The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  Patty is stunningly in shape for a woman who lives on caramel lattes and doughnuts and who never exercises. She manages to call her client and have a normal conversation while I’m quickstepping and almost out of breath.

  When she hangs up, I say, “You can’t buy yourself an engagement ring. You don’t even have a boyfriend. I dated Hugh for four years. My family and friends expected we’d get married. He proposed on national TV. But you . . . you haven’t dated anyone.”

  She stops dead in her tracks. “I have too been dating.”

  “Casual sex with men you meet at the deli counter is not dating, Patty.”

  “The gourmet condiments aisle of Whole Foods, for your information.”

  “It’s organic food, Patty. Not orgasmic.”

  We have arrived at the front of Bickman’s Jewelers, with its tantalizing glass cases dripping with brilliantly lit tennis bracelets and diamond pendants. My heart takes a tiny leap. Jewelry stores always do it for me.They’re the mineralogical equivalent of champagne.

  “This is the one that caught my eye.” She is pressed against the glass window, pointing to her object of desire—a garish fake cocktail ring.

  It is the kind of ring my great aunt Rosalie from Tampa, Florida, would have worn had cubic zirconia been invented back in her day.Three oval-shaped stones, a large one in the center and two smaller ones on the sides, on white gold.The sheer weight of it would make typing impossible.

  "It’s ...” I hesitate, careful not to hurt her feelings. “. . . huge.”

  “And people will notice it, right? That’s what I want, an immediate recognizable symbol that I am engaged to a man with beaucoup bucks. I want their jaws to flap.”

  “Their jaws will flap, all right.”

  “Now, how about you?” Inside she directs me to a case featuring the far less expensive cubic zirconias. “You need something classic like a basic solitaire. Something that is without doubt an engagement ring.”

  I dillydally by the diamonds, stunned by the price tags. Five thousand dollars?

  “Here it is.” She stabs at a rather large solitaire in a genuine platinum setting.“That’s exactly what people expect in an engagement ring. No sapphires or rubies to confuse the mix. Just a nice, simple solitaire.”

  “I don’t know. I always imagined my ring, when I got engaged, would be more antique. Maybe something my fiancé’s grandmother would have worn. Filigree and emeralds. Or old-fashioned, like pearls.”

  Patty is regarding me with incomprehension. “This isn’t your real ring, numbnut.This is the fake ring.This is the ring for you or my name isn’t Patricia Ann Minelli McGowan Pugliese.”

  “Minelli?”

  “No relation.Trust me. My people do not do show tunes.”

  “Looking for something special?” A stylish young blond clerk in a black pantsuit with flawless skin approaches. How do they get that skin, this new generation of women? Is it just youth? Tons of bottled water? Bronzer? Tanning bed? Because, I swear, we did not have skin like that when we were in our twenties.

  “We’re looking for an engagement ring,” Patty announces. “The both of us.”

  The clerk takes stock of Patty and me.“You mean you’re looking for a commitment ring. For your right hand.”

  "No. Engagement. I like this one here, don’t you, Genie?” She is still stuck on that Aunt Rosalie cocktail special.

  “That’s nice,” says the clerk, who must sense an imminent sale, because she informs us her name is Keira and insists on shaking our hands. “But, considering your unique situation, perhaps you’d be more interested in our Love and Honor collection or maybe Love and Power.They’re very popular among couples like ... you.”

  “Us?” Patty turns back to her obsession, as if being drawn by an invisible tractor beam.

  “Celtic rings are also popular, or matching three-stone rings symbolizing yesterday, today, and tomorrow.” Keira pulls out two bands, each with three glittering stones. “Of course, if these were diamonds it’d be prohibitively expensive. But these are made of a material with more refractive qualities than cubic zirconia called Moissanite.”

  “Sounds like something Curly of the Three Stooges would buy, right, Genie?” Patty nudges me. "Hey, Moe! How about some Moissanite.”

  She snorts at her own joke while I’m thinking, why matching rings?

  Keira smiles indulgently. “How long have you two been together?”

  “Omigod.” Patty waves this off. “You don’t want to know.We go back forever.We were roomies all through college.”

  "Aww. That’s sweet. It’s nice that couples like you can finally make it legal.”

  Which is when I get where Keira’s coming from. "Patty, Keira thinks we’re a couple. A romantic couple.”

  “Huh?” Patty does a double take of the rings. “Oh, no. I’m not ... we’re not ...”

  "Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I add, in case our clerk happens to be a lesbian.

  "Of course not.” She smiles nervously. "So your fiancé . . .”

  “Oh, there is no fiancé. For either of us.” Patty is back to her Aunt Rosalie ring. “Do you know how much this is? I love it.”

  Now, thoroughly confused, Keira reaches in the case and turns over the tiny white tag.“In white gold that’s 997 dollars. However, we also have it in platinum at 1,994 dollars.”

  That’s outrageous.

  “Two thousand dollars?” Patty yells. “For glass?”

  “Manufactured diamond,” Keira corrects. “There’s a lot of work and design that goes into creating a quality CZ engagement ring. It’s guaranteed to last five years. A lot longer than many marriages.”

  Boy, am I bummed. Not about the five-year-marriage statistic, though I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s just that I had no idea I’d be putting up thousands of dollars to get a half-decent ring.

  Seeing our disappointment, she says,“If there’s no fiancé, then, can I ask, what do you need this ring for?”

  Patty checks with me to make sure she has the green light to explain. “It’s a long story, but the bottom line is that it has come to our attention that there are many distinct advantages to being engaged women. Therefore, we’d like to partake of these opportunities.”

  “You mean, being engaged right now solves a lot of problems,” she clarifies.

  "Kind of,” I say, before Patty starts boasting about her plans to haul in free kitchen appliances and gratis gym memberships.

  “I totally understand.You wouldn’t believe how many women come in looking for cubic zirconia engagement rings just for themselves.” Now, finally understanding what Patty and I are about, Keira sighs and unlocks the window. “Especially women who have to deal with the public and are fed up with men trying to take advantage of them because they’re single.”

  She gently removes Patty’s garish ring from its velvet display and holds it up to the light so that the stone sends out shimmers of rainbow colors. It’s even bigger than when it was in the case. Patty is practically swooning.

  “The entire customer service department at Sears in Woburn is filled with unmarried women who swear by their CZ rings. Let’s face it, people are so much nicer to you when you’re married. Want to try it on?”

  Patty doesn’t have to be asked twice. She slips on the ring and splays her hand. Her French manicure does it justice and I cringe knowing that when it’s my turn I’ll have to curl the tips of my fingers to hide my ugly nails.

  Meanwhile, Keira hands me a very tasteful solitaire. “Traditional. Simple. Affordable. People will recognize it right away as an engagement ring.”

  Like Patty’s, it, too, catches the light.Yet, I can’t help yearning for something different, even if it is fake.

  “You know what?” she says, sensing my dissatisfaction. “Antique settings always add a little flair. I find that a stone in filigree gets a lot of comments and seems more sentimental. People will think your so-called fiancé really loved you enough to pass on an heirloom.”

&
nbsp; She wiggles onto my finger a ring with a huge stone that, while not heirloom quality, is a damned good imitation. Lots of filigree and an antique touch—kind of. “Is that platinum?” I ask.

  “It’s brass. With rhodium electroplating to make it look like platinum. It’s really quite spectacular, considering.”

  "Brass,” snorts Patty. “Oh, boy. That is cheap. Say, how much are real diamonds?”

  Keira reappraises my rich lawyer friend in her Escada suit with her black Lanvin bag and doesn’t waste a second. “Actually, many are very reasonable and it goes without saying that they’re also a sound investment.Want to see?”

  Within seconds I and my tacky cubic zirconia are all but forgotten.

  The ring’s a bit loose, so an elderly clerk named Robert silently measures my finger as he takes over Keira’s sale. He promises that the resizing will be “but a moment” and returns ten minutes later with my tighter “engagement ring.”

  As he walks off with my credit card, I wonder if I’m paying for something I could just as easily have found in a Cracker Jack box.

  “What do you think?” Patty is back from the high-rent district and showing off a hulking marquise diamond. “It’s estate jewelry. Weighs a ton. But it’s real.”

  I cannot discern this diamond from the Moissanites, but I don’t tell her that. I’m just relieved she has been steered away from the Aunt Rosalie cocktail number.

  “Do I dare ask how much?”

  “Not that much.” She tilts her hand so it catches the light. “Under ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ten thousand dollars!” Now I’m the one who’s loud.“You’re nuts, do you know that? That’s not even a real engagement ring.”

  “Close enough. Hey, there’s my client,” she exclaims, waving maniacally. "Let’s see if he thinks your ring is the real deal or not.”

  When I look to the door for Patty’s client, I don’t see anyone but a dark man in a navy blazer and white button-down shirt slightly open at the neck. Immediately, I feel the familiar rush of heat up my neck.

  “What’s Nick doing here?” As my voice has inexplicably turned hoarse, this question is more like a croak.

  “I’m taking him out for drinks this evening and trying to get his business. Nick’s interested in investing in some real estate and he might benefit from my, uh, assistance.”

  Which is Patty’s fancy legal way of saying she hopes to take him home and rip off his clothes.

  Nick scans the store until his gaze falls on Patty and her flapping hand. He starts to smile and then, seeing me, breaks into that knowing grin.

  "Maybe I should go,” I offer. "Leave you two alone to work.”

  “Nonsense. Besides, you’ve got to keep him company while I get sized.”

  As he passes the emeralds, a woman who must be at least in her sixties peers over her Valentino sunglasses to check him out. She might be worth a few million, but she’s no more immune to Nick’s magnetism than the college girls standing outside Club Mercury.

  “Hello, Patty.” He kisses her first on the right, then the left cheek.

  To me, he says, “Nice to see you again, Genie. Hope you’re feeling better.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Modestly, I lower my eyes. There’s something about his gaze. It’s so penetrating, almost ... rude.

  “She was feeling bad?” Patty barks. “You didn’t tell me that, Genie.Were you sick?”

  “It was nothing,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Nick was there the other night at Club Mercury when I had that fight with Todd.”

  “Ohhh.” Patty nods, remembering what I told her about the virginity conversation and Steve outing me. Judiciously, she changes the subject by shoving the ring in his face. “How do you like it? Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  Nick takes Patty’s hand. “You have good taste. It’s an estate piece, isn’t it?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I can tell by the quality craftsmanship. There’s a distinct difference between hand-tooled jewelry and inferior pieces stamped from a machine. My uncle was a jeweler to King Constantine and he taught me everything I know about Hellenic metalworking based on a Greek tradition dating thousands of years.”

  Carefully, I slip my hand behind my back. Perhaps now is not the best time to be flashing my cubic zirconia, not with a Hellenic jeweler apprentice on the premises.

  Keira motions that she’s ready for her and Patty excuses herself to get sized. Before she leaves, however, my bestest friend in the whole wide world is thoughtful enough to ask Nick the Expert Hellenic Metalworker to check out my engagement ring.

  Thanks, Patty.

  “Well?” Nick holds out his hand, ready for inspection.“Let me have a look at what you and your famous fiancé have chosen.”

  Reluctantly, I put my hand in his large warm one. His fingers are surprisingly long and artistic, more like a musician’s than a carpenter’s.

  In contrast, the skin around my knuckles is red and my nails are short and ragged. I wish I were like Patty, perfectly manicured and ready for spot inspection.

  “You have lovely hands, do you know that?” Nick says, apparently unconcerned about my lack of pink gloss.

  I want to gush Really? I was thinking the same thing about you. “That’s nice of you to say.”

  “Do you play the piano?”

  Funny he should mention that. Lately, I’d been debating whether to take lessons. Hugh always said it was pointless, that unless you started as a child it was impossible to master the instrument because the adult brain is so inflexible. He, of course, had been studying since age three and could play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata no. 29 in B-flat Major perfectly. Not that I or anyone I knew had actually seen him do it.

  “No.The flute was my deal.”

  “Ahh. That’s too bad.” He seems saddened by this. “My sister has hands like yours and she plays beautifully. Her teacher used to say she was born to it.Though it’s never too late to start, you know. The human brain is an amazingly adaptive organ.”

  For a second, his dark eyes meet mine and, foolishly, it crosses my mind that he has ESP. That’s so silly. I’m like a smitten teenager with a pop star. Nick’s only being polite after what happened the other night with Todd. He probably feels sorry for me or something.

  Turning his attention back to my hand, he peers at the ring and frowns. “The stone’s big, that’s for sure.”

  “Too big?”

  “No, but it raises concerns.”

  Of course it raises concerns. It’s glass.

  “I hope you won’t be offended by this, but are you completely sure this stone is ... real?”

  He knows.Why wouldn’t he? He’s a court-appointed Hellenic metallurgist. Snatching back my hand, I snap, “Are you saying my fiancé bought me a fake?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a cubic zirconia,” he replies patiently. “Diamonds are very expensive and some men don’t see the point in wasting all that money on a tradition that essentially started as a De Beers marketing campaign.”

  I can’t tell if he’s slamming Hugh as cheap or suspicious.

  “Believe me,” I say.“Hugh buys only the best, the most authentic stuff.” I try to think what authentic stuff Hugh would buy.“Like Irish wool. Single malt scotch. Hand-tooled Italian leather ...”

  “A six-day vacation in the woods watching another man build a post-and-beam house.”

  "Yes! ” Wait a minute. Has he been talking to Todd? “I mean no. I mean ...” I try to gather my wits. “What I’m saying is that Hugh comes from a very refined English background. He grew up on a six-hundred-acre estate in the Cotswolds and he went to St. Bart’s in Scotland and his great-grandmother was a personal friend of King Edward. He would not, under any circumstances, even consider buying for me, his future wife, the mother of his future children, anything less than the most flawless, perfectly cut diamond.”

  “That’ll be $24.95, Miss Michaels.” Robert slides me my credit card slip. “Good news. Ten percent
off all cubic zirconia solitaires. Only today.”

  I snatch the receipt and sign, not even daring to check Nick sidewise.“It’s a duplicate,” I say, scrawling my name with a flourish. “For insurance purposes.”

  “Perfectly understandable. For insurance purposes. Exactly what an Englishman who grew up on a six-hundred-acre estate in the Cotswolds would insist upon.”

  I turn to him, shocked. And with that, Nick winks and goes off to join Patty.

  He knows I’m a fraud, but I’m no longer worried he’s going to out me to Todd, oh no. He’s going to hold this secret over my head, toying with me, teasing me, until I break down and confess it all.

  Chapter Eleven

  NEW YORK POST PAGE SIX

  July 10—Hot-stuff author Hugh Spencer, whose tearjerker Hopeful, Kansas continues to dominate major bestseller lists, isn’t identifying the woman to whom he proposed recently during a Barbara Walters prime-time interview, though PAGE SIX sources have confirmed she is Spencer’s longtime girlfriend, Genie Michaels, an admissions counselor at Thoreau College, where Spencer teaches English.

  Michaels declined to comment publicly, noting in an official Thoreau College press release that their relationship was a private matter. However, she has been reported wearing a HUGE new diamond on her left hand and rumors are that an August 20 wedding is planned at her family’s home in Belmont, Massachusetts.

  When reached in London, where Spencer is promoting the British edition of his book, he said only, “What?”

  TO: genie.michaels@thoreaucollege.edu

  FROM: hugh@hughspencer.com

  SUBJECT: What the ???

  Genie:

  Again, let me state how much I appreciate your discretion regarding my on-air betrothal. I am very impressed that you have not sought out the press as a sounding board for whatever bitterness you may be harboring. Truly, I had expected and was prepared for the worst. It was so refreshing to see you put my public image first. Thank you.

  That said, I am a bit distressed that, in being wonderfully supportive, you have, inadvertently I’m sure, created the impression that we are truly engaged. In particular, as I stated in a recent telephone message, your parents’ statements to Pippa were of concern. So much so, it briefly crossed my mind—though I know this can’t possibly be the case—that you might be lying to them that we really are getting married. (Ha, ha!) I realized later this was nonsense; only a mentally disturbed person would promote such a fallacy and no matter what flaws you possess, Genie, mental illness is not one of them. (At least, I hope.)