The Cinderella Pact

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  “Well, look at you,” Gordon says. “Miss All Dressed Up and Ready to Party. No. No. Don’t cry. That mascara’s not waterproof, honey.”

  I blink to keep from crying until Nigel walks in with a blast of cold. He is in a tux, a real tux, with a white silk scarf. I’ve never seen a man so handsome.

  “Nigel!” I exclaim. “You can really clean up.”

  “Can’t he? Ohmigod.” Gordon feigns a heart attack. “Hold me back.”

  “And for the final touch? I do believe these are Belinda’s slippers.”

  He is holding up a pair of very famous, rhinestone-studded pink cowboy boots, which of course, fit like a dream.

  The Stanton mansion is so lit up with candles and lights that the glow from its windows extends down the long driveway lined by dark, bare oaks.

  “How did you know I was Belinda?” I ask Nigel as we wait in his car until other partiers have stepped inside. Nigel has sent word ahead that Belinda Apple is arriving, to build buzz.

  “Your columns. They were written by someone pretending to be a Brit. I mean, what kind of colloquial dictionary were you using? It was as though you were going out of your way to write things like ‘bangers’ instead of ‘sausages’ and ‘motorway’ instead of ‘freeway.’ ”

  “There is a book, actually.”

  “Burn it. It’s terrible. Then, when I met you, I saw the similarities. I heard about the scandal, did my own snooping around, and had pretty much resolved it was you. Of course, when you told me about your idea for a movie script about a fat girl posing as a thin British girl, well . . . it was obvious, wasn’t it?”

  I smile in the dark. I’ve become very fond of Nigel, whom I once considered a pompous braggart and a fattie bigot. “So, why are you doing all this for me?”

  “Mostly because I like you. You are funny and bright and too good for that rag you work for. Also because I feel tremendously guilty about what I wrote Belinda—a note you must have read.”

  “That said I was big-boned and you couldn’t stand fatties.”

  “That’s the one. But let me ask you, did you ever analyze what made me so afraid to be near fat people?”

  I mull this over. “Because you had a big British nanny who threatened to sit on you?”

  Nigel laughs. “Oh, come on, Belinda. You can do better than that. Who hates fat people the most?”

  And then it hits me. “Because you were once fat yourself.”

  “Huuuge,” Nigel says, holding out his arms to show how big.

  “But you’re so thin!”

  “Not always. I spent most of my youth holed up in my room, listening to music and hiding from the world. Don’t you know that about rock critics? We were all once upon a time loser teenagers.”

  “No. I didn’t know.”

  “Then I went to university and started to slim down. Of course, you spend your nights going to the Palladium, snorting coke and smoking cigarettes until three, and you’ll find your weight drops.”

  “Nigel,” I say in a reproving tone.

  “The coke is gone, and I’m cutting down on the fags, promise.” He peers out the window. “It’s been fifteen minutes. By now you’ll have quite a crowd gathered. Ready?”

  “Wait.” I put a hand on his arm to stop him. “You’ve been so wonderful to me. I have to know. Are you looking for something between us?”

  Smiling gently, Nigel leans over and kisses me sweetly on the cheek. “I am madly, deeply in love with you, my dear Nola. But I’m afraid there already is something between us. And he’s right in there.”

  I give his arm a firm squeeze and, mindful of Gordon’s mascara warning, resolve not to cry as Nigel pulls up to the valet and we get out, ready to meet whatever awaits us as Nigel Barnes and Belinda Apple—the party’s celebrity couple.

  Nigel’s right. There is a small crowd gathered as we enter the grand marble foyer. The air is filled with the sound of a string quartet playing Bach, along with merry conversation and glasses clinking as waiters and waitresses spin by carrying large silver platters of hors d’ouevres. I drink in the deep, Christmasy aromas of freshly cut pine boughs and woodsmoke.

  It’s not until the brass quartet switches to a rousing rendition of “Rule Britannia” that I realize all eyes are on us. I falter, and Nigel grips my arm tighter.

  As we pass by, I nod to Governor Christie Todd Whitman, who points me out to Governor Thomas Keane, a large, affable fellow with a plaid cummerbund. I may be wrong, but I think that was former Governor Jim McGreevey in the corner. Is he trying to pick up Bruce Springsteen?

  “You’re doing fine,” Nigel assures me quietly. “Keep your head up, your lips in a smile, and don’t forget the emperor who had no clothes.”

  “The emperor who had no clothes,” I reply, spying Lori’s black coif bobbing up and down, trying to get a closer, better glimpse of Belinda. “What do you mean?”

  “If they believe you are Belinda and you believe you are Belinda, then, voilà, you’re Belinda,” he says. “Just hope and pray there’s no snotty kid to rat you out.”

  Around us I catch faint whispers of: “Belinda Apple! . . . She’s gorgeous. . . . So much taller than I thought she’d be. . . . They make such a lovely couple. . . . Don’t you just love the British? . . . Is it true that they’re engaged?”

  Yet there’s just one person I’m looking for. One man I desperately want to see. Where is he?

  “Hey, Belinda!” I turn to find myself face-to-face with none other than Alicia, Lori’s evil—but fortunately daft—assistant. She is wearing a slinky red dress, the straps of which keep sliding off her slumped shoulders, and she shakes my hand limply, not recognizing me one bit. “I just want to tell you that I so like your columns. Also, thanks for writing back to Works for the Worst Boss Ever.” She winks. “I’ve got my résumés out now, thanks to you.”

  Excellent. It is the best news I’ve heard all week.

  I’m about to tell her so when I see Nancy and Ron by a baby grand piano. Ron looks at me and does a double-take.

  “Uh-oh,” I say to Nigel. “I think I’ve just been spotted by the snotty kid.”

  “Not to worry, my dear. I will execute Plan B. In here.” With apologies to Alicia, Nigel yanks me into a room of glass walls, illuminated only by tiny lights around its edges. “The conservatory. Every nouveau riche house has one.”

  “It’s not nouveau riche. It goes back to the nineteenth century.”

  “Exactly.” He glances behind his shoulder. “You wait here. Stare out at the falling snow or something. Look diaphanous.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get your host . . .” He holds up a finger. “Don’t say it. I’m not kidding about that pumpkin threat.”

  He leaves and I stand with my hands behind my back, trying to act like an unapproachable celebrity who very much wants to be left alone. I can sense people milling around behind me.

  “Miss Apple?” A woman who, thankfully, I’ve never met comes up to me holding a cocktail napkin and a pen. “Would you mind signing this? I am such a fan of your column.”

  “No problem,” I say, completely forgetting my British accent.

  “I thought your answer to Split My Pants in Bayonne was hysterical. I split my pants once in public and nearly died. Scotch tape is a great idea.”

  I’d like to tell her this is based on a true story. My own true story, but I don’t dare. Instead I sign Belinda Apple with a flourish, say thank you, and go back to the window.

  “I think she doesn’t want to be bothered,” my fan informs the rest of the group.

  They leave, and it is getting cold and I worry that before Nigel can snare Chip, Alicia will remember who I am or Deb will rush to thank me and that’ll be the end of my night. All I want is two minutes, a minute maybe, alone with him so I can hear him say the words that he’s written only to Belinda.

  That he is falling in love with me.

  “Belinda?”

  There is a light touch at my shoulder, and I tur
n cautiously.

  I have to keep myself from saying his name, though I want to desperately. To think that this was once the truck-driving guy I passed off as a computer geek. In his own tux he is even more handsome than Nigel, and the white bow tie at his throat makes him sexier too, if indeed that is possible. He smells faintly of a subtle cologne that Olivia probably purchased for him.

  Olivia. She must be here somewhere. Does she know I’ve arrived? Will I have to meet her? I don’t want to. I just want him for one minute like this in the darkened conservatory under the tiny twinkling white lights. Just us and no one else. My miniature fairy tale to hold in my heart, to take out and read when I’m alone years from now.

  “Belinda,” he says again. “I’m so glad you came. We finally meet.”

  “David?” I pretend. “Thank you for inviting me.” I don’t even try to fake the British accent.

  “You look stunning.”

  “As do you.”

  “My God,” he says, seemingly speechless. “I had no idea you were so . . . beautiful.”

  We’re silent suddenly. And then the string quartet in the next room launches into “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” the sultriest Christmas song ever.

  “Care to dance?” he says, taking my hand.

  “I’d love to.”

  Which is when he brings me to him and we sway together drifting as if on air, spinning around the conservatory, the tiny white lights like little stars, blinking on the winter’s eve.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have much privacy,” he whispers. “Everyone’s watching us.”

  “Including . . . Olivia?”

  “I would assume. Listen, I need to see you alone. Not like this. How about—”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then later.”

  “No . . . it won’t work.”

  “Are you going away?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Maybe forever.”

  “But there’s the wedding. . . .”

  “I may have to miss it,” I say. “Nola will take my place. She should be the maid of honor anyway.”

  “Ah,” he says. “Nola.”

  “I came here to help you,” I say as he leads me dangerously to the brightly lit room where other couples, including Nancy and Ron, are dancing. “Tell me what you’ve decided. Is it Olivia or Nola? And please be honest.”

  He pauses and I don’t dare look at him. If I do, I know it’ll be I who will have to be honest with him and I cannot risk that right now.

  “Interesting choice of words,” he says. “I, for one, am always honest.”

  “I mean about”—I bite my lip, scared to say the words—“whom you love.”

  “I can only love a woman who is honest with me, and that is not Nola. How can I truly love a woman who doesn’t trust me enough to confide her deepest secret?”

  Hesitantly I meet his gaze, which, in the warm light of the party, is piercing and yet full of longing. Desire surges through me. It’s a force almost as strong as the fear that is gripping me at the same time. I had never known it was possible to so love another person.

  Chip reaches out and strokes my cheek with tender affection. “It’s OK.”

  “You don’t understand.” My heart is fluttering.

  “I do. Better than you think.”

  “I need to go.”

  “Don’t. I have to talk to you. I have to be with you.”

  There is a murmur behind us as a group of women marches in, led by a large maid. One of the women I’ve never seen before, though I surmise that this regal brunette in a multicolored, body-hugging sequined gown must be Olivia. The other two I know all too well. Alicia and . . .

  Oh, God. Lori DiGrigio.

  “Where is she?” Lori is shouting.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Chip says. “She won’t try anything as long as I’m here.”

  “It’s not Lori I’m worried about,” I say earnestly. “It’s Olivia.”

  “Olivia?” Chip stops dancing. “Do you really want to meet her?”

  “I, uh . . . I.” No, I’d like to say. Not exactly. I’d like to do anything but.

  “Then you will.” Turning to the three women he says, “Olivia? There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.”

  Cautiously I allow my gaze to meet Lori’s. Her mouth is gaping so wide her lips have disappeared and her body is swaying slightly. Her eyes seem to be swimming. The tall woman bends down to inquire if there is something the matter. The tall woman who is Olivia.

  Except . . . why is the maid coming forward?

  Chip reaches out and takes her hand. “Olivia. This is the woman I was telling you about. Um, she calls herself Belinda Apple.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Olivia says, her large moon-face breaking into a broad grin. “I read you every week.”

  Thickly, I understand and feel both relieved, extraordinarily happy, and downright pissed.

  “Olivia has been with our family since I was sixteen. Apparently she won’t hear of leaving me, even though she hates Jersey. Now, that’s true love, don’t you think?”

  I’ve been played.

  I look up to see Chip laughing so hard that the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are practically ruts. He’s known all along. He knew from the get-go that I was Nola and Nola was Belinda, and he turned the tables on me. Here I fell for his scam and thought he was in love with Olivia.

  Then it crosses my mind. What if he never loved me? What if he just wanted to out me as Belinda? And this was how he did it. For all I know this whole party was one elaborate ruse too. Did Lori know?

  Suddenly, I am drowning in confusion. Everyone is staring at me. Chip is asking me something but I can’t hear what he’s saying.

  Over by the stairs, I see Nigel waving his keys in rescue.

  Flee, a voice in my head urges. Run. Run as fast as you can!

  No. Not yet. First I have to know once and for all if Chip’s declarations of love were real. Or if, like his game with Olivia, it was all a tease.

  Summoning all my courage, I boldly throw my arms around his neck and plant on his lips the most fantastic kiss I can imagine. For eternity, the craziness around us disappears as he puts his arms around me and pulls me tight, not willing to let me go. I swear that if no man ever kisses me ever again, I will never care because I have been kissed like this.

  “Don’t go,” he says when we finally break apart. “Stay.”

  “I can’t,” I say, pushing back. “Not until you decide whether you can live with the truth, that I’ve been lying to you all this time. And if you can find it in your heart to love me, still.”

  And then, not waiting for an answer, I run as fast as I can to the safety of Nigel.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Don’t even ask me what happened next, because I don’t remember. Well, not everything. Nigel kindly took me home, but when we pulled up to my apartment it occurred to me that Bitsy might be the type to lead a group back to my house where she would tell everyone that she knew all along that I was the real Belinda Apple and did they want to go upstairs and have a look for themselves?

  “I have an idea,” Nigel suggested when he saw me staring at my house in utter terror. “How about we go back to my place? We’ll order in Chinese and you can, you know, hang out as you Americans say. It so happens that I have wonderful tranquilizers at my fingertips.”

  In case you are getting the idea that martinis and Chinese food in Nigel’s artfully decorated loft led to something more, then you should know that for most of the evening I vented while Nigel drank and ate sparingly of his kung pao chicken.

  Finally, tired and worn from listening to me recite for the seventeenth time, “ ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,’ ” and arguing over whether that was Shakespeare or Sir Walter Scott, Nigel popped me one of his Valiums, and I promptly passed out.

  The next morning I slipped back home before dawn (still in my Ann Taylor, no less) an
d composed my resignation letter.

  To: david.stanton@sassmag.com

  From: nola.devlin@sassmag.com

  Re: My resignation

  Dear Mr. Stanton:

  I hope you will consider this e-mail to be my notice of resignation, to spare you the task of outing the “skunk” you now know is me.

  In addition, for reasons that are obvious to you, I am happy to say that Belinda Apple is entering retirement. I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding a suitable replacement, since it appears that everyone has a much better grip on ethics than I.

  It is with a heavy and sad heart that I am resigning. I wish everyone at Sass! the best success ever and thank them truly for the wonderful years we worked together.

  Sadly,

  Nola

  cc: lori.digrigio@sassmag.com (prison camp overseer)

  With a flourish, I pressed Send and shut down my computer, resolving not to check it again until the new year. Then I wrapped my Christmas gifts, threw my new clothes into a suitcase and Otis into a cat carrier, grabbed my bridesmaid’s dress, and headed to my parents’—the haven of comfort food and uncomplicated living.

  I was halfway there when I pulled a U-turn, came home, and yanked the line on my answering machine to spare myself Lori’s angry calls.

  Christmas passed without merit, as though Christ’s birthday was insignificant compared to whether enough poinsettias had been ordered for the reception and whether the organist knew how to play “Whiter Shade of Pale” (a prank my cousins and I were planning to play on Eileen).

  Throughout it all, I ate too many cookies and drank too much wine, sure signs that I was a nervous wreck. On Christmas Day, a day I’m normally up at first light, I slept in until my mother woke me at nine, insisting I go to church, where I sang “O Come All Ye Faithful” tepidly.

  As each day progressed with no word from Chip, I felt more and more numb, as though I was going through the motions of living. For the most part it was an out-of-body experience. It was as though I was looking down on myself. There I was, trimming the tree. There I was, cooking roast beef for Christmas dinner. There was Eileen, opening her stocking and Mom opening her present (a bread maker) from Dad.