Free The Matzo Ball Heiress by Laurie Gwen Shapiro Page B

job.
    “Tell me now,” I insist.
    “I’m sure you’ll love it,” he says nervously. “We’d like to broadcast your family Passover celebration. Live. Great press for the Food Channel, great press for you, right?”
    I sit straight up. Was this date on a tactic list to get my family to allow a live broadcast? “Is that what this night is about?”
    Despite being stared at by an angry half-clothed woman he has just finger fucked, Steve anxiously plows on with his brainstorm: “No, of course not.”
    “What the hell are you talking about then?”
    “I ran the idea by our vice president of Original Programming and he loved it. I showed him the footage from our food pioneers special. You’re very photogenic.”
    I fake a hacking cough for the moment’s camouflage it offers.
    “You okay there?” I can see him thinking: the girl or the hosting gig. The gig apparently wins. “I know you might think our target audience would be eating their own meal at that time, but I assure you the show would get repeated later in the week for those other folks. And many Christians are curious about Jewish customs, especially Passover because of the Last Supper. I think it would be a history lesson for America. My boss loved it, thought it was a solid idea for ratings, and good PR for your family, too.”
    “I have to talk to the family. We make group decisions.” My voice needs defrosting.
    “I understand. I’m sure they’ll love the idea. After all, your family will be immortalized! If it goes well, we can show the program every year.”
    “Gee.” Minutes ago I saw an Adonis on my sheets. Now I want to crush a bedbug.
    “You’ll consider it then?”
    “Promise.” As in, no fucking way.
    “Could you tell me tomorrow if possible? I want to map out the rest of my shooting schedule.”
    “I said I promise. But right now I think you need to go.” I’m having a hard time masking my anger.
    “I hope I haven’t insulted you, because I’d love to continue where we left off, if you know what I mean. I hope I haven’t muffed it up.” He smiles, kisses the front of my thong and says, “Perhaps muffed is a poor choice of word.”
    I may have laughed at bawdy humor an hour ago, but now I feel as if I’ve been intimate with a sicko.
    “Listen, chickie, can we rewind to five minutes ago? I just thought you might be thrilled that my boss was behind my idea.”
    My arms hang limply as I search his face for any sort of understanding. Is he mean or merely a dim bull? I gird myself for the massive low that’s sure to come. I feel like a chorus girl, my grandma Lainie’s vintage term for an easy woman. “It’s time for you to go. Really .”
    “Heather, I was only kidd—I honestly didn’t mean to insult—”
    He gets the message and rebuttons his dress shirt.
    “Can I call you tomorrow?”
    “Maybe,” I say.
     
    After I lock the door, I stare out my window until enough time passes that Steve emerges onto the dark street. He flags down a cab. As it rides off in the dark, I feel like turning a deadly ray gun on anyone in range.
    I pull out the Nina Simone CD and shove it out of view. I press play on my favorite Aretha.
    If I have to wait any longer for someone to love me I’ll sprout old-lady chin hairs. The phone rings. I look at my watch. Half past eleven. Is it Steve on his cell, with genuine regret over his amazing lack of tact?
    “It’s me,” Jake says, only slightly apologetically. “I know you stay up late.”
    “Is there something wrong?” I sniffle.
    “No, but there’s something important I forgot to ask you when we spoke last.”
    “Yes?” I barely manage to say. Don’t tell me. A busload of Jews from Liechtenstein is in town.
    “How did the Food Channel thing go?”
    This is what’s so important? I’m not going to make a laughingstock of myself with my cousin who loves to laugh. I force back the tears. “The filming went fine, but—Steve Meyers from the show called me for a