UpHill E-Book

Jody Overend

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Hillary Wilkes is the unlikely middle-aged heroine in this romantic comedy about a woman whose life is a precarious climb on an UpHill battle.

Toronto, early 2000's. Hillary "Lary" Wilkes is an emotionally and physically challenged, Over Fifty, once a very vibrant woman. She's at the lowest point of her life, having lost her dream job to a younger woman, her self-esteem, and even her sense of humor. Hillary is overweight, underloved and, as a result, feels unlovable - except perhaps from her family, whose encouragement keeps her from bottoming out.

But enough of the self-pity: this is the year she will find herself an exciting new career, lose the 20 pounds for good and find the perfect mate. Quit smoking. Sort out her finances and ... well, maybe she can't do it all at once. But with the help of her best friend Becks, her wonderful neighbor Howard, her lovely niece Pumpkin and her loyal brother Roger, and the cheery encouragement from a new friend Dudley, she knows she can do it. One step at a time.

With a hitch here and there and plenty of fun and hilarity, Lary reaches for the hilltop. But can she find the perfect job, and the perfect man?

Leseprobe

UPHILL

JODY OVEREND

Large Print Version

CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Jody Overend

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.\

This is for my very best friend in the whole wide world, Susan Arbour of St. John St. Always loved. Forever missed. All her life, she would ask me what I thought was the price of milk or bread. I never knew. Off by miles. And Susie Q, I still don’t.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Boundless gratitude to Donna Eastman and the late Gloria Koehler of Parkeast Literary Agency who told me I was funny. Their advice and efforts on my behalf from that first read to the present mean the world to me.

CHAPTER1

“Ouch!”

Lary winces as she tweezes yet another stray hair from her chin. She peers into the Mirror from Hell, a 10X magnifying circle of terror, weaving atop a flexible metal stem, like God’s ugliest flower. The base balances precariously on the edge of a cigarette-burned counter. She sits on the toilet seat, scanning her jaw line for further insults to her fifty-five years.

“What the …?” She tugs on a quarter-incher with her fingers. Scrambling for her tweezers, she knocks over her glass of Cabernet. She grabs the closest towel and mops wildly at the spreading wine. After tossing the red-soaked terrycloth onto the bath mat, she storms from the room.

Without slowing down, she manages to snatch the tabby peacefully sleeping on a rocking chair of cast-off clothes. Pizza, named for Lary’s favorite food, meows predictably before settling into her arms. For some reason known only to the cat, he loves the ancient ratty housecoat described by her last boyfriend as her “I-never-want-to-have-sex-again” robe. Lary finds on the floor what she’s looking for – the rest of the wine. She pours herself another glass with one hand, tossing a month’s worth of tabloids from the sofa with the other. Finally, she manages to arrange both herself and the cat on the down-starved cushions. Without ceremony, the cat kneads her lap for a moment before dozing back to sleep. Lary sucks back the glass of wine.

Glancing down at her mid-section, she’s shocked to the bone. Well, not to the bone exactly. More shocked to the fat. “How in the world have I managed to put back all that weight?” Her scale must be wrong, surely. After all, it was just a cheapie from the dollar store. But is it possible? She has put back those twenty pounds? Again? “That’s the fourth time this year!”

But on the other hand, she calculates on her fingers, she has lost them four times, which is eighty pounds. She has lost eighty pounds! Well, that sounds kind of good, doesn’t it? Eighty pounds? That’s like one supermodel.

She takes a large gulp of wine to celebrate her enormous loss of eighty pounds.

Now, okay, let’s see though … she has gained it back … oh, rats … four times. Which puts her right back where she started a year ago.

I give up.

A soft creaking sound irritates her ears. Bleary-eyed, she turns her head left to find the source of the annoyance. A fake pine tree lists to the right, threatening to topple over, dropping all of its decorations, such as they are.

She tries to ignore it, lights a cigarette, and leans back to stare out the tenth-floor windows of her one-bedroom apartment facing south down Yonge Street. Wet snow blurs the view. Lights twinkle. And a double line of honking, angry traffic snakes up the slish-slushy slope south of St. Clair on the late afternoon of December 24th, 2004.

“So, I have lost and gained eighty pounds. What else happened last year? I have applied for 1,437 jobs, give or take.” Her fave application had been to conduct cross-country tours for seniors on VIA Rail. But the powers that be couldn’t see how being a downsized television producer made her a successful candidate.

“No imagination, honestly! What were some of the other ones? Long distance truck driver. One teeny-weeny problem there – no trucker’s license, but still, a few lessons could have fixed that. Those people were so rude.

“Let’s see, what else sticks out? Landscaper, now that was a cool one. Free exercise, after all. What else?” She had considered becoming a hairdresser, a mortician, a pet psychologist, and an electrician. And don’t forget, a zookeeper. The problem was they all required courses some of them even college courses, for Pete’s sake! Small wonder I’ve ended up as a real estate assistant. Not even an agent, just a lowly assistant.

Lary strokes the cat. “Start thinking about New Year’s resolutions and have them handy for next week. After all, I have been very successful in keeping my one resolution last year. I have given up swearing. You know, using profanities like my all-time favorite – the f-bomb. It has been a struggle I have to admit. Swearing is one of the great pleasures of life.”

And miraculously she has managed to stick to it for a whole year!

Lary giggles. “That’s because I have so much fun creating my own swear words. And no one, well, a few do, know I’m swearing at them.” She yells, waking the cat, “Hey, you great kumquat! It’s almost Christmas. What the popcorn?”

She drinks some more wine. The new swear words are all food related. That makes it easier to remember. “Okay, this year, what are going to be my new resolutions? Give up chocolate? Sure, why not. Give up ciggies, again? Absolutely. Maybe I should give up … alcohol?

The thought makes her whole body shudder. Then she wouldn’t have any flaws at all. And what’s more boring than a goody two-shoes? Little Miss Perfect with a “P.” Nobody likes that. No, she would keep her alcohol flaw but make a concerted effort to cut down on the amount. That’s it. She would moderate herself.

Lary glances down and catches sight of her hairy legs; she has forgotten to shave again. What has happened to her personal hygiene?

Never mind. Next year will be better. New body, new job. Let’s make that new career. Oh, and a new man in her life. In that order.

Lary relaxes her head back on the sofa. “Hey, when you’re on rock bottom, Pizza man, there’s only one way to go, and that’s up, right?”

CHAPTER2

Lary wakes to the feeling of a pot-scrubber scraping her forehead. It’s Pizza, licking cheese puffs stuck to her bangs. It seems she and the cat are still cuddled on the sofa.

“Pizza, I love you dearly. But do you mind morphing into a near-perfect man? Just for a few minutes? Keep my inner fantasy alive?” She doesn’t lust after George Clooney or anything. He’s too perfect. Maybe a fifty-fifty perfect like say, Alec Baldwin or …

She glances over at the forgotten glass of water and two aspirins sensibly sitting on her coffee table, intended to be drunk before sleep to ward off the Demon Hangover. The smell of stale cigarette butts assails her nose.

She blinks her eyes rapidly to loosen the contacts stuck to her irises. Finally, her vision clears; she stares out at the empty street into the dull, cold, sunless day. Turning to look at the wall clock in her galley kitchen, she shouts in a panic, “Kumquat! It’s three in the afternoon. How in the popcorn did that happen?”

The phone rings, sounding like a fire alarm in her head. Lary groans. Dumping the cat, she struggles out of the cushions and pads across the carpet to answer it where it sits atop her crappy old TV.

“Merry Christmas, Pumpkin,” she mumbles with as much cheer as she can muster.

Her niece, Penelope, although twenty-three, has been saddled with “Pumpkin” ever since her champagne-soaked Aunt Lary had called her that in her bassinet.

Now she listens to her rattle on about exams, her stepmother, and someone whose name sounded like Hagi – Nagi? Hani?

Lary wanders over to the sofa, filling up last night’s glass with the remains of last night’s wine, and tossing it back. “Hair of the Rottweiler,” she says into the phone.

“You sound kinda fuzzy-wuzzy, Lawrence. You sure you’re alright?” Pumpkin’s voice chirps into the headset. “The wicked stepmother is expecting you around five for drinks before her dinner party. More like her disaster party, if you ask me.”

“I’ll be okay. I’ll be late, but I’ll be okay.”

“I can come by and give you an emergency makeover,” Pumpkin offers. “I’m pretty sure you need one.”

“Play nice, niece. No, I’ll be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed …” She rolls her eyes at the ceiling, “’Bout six. Ish.”

Dinner at the family vegetarian’s? Could this day get any worse?

Half an hour later she lays in a steamy hot tub, wet hair piled on top of her head, and toes balanced on the rim. She stares at her chipped toenail polish, left over since … when?

Since the last time she had worn sandals, that’s right. That would be the end of September, when she thought Michael from 4A was going to ask her out. Instead, he asked to borrow a can of Meow Meow cat food.

Meow this, Michael from 4A.

She relaxes back onto the plastic pink pillow shaped like a seashell stuck to the back of the tub. Her eyelids close; her breathing slows.

Her thoughts drift back to … how long ago now was it, anyway? Three years? Four? Couldn’t possibly be.

She taps her fingers on her slippery belly. One … two … three … It has been four long years ago since that awful afternoon when she had leaned down to brush a muddy leaf from a ten-minute old, cocoa brown stiletto, purchased between her lunchtime mani-pedi and bikini wax.

The day that had changed her wonderful life forever…

Lary swore later that the twenty-foot maple, mother tree of the offending leaf, had materialized out of thin air, the way it had jumped off the sidewalk like that, whacking the stuffing out of her, tossing her and her size four, moss green, pencil-skirted suit butt-flat on the pavement in the middle of chichi Yorkville.

“Umphffft.” Her back hit the concrete like a sack of wet laundry. The contents of her purse scattered like yesterday’s litter.

She had lain there on the pavement, inexplicably filled with anxiety about the new production head who was going to be joining their company this afternoon. She was thinking about that, rather than why she was lying on her back on the sidewalk.

The so-called brilliant Under Forty from Chicago she was about to meet. Stan, or Sam or … Cran?

Couldn’t be Cran, you silly goose, she thought. No such name as Cran. Must be … Her head felt funny as she continued to lay there on the sidewalk in the middle of afternoon pedestrian traffic.

Suddenly, a masculine face leaned down as the sublime October breeze brushed her skin. She tried to smile up at the tanned cheekbones, thatch of brown hair, and blue eyes above a black leather jacket.

Hey, he’s kinda handsome in a Matt Damon, psychopathic killer sort of way. Geez, you just never know when you’re going to meet … Maybe he’s—

“You all right, lady?” His voice was more like Wally Cleaver.

Lady? How dare you? I’m still a girl!

“Aw, could you … maybe … ah?” Her mouth felt post-root canal numb. Strong arms circled around her waist, scooping her upright like a fallen mop.

A small crowd tittered and shuffled off, as “Matt” helped her gather up her lipsticks, wallet, Day-Timer, cell phone, which was apparently ringing, a pair of running shoes, unopened mail, whitening toothpaste, a pink thong, an electric toothbrush in the shape of a hula dancer, a Patricia Cornwell novel, a package of ciggies, a collection of scrunchies, and a silver lighter engraved with “Always, Alan.”

“Leave … leave ah … the … That’s …” Lary frantically jammed everything back into her bag.

The stranger treated her to a boyish grin. “You sure you’re okay? I’m Matt, by the way.”

Your name is really Matt? What a coinci—

“Hi, I’m Lary, rhymes with scary. Short for Hillary… Sorry for the … ah … It’s just I’m so …” She tried and failed to tuck her hair behind her ears so she could see him properly. “Well, Matt, I, heh …” She tore her concentration from his Tom Ripley blues to glance down at her watch. “Oh, rats, the time! I’m desperately late for a—”

“Your head,” Matt said with a frown.

“What’s wrong with my head?”

After gathering up all her belongings, she had fast-trotted across the busy intersection at Bay Street, waving goodbye to a grinning Matt. Finally, she arrived at the massive glass and steel offices of TTV, otherwise known as Toronto Television. She raced into the elevator and paced in the tiny enclosure up thirty-one floors. She tore down the hall to her corner office, whipped open the door brass-labeled: HILLARY WILKES, VP EXECUTIVE PRODUCER.

Zooming in on her desk piled high with books, videotapes, DVDs, CDs, head sheets, and sticky notes, she spied the end of her egg salad on rye. Where’s the file? The file? The file? She tried to search with one hand, removing a bright red leaf stuck in her armpit with the other.

Finally, she located the precious file, stuffing the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth before dashing down the hall. She threw open the door to the boardroom.

There was only one person in it, not the usual noisy gathering she had expected. A stranger stood up, all five-foot-two of him. “Laurie, do come in,” he said.

“Where is everybody?” Her eyes dashed around the room. “Where is Henriette?”

The pipsqueak walked around the table to extend a sweaty hand. “Branston Goodmark. Nice to meet you, Laurie. Most people call me Bran.”

Bran, that’s it. Like the cereal.

She took his hand reluctantly. “Actually, my name is Lary, Bran. Lary, rhymes with scary, haha. Short for Hillary. So, welcome to TTV. Sorry I was ah … detained but … I’ve been looking forward to ah … work—”

His chubby features had quickly turned into a frown. “What’s wrong with your head?”

Her hand flew to her forehead, feeling something that wasn’t there before. She had spun around to catch her reflection in the window. A lump the size of Mike Tyson’s fist was forming just below her bangs, like she had been in a fight with a pit bull.

“Would you like to take a moment, Laurie, to ah …?” He tilted his head like a spaniel.

He’s forgotten my name already. “No, no… I’ll be fine, but where’s Henry, my invaluable assistant producer? We`re supposed to be selecting the menus for next week`s show.”

“Sit down, Laurie, please.”

Less than an hour after the disastrous meeting, Lary was stumbling back down Bloor Street in a daze. Under one arm she carried her laptop. Under the other rested her soft leather briefcase purchased impulsively in New York on her last trip.

Was that little jaunt only a week ago? She began to sob like a duck with asthma.

She just couldn’t believe what had happened. She wondered if maybe she should call someone. Pumpkin? No, she was at school. Becks? She was on a flight to Rio. Howard? Howard was on vacation. She should know. She was minding his cat.

Lary-in-the-tub relaxes in the now lukewarm water. That day, that moment, had been the worst thing that ever happened to her, ever, in her whole entire life. The very worst. Even worse than that time… well, never mind, that. Imagine! Replacing her with a junior producer with six months experience. Pamela Big Boobs Nobody. Restructuring, Bran had called it. Downsizing. Ha!

He’d actually read to her from a tiny scrap of paper that day. He didn’t even have the nerve to look her in the eye. “Due to cutbacks at the, ah, station, your-your services are no longer required. Thank you for your con-contribution and g-good luck on your future endeavors. You have one hour to c-clear out your desk. Your computer is dis-disconnected. Your have f-four f-free psych-psychiatric visits to-to help you with the stress, paid in full by-by TTV.”

Then he had the nerve to stick out those stubby arms of his, grinning, and say, “Hug?”

Her thoughts crash rudely back to the present with the abrupt detachment of her plastic pillow from the back of the tub, tipping her legs skyward while dumping her face underwater.

She bounces back up, gasping for breath, just in time to see the top of her thighs lift out of the bubbles like white freckled throw pillows. Leaning up and over to examine them, she grabs the flab of her stomach instead. That’s when she notices two long, white pubic hairs poking up like weeds.

In a mad panic she jumps halfway upright, leaning over to reach for her tweezers lying on the toilet tank, almost losing her footing entirely. Grabbing wildly at the shower curtain for balance, she manages to rip most of it down.

Falling backwards, still swinging from the curtain, she lands with a bang on the toilet seat, the Mirror from Hell inches from her face.

A long white hair waves at her from her left eyebrow as if to say, “Season’s greetings, Lary.”

Bursting into sobs, her head collapses on her chest.

What has happened to her life? Her glam career! Her trips to Paris and Hong Kong, or somewhere with Henriette to discover the next foodie trend. Her morning workouts so she would look hot in all those designer threads she bought whenever she wanted. Oh, and don’t forget all those gorgeous men flocking around her like butterflies.

Her head lifts so that she is eye-to-eye with the cat on the counter. “What the popcorn happened, Pizza? Am I ever going to get my old life back? Or is this it? A downhill slide to obscurity and death?”

In reply, he licks her nose.

CHAPTER3

The hum of wheels on metal tracks makes her eyes close and her head droop. In a reflex, her neck snaps back, her eyes pop open, and she stares around her.

“The only thing worse than being on a smelly, stuffy, overcrowded subway train is being on a miserable, empty one on Christmas Day,” she grumbles.

Apart from herself, there is only a drunk with puke on his camel coat, asleep across three seats at the far end, and a bun-haired, eighty-year-old in black across from her, reciting her rosary out loud.

Lary’s eyes drift closed again; her mind returns to her last thought in the bathroom. What had happened to her beautiful life? And how was she ever going to get it back? Where is Alan anyway? She and Alan had been dating casually before she was fired. Truth be told, he had been missing for over a month before she had even noticed.

Must work on those relationship skills. While she’s at it, she should make a new plan.

But what would be on her new plan? She knows how to make plans. After all, she made plans all the time on the cooking show. So, Number one: fix finances. How to do that? Talk to a financial planner. No, first, a new job. Must get a new job to make enough money to afford a financial planner. Okay, new job first.

Number two: get your body back in shape. Join a gym. Wait, she can’t afford a gym right now, so free exercise is what’s needed. So, start jogging or speed walking, or whatever they call it. And dig out the old Jane Fonda workout tape and do that. Okay, what’s next?

Number three: a new love life. A proper one this time. No more actors. No more artists. No more handsome waiters and bartenders who wanted to get into the movies. She would like a proper fella. One with his feet on the ground. Unmarried, of course. With an actual job.

But first she would get herself a good job and lose weight. And don’t forget, quit smoking. That should have been Number ….

Lary’s hand relaxes with the hypnotic subway drone, slowly dropping the bag of presents dangling from her glove. She jumps up clumsily to chase three pathetically wrapped boxes across the gritty floor. Rosary Woman glares at her in disgust.

Lary makes a bug-eyed face at the old lady. “Oh, go peanut-butter!” She steps on the jewelry-sized box with her boot, crushing it. Hanging onto a pole, she lurches down to pick up the gift just as the train pulls into the station. The other two presents roll to a stop nicely, right in front of the sleeping drunk in the camel coat.

Lary holds her nose with one hand, retrieving the boxes with the other.

“Wanna go ta pardy?”

They are on eye level. Red-rimmed browns stare into Lary’s bleary blues. Oh no, he’s awake.

“I’m goin’ ta pardy. Wanna come? You god nice boobs.” He directs his sixty-year-old stockbroker’s grin he assumes is irresistible at her chest, visible inside her open coat while she crouches down to retrieve her gifts.

“As charming as that sounds, I’m going to pass,” Lary snaps, grabbing her parcels and stumbling awkwardly towards the other end of the moving train.

Back in her seat, she notices Rosary Woman is gone, replaced by an offensively happy couple in their mid-twenties, giggling and playing kissy-facey. Lary watches them listlessly for a while, attempting to un-crush the small box, and brush off the wet mud streaks from the others. In a temper she suddenly jams them back in her shopping bag, leans back, and closes her eyes.

Life used to be so easy. Why was that? When she wanted a job, she found a job. When she wanted a man, she found a man. She didn’t necessarily keep the job or the man, and they weren’t necessarily good jobs or good men, but they crossed her path so easily.

Was it because that, back then, she was young, slim, pretty, and had the most alluring quality of all, smarts? To be fair, most people would say she was a smart aleck rather than smart, strictly speaking.

Her first break in television was thanks to her father’s golfing buddy, Frank, who wanted desperately to seduce her. (He had failed miserably heh, heh.)

Meeting her first husband? Now that was a meeting she wished she could unmeet. Arthur the art dealer. Fun until he left her for his protégé artist. Then her second husband Randy the American surfer playwright. She had adored Randy. All his creativity. His brilliance, really. He was a fountain of stunning ideas. When he had asked, or more truthfully when he had begged, she had lent him every cent in her bank account to get his play off the ground like a good wife should, right?

Luckily, her brother Roger had paid her ticket back from San Francisco. And Frank the Seducer at the TV station had rehired her right away, even though she still refused to sleep with him.

You see? Everything had been so easy-peasy way back when. So, what happened? What had changed?

CHAPTER4

“Bar bells?” Lary stares at the eight-pound weights, one in each hand.

“Yes, dear. For that flap of skin under your upper arms you’re always complaining about,” Brit says, smiling.

How many Botox injections did it take you to get ready for today, parsnip?

Brit, the forty-two-year-old second wife of Lary’s brother Roger, smiles brightly across the century-old living room, larger than twice the size of Lary’s apartment. A fire crackles in the massive stone fireplace. The oak mantel sparkles with two dozen silver candlesticks stuck with red tapers, guarding an original Emily Carr.

Brit’s cherry cashmere skirt and sweater set enhances her wrinkle-free complexion, set off with a single string of pearls, and framed by a black wave of pageboy. The Brit Nitwit. Or the Trophy Wife, as Pumpkin likes to say.

In reflex, Lary’s eyes fly to her own pudgy arms, encased in a thrift store peach sweater two sizes two small she has matched up with gray slacks two sizes too big. She fingers the weights, smiling back across the expanse of oak and Persian. “How incredibly thoughtless of you.”

“You’re welcome, dear.” Brit jumps up to the far-off kitchen to smell her soybeans or whatever she is brewing in there.

How had this British twit managed to land her lovely brother for a husband, anyway? Oh, yes, his cultural tour of Great Britain when he had come home with a souvenir. One that weighed about 120 pounds and talked like the Duchess of Kent. It wasn’t fair.

Only Pumpkin looks over at Lary with a twinkle in her eyes. “Good one, Lawrence, dear.” She alone seems to know her aunt’s pet peeve – younger women calling her ‘dear’. “And thanks again for the necklace.” She touches the intricate green and amber beads that set off her spiked-out, pumpkin-hued hair.

“Ditto for my finger blankets.” Lary wiggles her hands in the air in her new sage angora mittens.

“You’re welcome. More champagne, dear?” Pumpkin stretches out a willowy arm to reach for the bottle on the door-sized coffee table in front of her, pouring for her aunt slouching beside her on the sofa.

“Don’t mind if I do, dear.” Lary snickers.

“Papa Bear, a top up?” Pumpkin crosses the room to the baby grand to tap the shoulder of a forest green cardigan. As usual her economics professor father escapes anything terribly interesting in life by engrossing himself in tinkling a classic. Today it is Brahms Fourth Lullaby.

“Hmm? Oh, no thanks, Pen,” Roger mumbles without looking up. “Saving myself for turkey.”

“News flash, dad, not turkey. Soykey. Your Trophy Wife is cooking us a soykey.”

His bespectacled, watery blue eyes in a pudding plump face, snap up at his daughter. “Be nice. It’s Christmas.”

His daughter smiles back serenely. “I’m always nice.” Over his head she mouths to Lary, “to her face.”

The doorbell chimes. Lary glances over at her niece. Pumpkin shrugs her shoulders in a “I don’t have the faintest idea” gesture while Brit scampers from the kitchen, disappearing towards the second ring.

“I’ll get it!” she squeaks, flinging the door open like Scarlett O’Hara.

A tall and plump gentleman, a hard combination to find, stands awkwardly in the snow in a lime green, full-length down coat. He carries a bottle of wine and a pitiful pink poinsettia.

“Dudley!” Brit shouts his name like she’s reading it off a nametag at a convention. Heavy footsteps creak down the oak hall before she and her prey emerge into the living room.

“I’d like you to meet my stepdaughter, Penelope, and my sister-in-law, Hillary. She’s single. This is Roger’s dear friend from the University. Mathematics.”

The man named Dudley stares into the room in horror, obviously mislead. “Linguistics, actually, ah … Brit.” His accent is mellow Scot.

“Exactly.” Brit is never one to waste time listening to what anyone actually says. She practically tears the coat from his huge body, racing with it back into the hall.

Roger finally gets up from his piano, padding over to pump Dudley’s hand. “Season’s greetings. Make yourself comfortable.”

Dudley collapses into an empty blue and white chintz armchair, an unfortunate choice, as it turns out. It’s at least thirty percent too small for his frame. He’s wearing puce corduroys teamed with a wrinkled tangerine sweater over a striped shirt sticking out at the neck. Long gray hair strays in many directions. A large gold earring pierces his right earlobe. He places a hand on each arm of the chair to await his execution.

“Excuse me, friend. I’ll be back in a moment.” Roger ambles in the direction of the washroom.

Pumpkin, Lary, and Dudley remain flash-frozen in their respective positions. Suddenly Lary snickers, joined by her niece, and mercifully by the newcomer.

“Drink?” Pumpkin jumps up.

“Lord, yes. Double scotch, no ice, please.” He looks at Lary. “I had no idea this was a set-up. I’m still drunk from last night.”

“Me, too.” Lary laughs. “You’re a mess.”

He grins. “Why, thank you.” After Pumpkin hands him his drink, he toasts, “Cheers, girls.”

After a cocktail hour that lasts two, they finally sit down at the dinner table to officially celebrate the joyous occasion.

“Gee, I’ve never seen so many vegetables at once,” Pumpkin says sweetly to her stepmother. “What’s that one?”

“Baked turnips with soy cheddar,” Brit replies proudly. She picks up the casserole dish. “Want some?”

“Maybe later.” Pumpkin smirks as she greases a roll with some I-Can-So-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter.

The dining room looks as if it had been put together out of a British Upper Middle Class Decorating for Dummies handbook. Silver plates and Royal Doulton stalk the powder blue walls on an endless dark oak plate rail.

Lary’s thoughts drift back to long ago Christmas dinners at the Wilkes. Patricia, why did you leave us with this nitwit?Patricia was Roger’s late wife, class oozing from her fingertips. Her dinner parties were tossed together with an innate casual elegance.

Now Lary glances down at the twenty-foot Victorian table where a poinsettia and white rose arrangement, guarded by red tapers, sits in the exact middle of an Irish linen tablecloth. Two sets of silver salt and peppers stand six inches away from the candles. Matching silver serving dishes march like turtles away from those. Wine glasses are set exactly four inches from blue and white dinner plates over under-plates.

Did the Nitwit measure everything with a ruler? Lord help one if one should lay a soup spoon too closely to one’s teaspoon. The world as we know it would collapse.

“Hillary used to be a big wig in the television business, a producer of a cooking show,” Brit addresses Dudley. She lifts up one of the fifty-pound serving dishes. “Until she got the boot four years ago. More Brussels sprouts?”

Dudley furtively pushes his squishy peas under a slice of bread, and a mound of meatless meat. “You, ah, miss it then, I take it, Hillary – the big wig thing?”

“Golly gosh no, not at all. I much prefer working for minimum wage for an Under Forty realtor with a five-carat diamond glued in her pudgy belly button and a nasal blockage. Far more interesting. Any more plonk in that bottle? And please, do call me Lary.”

“Sounds fascinating.” Dudley grins while his hand slyly drops a Brussels sprout on the carpet.

Pumpkin, seated to his left takes notice, and drops two more on his plate. Dudley looks down in dismay, locking eyes with her while another pale green ball springs from her evil fingertips. Lary reaches into the serving dish to toss a sprout at Pumpkin.

Brit stares around the table, wondering how she has lost control of it. Apparently, this isn’t supposed to happen when you follow the manual. “More soykey, anyone?”

Later, in the driveway, as Lary and Dudley are leaving in separate taxis, he shouts out the window, “I’d give my left testicle right now for a decent burger. Pardon my French.”

Lary grins and calls over, “I have a lovely idea. Follow me.”

Twenty minutes later they are the only customers at the Mayfa— Hotel bar. (The last two letters of the neon sign had disappeared in the sixties.) They’re alone except for the bald, beer-bellied bartender who is reading an old People magazine.

A plastic wreath leans against a bottle of Chivas Regal against the back mirror. A chipped, plastic Santa and his reindeer sit at one end of the bar near a small white Christmas tree dressed in beer bottle caps and painted corks. Duct tape holds up a string of lights along the windows.

“Don’t be kind, I look like a giant potato.” Dudley squirts mustard on his double bacon cheeseburger.

“All I said was you look quite dapper in an unmade bed sort of way.” Lary groans and leans back on her stool, her mouth stuffed with greasy burger. “Ah, meat.”

“Stuck with a moniker like Dudley, I haven’t got a chance. Dudley. Dud. Dud the Giant Spud.”

“Or Dud the Stud. Or Dude. I’ll call you Dude, how’s that, Dude?”

“I’m flattered beyond speech.”

“So, Dude, how did you end up in our neck of the woods, anyway?” Lary runs her finger around the ketchup on her plate and licks it.

“I’m just here for a year from Glasgow for a change of pace, filling in for a pal from Harvard, who was supposed to fill in for a prof from Toronto. Who went on vacation to Amsterdam and got into a marijuana-fuelled traffic accident. Something like that.”

“Is he okay? The prof?”

“She. Jacinta Smythe-Yardsmith, how’s that for a handle? Broke both legs falling off her bicycle, but yes, she’ll be all right. Saints in heaven but it’s butt-freezing cold here in Toronto. How do you manage it?”

“Trana. You say, Trana, not Tor-on-to.”

“Torana, Torana. Refill?”

“Sure. That’s what I figure should be on my epitaph. Here lies Hillary, a.k.a. Lawrence, a.k.a. Lary Wilkes whose motto was ‘Sure’.”

“I like it. To the point. One syllable. Positive. What’s with Brit’s accent by the way?” Dudley stuffs more burger into his mouth.

“She’s from Chelsea, apparently. Born and high bred.”

“Chelsea, my fat arse. Princess Anne, my dear Lary, she is not.”

“My, my, my. Give me the dirt, linguistics professor.”

“She’s Irish from Liverpool with Belfast overtones. In fact, Liverpool is a Belfast overtone. Makes Brit much more interesting, actually.”

Lary holds her burger in mid-air. “Oh no! She’s not a Brit? I can’t call her the Brit Nitwit, anymore?”

“’Fraid not. Not officially, anyway.”

They watch the snow falling outside the sleet-streaked window, sipping their drinks. Lary glances at her companion, not looking nearly so potato.

He returns her gaze, his eyes twinkling. “Next time Brit tries to set me up,” he declares before taking a giant slug of his scotch, and giving her a wink, “I’m going to tell her I’m gay.”

CHAPTER5

“Wouldn’t you just know? First great guy I meet in years, funny, intelligent, doesn’t look like a male model. And he’s a Happy Boy.” Lary picks up a fifty percent off, sparkly gold sleeveless sweater from a pile in the Gappe, holding it against her coat to display it to Becks. “Don’t get me wrong. I like Happy Boys. In fact, I adore Happy Boys. Happy Boys are so much nicer than regular old boys. I just didn’t need the Dude to be a Happy Boy. What d’ya think, Becks? Am I glam?”

Becks, don’t-you-ever-call-me-Rebecca, is Lary’s best friend. Since the seventies they have shopped together, got drunk together, chased boys together.

“I think you need to keep in mind we’re shopping for your Find Lary a New Job outfit. After all, that’s why you’re dragging me to this New Year’s Eve bash, right? Reconnect with your old connections from the biz? That top is too slutty. Try this.” She tosses Larry a moss green sweater.

Becks’ stewardess hair is tied in a bright yellow knot on top of her head, her blood-red nails flying through the sales items. Never-married Becks believes religiously that four-inch heels were a must for proper posture. That the only real blonde is a fake blonde. And the only intriguing man worth pursuing is a relationship-challenged musician. So far, she has been engaged seven times, boasting a unique collection of ornaments declaring, “Our first Christmas together.” At five-foot-eleven, she is a vision in purple, oversized pale green eyes, and gold chandelier earrings.

“Your hair needs a trim, by the way,” she adds. When it comes from Becks, it is not a suggestion.

“I suppose you have a date.” Lary holds up the top for inspection.

“Mario is flying in from New York.” Becks’ latest squeeze is a saxophone-playing pilot from Aerolíneas Argentinas. “You?”

“I’m thinking of taking Pizza.”

Forty-five minutes later they peer into mirrors on the counter of their favorite chichi cosmetics store. “What happened to our lips?” Lary tries to puff hers out like Angelina’s. They are surrounded in a sea of Under Forties wearing black.

“They’ve been sucked right off our faces. Hey, Lary, look.” Becks pulls her cheek skin up and back, giving her a Burt Reynolds, Asian facelift appearance.

“Very Samurai.” Lary holds up her eyebrows with her fingers. “What has happened to our dewy, fresh complexions? What’s that blotch on my face? Must be chocolate from that cupcake I stuffed in my…” She takes a tissue from the complementary pewter container, spits on it, and rubs the spot. What the …?It doesn’t come off. She rubs even harder until her skin begins to redden.

“Omigawd. Omigawd. I’ve got an …” she sputters to the mirror. “I’ve got an age spot!”

A salesgirl pops out of nowhere. “Hello, ladies, may I show you something to create an image of youthful radiance?”

Becks looks the pale waif in the eye. “Got anything to dye my mustache, say, aubergine?”

CHAPTER6

CHOOSE LOCATION. Lary punches in SELECT ALL. She scrolls down to JOB CATAGORY and highlights ARTS, ENTERTAINMENT & MEDIA. In the slot for ENTER KEY WORDS she fills in TELEVISION PRODUCER.

It’s New Year’s Eve afternoon, two days after the shopping spree with Becks. She’s sprawled on her sofa in her flannel pajamas, her laptop appropriately on her lap. Pizza nibbles on a half-eaten slice of his namesake on the floor. A cigarette burns in a half-empty bowl of corn flakes.

So far thirty-one jobs have shown up. She starts picking through them, feeling a little lighter. There’s bound to be a producer one in there just for her. Let’s see, one in Toronto, three in Chicago, five in New York, Dallas, Phoenix, Miami, and Atlanta.

She’s glad she has kept up her Green Card compliments of Randy, her American ex-husband. With renewed enthusiasm, she starts to fill in her resume for a job in California.

Might as well live in a warm climate, she muses. Maybe she could end up working on Gilmore Girls, or one of those CSI shows. Name the killer through a microscopic hair sample found on the inside of the collar of the victim’s cat, the one the murderer had stroked on the way out of the crime scene in a perverse animal lover, woman hater psychological twist.

2005 is looking up. She might even settle for a smaller town, working on a kids’ show, or maybe a Soap. Heaven knows she loves The Young and the Restless. Vic and Nic and their offspring, Vic and Nick, and the other invisible son Vic, name changed to Adam, son of Hope the Blind.

“I wonder if Victor Newman actually is aware he has two children with the same first name,” she says as she sips on her shot glass of Irish Cream.

Should she fill in her name as Hillary or Lary?

“Lary sounds very hip. Very I’m-in-Media, don’t you know? ‘Good morning, Lary. Ready for, like, the Emmys tomorrow, Lary?’ Yeah, that’s like, so amazing. I’m up for, like, two Emmy’s on two different shows.”

She tells the cat, “I must remember once I’m on staff that Under Forties slip in a ‘like’ every chance they get.”

Pizza will be upset by the move. He hates traveling. Maybe the network will pay for a charter. That would be nice. She loves to travel on charters or First Class like she was used to on her show Cooking for Couples. She and Henriette, sipping on their vodka marts, lots of ice, please.

That was, what, three years ago? Gawd, they had some fun. No, four. Four and a half years, actually. It’s been that long since she had any fun. How depressing.

“Maybe I can cheat the time thing a little.”