The Cinderella Pact (36 page)

If Mr. Kline hadn't gotten me more alimony than I asked for as well as full custody of the children and our primary and vacation home, I would have walked,
Ms. Suzanne Cantos of Cranbury, New Jersey, writes.

Hmm. Now what would Belinda say about something like that?

“Before we go any further, I think that for obvious reasons this meeting should not be open to nonmembers.”

I look up to see Kline glaring at me.

“Right.” I put down the affidavit. (Too bad, because I was just getting to the part where Kline suggests after taking the poor, well, not poor exactly, former Mrs. Cantos out to dinner, that she and her fantastic body go back to his place to celebrate.)

Nancy starts to protest but stops, since Kline's obviously got a point.

As I walk toward the door, glad, really, to get out of there, I whisper to Nancy some Belinda-ish words of advice: “If you only stick up for Mrs. Cantos and Tanya Williamson, you're not sticking up for yourself. Keep that in mind.”

“I will,” she whispers back. “Thanks.” She gives my arm a squeeze.

For the next hour, I make small talk with the receptionist who, it turns out, is a complete Bon Jovi groupie like Eileen and, by the way, occasionally sleeps with Kline to keep her job. I hope Nancy in her wisdom had the foresight to interview her, too, because this woman makes Ms. Cantos's story look like Kline wanted to hold hands.

“For the record, he's got a super-small dick. You can barely see it,” the receptionist informs me. “Then again, those kinds of guys always do.”

Now, that's the kind of news you can use.

It's not until six thirty, long after the receptionist has pushed in her chair and gone for the day, that Nancy emerges, ominously alone. Her expression is taut, defiant, and I know immediately who's won.

“Give me your keys, and I'll bring your car around,” I say. “And I'll take a box while I'm at it.”

Which is when Nancy bends over and dashes for the ladies' room, where she promptly throws up in a Barlow, Cafferty and Kline private loo for the very last time.

Chapter Thirty-Six

I have read and reread this letter so frequently that I recite whole passages by heart as I lie awake at night, unable to sleep because I am thinking about what could be and what never will be with Chip.

Nola
does it for me.
Ditto and double ditto, as Eileen and I would say when were kids. Maybe I'm biologically challenged too on this front, because while in the past I've called other guys cute or drop-dead gorgeous hunks, I am at a loss for words when it comes to David A. Stanton III.

He does it for me. Yup. That's about it.

So what to do? Do I arrive on his doorstep like Olivia's moving men and present myself? I can't. I can't because every word of love Chip has uttered has been to Belinda. Aside from the occasional smile or his playful kiss as my boyfriend in the Annex (which was before he was even interested in me), Chip has said nothing directly to me besides, “How's that car working out?” or “We're looking for an extra feature this spring on the lipstick line. We just nailed the Elan makeup account.”

Sometimes I wonder if in these e-mails he is talking about the same Nola. I have to beat back those old insecurities that he can't possibly be referring to me, the frumpy editor in Lane Bryant Venezia Supremes. And then I remind myself of what I've learned during my “exciting weight-loss journey that is guaranteed to change my life forever.”

I am and have always been worthy of great love, no matter how many extra inches of denim around my thighs.

Fortunately, I have our much-awaited shopping spree to look forward to. Our promise to meet six months later at the Willoughby Café and celebrate the Cinderella Pact is here. Nancy has even reserved the table under a different name as part of a grand scheme. I only hope Chester Markham is in the building.

It is weird to think of how we were back then. Nancy was looking at a divorce. Deb was attached to her husband like a lamprey eel. And now Nancy's looking to get back with her husband and it's Deb who's considering divorce.

OK, so our shopping spree and Willoughby Café date is also on the day of the famous Stanton Winter Solstice Gala. You don't think I know that? I know that. Look, I need some kind of celebration to keep my mind off the fact that every other woman in Princeton is having her hair done and her nails lacquered in preparation for the big event.

Apparently, all the salons are booked starting at six a.m. and all the decent eveningwear is sold out. My landlady, Bitsy—who has been invited because she heads the Princeton Historic Revitalization Committee—has been whining that she had to order her dress online. The horrors! At least Nancy and Deb don't know Chip, so I won't be subjected to hearing how they blew the bank on a Carmen Marc Valvo cocktail dress.

It is snowing lightly on December 20, the shortest day of the year and what I dread will turn out to be the longest night of my life. Nassau Street is so sparkling white and festive, it might as well be the movie set for
It's a Wonderful Life
(the colorized version), what with shoppers bustling by with bags of gifts and carolers singing on the sidewalks. The quaint eighteenth-century street is decorated with pine firs and tasteful little lights that practically scream high-end retail.

Deb and Nancy look fantastic when we rendezvous outside the Willoughby. Deb is in her favorite skinny jeans, high-heeled faux leather boots, and a Calvin Klein peacoat. Her blond hair is no longer bright and frowzy. It is a rich honey color, pulled back straight from her head in a casual, though sophisticated, ponytail, and her makeup is sleek and tasteful. She bears no resemblance to the shy dumpling in the pink jumper back in June.

In her Burberry trenchcoat, Nancy is equally stunning—though a bit paler than usual. She still hasn't been able to find a firm willing to bring her on as a senior partner, and so she's been rambling around her big house, depressed and fretting.

Word on the street is that Ted Kline has smeared her reputation, accusing her of being one of those women who imagine sexual harassment and is out to ruin the careers of all white males. Gee, who would have expected such nasty behavior from the most ruthless attorney in New Jersey?

As for me? I am wearing a clinging cashmere twinset and black velveteen pants—the product of our fabulous shopping spree. At Nancy and Deb's insistence, I went whole hog. In Ann Taylor alone I bought a three-quarter length plush wool coat, a fine knit cashmere turtleneck in gray, and three pairs of flare pants, including this pair in velveteen.

Nancy also convinced me to splurge on the bone-colored cashmere twinset I'm wearing and a pencil skirt. Don't even talk to me about the suede slingbacks ($108!!) I bought to go with these outfits. I was so out of control, my saleswoman wrote her home phone number on her business card—in case I needed her in an emergency!

Figuring it was too late to turn back now, at Talbot's I picked up a wrap dress, several camis and tank tops, not to mention an entire suit. Then there were the shimmering velvet skirt and belts (I never buy belts!) made out of brass and glass stones I threw in at Chico's, where I also snagged a green ribbed turtleneck that clung to every inch of me and thigh-high black boots in leather. The pièce de résistance? A set of Dolce & Gabbana stretch silk string bikini underwear. (That's when Visa wanted to talk to me personally to make sure my card hadn't been stolen.)

By the end I was giddy and possibly delusional, as I could hear my mother's voice chastising me for spending so much on myself at Christmas when children are hungry and homeless. So I wrote out a check for $500 and slipped it into the bucket of the Salvation Army Santa Claus. He handed me a candy cane in thanks, which I bent down and gave to a kid who was hanging around for the rejects. When I looked up, I saw
It
in the window of Ann Taylor.

It
is the most beautiful dress in champagne silk with adorable satin ribbon ties at the waist. It is strapless, though there is a matching silk shawl. My body literally aches to wear such a thing, which I immediately realize is a ridiculous extravagance.

I mean, where would I wear a strapless dupioni silk dress in champagne? This isn't something you can throw on for running out to the grocery store or even wear to work. It wouldn't be appropriate for Eileen's rehearsal dinner, for which I bought the wrap dress at Talbot's today. No, this is the kind of glorious item that would hang in my closet for years like some pathetic reminder of my fleeting youth, haunting me, reminding me of the dances and balls I never attended and the kisses I never received.

Eventually, when I turn eighty, I will have to resign myself to my spinsterhood, pack the Dress up in its original garment bag, and take it down to the church auxiliary, where I will say in a shaky old lady's voice, “Here. When you sell it, make sure you note that it was never worn.” Did I mention the tears welling up in my faded old-lady eyes?

“OK,” Nancy announces, shaking me out of my dress lust. “Are we ready to go in?”

Deb opens the door to the Willoughby. “I think I've got my lines down. How about you, Nola?”

“No problem.” We've only gone over the script seven times.

The Willoughby is packed with shoppers, even though it's late in the afternoon. We arrive right on time and, sure enough, there is Chester Markham, buzzing about, making small talk with his chic clientele.

“Greene,” Nancy says to the maître d'. “Table for three.”

The maître d' grabs three menus and directs us to a booth.

“Actually,” I say on cue, “could we have the table by the window?”

He frowns. “I'm sorry. It's reserved.”

Of course it's reserved. We reserved it ourselves, under the name Cindy Packer.

“Oh, that's too bad.” Deb pulls her best pout. “That would have been so nice, to watch everyone passing by on the street, shopping. And look! There are carolers. How sweet.”

He assesses Nancy in her elegant Burberry. “Let me talk to the manager. The reservation is twenty minutes late.”

This is the moment we've been waiting six months for. Nancy, Deb, and I don't know where to look as the maître d' approaches Chester, points to the table, and then to us. For a minute it seems as though Chester doesn't care. And then he starts walking toward us, his lips set sternly.