The Cinderella Pact (33 page)

“The meeting.”

“What meeting?”

“The meeting with David Stanton.”

“Oh.
That
meeting.”

I do a quick check. Sure enough, there are the telltale straps of her red thong, and would that be a brand new Victoria's Secret push-up bra? I believe it is. If I were her, I'd hold off on that until after the wedding, though.

“Well, have fun,” I say, flipping through a fresh pile of “On Being Fab!
”
letters I've just printed out. Lori doesn't do real work, so she has the luxury of heading to Stanton's mansion for coffee and chitchat with the publisher.

Meanwhile, the rest of us staffers are killing ourselves for the double Christmas issue. This year management wants expanded editorial copy so
Sass!
isn't 250 pages of just glossy watch, makeup, and underwear ads (though no one's complaining about that). Unfortunately, double the copy means double the editing for me and twice as much writing too, since Belinda's column is being stretched from one to two pages.

I came in all weekend to get a handle on the work and barely made a dent. Now, on Monday, I'm beat. I didn't even bother to dress in office clothes because what's the point? Not like I'm going anywhere. I'll be chained to this desk until our deadline on Wednesday.

“Aren't you going?” Lori asks, loitering by my desk for no reason.

“I can't. I've got too much work.” I pick up a letter from Sex Slave in Suburbia that I haven't read, but will definitely put on my “in” pile based on that signature alone.

“You have to go.” Lori pouts. “The meeting's mandatory.”

“It's also forty minutes away.”

For a nanosecond, panic crosses Lori's pale, severe face before her old confidence snaps back like a whip. “No, it's not. It's here. Eleven a.m. on Monday in the conference room. Didn't you get the memo?”

Actually I did get the memo and I promptly round-filed it, as I do with any letter that begins:
From: Lori DiGrigio, Managing Editor.

“Uh, I glanced at it,” I lied.

“I didn't get the memo,” says Joel, who's been eavesdropping while pretending to lay out the women's holiday fiction supplement.

“You didn't get the memo because you're not invited,” Lori retorts. “This is a personnel matter involving David Stanton, me, and Nola. It's strictly confidential.”

Joel nods. “Oh, so it's about Belinda Apple then.”

That catches my attention enough for me to tear myself away from Had-It-Up-to-Here-Mother-in-Law. “The meeting's about Belinda?”

“Hello? Where have you been for four months? Of course it's about Belinda. You didn't think David Stanton's simply swept that mess under the rug, did you? And if you'd actually read my memo, you'd know that you're supposed to bring in that report I requested outlining what you've found out about her. David's putting it together for his own final report to the board in New York this week.”

Do you know those moments where you get incredible news, maybe even news you've been waiting for—like winning a lottery, or dreading, like notification of an IRS audit—and you can't quite comprehend the reality of it? You might see the words in front of you. Hear them in your ears. And, yet, it all seems so unreal. As though it's happening on TV or to someone else.

I reassess Lori's red underwear. “You mean
young
David Stanton?”

“Yes, I mean young David Stanton. Though I can call him Dave, since I'm management.” Lori checks her impeccably manicured nails. “It might be better if you keep it to Mr. Stanton, though, seeing as you're staff.”

I sit there stupidly gazing at the pile of letters in my lap. He's here. Chip. Or, rather, Mr. Stanton. Here in this very building where I am to meet him in a matter of minutes. And I'm dressed like a freaking bag lady.

My hair, unwashed, is pulled into a tight ponytail. I'm in a baggy pair of Levi's and a black turtleneck sweater covered in cat hair. Plus, in my grogginess I might have forgotten to wear deodorant, though I haven't been able to find a secluded moment to sniff my armpit to make sure.

Super. The last time Chip saw me I was loopy on tequila and now I'm outfitted for Dumpster diving. Plus, I've just noticed a spreading red Sharpie blotch on my jeans. It's all so pathetic, so loser-me, that I could very well sit here and cry.

So many silly fantasies I've entertained of running into Chip on the streets of Princeton. Naturally, I'm slim and beautiful and decked to the hilt in a beautiful, flowing dress and Chip has to do a double take before he recognizes me. “Nola? Nola Devlin!” he exclaims. “My God, you're gorgeous!” And then he can't help himself. He takes me in his arms and bends down, bringing his lips to mine as he confesses the passion he has tried to deny all these months in California.

“Is everything OK, Nola?” Joel's avuncular voice breaks through my daydream.

“Sure.” I see the Sharpie stain again and wince. “It's just that I wish I were dressed better.”

“I'll say,” Lori agrees. “For someone who's lost as much weight as you have, Devlin, I'd have expected you to improve your wardrobe. Especially in the office and especially on the day you get to meet the future publisher of
Sass!
Though it's too late now. You'll just have to go like you are.” And she stomps off ahead, her knit skirt hugging her well-toned thighs perfectly.

Future publisher of
Sass!
What did Lori mean by that?

“Hey, Cinderella,” Joel says softly. “Don't forget the moral of the story.”

“Mice make lousy footmen?”

Joel smiles beneath his graying beard. “True beauty needs no adornment.”

“That's a bass-ackward philosophy for an editor of a magazine that makes most its profits from cosmetic ads.”

“I know. Don't tell anyone. Now quit stalling and go get him.”

 
I stop by the ladies' room and attempt to adorn my beauty nevertheless with a touch-up of pink lip gloss and a pair of faux gold hoop earrings I found in my desk drawer.

Resigned, I carry my trusty yellow legal pad and pen into the conference room where Lori has positioned herself in front of the door, her legs crossed, the straps of her red thong peeking ever so slightly above her black knit skirt. Alicia, her evil debutante/henchwoman Valley Girl secretary, is smirking behind her.

“Dress-down day?” Alicia asks as I quickly sit farthest from the door, where I feel safest. “Or is this like a grunge thing you've got going?”

“It's called meeting a deadline, Alicia. I've worked fourteen fourteen-hour days straight.”

Alicia smirks. “Ohmigod. Like, I could never do that. Eight hours is definitely my limit.”

Lori clears her throat to get our attention. “Before Mr. Stanton arrives, there are a couple of things you should know about him, Nola,” she says, checking the door to make sure Chip's not within earshot. “First of all, he's used to dealing with L.A. types. I know that you, being an inveterate East Coaster, haven't a clue what that means, so I'll explain.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.

“Mr. Stanton is extremely high-powered, a weekend warrior. He's used to and expects from his employees enthusiasm and energy. He likes to be surrounded by young, bright staff who can rapid-fire ideas just as fast as he can fire them back. There's even a certain rhythm to his process.”

“Like at Starbucks?” Alicia asks. “You know, where I come in and order a triple caf skim latte and the girl at the cash register grabs a cup, marks it, and hands it to the girl at the latte machine, yelling, ‘Triple caf skim lat?' I love that rhythm.”

Lori is aghast. “Just take notes, OK, Alicia?”

“OK.”

The prison camp overseer swings back to me. “Listen, Nola, I don't want to see you sitting there like a bump on a log, which is what you normally do at our meetings. Mr. Stanton won't approve at all. If you knew him as I do, you'd be dressed more L.A., for one thing, and you'd be sharp and energetic. This is your career we're talking about. Not to mention that one staff member reflects on all the staff.”

“How well do you know Mr. Stanton?” I ask. I can't help it.

Lori could kiss me, she's clearly so grateful for that question. “Very well,” she begins coyly. “When he was here this summer, he sat across from me at this table, three chairs down. That's how close I was to him. Within touching distance.”

“Wow.” I try to look suitably impressed.

“And don't forget that phone call this week,” Alicia points out. “Remember? He asked if you'd found Belinda's personnel file or if it was still misplaced.”

Lori frowns.

I pull in my chair conspiratorially. “So what's he like? You know, in the flesh?”

“Between us? Unbelievable.” Lori flashes another wary glance at the door. “The most gorgeous, intelligent man I've ever met.”

“Think of Owen Wilson with an Ivy League education and a five-billion-dollar trust fund.”

“Really?”

“Haven't you read the articles about him in
Esquire
?” Lori says.

Heavens, no. I fall asleep just looking at the cover.
“I'm afraid not.”

“Two years ago he made their America's Ten Top Bachelors list. They had him standing on a beach, leaning against his surfboard. You know, he could have been in Armani at his desk, but he's so secure with himself that he chose to be on the beach. And talk about abs.”

Alicia holds up her pencil. “Didn't you tell me once that you thought he really liked you and that he was pretty much coming on to you at that meeting?”

If Alicia keeps this up, she's going to be out of a job like Lori's former assistant, Dawn. At least Dawn knew when to keep her mouth shut. Also knew which end of a pencil goes to the paper, I think, watching Alicia mindlessly scribble a note using her eraser tip.

“I am so sorry I'm late.”

Like hens scattering upon hearing the rooster, we three women push back our chairs and attempt to look professional. I can't help but steal a glance at Lori, who is practically salivating as first
Sass!
lawyer Arthur Krauss from Krauss, Krauss and Krauss enters and then His Majesty, His Royal Highness Lord “Chip” Stanton.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chip smiles politely at Lori and Alicia, who are both gawking worse than teenage groupies meeting Green Day. Arthur Krauss the lawyer, gruff as usual, begrudgingly shakes my hand and then slaps his briefcase onto the table, clicks open the brass lock, and begins removing file upon file that no doubt concern the misdeeds of one Belinda Apple—aka, me.

Watching him, I begin to feel slightly ill. So ill that I don't notice Chip smiling at me from the other end of the table.

“Good to see you again, Miss Devlin,” he says crisply, his lips twitching ever so slightly as he sits and opens his own file.

“Oh!” Lori peeps, her eyes shifting from me to Chip. “So you've met. I was about to introduce you.”

“No introductions necessary. Miss Devlin and I have, um, worked together before.”

In your face!
I want to shout to Lori.

“I see.” Lori's eyes shift once more to Alicia, who is busily erasing the eraser marks she's made on the page.

I have never seen Chip in a suit before and I have to say it beats a T-shirt any day. It looks like Armani. (Though maybe the T-shirts were too.) His hair, still longish, is tucked neatly behind his ears so that he is more commanding and respectable. I think about what Lisa said when I showed her a picture of Chip, how sex with a man like him must be like the Imax version of lovemaking.

“OK. Let's get to why we're here. Belinda Apple.” There's a new authority to Chip's voice. “My goal is to put this matter to rest before I officially take over as publisher of
Sass!
next month.”

So it's true! I accidentally let out a gasp of excitement and then cough to hide it. Chip raises his eyes briefly to me and then continues.

“Miss DiGrigio. Have you found out anything more since we last spoke?”

Lori licks her bottom lip. “Please. Call me Lori.”

“OK, Lori. Since you hired the legendary Belinda Apple, I assume you have the most insight of all of us.”

I slide down slightly in my seat, hoping somehow this will make me less noticeable.

“My conclusion is that we, meaning Nola Devlin and I”—Lori points to me in case Chip's not sure—“especially Nola, who has been editing Miss Apple for a year, have been, for lack of a better word, shystered.”

“How do you spell that?” Alicia asks.

“Shystered, huh?” Chip reclines as though he were getting ready to watch a double feature. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“I mean that clearly Belinda Apple does not exist. Having been hired by your father . . .”

Chip sets his jaw. It's obvious he does not appreciate this ass-saving zinger.

“. . . this fraudulent personage proceeded to take advantage of a somewhat naive and gullible editor.”

“You are referring to Miss Devlin.”

Did he just wink at me?

“Yes. Nola, uh, Miss Devlin has edited this so-called Belinda Apple for a year, e-mailing and speaking to her directly at least once a week and despite that, never managed to detect that this person was a phony. I don't know what this says about Miss Devlin's editing ability or her judgment—”

“Which I'm sure is excellent,” Chip cuts her off. “Miss Devlin? What's your take on this matter? Do you think Belinda Apple is a fraud, perhaps a writer from another magazine?”