“Matt,” she sighed, her chin resting in her hand. “Darling Matt.”

“Has Darling Matt asked you out yet?”

“Yep,” she grinned. “Dinner at the beach. This Saturday.”

“That’s great,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it. Somehow I couldn’t picture Kandi hooking up with a guy who chopped wood with his fist.

“And what about you?” she asked. “Have you heard from Ted Lawson?”

“Tommy the Termite? He called the other night and asked me out to dinner.”

“I assume you were a fool and turned him down.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I was a fool and said yes.”

“Oh, honey. That’s wonderful!” Kandi beamed.

Then her perfectly plucked brows furrowed.

“What are you going to wear?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I’m not seeing him until the end of the week. I haven’t even thought about it.”

“That’s just your trouble, Jaine. You should be thinking about it. You’ve got to make a good first impression.”

“How about I kick him in the groin? That ought to impress him.”

“Whatever you do,” she said, ignoring my feeble attempt at sarcasm, “don’t wear elastic waist pants. It’s so Trailer Park.”

“But they’re comfortable,” I whined.

“Tough,” she said, checking out her reflection in her knife. “You’ve got to suffer for beauty.”

“I don’t want to suffer for beauty. The only thing I’m willing to suffer for is a hot fudge sundae.”

“Which reminds me, do you really think you should be eating that burrito? It has at least a gazillion calories.”

“Hey,” I said, clutching my plate, “if I wanted to be nagged to death, I’d move to Florida and live with my parents.”

“Sorry. I only want to see you happy.”

“If you really want to see me happy, you’ll order me another margarita. And a change of subject might be nice.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll change the subject. Did you know you’re seven times more likely to be attacked in a stairwell than in an elevator?”

And so it went, a litany of warnings that didn’t stop, not even when we went to get our cars in the parking lot.

“Remember. If you’re parked next to a van, always enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victim by pulling the woman into their van while she’s trying to get into her car.”

“Thanks for a fun evening,” I said, escaping into my car.

The last thing I heard as I drove out the lot was Kandi shouting: “If someone is following you, drive straight to the nearest police station!”

I don’t mind admitting I was a tad nervous driving back to Beverly Hills. After an evening of Kandi’s lurid self-defense tips, I imagined I saw homicidal maniacs at every stop light.

Finally, I made it home. Just my luck, there were no parking spots outside my duplex so I had to park down at the end of the street and walk back. I was halfway home when I started hearing footsteps behind me. Too frightened to turn around, I quickened my pace. By the time I got to my duplex I was practically sprinting. I turned up the path to my apartment. The footsteps were right behind me.