The Cinderella Pact (34 page)

“No.” I sit up and flip officiously through my yellow tablet on which I have very competently written a very thorough itemization for Eileen's wedding—
shoes, flowers, chicken or fish? White wine or champagne?
Names of potential bands, caterers, florists, and cake designers. “I feel confident that Belinda Apple, whoever she is, does not work for another magazine. Nor has she engaged in plagiarism, which I guess is your biggest concern.”

“It is.” Krauss speaks for the first time. “How can you be sure she's not a plagiarist? After all, if Jayson Blair can rip off the
New York Times
for over a year, if James Frey can dupe Oprah, I'm sure this woman, or man, can fool you.”

Krauss wears a bow tie that I'm tempted to give a swift, sharp tug. “Considering Belinda wasn't assigned to report on a news story, unlike Blair, she could have been writing in her bathtub”—
and in fact she has
—“and it wouldn't have mattered. I keep up on other magazines, and I haven't seen any columns that come close to Belinda's despite my, um, naiveté.”

I don't dare look at Chip after this last line.

“Hmmph.” Krauss returns to his files, disappointed.

“And what about you, Art? What's your opinion?” Chip asks.

Krauss pauses, thinking. Nancy once told me that law firms teach their new associates to do this in the courtroom, as silence motivates the juries to listen. Nancy pulls the same stunt when disputing a restaurant tab and I swear, she's always gotten her way. Nancy will argue anything: Wasn't that chocolate mousse on the menu for $4.25? Then why is it listed as $4.00? Was it defective? Did the chef spit on it? Or can't you add? And if so, let's go over the whole bill and see what else you can't do.

“Without all the evidence I'd like in this situation, my best educated guess is that Belinda Apple is”—he turns to me—“one of your own employees.”

He and I regard one another levelly. I don't give an inch.

“Impossible!” Lori declares.

“Is it?” asks Krauss. “Why?”

“Because, because,” Lori sputters, “because I would have known. I've interviewed her myself. I certainly would have recognized her voice if she'd been on my staff. Belinda had a very authentic British accent.”

“And an American cell phone number,” Krauss points out.

“It saves her money!”

Krauss laughs an evil lawyer laugh, which is more reminiscent of a hiss. “That should have been the first clue you were being, as you said, shystered. There is no such thing as an American cell phone working in the UK—at least not one that would save the user money. Do you know how expensive it is to use an American cell in a foreign country?”

“I do,” pipes up Alicia. “I was in Paris in my junior year abroad? And my purse got stolen in the Louvre? And when they found it the phone was gone? But you should have seen the charges for the first hour before I reported it stolen. Ohmigod. I could have bought, like, a fur coat for that, if I was into fur, which I'm most definitely not. Except fake. Good fake is cool.”

Lori slumps, seething.

“OK,” Chip says. “We're getting somewhere. Belinda Apple is most likely an employee at
Sass!
Goddammit, that really irks me. Bad enough to have someone from the outside lying, but one of our own employees . . . It's so disloyal, so cheap. I can't stand liars, especially liars who are so cowardly they have to hide behind a made-up persona.”

I sink down even lower. It is more than I can bear to hear him go off this way on someone he hates, namely me. There is no hope, I realize at that moment. Even if by some wild Disney- like chance he admitted his love for me, there would be that awful secret hanging over us and the moment where I would have to confess and that would be it. The end.

“If we paid her, and of course we did, then all we have to do is check her IRS identification number against the current employee's,” Krauss suggests brightly.

A hot new burst of panic sweeps through me. I hadn't thought of that. I grip the side of my tablet to keep myself steady and try to think whether
Sass!
has my social down as Belinda's. Let's see, Charlotte sends me all my checks. She's the only one who had Belinda's social . . . Wait. No. There was that form . . .

“Wouldn't this person have expected that, or were they too stupid?” Lori asks.

Too stupid, I answer for her.

“Whoever they are, they better have used their own social security or taxpayer ID, because if they didn't they're going to be in a lot more trouble than just with us. They'll have the IRS to answer to as well.”

The IRS!

“Right, Miss Devlin?” Krauss asks me.

“Huh?” I say. “Oh yeah. I don't know. I don't really pay attention to taxes.”

Krauss shakes his head ever so slightly.

“I'm not sure I have the authority to make that kind of inquiry,” Lori says nervously, looking to Krauss for guidance.

Krauss is about to reply, probably about to say damn straight you have that kind of authority, when Chip jumps in. “Perhaps you're right, Lori. This is a job best left up to the publisher. I'll ask personnel to cross-check the socials. Maybe the computer can do it in minutes.”

Devastation. That's it. I'm sunk. I didn't have a spouse with a number I could use. It's mine all right. The computer will take one second to announce NOLA DEVLIN IS YOUR WOMAN!

“Gee,” Alicia says. “What'll happen when you find the person?”

Krauss hisses again.

Chip shrugs. “I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, my main interest is outing a skunk from the staff.”

Brilliant. Now I'm a skunk. Me with the $150 worth of Chanel I sprayed on in the bathroom.

“I totally agree,” says Lori. “By the way, now that you're back in Jersey and in control of
Sass!
, David, are you going to continue the tradition your father and mother started years ago?”

“What tradition was that?”

Lori giggles as though how could he possibly not know. “Why, the annual holiday open house. Anybody who was anybody was invited. Your mother did such a fantastic job of decorating that gorgeous mansion. I swear, I haven't seen a Christmas tree that big outside of Rockefeller Center.”

Chip shuffles his papers and shuts his file quietly. “That was my stepmother who did the decorating, not my mother. I was with her in California for the holidays. And now that my father is moving permanently to Manhattan, I don't think he'd care.”

“Oh.” Lori, mortified for the umpteenth time, brushes invisible lint off her cashmere.

“On the other hand, it does sound like a good idea,” he adds, graciously. “Sure. Why not? And since you remember what it was like, Lori, I'll put you in charge of drawing up the guest list and organizing the whole shebang. Unless . . . you have too much work with the double issue.”

“I don't have any work at all,” she blurts, so thrilled to be picked as head of the prom committee she has no idea what she just admitted. “I'd love to. How many can I invite?”

“Well, if I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right. How about . . . four hundred?”

Four hundred! Is he nuts?

“But,” he adds, thoughtfully, “let's change it from a Christmas party to a winter solstice gala or something to make it more inclusive.”

Yes, I'm sure the three pagans in Princeton will appreciate that.

Lori's eyes are gleaming. “Winter solstice. That's perfect because December twentieth falls on a Saturday this year.”

“I know,” says Chip.

“I'll have to work very closely with you on this so that I don't mess up any of the details,” Lori says. “I hope you won't mind me contacting you at night on your off hours.”

“Better than at work.”

Lori flashes me a smile of victory.

This is just great. Wait until I tell Joel. Lori will probably be signing the invitations herself as Mrs. David Stanton III*—(*in future).

Chip gets up to go and stops at the door. “Just be sure you send an invite to Belinda Apple. You never know, she might just show.” And then, as if putting Lori in her place, he says, “And I'd like to see you in my office, Miss Devlin, ASAP.”

 
I feel Lori and Alicia's stares burning through me as I take a left toward the publisher's office instead of a right toward mine. Lori obviously wants to ask me what's going on, but she doesn't dare. She hasn't yet calibrated my relationship with Chip.

Chip is standing at the window of his huge paneled office when I enter, knocking hesitantly on the door. He turns and smiles, motioning for me to close the door so we can be alone.

My heart is racing. I have no idea what to expect. I keep wishing I looked better. Oh, brother. Why did I have to wear pants with a Sharpie blotch today?

“It is so good to see you,” he says, still standing, his hand in his pocket like a Ralph Lauren ad.

“I only wish you saw me in a decent outfit,” I say. “I'm so sorry. I've been working overtime and I—”

“Nola,” he says softly. “You look fine. In fact, you look more than fine.”

I exhale. Then I go for it. “And while I'm apologizing, I should say I'm sorry for getting so plastered on margaritas. I hadn't eaten all day and—”

“My fault. They were very strong. You didn't know I made the first a double.”

“You didn't!” I cover my mouth to laugh.

“I felt you needed some loosening up and took the liberty.”

“OK. Then I'm sending the bill for a bar of soap to you. Do you know how long it took me to scrub off Harley Jane Kozak's autograph?”

Chip smiles. “Probably about as long as it took me to get your godawful rendition of ‘Forever Young' out of my head.”

“It's gone? Hold on.” I open my mouth to sing when Chip rushes over and covers it with his hand.

Suddenly we are inches apart. His hand is on the small of my back and he is bending toward me. It feels so good to be held by him, so close that I think he just might kiss me.

“Nola,” he whispers, “I, uh . . .”

There is a sound outside his door and we break away. Lori DiGrigio is enough of a fink to rat us out if she caught us. Which could be very bad if Chip is trying to establish himself as the publisher.

Worse, if he has decided to stay with Olivia.

“I think I should go,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Holiday issue and all that.”

“Right.” Chip steps back. “See you around, then.”

“Sure.”

I put my hand on the doorknob and it's then that Chip says, “I wonder if you've been reading the e-mail that comes to Belinda's box—I mean, now that you've taken over her position while she's on leave.”

But all I do is smile and open the door. I know better than to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“I still don't understand how we're supposed to size a dress for Belinda. I mean, can't we ship it to her in England and she can get it fitted and then she can bring it with her?”

Eileen is chattering a mile a minute, proving indeed that nonstop talking can provide a strenuous workout. Perhaps I should take up incessant gossip.

This is her fifth fitting at Weddings by Chloe, and Chloe herself is wrestling with the size 5, soon to be size 4, Christos that really is an elegant dress. The embroidered bodice perfectly hugs Eileen's torso so that she is a perfect princess rising out of a swirl of satin and tulle, its faint cream color highlighting the warmth of her red hair.

“Eileen, you're stunning,” I have to say as Chloe and I both stand back to admire Eileen on the dais in front of the many mirrors.

My mother runs out of the dressing room in a bilious pale green mother-of-the-bride chiffon special screaming, “Let me see! Let me see!” Then, pulling out one of the disposable cameras she seems to carry at all times these days, clicks maniacally. “You and Jim are going to have so much fun looking at these years from now. Trust me, it's the impromptu photos that are the best.”

Eileen twists and turns. “Do I really look good?”

“Like my Cinderella,” Mom says, adding under a breath, “though a bit anorexic, if you ask me.”

My heart does a hiccup.

“So how are the bridesmaids dresses coming along?” I ask Chloe.

Chloe removes a pin from her mouth. “Such a disaster. Still no deliveries.”

“No deliveries?” Eileen whips around. “But it's been four months.”

“There's nothing we can do. It is completely out of my hands. Labor dispute, you know. Something about overtime for sewing sequins.” Chloe attempts to toss back her sprayed stiff blond-white hair. It doesn't move.

“Such a shame,” I say with faux concern. “They were beautiful.”

Eileen stamps her tiny foot. “I have to have them. The wedding will be ruined otherwise.” My mother trips over the dais to comfort her, an act she performs several times a day lately. I don't know what's up with Eileen, but she certainly is acting like a brat, stamping her feet, throwing dishes, hanging up the phone on people. I wonder if all brides are like this or just my spoiled sister.

“Wait. I might have a solution.” Chloe disappears into her back office and returns holding a gown in a white garment bag. “One of my brides canceled last week, leaving me with a number of these. They are absolutely lovely. Georgio Hermano, all satin with a handsome square neck and V back with satin-covered buttons in an A-line. It is unusual to find a maid's dress that so flatters nearly everyone's figure as this one does.”