The Cinderella Pact

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  Chip laughs. “Well, after seeing your performance in the gym this afternoon I figured you were up to the job.”

  “Don’t get so cocky,” I warn him. “You’re still on my naughty list.”

  “Meoow!” We both look up. I discern the telltale signs of an imminent pounce, assess Chip in his white T-shirt, and decide to do nothing. If Otis attacks, it’ll serve Chip right.

  “Is that yours?” he inquires.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Interesting security system. It’s like a meowing gargoyle.”

  I have second thoughts about the Otis plan simply because Chip is pretty cute in that shirt and I’d hate to see him bloodied. Though maybe a little bloodied wouldn’t be too bad. “You better move. Otis tends to pounce on men in white T-shirts.”

  Completely ignoring my warning, Chip holds out his hands. “Jump, kitty-kitty.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Don’t be afraid, kitty-kitty.”

  I have to cover my eyes. It’s always so brutal when it happens. The jump. The thud. The sound of claws digging into skin. The howls of horror.

  That’s when I hear thump and find Otis in Chip’s arms, purring in a way I have never heard him purr before. How incredibly annoying.

  “He really does pounce on people and attack them,” I say, holding up my fingers as claws in demonstration.

  Chip is scratching Otis under the chin. Otis’s eyes are closed in ecstasy. “Oh, I have no doubt this is a killer feline. So, what’s your apartment like?”

  Is he asking for an invitation? “Messy.”

  “What do I care? I’m a guy. We like messy things.”

  “I don’t think so. I have the feeling you’re trouble, Chip, and besides, I’ve had a fire in the kitchen tonight.”

  Chip puts Otis down. “Another fire? Is this the kind of disorder that’s going to require professional help?”

  “I swear I never had even one before this month.”

  “Sure. And then the arson squad finds the gasoline in your basement. I know all about you firebugs. Well, I better take a look. You might have electrical damage.” With this, Chip opens the front door—thanks, Bitsy—and takes the stairs two at a time as though it’s his second home, his new best friend Otis at his heels.

  How did this happen?

  Bitsy has left my apartment door unlocked, so Chip is already inside when I arrive. A clever fellow; he must have assumed I lived on the second floor because of Otis.

  Meanwhile, my apartment is miraculously neat as a pin. All my groceries have been put away. The quilt is gone and there is a faint mist of Lysol Fresh Linen Scent hanging in the air. It’s an oversight on Bitsy’s part that she has not put out two chilled glasses for champagne and a six-pack of Trojans. I will have to speak to her about that.

  “You call this messy?”

  “My landlady must have cleaned up.” I peer down the hall and spy that my bedroom is tidy as well. I’m not sure that I like Bitsy cleaning up my bedroom.

  “Some landlady.” Chip examines the stove. “How did this happen?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention, and a spaghetti box caught on fire.” Which reminds me. I am really, really hungry.

  Grabbing a spatula, Chip gently pokes at the charred metal. “Got any baking soda?”

  I go to the refrigerator and in the back find an old box of Arm & Hammer. Somewhere along the way I have become a robot, under Chip’s command. This, I think, is how serial killers murder women. You read about the circumstances and ask yourself, why did she let a strange man into her apartment? Why was she clutching a box of baking soda when they found her with her throat slit? And now I know.

  “How old is this?” Chip asks, sprinkling the baking soda over the stove with abandon.

  “Old.”

  “Might not work.” He douses the mess with a wet sponge. “Should sit for an hour and then you can wipe it off.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s the least I can do after that disaster at the Annex.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “The least.”

  Chip puts his hands on his hips and takes in my apartment. There is a slight slouch in his posture, which I assume is part of the California shtick, though with his slim hips and those tanned forearms, he is definitely all male. His testosterone levels are wilting my dried flower arrangements.

  “Nice place. You shouldn’t keep setting it on fire.”

  “I don’t mean to. Like I said . . .”

  He waves this off. “Yeah, yeah. Well, I’ve got an hour to kill before I can start scrubbing. Let’s see if you’ve got anything to eat.” With this, he opens my refrigerator and peers in.

  Who is this guy? Who is this man who invites me to a catfight and then helps himself to my victuals?

  “What’s going on here?” He pulls out a package of precut broccoli. “This doesn’t look like much fun. Broccoli? Carrots? Nonfat yogurt dip? Where’s the beer and Cheez Whiz?”

  I can feel my face turning red from embarrassment. But it’s nothing compared to when Chip pulls his head out of the refrigerator, takes one look at me, and says, “You’re not on a diet, are you?”

  I contemplate sawing a circle in the floor and falling through à la Wile E. Coyote.

  “Now, hold on. That was wrong of me.” He slams the door. “Good for you for cutting the calories. I mean, you’re a pretty girl. You’d look even better with a few pounds off.”

  OK. On paper, this is the most insulting thing that’s ever been said to me before by a semiacquaintance of the male persuasion. Angie the Northeastern Native Bitch and her ilk do not count. They are in their own class. Yet, strangely, I’m not offended. I’m, in a way, appreciative. It’s as though Chip has just shot the elephant in the room and has even taken the extra trouble to have the carcass bagged and stuffed.

  “There’s this pact,” I hear myself saying as Chip moves on to the bags of discarded junk food lining the counter. “My two friends and I are going to lose weight once and for all. Today I found out that one of my friends has been secretly pursuing gastric bypass. She’s going under the knife on Monday.”

  Chip pulls a bag of blue corn chips from my junk food discards. “I love these! Can I have them?”

  “They might be stale. I cleaned all the old junk food out of my cupboards.”

  “More for me. Come on.” He directs me to my own couch and even boldly plunks himself in a chair and props his sneakered feet up on my coffee table. “OK, go on. What is gastric bypass, anyway?”

  “It’s when they slit open your stomach and . . .”

  “Oh, shit. This isn’t going to make me throw up, is it?”

  “Might.”

  “Go on.” Oddly enough, we continue talking for two hours, during which time I manage to polish off an entire head of broccoli and nonfat yogurt dip while Chip, who through his T-shirt is all muscle and bones, I see, grazes through most of my leftover junk food, including all my Doritos and a can of Hires, and then finishes removing the charred stuff from my stove.

  It’s as though my mouth is operating on autopilot. I tell him about Nancy’s botched marriage. I tell him about Deb and how she was too embarrassed to attend her son’s graduation, not to mention Paul’s weird reaction to her gastric bypass decision. I even touch on the Belinda investigation, though I don’t go so far as to reveal my key role.

  Through it all, Chip keeps asking follow-up questions, never giving his opinion except to say things like, “That’s a shame,” when I mention how Ron and Nancy grew apart. It’s not until I see that it is past eleven and note the time that Chip moves toward the door.

  “What’re you doing later this week?” he asks.

  A fresh sweat breaks out on my palms, which is what always happens when I think men are about to ask me out for a tête-à-tête. This lifelong tendency to avoid socializing with men romantically has nothing to do with Chip being the kind of guy you think about being in bed with. It has to do with me assuming that the only r
eason a man would offer to take me out is because he feels obligated or guilty or, worse, sorry for me. And I want no part in any of that.

  “I really should be on call for that friend of mine who’s going into surgery on Monday. Who knows what kind of care her husband’s going to give her.”

  “Great. So we have lots of time until she comes back from the hospital.” Chip tosses the sponge to the sink. “Let’s make it Monday night. How about if I stop by to pick you up around six?”

  “Actually on Monday nights . . .” I start to say reflexively.

  “You’re going out with me.” He taps me on the nose with his finger. “And you know it. Don’t stall. I like you, Nola. You’re a real person. And you’re pretty, too, even if you refuse to admit it to yourself.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  For Eileen’s birthday I have bought her a book. This is a risky gift, like giving a pig farmer a bottle of eau de cologne or an AAA membership to a person who has lost her driver’s license. Eileen doesn’t read. OK, that’s not entirely true. She reads People and Sass! and the occasional Danielle Steel. But in Eileen’s mind, reading is something people were forced to do in olden days until TV was invented.

  I think I’m pretty safe, since the book is Jon Bon Jovi, a biography written by Laura Jackson. Eileen loves Bon Jovi. She is a rock ’n’ roll chick. So rock ’n’ roll that she searched the Tri-State area for the ultimate town where she could live her life’s dream of doing hair by day and listening to classic rock by night.

  She found her El Dorado (not the ELO album) when she went to the Allentown Fair in Allentown, Pennsylvania, to see Mötley Crüe. Next we knew, she’d taken up residence in Lehigh, one city over, and was working as a hairdresser in a neighborhood salon. In Lehigh, Eileen’s in her element.

  It takes me a little over an hour to reach Eileen’s home, which is half of a brick walkup. Camaros, Corvettes, and pickup trucks line her block. These belong to Eileen’s many friends who, if they’re not fellow hairdressers or gum-snapping clients, are gym-rat pals of Jim’s, Eileen’s boyfriend who divides his time between fitness training and guessing the weight of other shoppers in the mall.

  I steel myself as I hear the rough laughter emanating from her backyard, over which hangs a white haze of barbecue smoke. This is not really my crowd. But it is my sister and it is her thirty-third birthday, so I suck it up.

  No one notices as I enter through the back gate, carrying my gift-wrapped book and a tray of cookies I picked up at ShopRite. No one offers to help as the cookie tray tips and four or five cookies fall onto the grass. If I were like the other women in skintight, low-riding jeans with boob jobs and big, teased hair, these men would drop their foam beer coolers and come rushing to my aid. Instead they give me the same look I got at the Annex—passing curiosity and then, just as quickly, rejection.

  “Let me help you with this.” One of Eileen’s friends teeters over to me in heels that would give an orthopedist fits. She is wearing a leopard-print, off-the-shoulder top and a black leather skirt. It crosses my mind that she has escaped from the circus. Or, perhaps, from the cast of Shampoo.

  “That’s too bad you dropped some,” she says, her long red acrylic nails pinching the cookies. “And you went through all the trouble baking them.”

  They’re on a tray that says in bold black letters SHOPRITE BAKERY DEPARTMENT.

  “Bubbles!” A slim woman in dark blue jeans and a red cotton sweater runs over. “Get up. Bending over like that, everyone can see up your skirt.”

  Bubbles seems confused as to how this could be a problem. “Only if they’re looking, Sandy,” she says.

  “Trust me. They’re looking,” says Sandy.

  I retrieve the last cookie and put it on the plate (that ol’ ten-second rule). Then I make a point of thanking Bubbles, who squints at me as she brushes off her knees. “Wow. You must be Eileen’s sister. You’re the spitting image. Isn’t she the spitting image, Sandy?”

  “The spitting image,” says Sandy, who seems not so sure. “Are you the one who knows Belinda Apple?”

  This is destined to be my role in life, I see now. In my obituary they will write: Nola Ann Devlin, who knew Belinda Apple, died yesterday. Belinda Apple was not by her bed. Perhaps it will be carved on my tombstone.

  “I’m her editor at Sass!” I say.

  “I love that magazine,” Bubbles squeals. “You know what article I liked the best?”

  “ ‘Which Nail Polish Makes You Lucky’?”

  “No. Though that was a good one, even if no way does Purple Passion help you win the Lotto. Trust me. I’ve been wearing it for years and all I’ve ever won is a Megabucks fiver. Anyway, it was that piece about that New York Times reporter’s eighty-five days in prison.”

  I must admit I am taken aback by this. “Bubbles used to be a hairdresser,” Sandy offers. “But now she’s a journalist.”

  “Where?” I ask, thinking, The Playboy Channel?

  “The News-Times, our local paper,” Bubbles says. “Mr. Salvo, he’s my editor there, he wants me to read more articles on newspaper reporting. Usually, they’re as dull as overprocessed hair unless they involve some celebrity who’s suing the National Enquirer. Anyway, that article gave me chills because what happened to her almost happened to me. A judge threatened to put me in jail for not turning over my notes.”

  Wow! I am impressed. And humbled. Shows you should never judge a book by its cover or, in this case, a floozy by her lumpy mascara.

  “I mean, in prison you’re only allowed a five-minute shower every other day. It takes me ten minutes just to get a good lather. Isn’t that like a violation of the Geneva Convention or something, Sandy?”

  Sandy gives me a knowing look.

  “There you are, Nola.” My mother in her trademark denim jumper and booster pins is coming across the lawn. “Oh, good, you brought the cookies I ordered.”

  “She must have been baking all morning,” Bubbles says.

  Mom stares at her.

  “Mom,” I say, “this is Bubbles.”

  “Yes. Everyone knows Bubbles.” Mom takes the tray out of my hand and does the old grip on my elbow. It is the grip that she has used since I was in kindergarten to get across that I am in deep dirt. “Can I talk to you privately?”

  Mom doesn’t wait for me to say good-bye as she drags me over to the garbage cans. “Where is Belinda?”

  “In England.”

  “I know that.” Mom heaves her shoulders. “I mean, it’s Eileen’s birthday.”

  Still not getting it. “And . . .”

  “And, you promised Belinda would call.”

  Oh, crap. I completely forgot. With all the craziness going on, my exploded car and Deb’s weight-loss surgery, the investigation and the lusciousness of Chip, making a fake phone call to my sister has moved to the bottom of my to-do list.

  “It’s supposed to be her birthday present, a personal phone call from a big important celebrity like Belinda.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I forgot to ask her.”

  “You forgot!” Mom lifts the tray as though she’s about to hurl the cookies at me. “How could you forget?”

  “I was . . . busy.”

  “Geesh, Nola. You can be so self-centered sometimes. You’re hitting middle age. You have to learn to start putting other people first, or you’re going to grow into one of those selfish old spinsters who frets over every little thing. Like Aunt Gerta who used to throw a fit if the label of her tea bag fell in the cup.”

  What she’s saying is wrong on so many levels, I can’t even respond.

  “Eileen’s going to be heartbroken. She told everyone that Belinda would call. She’s counting on it.”

  It’s a moment like this when I’m glad I bring Belinda’s cell phone wherever I go. “All right, Mom. I will try Belinda in London and ask her to call Eileen. I’ll need to, um”—I glance at my rental—“drive up the block to the hill because there’s better reception there.”

  My mother nods in agree
ment. I love telling her bullshit technical stuff like this because she has no clue, though she pretends to be hip. “That’s a good idea, Nola. Yes, the hill. Better reception. Try it. I’ll tell Eileen to stand by the phone just in case.”

  No pressure there.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I hand my mother the book, slip out the gate, grab Belinda’s phone, and run smack into Jim. Eileen’s Jim—aka the Jack Russell terrier.

  Here’s the thing about Jim. Besides being a reincarnated wire terrier—which in itself makes you want to put him on a leash and tie him up outside—he has a shtick. A stupid human trick. You know how some grown men pull pennies from behind children’s ears or can turn their eyelids inside out? Jim’s shtick is that he can guess people’s weight—to the ounce.

  I kid you not. It’s freaky. It also makes you want to strangle him.

  “Two hundred and . . .” He puts his finger to his temple like his brain is a calculator.

  I can’t let him go on. I can’t bear to hear the number spoken out loud. “Nope. Not today, Jim,” I say, cutting him off.

  I try to move past him, but Jim blocks me on the sidewalk. He is a good two inches shorter than I am and is wearing a navy-blue-and-white Adidas tracksuit. I don’t think I’ve seen him in anything else. “Not so fast, Nola. Now that we’re alone, tell me, how’s that diet I gave you working out?”

  “Uh . . .” I have no idea, because I threw it in a trash can in a rest area off I-78.

  “Have you been staying off the carbs like I told you?”

  “You see . . .”

  “ ’Cause it’s the carbs that will kill you. That and the hidden fructose in everything that’s processed. Goddamn corn lobby.” He smacks a fist into the palm of his hand.

  Jim is obsessed with the corn lobby triumph of 1980, which he claims was able to successfully remove fructose as a sugar from nutrition labels. That’s why Americans have been fat ever since, according to him. I don’t dare tell him that I was fat long before 1980.