Many years ago when I was trapped by fear-of-starvation in a nine-to-five job, I read an article about how filthy rich Danielle Steele was and said to myself “Hey! I could write those romance novels! I mean, how hard could it be? Just follow the same script again and again – boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back again – right?”
So on one particularly quiet day (of which there were many) I sat down at my computer, wrote the following in an email and sent it off to my friend J.
The day her dog Dickey died, Dinah was inconsolable. She wept like an ice cube on speed, grabbing Trevor’s sturdy shoulders and flinging her warm, wet face into his perfumed chest. After an hour of steady downpour, she began to calm. Trevor led her gently into the bedroom and set her down on the Austrian goose down comforter that sat atop her Madonna inspired ultra king-size bed. In the distance the sun set over the Pacific as lights began twinkling to life on the Hollywood Strip lying at their manicured tootsies.
“Now Dinah, remember that Dickey was an old dog. . .”
“Oh Dickey, Dickey,” she sobbed. “there will never be another dog like Dickey.” She was still in her satin negligee, scented sleep mask on top her head, fluffy slippers on her size nine feet. When she hadn’t arrived at the studio by three o’clock, her secretary called down to the set. Luckily Trevor had just wrapped up shooting for the day.
By now his shirt was wringing wet thus the cool evening breeze gave him a chill. He got up to close the window, stripping off his shirt as he went.
“Oh Trevor, I can’t believe you’re thinking about sex at a time like this!”
“I’m not thinking about sex; I’m dripping wet!” he protested, although, he thought, it’s not such a bad idea. He could make her forget about Dickey by taking her into his arms and making passionate love to her. That damned dog was never good for their love life, jumping on his mistress just when Trevor was about to perform at his best.
He closed the window and slowly moved towards her. “Let’s make you comfortable, my love.”
“Oh Dickey, Dickey. Trevor, will you take care of Dickey? I just couldn’t do it.”
“What do you mean ‘take care of Dickey’? I thought you said he was dead.”
“He is dead. . . but he’s in the kitchen.”
“His little body is lying on the floor; his little legs sticking straight up in the air…” With that she started sobbing again.
“The floor! Oh no, what will DePew say? Why couldn’t you take Dickey to the vet’s to die? Why let him croak on the Brazilian tiles?”
It was then that the doorbell rang. At least, he thought it was the doorbell, but perhaps it was her cell phone. Trevor never excelled at making snap decisions thus he stood wavering back and forth – door or purse, door or purse – until Dinah snarled “Will you please get the damned door? Can’t you see the condition I’m in?”
He reluctantly started down the hall toward the front door and . . . the kitchen. . . all the while thinking the dog, the dead dog was in the kitchen.
“Who is it?” he yelled through the rustic barn door.
“It’s DePew. Donald DePew.”
Trevor opened the door a crack and peered out. Sure enough, it was Donald DePew, the interior designer they had hired from their remodel. Their famous remodel by the famous DePew.
“Donald, old man!” he said, throwing open the door, “I’m so happy to see you!” He hugged De Pew with a ferocity that shocked the normally implacable Designer DeJeur.
“Why Trev, you’re such a brute!” De Pew squealed with delight. “To what do I owe such an unexpectedly delish welcome?” He knew that Trevor Lamour, film stud-muffin extraordinaire would come out eventually and now it seemed, he finally had.
Donald’s manicured nails digging into his bare back brought Trevor quickly back to his senses. “Donald, I have this slight problem in the kitchen which is why Dinah is in hysterics.” Dinah’s sobs could be heard all the way down the hall.
“You can’t have a problem with the kitchen. The kitchen is perfection. Spielberg doesn’t have such a kitchen. Nor does Streisand!” DePeuw peered around the corner. He stood for a moment pursing his lips and flicking his fingers against his jaw as though evaluating a piece of art. “No, no, no. It’s all wrong for the space. Maybe in the living room but definitely not the kitchen, It is rather nice, though. Who’s the artist?”
Okay, troops. Danielle Steele has nothing to worry about from JT Twissel, otherwise known as Jan. My friend J wrote in response:
“Don’t delete this indubitably deliriously, delightful dictation. Will Dickey be delivered paws downward? Will Dickey’s death make sex a delicate decision? Will Trevor decide to delay his declaration of love for Donald DePew? Will Dinah denounce, dismantle and decimate Trevor when finally he declaims? Or will Dinah duplicate Trevor’s behavior and declare her love for Donald?
Tune in. . . and now this . . .