“Jim!” Eileen barks. “I thought I told you to stop guessing people’s weight. It’s so embarrassing.”
“What? What? She should be happy. Last I saw her on your birthday she was at two hundred—”
Eileen shakes her head ever so slightly. Jim, fortunately, takes the hint.
“Why don’t we sit?” I suggest, leading them over to my “living area,” where I have arranged a pitcher of iced tea and homemade lemon cookies. Otis growls at Jim. He knows a reincarnated Jack Russell terrier when he sees one.
Eileen throws herself down, reaches for a cookie, and then, meeting Jim’s stern gaze, drops it. “If this is about the bridesmaids dresses, I want you to know that Mom has totally nixed those.”
“So what are the plans?” I ask.
“The usual. It is really boring.”
She doesn’t have to tell me. I know the drill by heart.
“Wedding at two in the afternoon. Absolutely no evening wedding allowed. No rice. No confetti. Not even birdseed to be thrown. After that, a reception at the Union Club. Beer. Wine. Soda. Coffee. And buffet hors d’oeuvres to cut down on the cost of waitstaff. Which means”—she holds up her well-manicured hand and ticks off her fingers—“no band. No deejay. No champagne. No sit-down dinner. Not even a big cake. It’s all going to be over by seven.”
Jim clears his throat. “I’d contribute more, ’cept that I’m trying to gather as much capital together as I can.”
“Don’t tell Mom and Dad, but Jim’s breaking out of Valley Fitness. He wants to start his own gym and he’s looking for business partners. He’s even drawn up a business plan.”
“Really?” I say. It’s the first interesting thing I’ve heard Jim do. “And how will your gym be better than Valley Fitness?”
“Better located,” he says, straightening. “I got in on an old commercial property in Hellertown, right off I-78 near the waste haul. Perfect site for a gym ’cause you can get the commuters going back and forth from Jersey, coming into the Valley to work. My motto’s going to be ‘No Excuses!’ ’cause we’re gonna be open really early and really late.”
“Jim’s got the septic and zoning approvals already. It’s going to be—”
“Jim’s Gym!” I exclaim.
“Hey!” Eileen claps. “I like that.”
Jim nods in approval. “You know, I hadn’t thought of Jim’s Gym but I have to say, that’s not bad. Not bad at all.”
It boggles the mind how he hadn’t thought of Jim’s Gym. Never mind.
“Anyway, the reason I asked you guys to meet me here was to discuss the wedding.”
Eileen sinks into the couch, dreading the inevitable lecture.
“It turns out, Eileen, that you won’t have to worry about your wedding being, as you say, set in Palookaville.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve gone ahead and made arrangements for you to have a seven p.m. candlelight ceremony right here in Princeton at St. Anne’s, followed by a full sit-down dinner for two hundred in Barnard Hall.”
Eileen seems confused. “The Barnard Hall in the university?”
“That’s the one. Decorated to the hilt, any way you like it.”
“What?!” Eileen pushes Jim aside and pops up, rigid. “Are you for real?”
I suppress a smile of absolute joy. “Completely.”
“Mom and Dad are paying for that?”
“Noooo.” I grab an iced tea and take a sip. “Belinda is. She has offered to pay for the entire wedding, or at least up to a hundred thousand dollars.”
She slaps her hand across her mouth in shock.
“Good going, girlie.” Jim hi-fives the air. “I knew that British chick would go all out for you. You were smart to make a celebrity your maid of honor. Probably got wind of the Manville thing and said to herself, uh, no way.”
“She did no such thing,” I correct, monitoring Eileen, who is this close to fainting. “Belinda would have been perfectly fine in Manville. She did this because she knew a winter candlelight wedding was what Eileen’s always dreamed of.”
“But . . .” Eileen runs her hands over her tiny hips, trying to comprehend it all, not letting herself get too excited until she knows it’s for real. “But . . . Mom and Dad.”
“I’ve already cleared it with them. When I told them why Belinda wanted to pay full boat, they couldn’t argue.”
Eileen regards me with caution. “Why? Why would Belinda want to do this for me? We’ve had two phone calls at most.”
“Because she works for your sister, dingbrain!” Jim shouts. “She’s trying to suck up to the management at Sass! Geesh. Don’t you know anything about business?”
This gift would be so much more pleasurable if Eileen were marrying someone who didn’t need regular rabies shots. “Actually, Jim, there’s a sad twist to this story.”
I stroll over to the window with my hands behind my back so I won’t have to keep a straight face. “You see, Belinda doesn’t want anyone to know this but she has”—I pause for dramatic effect—“only months to live.”
Eileen lets out a gasp and again slaps her hand across her mouth. “Does Nigel know?”
Nigel? What a bizarre first question. Why would . . . Then I remember how Nigel and Belinda were supposed to be an item. “Uh, yes. In fact it was Nigel who reserved Barnard Hall.” A relatively easy task, considering the school would be closed during Christmas break anyway.
There is an awful choking sound. When I turn from the window, my heart clenches to see Eileen in full sob. She has her head on Jim’s shoulder and he’s patting her soothingly, his mind obviously calculating the expenses Belinda has just saved him.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s just that . . . it’s so nice of her,” Eileen gulps. “No one’s ever done anything so nice like that for me, ever.” Eileen lifts her head and dabs her eyes with a napkin from the lemon cookies, getting powdered sugar all over her cheeks. “It’s as though Belinda somehow knows me, knows me deep down inside.”
I am touched. I am also tempted to scream, I do know you deep down inside! You’re my sister and I love you, Eileen. But I remember what Father Mike said, to give generously and to give anonymously.
“Yes, well.” I sniff back my own tears.
And then an awful thing happens. Eileen plunges her hand into her purse. “I should call Belinda right away to thank her.”
Panic. This could be bad. My Belinda phone is in my bedroom and turned on. “Not a great idea. She’s in the hospital for a few days and can’t be reached.”
“Oh.” Eileen’s face falls. “Is she going to be all right for the wedding?”
“I should hope so. Meanwhile, you have no time to waste, Eileen. Call this woman,” I say, handing her a sheet of paper with a name and number written on it. “She’s your wedding planner, Helen Whittingham.”
Eileen delicately takes the paper as though it were gold leaf. “I’ve heard of her. She’s awesome.”
“She’s expecting you to call this afternoon. We’re getting started on this late, you know. You and Jim are going to have to attend accelerated sessions with Father Mike, and then there’s the dress you want . . .”
“You mean the Christos? The ivory, strapless—”
“That’s the one. You’re supposed to order it at least six months in advance for fittings so I went ahead and just bought it, with Belinda’s permission, that is.”
“Ayyyee!” Eileen is back to being ecstatic as she leaps off the couch and throws her arms around my neck, squealing so loudly that my eardrums are about to burst. “Belinda might be paying for all this, but I just knew you had some input.” She cups my face in her hands. “Thank you, thank you, thank you . . . thank you so much for introducing me to Belinda.”
Slam! Sucker punched. Mustn’t let it get to me. Giving for giving’s sake and all that.
Jim snorts after Eileen races out for a quick introductory meeting with Helen. “So what am I supposed to do while she’s busy with all that? I’m not s
pending my Sunday afternoon flipping through cake books.”
“No,” I say, smiling sweetly. “Why don’t you relax. Read the newspaper or something.”
“Forget that. I’m going to show you how to drop that extra weight once and for all.”
“Here’s your problem.” Jim plunks down an innocent-looking can of diced tomatoes with basil and garlic. “Read the ingredients. Out loud.”
I read the ingredients. “Tomatoes. Water. High fructose corn syrup—”
“Aha! Stop right there. High fructose corn syrup.”
“Oh, no. Not this with the 1980 corn lobby again.”
“You can laugh all you want. In the end, I’m speaking the truth.” He drops the can in a bag that we will schlep down to the local food shelf.
Where I’d assumed that I’d purged all junk food by cleaning out my cupboard of nachos, Hershey’s syrup, movie butter popcorn, and Snickers bars, I apparently couldn’t have been more wrong. Who knew that in almost every “healthy food” I’d been eating lurked high fructose corn syrup and added fat?
Take for example the multigrain bread I’d chosen as a “complex carbohydrate,” far preferable to Wonder. Guess what? It has more calories and the same amount of fiber as two chocolate-chip cookies. Let me tell you, I would have far preferred the cookies.
Or the “diet” granola bar I’ve been grabbing for breakfast. Jim had a total fit about that. Turns out the granola bar has fewer nutrients and as much sugar as a Pop-Tart.
Cruel, cruel world. Why do you mock me with chocolate-chip cookies and Pop-Tarts?
“Processed sugar.” Jim flicks out a finger. “And unnecessary fat.” He flicks out another finger. “These are the two enemies hidden everywhere that are making Americans huge and are keeping you from getting below—”
“Watch it,” I warn him. “Keep your weightstimates to yourself.”
“Knowledge is power, Nola.”
“Yeah, yeah. Why don’t you tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
This is the moment Jim’s been waiting for, the opportunity to stand on his soapbox and preach to the fat girl. “You’re going to learn to eat like nature intended you to eat—as an omnivorous mammal.”
Such big words for a Cro-Magnon. “Which means?”
“A diet made up mostly of raw, organic vegetables followed by a little lean protein—chicken, some beef—and the occasional fruit.”
Yummy.
“You’re going to eat according to when you’re hungry, not by a clock, and you will not overeat. Until you have trained your brain to tell you when to stop, we’ll be limiting your portions so you can develop instinctive portion control.”
“This does sound like fun. What about the four most important food groups—bread, cheese, cookies, and margaritas?”
Jim rolls his eyes, his Cro-Magnon brain not quite able yet to grasp the concept of a joke. “All those things you mentioned are processed or unnatural.”
“Margaritas are so not unnatural. They’re made from limes and tequila, which I happen to know is a derivative of a very natural cactus plant.”
“Processed from a cactus plant. Plus, they contain alcohol, a sugar in a certain chemical form that your body will work to metabolize first, thereby neglecting other more important duties. You don’t see mammals in the wild drinking alcohol, do you? Nor are they downing four cups of coffee every day.”
“They would if they could. Remember that bear with the cocaine—”
“Don’t get distracted.” Jim goes over to the tiny cabinet above my refrigerator, removes my one item of alcohol—a bottle of tequila—and an unopened bottle of margarita mix. “Look at the high fructose corn syrup level in this. If the tequila doesn’t kill you, that damn corn syrup will.”
I stand by his side solemnly as he dumps both down my sink. I fight back memories of my margarita-fueled disaster with Chip.
“As for bread, that’s processed food too, I don’t care how whole the grain is. Hey, you want to eat some quinoa or tabouli, more power to you. But don’t even think about steamed white rice.”
I vow not to think about steamed white rice.
“Brazil nuts are good,” he continues. “High in selenium. So are sunflower seeds for magnesium and vitamin E. Both must be consumed raw and unsalted.”
No salt? Why bother?
Jim’s only exception on “processed” food is yogurt, but I will have to make it myself, using bacteria purchased from the local co-op and organic milk.
Already his diet is working. I am beginning to feel ill.
“I’m telling you, Nola, six weeks on my whole-food, no-sugar, no-fat, no-alcohol, no-caffeine eating plan . . .”
Jim does not like the word “diet.”
“. . . and your body will begin to settle, as I like to call it, to its natural weight. That might not be super thin, but it’ll be healthy and you will live longer and live better because of it. Better yet, you can skip all this low-fat, low-carb marketing hype and all the chemicals that come with those stupid so-called foods. You can stop counting your stupid points. You’re going to have more energy, more happiness, more vitality.”
“Like you?”
Jim disregards this and draws up the plan.
For breakfast he suggests I have a small bowl of either oats or brown rice topped by blueberries and a half an orange. Lunch is either a homemade soup, perhaps miso with tofu or tomato vegetable with a little diced chicken, or a piece of broiled chicken and an artichoke (no butter). Jim is big on artichokes, though, honestly, who packs an artichoke to take to work?
Dinner is a large salad made up of at least five different vegetables including, but not limited to, spinach, carrots, red cabbage, broccoli, sprouts, avocado (though high in fat, it’s a good fat), minced raw garlic (yipes!), and perhaps some black beans—the highest antioxidant legume around. For dessert there’s a couple of dried prunes, a couple of dried apricots.
Apparently, crème brûlée is right out. Go figure.
Beef should be limited to no more than four ounces a week—if that. Fish, though desirable, should be eaten in moderation due to high mercury content. Farm-raised salmon is not acceptable.
Ideally, I should outlaw all cooked foods forever, he says, which rules out meat. Gnawing at uncooked flesh, he tells me, is not an option. Fortunately this also rules out gelatin, which is a check in Jim’s column.
For beverages, I may drink herbal tea until I sprout chamomile buds. Like Weight Watchers and every other diet plan I’ve been on, it is mandatory that I consume at least five glasses of water a day. He swears that I can avoid all sorts of problems, cancer, heart disease, bad skin, an unpleasant personality, by drinking tons of water.
Finally, all the food must be organic.
“People claim you spend more on higher quality food, but lookit”—he holds up a bunch of broccoli—“ain’t no label on this sucker. No marketing budget. No packaging. If you stick to this eating plan, you’ll end up paying a smaller grocery bill because you won’t be paying the man to return dividends to his fat-cat shareholders who don’t give a hoot about your health because they want you to get sick so you’ll by the pharmaceuticals they’ve invested in.”
I know he’s right. I also know that Weight Watchers is right when they harp on reducing how much you eat as well as what you eat. And that Atkins probably had a point too with all that protein, or South Beach with the protein and vegetables. Jane Brody, on the other hand, hit the nail on the head by noting we humans were meant to be gatherers, not hunters, and that nuts, berries, and whole grains are the way to go.
Low-carb. Low-fat. High-protein. No-fat. No-meat. All-meat. Everyone’s right. We lifelong dieters know that intellectually. That’s not the problem.
The problem is that until they find a healthy substitute for ice cream or a nonfattening pan of brownies that can be consumed while reading a Daphne du Maurier novel, I will have to deny my upbringing, which taught me the most natural cure for life’s disappointments is not to exercise or
have another glass of water, but to sit down to a roast chicken dinner with all the trimmings.
Chapter Thirty
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Where are you, darling?
Belinda:
It’s been ages and I’ve heard nothing from you. Not a peep. Not a moan. Not even a shot heard ’round the world fired from Balmoral. (How is dear Prince Charlie and his lovely wife, What’s-Her-Horse?)
Evil rumors are swirling at Sass! that you have gone AWOL or that, perhaps, you never existed to begin with. But of course you exist, darling, as you and I have been in correspondence, though, true, not lately.
You should know that I have been extending myself above and beyond for your editor/ friend Nola Devlin, racking up as many frequent lover points as I can in order to see you.
First I helped her secure Barnard Hall for her sister’s wedding, then I introduced her to Final Draft, a software program used to write screenplays. Now I’ve been giving her screenplay tips during her early morning exercises. She’s become quite a fanatic and is not nearly the cow she used to be. Unfortunately, the strict Miss Devlin insists I join her, though running definitely cuts into my coffee and ciggy time. Quite unpleasant.
I hope these tales of my devotion have stirred some feelings in your desired heart and that you will be able to persuade the Windsors that the MacLeods are actually a fine clan.
By the way, your columns just keep getting better and better. I absolutely adored your answer to ITCHY IN KENTUCKY—“seven years is long enough to put up with a pig. Dump his ass and join the living!”
Give me a ring, luv. Must I admit that I am a tad worried?
Cheers, Nigel
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: re: Where are you, darling?
(The following is an automated reply sent by [email protected])
Thank you for your e-mail. Unfortunately, I will be out of my office on a remote island off the Irish coast until next year and will not be able to access a computer. If this is an urgent matter, please contact my editor, Nola Devlin, at [email protected].
The Cinderella Pact Page 23
