The Cinderella Pact

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  I look forward to replying to your e-mail in the future.

  Belinda Apple

  “OK, what the devil is up with Belinda? A remote island off the Irish coast? One might assume she’s become a monk.”

  Nigel Barnes stands over me, holding his cigarette to the side so the smoke won’t blow into my face while I lace up my Saucony running shoes, which Nancy has insisted that I must own. I am in old black sweats and a purple ADWOFF T-shirt. Nigel, on the other hand, is completely kitted out in Spandex running tights and a matching top, which do absolutely nothing to enhance his skinny body that I’ve just noticed is remarkably devoid of muscles.

  “What’s your obsession with Belinda, anyway?” I bend down and touch my toes.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? We’re meant to be together. She’s British, I’m British. She’s witty, I’m witty—though a bit more erudite, if I do say so. And of course there’s the physical thing. Clearly she’s attracted to me. How can she not be?”

  “How can she not?” I wince as I stretch a somewhat sore hamstring.

  “I mean, I’ve paid my dues. I’ve been patient and attentive. I don’t quite understand why she’s treating me rather brusquely. I thoroughly expected to be tromping the moors around Balmoral by now.”

  I give him a look. “Am I to infer that you’ve been so quote unquote attentive to me so that you can curry favor with Belinda?”

  “Heavens, no. Though . . . is it working? Has she said anything?”

  “Nigel!”

  “Drat it all.” He takes one last drag on his cigarette and gives it a loving glance before tossing it toward the tombstone of Henry J. Wallingford 1923 to 2000.

  I point to the butt and he picks it up dutifully, pinching it between his fingers until we reach a garbage can. “You are such a Puritan, aren’t you? God, Americans can be so tiresome.”

  How Nigel is able to smoke before running, then run faster than I can, in fact, is a physical accomplishment I can’t even begin to fathom. It makes me think of those little air sacs in his lungs, straining with each intake of oxygen, the poor dears.

  “So,” I say, when I am past the initial I-hate-this-my-chest-hurts part of the run, “let’s go back to the screenplay. I’ve gone over a hundred and fifteen pages. Is that too much?”

  “I should say so.” Nigel waves to a couple of students passing us in the early morning fog. “ ’Ello.” They seemed shocked to see him doing anything besides inhaling tobacco or listening to music. “You’ve got to get that page count to under a hundred, luv.”

  “But it’s hard. How am I supposed to condense my life story into one hundred pages, double spaced with margins so wide they would have made us giddy in high school English?”

  “Your life story? I thought this was fiction.”

  “It is . . . kind of.” Stark horror. I’ve slipped and given away too much.

  “I mean, isn’t this about a fat girl who disguises herself as a thin girl à la Cyrano de Bergerac? How, exactly, is that you?”

  I launch into a sprint—one of Jim’s commandments is that for every quarter mile I run, I must sprint until I count to sixty—hoping to avoid Nigel’s enquiring mind. You nincompoop. You have to be more careful. You totally let the cat out of the bag. Speaking of which, where is Otis? He must have sauntered off when I was stretching.

  Nigel catches up to me as I am bent over, panting, exhorting myself to go on because stopping decreases all the benefits of a heart-healthy workout.

  “A terrific thought just occurred to me. One wonders if the rumors are true. That perhaps Belinda Apple never existed. That she is . . . you.”

  I pop up. “What?”

  “It makes sense, really. Here you are, her editor, the only one who seems to have any contact with the bird.”

  “There’s her agent. Charlotte Dawson,” I trill, thereby sounding even more guilty. “Charlotte’s where I get all my news about Belinda.”

  “What news?” Nigel steps closer to me. He really is extremely attractive in that British twit kind of way, the long, angular face and constant half-smile. Straight out of the eighteenth-century drawing room.

  “You know.” I turn and begin a slow run away. “The news about her taking a break.”

  “A break? Where?”

  “To the remote island off the Irish Coast.”

  “Would that be the Kilkenny Island or the Tooraloora Island?”

  I think fast. Tooraloora. I’ve heard of that. “Tooraloora, I believe.”

  “Aha!” He grabs me by the elbow, yanking me back. “There is no such island as the Tooraloora Island. I knew you were fibbing.”

  “I was not. I just forgot.”

  “All right. Then if Belinda does exist, as you say, I want to set a time and a place where I’ll meet her. One on one, in the flesh. Otherwise, I just might have to blow your secret. I don’t care if I have to fly to bloody Galway and take a bloody boat to the Arans . . .”

  Arans. Damn. I should have thought of those.

  “I want to meet this mythical goddess.”

  “OK. Deal.” I stick out my hand. “I hereby invite you to my sister’s wedding here in Princeton on December twenty-seventh, which is being entirely planned by Belinda, who also happens to be the maid of honor.”

  “You mean she’ll be there?” Nigel’s eyes gleam.

  “In a green satin mermaid-cut dress. You won’t want to miss it.”

  “Never fear, I won’t. Even if that means skipping Boxing Day with my great-aunt Docia. A potential million-pound inheritance is nothing compared to meeting Belinda Apple in her creamy white flesh.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It is dawning on me that slowly, gradually, I am merging Belinda Apple’s perfect existence with my imperfect one. It is true: Believe it; be it.

  By November it is no secret at Sass! that I am now writing Belinda’s column. I figured the response would be, “Who’s writing it? Nola? That frump? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I never expected so many editors and writers to stop by my desk to tell me what a great job I was doing, how I was so much better than Belinda and, by the way, was I losing weight or was I doing something different with my hair, because I was really looking good.

  “Honestly?” Lisa told me the other day over lunch (ginger tofu and sweet potatoes—8 points). “I was getting sick of Belinda. She was so flip, especially the way she’d end sentences with really? You’re much more down to earth. Like your advice to Debbie Does Debt. I never knew you had the guts. That was great!”

  Actually, I don’t know how great it was to tell a mother of two who owed Discover $6,578 that it was perfectly ethical of her to call the credit card company’s executives at home and sob pitifully about her children going to school with holes in their shoes thanks to their company’s brutal late fees. I just felt so bad for her. I mean, five years ago she bought a new mattress, some groceries, and paid for repairs on her car and—wham!—suddenly she’s slapped with a huge bill.

  OK. So maybe publishing the names of the executives and their home numbers was a bit over the top. Still, don’t these credit card companies call us at home? And besides, that’s what the magazine’s lawyers are for, right?

  A few months ago I never would have had the courage to do such a thing. I was such a worrywart back then, constantly afraid of getting in trouble. And now, having weathered the Belinda investigation, having stood up to Mr. Bigshot in Hollywood, and having taken responsibility for my health, I’m finding that worry is the world’s most useless, unhelpful emotion. It accomplishes nothing besides spiking your blood pressure and increasing your stress. Better to relax and Be Fab in true Belinda Apple style.

  Like Joel says, we’re all going to be dead in sixty years, so why fret?

  Or maybe it’s the whole-food diet that I’m on (kind of . . . I could take only so many days without Drost dark chocolate or the occasional slice of cheddar). Or the daily exercise that my body now craves.

  Don’t get me wrong. I des
pise running when I start and even after more than four months of regular jogs I still cannot run for four miles without stopping or slowing down. I’m not sure I ever will. I have to mix it up between running and walking. (Or pausing to suddenly examine that fascinating leaf on the ground.)

  But once I’m in the cemetery by myself, away from my neighbors, once my legs have absorbed the shock that they will be expected to exert themselves for the next forty minutes, I am able to breathe deeply and enjoy my body moving simply for moving’s sake. It’s late fall, almost winter. My feet are shuffling through brown leaves. The air is crisp with the promise of new possibilities, and I am now much lighter and healthier than I used to be.

  Except that . . . nothing else has changed. Absolutely nothing.

  I guess I’d always fantasized that when I lost weight, my world would magically transform. That I’d be trim and blond. Birds would alight on my fingers and handsome, amusing, and kind princes would show up at my door carrying very impractical shoes.

  Do you see any princes on my doorstep? Believe me. Bitsy would be all over them like white on rice. That girl is one serious social climber.

  In fact it is stunning how unexciting my life is now that I’m thinner.

  This is my glamorous routine: I get up in the mornings. I drink a glass of water. I do ten brutal push-ups per Jim’s instructions, twenty-five crunches, and a bunch of stretches before clipping the leash on Otis and making my way to the cemetery.

  I’ve also bought a couple of five-pound barbells that I lift while watching taped episodes of General Hospital, stepping into the bathroom to check my technique in the mirror. It’s a heck of a lot better than torturing myself on a treadmill and staring dumbly at CNN, or, worse, battling Rider in the gym weight room.

  After the morning exercise thing, I take a shower, eat some All Bran or brown rice with blueberries or a cut-up dried apricot, count up my Weight Watchers points, pack a lunch of soup in a Thermos and an apple, and go to work. Then I come home, make a salad with some chicken or hard-boiled egg, clean up, maybe do some laundry or a crossword puzzle, work on Belinda’s column, read, watch TV, and go to sleep. The next day I do it again.

  Thrilling, huh?

  There are moments when I feel particularly sorry for myself. Sorry that my days are flowing seamlessly one into the other, sorry that I can’t shake the perception that everyone else is doing better than I am. Nancy’s in shape and back with Ron, at least sexually. Deb is thinner than I ever imagined. Eileen is getting married. Lisa’s dating the real Chip in Tech Ass. While I’m treading water, coming home to my peach apartment and my cat and wondering just how long this loneliness is going to last. Dreading that the answer might be forever.

  These are the days when I’m tempted to chuck it all and call Domino’s for a large pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni. Or when I’m strolling past Olive’s Deli and Bakery on Witherspoon and whiff the heady aroma of warm yeast and baking bread. Why can other people go into Olive’s and order what they want, but not me? Why must I be punished? Why must I never have the pleasure of a sweet almond bear claw on my lips again?

  Give in, a voice whispers. Sweet rich crushed almonds in a buttery, flaky croissant. Just this once. What’s the worst an almond bear claw can do? Don’t you deserve some fun for once, a bit of luxury?

  Then I look down and see what all the bits of luxury have done to my thighs and think no, not today. Change requires change. I can’t suddenly be slim with the same old habits. If I could, I’d stock up on bear claws and chocolate tortes with whipped cream and raspberry sauce. (I think my heart just trembled.)

  To get me through these trials, I rely on the Cinderella Pact and my fellow “journeyers,” Nancy and Deb. Nancy reminds me that an almond bear claw’s not going to kill me, though it could set me back psychologically so why take the risk? Anyway, think of Chester Markham, the nasty owner of the Willoughby. We have to wait only one month to shame him. And as soon as I think of outing Chester as a fat phobe, my dreams of bear claws disappear.

  And that’s what makes the Cinderella Pact so special.

  Sometimes in our efforts to remain on course, Deb or Nancy will meet me at the Quakerbridge Mall after dinner and we’ll motivate ourselves by “doing Lane Bryant.” Doing Lane Bryant involves searching for the smallest size pants, trying them on and discovering—oops!—they’re too big! Nancy will call from the dressing room for a smaller size. I’ll bring it to her and she’ll yell that it’s much too large and both of us will squeal. Sick. I know. But something’s got to get us past the food court.

  Nancy and I don’t dare go into the “normal” end of Lord & Taylor or any major department store, however, for fear that we won’t fit into the sizes they have, that we are without size. We picture the sales clerks pursing their lips as we exit the dressing room filled with pants that couldn’t make it past our knees and the sales clerks politely but firmly directing us to “women’s,” one floor up.

  Deb assures us this is impossible, that we would probably fit into even the fourteens easily. Already she is squeezing herself into size sixteen Kate Hill brown velveteen pants and green beaded camisoles. Deb is distancing herself as far as possible from the decades of her mother’s hand-sewn flowered jumpers. Her sweaters are low-cut and tight, in bright colors like tangerine and lime and lemon. Nothing she owns is in pink, not even her new love—black lace thongs.

  Nancy says Deb is regressing to her twenties, which she misspent as a fat young mama cooped up in a house with young kids. She has taken to lecturing Deb that shooting darts three night a week down at the Tiger Tail with assorted construction crews is flirting with danger.

  “No, it’s not. It’s flirting with men,” Deb says.

  “Have you forgotten that you’re married?” Nancy retorts.

  “So what? Flirting isn’t violating any vows.” Deb flashes her new professionally whitened teeth. “I predict you will be worse than I am once you give in to the sexy women inside each of you.”

  I’m afraid she’s right.

  Not a night goes by that I don’t spend much of my time trying to avoid thinking about Chip, aka Dave Stanton. I don’t need a psych degree on my wall to realize that perhaps I am engaged in some overcompensating. I’d rather do another lap around the cemetery on a ninety-degree day than relive our sunset beach walk in Malibu or, worse, my disastrous margarita-fueled Rod Stewart impersonation. I get red just thinking about it.

  Chip raises all sorts of disturbing questions. If I had been thinner in California, would he have fallen for me? Would he have joined me in bed instead of leaving me with a six a.m. cab call? Would he have called since I got home?

  “Don’t torture yourself,” Nancy says as we cautiously peek in the window of Abercrombie & Fitch, Mecca of the young and thin. “It is what it is. Over. Look back on Chip as your moot court. A warm-up for the real thing. And be grateful he was such a nice guy.”

  “But I don’t want him to be a warm-up. I’m warmed up enough. I’m ready for the real thing.”

  There’s another, far less romantic reason why I try not to think of Chip, and that is the investigation into Belinda Apple. The powers that be at Sass! have been strangely silent on that front. Too silent. There’ve been no e-mails from David Stanton, no missives from Lori DiGrigio. Charlotte Dawson, Belinda’s agent with whom I’ve spoken for all of five minutes since the Sweet Dream production fiasco, says no one from Sass! has contacted her either.

  And then, just when I’m adjusting to the fact that everything is returning to normal, that Chip will not be a part of my life, I open Belinda’s e-mail the Monday after Thanksgiving and find this:

  To: belinda.apple@sassmag.com

  From: hankstamper@hotmail.com

  Re: Private and confidential

  Dear Belinda:

  I’ve been a fan of yours for years and never thought I’d be writing. However, I have a problem that is so personal, I can’t discuss it with anyone I know. So I’m coming to you, albeit reluctantly.


  For many years I’ve been involved with a woman named Olivia who was, I thought, everything I wanted in a wife. She had style, wit, beauty. She was gorgeous. But lately I’ve realized something was missing, something that makes me feel alive and happy.

  This change of feelings started when I went home on business and met a woman who, even in writing this e-mail about her, makes me smile. I met her in a gym weight room, of all places, where she was challenging the biggest man to a dead-lift contest. Later, I witnessed her deliver a swift right hook to a woman who’d insulted her. I know the way I’m describing her makes her sound like a bar hall queen. However, she is anything but.

  During a recent visit to my area, I realized this woman—Nola—was someone I wanted to get to know further. The problem is Olivia, whom I’ve been living with for over a year. She is under the impression, one that I’ll admit I gave her before meeting Nola, that we will be together forever. And part of me feels I owe her that after so many years of a relationship.

  To that end, I tried to forget Nola. I purposely did not call or write her, I did not come home for Thanksgiving. And yet it’s been to no avail. I think of her constantly, wonder how she’s doing, if she’s seeing anyone.

  In short, I think I have fallen in love.

  My question is this: Is it ethical to tell a woman like Olivia who has been with me for so long that I want to separate for a while to consider whether my feelings for Nola are genuine?

  Or should I just “grow up” as my mother says and “do the right thing”?

  I’d appreciate any insight you can offer. Thank you.

  CONFUSED IN CALIFORNIA

  For an hour, I sit in my guest bedroom with Otis on my lap, contemplating all the many ramifications of this note. I cry. I shout. I pace. And then, finally, I sit down and write a private reply from my heart.