, of course, darling.”
    It must’ve been the maid’s day off, because Patti’s mom answered the door when I showed up at their house. A trim, surgically tightened blonde 38
    Laura Levine
    in white capris and a cleavage-exposing sweater, she had Patti’s long-limbed figure and cold gray eyes. And her same charming manners.
    “You with the cleaning crew?” she said, eyeing me with disdain. “Use the back entrance.”
    She was just about the slam the door in my face when I piped up, “I’m not with the cleaning crew. I’m Patti’s writer, Jaine Austen. We went to school together.”
    She looked me up and down, still not terribly impressed. And then her face lit up with recognition.
    “Wait a minute. Aren’t you the one who fell into Principal Seawright’s lap at the prom? Patti told me all about it. What a hilarious story.”
    I’m glad one of us thought so.
    “C’mon, I’ll take you to Patti.”
    We trooped through her House Beautiful to a sunroom in the back, and then out the French doors onto the patio.
    Patti was seated at a wrought iron table with an attractive dark-haired woman, a plate of hors d’oeuvres between them. She bit into what looked like a yummy baby lamb chop and chewed it thoughtfully.
    “It’s nice, Veronica,” she said. “But a bit too lamb-y.”
    “Patti, dear,” her mother interrupted. “Your writer friend is here.”
    Patti looked up and frowned.
    “Mom, are you wearing my sweater?”
    “Yes, honey. I borrowed it. I hope you don’t mind.”
    “Of course I mind. You know I hate when you borrow my stuff without asking. You’re getting it KILLING BRIDEZILLA
    39
    all stretched out with those silicone mountains of yours.”
    “Don’t be silly, sweetie,” her mom said, just a little too brightly. “My bust is the exact same size as yours.”
    She was right about that. They probably got