“Nobody ever lasts a week,” she said, looking up at me from under her thick bangs. “Sooner or later, they all quit.”

So that’s why SueEllen was willing to hire a writer from the Yellow Pages. No reputable writer would work for her.

“She’s nice at first, but then she turns mean. You’ll see.”

“So your mom’s tough to work for, huh?”

The kid looked at me as if I’d just offered her a worm for lunch.

“SueEllen isn’t my mother,” she said with all the warmth of Christina Crawford talking about Joan. “She’s my stepmother. My real mother’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”

And with that she picked up her book and began reading. Conversation terminated.

“Miss Austen?”

The Hispanic maid was at the door, still clutching her Windex. I only wished she had some stain remover for the grease spot on my blouse.

“Mrs. Kingsley will see you now,” she said.

I got up to go. I tried to button my blazer, but it was no use. SueEllen Kingsley would have to accept me as I was, grease stain and all.

“Nice meeting you,” I said to the kid in the chair.

“Whatever,” was her jolly reply.

I followed the maid up a flight of stairs and down what seemed like an endless hallway. If I’d known how big this place was, I would’ve worn hiking shoes.

Halfway down the corridor, we ran into a bubbly blonde carrying a portable massage table. She weighed about as much as my right leg.

“Hi, Conchi,” she said to the maid. Then she turned to me, beaming me an impossibly white smile. “I’m Larkspur O’Leary, SueEllen’s masseuse.”

Larkspur O’Leary? And I thought my mom was bad naming me Jaine Austen.

“You must be the new writer,” she said.

“No, not exactly. I’m just here for an interview. I haven’t got the job yet.”

“Oh, you will. You look very capable. And besides, SueEllen’s desperate.”

She beamed me another smile, almost blinding me in the process.

“Here’s my card.” She handed me a pastel pink business card, with her name printed in a flowery script. “I use a special method of massage that breaks down the fat cells and gets rid of cellulite.” She let her glance linger on my thighs, which, I have to admit, are home to a happy colony of fat cells.

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Well, see ya,” she said. Then she started down the hallway, swinging her massage table as if it were a bag of Fritos. For a tiny thing, she was awfully strong.

“Oh, and good luck,” she called back. And then she added, with a wink, “You’re going to need it.”

I smiled weakly and followed Conchi down the endless hallway. At last we reached our destination. Conchi opened the door to a bathroom straight out of Architectural Digest, gleaming with marble, gold fixtures and light streaming in from overhead skylights. At first I thought she’d taken leave of her senses. Why on earth would she be bringing me to the bathroom? Clearly the woman had been sniffing too many Windex fumes.