Oh, for the life of a literary agent! Just sitting there while all your slaves work and send you ten percent. Well, sweetness, if you’ve been expecting ten percent of my fee for the Good Morning Show, cancel your order for monogrammed jockey shorts.
I don’t know how much news has hit New York, but my stepfather and two dear friends have been murdered rather brutally in what appears to be a vendetta against the great chefs of Europe. Even more extraordinary is the fact that yours truly appears to be a) the prime suspect and/or b) the next victim. (My God I’m not even a citizen of the country of Europe!)
Here’s what I want you to do for me:
1. Call the network. I can’t do the script or the show. I don’t even know when I’ll be back.
2. Call the papers. I’m on extended holiday or something. Anticipating your grubby mentality, I do not want to do restaurant reviews while I’m sitting around waiting to be shot. Nor do I want to write about the current state of gastronomy in Poland, or the problems of this year’s rosé vintage. I want to do nothing for a while. Presuming I have a “while” in which to do nothing. (Won’t you cry like a baby if this is my last letter before I’m brutally bumped off? Well, comfort yourself, I’ve left you my avocado plants and roaches.)
3. Call the publishers. If I live, I want to do a book called “Three Cooks” in which the recipes and lives of the three murdered chefs will be chronicled. There’s a good deal of interweaving to be done, and I think we can hit both the cookbook and nonfiction markers. There now, doesn’t that make you feel better? I bet you’ve got an erection already. Speaking of which,
4. Call your doctor. Find out about having yourself circumcised. Would you believe there are circumcised Italians? (Or am I just naïve?)
Well, there you are. (All shrunk up by now, eh?) I want to do the book very much. I have no doubt they will pick it up. After all, what has Simca got that I don’t?
I know. Julia.
Write to me. But check the obits daily. No sense wasting postage.
The late Natasha O’Brien.
Dear Mrs. Benson:
Enclosed you will find a check for next month. I don’t really know when I will be back, since some pressing matters have developed. I want to be sure you’re sending the mail to my attorney, and, most of all, feeding Arnold. I miss him so. Strange how you can get attached to a plant, but maybe that’s a sign of maturity. Anyway, please write and tell me if he has any new shoots. Also, have you been taking your arthritis pills? I shall be very angry with you, dear Mrs. Benson, if you are not able to go square dancing with me when I come back. Please drop me a line.
Natasha O’Brien
Dear Legal Eagle:
Is it adultery if you sleep with your own ex-husband?
How do you annul a divorce? (Have you fainted?)
What the hell have you done about the papers on Louis’ estate? And the trust fund for Hildegarde? How much money do I have in the bank? Are you paying my bills? (Be sure you pay Bloomies; they get cranky the quickest of all.) Have you opened any of my love letters? Did I get any love letters?
How often must a U.S. citizen return to the U.S. in order to keep citizenship? Have you missed me? Wouldn’t you just drop dead if I remarried Millie?
What would you do if I were the next one killed? And how would you help me if I’m arrested on suspicion of murder? Do you have any colleagues over here who could help me?
Why don’t I hear from you?
N?
Dear Craig:
It seems there’s just no way I can make your annual clambake. Please extend my thanks and apologies to Pierre and his family. Big kisses to you, and keep the South Shore on its toes.
Love,
Natasha
Dear New York Times Delivery Service:
Please stop.
Ms. N. O’Brien