The Cinderella Pact (37 page)

“Shit,” Deb whispers, “maybe we shouldn't have done this.”

Nancy pokes her. “Knock it off. This is what we spent six months dieting for.”

“I understand you are interested in the table by the window,” Chester says.

“Yes,” says Nancy. “It's our favorite.”

His squirrel-like eyes take me in, then Deb, and finally, Nancy. There seems to be a moment of recognition, but I must be wrong because he says, “Your favorite spot? But I've never seen you here before, and surely I would have remembered three beautiful women such as yourselves.”

Brilliant. Deb giggles and I have to step on her toe to shut her up.

“Really?” Nancy says, the long lost color rising in her cheeks. “Are you sure?”

“I am certain.” Chester takes her hand and kisses it gallantly. “And I see no reason why you cannot have the window table.”

“But it's reserved.”

Still holding on to her hand, Chester confides, “That is nothing. I will take care of everything if the party arrives. Please.” He points her to the table but now it is Nancy gripping his hand with an ironlike force.

“On second thought,” she says, “I don't think so. I understand there are other places in town to eat. What was the restaurant that you recommended last June? Oh, that's right . . . Hoagie Haven, I believe it was.”

She drops Chester's hand dramatically. The moment of victory has been claimed.

He reassesses us, squinting. “Ah, yes,” he says. “I thought you were familiar.”

“But you said you'd never forget three women as beautiful as us,” Deb blurts.

To his credit, Chester throws up his hands. “What can I say? I made a mistake. I've often thought how poorly I handled the situation. I was rude. I apologize. My only excuse was that I'd just entered the business and I didn't know squat about running a restaurant. Had I to do it all over again, I surely would have given you the table . . . as I did just now.”

For some reason, this strikes me as extremely funny, and I can't help but burst out laughing. Here we'd made so much out of Chester's bumbling snubbing that we'd put ourselves on a six-month regimen of diet, exercise, and, in Deb's case, major surgery. When all along it was Chester's inexperience to blame.

“What's wrong with you?” Nancy asks me. “It's not that funny.”

“It is. It is.” I have to hold my nose to stop. “Can we just sit down?”

Chester seems relieved, especially since once again we've drawn the attention of his other patrons. “Yes. And how about a champagne for each of you—on me.”

“Actually,” says Deb, “a coffee would be fine.”

“Me too,” says Nancy. “Decaf, please.”

To me the champagne sounded pretty good, but I go along with their choices and vote for coffee.

“No cakes to go with your coffee?” Chester asks. “We have a triple-layer chocolate raspberry torte, a bouche de nöelle, an almond tart, and, the specialty of the Willoughby, a lemon poppyseed cake with orange glaze. All on the house, of course.”

It is tempting, and we've
so
earned it. Then again, we've learned to reward ourselves in other ways besides food, right? I should hope so, because I just plunked a ton of dough rewarding myself at Ann Taylor. “No thanks,” we say in a unison that is so earnest, we break into a fresh round of laughter.

After Chester leaves, I say, “We should have ordered something. I mean, wasn't that the plan?”

“I think we got our message across. We're done,” Nancy says. “Besides, dessert didn't really appeal to me. Like the saying goes, nothing tastes as good as thin feels.”

Deb adds, “And it's getting late. I can only stay five minutes if I'm going to make my four p.m. hair appointment.”

“You're getting your hair done today? It'll be a zoo.” I check my bags to make sure I still have the thongs.

“Not like I have any choice. What am I supposed to do, go to the Stanton party with my hair like this? Nancy's lucky, getting her stylist to come to her house.”

Suddenly, everything goes silent—except for the
thud
of Nancy's Ferragamo boot kicking Deb under the table.

“
You're going to David's party?”
I ask, odd prickles running up my back.

“Oh, Deb,” Nancy says with a sigh. “You are such a Sagittarius.”

“I thought she knew,” Deb says.

“Knew what?” Though I don't have to ask, because I am well aware of how stingy and nasty Lori DiGrigio is. She purposely invited my two best friends and not me to rub salt in my wounds, though when I rant about this, I sound like some crazed conspiracy theorist. “It's all Lori's doing, isn't it? She hates me.”

“You had nothing to do with it. Lori probably doesn't even know we're coming,” Deb calmly explains. “Paul got invited because he heads Princeton's largest software design firm. So he's taking me and Nancy's going with Ron.”

“It's an ACLU thing,” Nancy says. “Ron's the president, and I guess civil rights is a big Stanton cause.”

“In fact”—Deb glances at her watch—“I have to go—now. I've got to pick up Dylan from his friend's house and get the kids' stuff together before I drop them off at Paul's mother's and get to my appointment.”

“Me too,” Nancy adds, pulling at a strand of hair. “Sheila's coming to my house, and with this traffic I don't want to be late. Could you imagine if I stood her up?” She pushes back her chair. “Sorry, Nola.”

“That's OK,” I chirp. “Fine. No, really. I've got to go too.”

“You do?” Deb asks incredulously.

“Yes. Absolutely. Oh, dear.” I make a big production out of checking my watch as well. Then, out of nowhere, I stupidly say, “Belinda's arriving at JFK this evening, and I've got to drive up there and get her.”

Deb smiles eagerly. “That'll be exciting. Have you ever met her before?”

This is getting worse and worse, the lying. “Uh . . . not actually.”

“She's coming to David Stanton's party, right?” Deb says. “That's the rumor.”

“I don't know. . . .”

But Deb is too excited to pay attention. “Because I'd love to thank her in person, for that column she wrote that got us started on the Cinderella Pact. I've been thinking about her all day.”

“She knows,” I say.

“I hope so,” says Nancy, kissing me on the cheek. “Have fun with her, OK?”

“OK.”

My friends leave just when Chester arrives with the coffee. “I've reconsidered,” I tell him. “I'd like a slice of lemon cake, please. And this time, you can hold the other two forks. I want it all to myself.”

 
Turning off Nassau Street, I pull my coat tighter against the damp December breeze as I trudge home in the dark to my apartment where I will spend the rest of the night alone. It might be my imagination, but it seems as though every one of my neighbors is getting ready to go out for a holiday party.

Cars are warming up in driveways and a husband is barking to his wife to get ready. One mother is giving firm instructions to a babysitter at the front door, the sound of shouting kids echoing behind her. There is a woman silhouetted in a bedroom window, brushing her hair, and another is shrugging into a fur coat.

And me? Well, I've got Otis, who is perched on the windowsill of my bathroom, meowing to me as I climb the front steps.

I tiptoe quietly, but my stealth abilities are no match for Bitsy's CIA-trained ears. “I'm glad I caught you!” she says, opening the front door. She is dressed in a full-length black sequined dress. “A man stopped by to see you. He was carrying a big package. He looked trustworthy, so I let him in.”

A strange man. What could a strange man be doing in my apartment, and why would Bitsy, who suspects the mailman of thirty years, have let him in?

“Who was it?”

“Never seen him before. He said he was dropping off another gift for Eileen's wedding. You know, your apartment is getting crammed with her junk.”

“Oh.” My heart sinks. Just when I thought a surprise was waiting for me, I find it is but another silver plate or wine goblet or Irish linen tablecloth for my sister, who will be married one week from today. Mom doesn't want the stuff filling up her house, not with all the wedding preparations going on, and since Eileen is in the middle of a move to the new condo that she and Jim bought, the obvious option is to stash her wedding presents in my apartment.

After all, it's not like I've got a life.

I thank Bitsy, who tells me she's going out to dinner at the Nassau Inn with a man she's had her hooks into from the historical society before they head over to the Stanton gala.

“Aren't you going?”

“As a matter of fact, no. I've got other obligations.”

“That's too bad,” says Bitsy with pity. “I can't imagine what could be more important than a party being thrown by your own publisher.”

Somehow I can't bear to tell her that I haven't been invited.

Thankfully her phone rings and Bitsy rushes off. I climb the stairs and contemplate moving myself—maybe to Timbuktu, where they've never heard of David Stanton III or Belinda Apple. I could start over, edit a small newspaper perhaps or raise man-eating house cats. Yes, it wouldn't be so bad. I'm still young, right?

Meanwhile, all I will have to do is get through this night. I will find those earplugs I bought when they were doing construction outside my apartment so I won't have to listen to Bitsy coming home late, laughing and singing. I have a good book to read. Some hot chocolate. A movie on TV. Yes, I'll make it just fine.

But I'm not just fine when I slip the key into the door. Something about the sound of metal against metal feels so lonely, especially knowing that on the other side no one is waiting for me.

A big teardrop lands on my wrist. I quickly wipe it off. Then another takes its place.

Just get inside, and you can cry all you want
, my inner voice scolds.

Pushing open the door, I am in full sob, tossing my bags ahead of me and running to the couch, where I bury my head into a pillow. Otis, immediately sensing distress, leaps in from the window and lands on me. Hissing.

Hissing? Otis never hisses at me.

“Nola?” A man's voice is soft above me. It must be God, I think. Who knew God had a British accent?

“C'mon, luv, enough of that.”

I look up, my tears and the darkness of my apartment blurring the vision in front of me. In the glow of the streetlight outside, I can faintly make out a shimmering sight. Is it satin or is it silk? A ghost?

Then my table light flicks on, and I see it is Nigel Barnes. “Cheer up. We can't have tears on the night of your coming-out party, can we, Belinda?”

“What?!” He called me Belinda. Perhaps I'm dreaming. “What do you mean, ‘Belinda'? And what are you doing in my apartment, Nigel?”

“Come off it.” He's still grinning as he perches himself on the arm of my couch. “I couldn't let this charade go on much longer, not with you locked up alone while your alter ego is in so much demand. You're coming to Stanton's tonight, and you're going to be my date. Didn't I tell you I'd do anything to walk through the door with Belinda Apple on my arm?”

I am too awed to speak or even breathe. Nigel Barnes knows. And from the looks of his devilish grin, he has known for quite some time.

“But . . . how . . . ?”

“We can discuss that later. Right now we have too much to do to get ready. Look at you! Your hair is completely the wrong color, and I've been through your closet. You haven't a thing to wear. Which is why I took the liberty.”

I watch stupidly as Nigel enters my bedroom and returns holding a long, shimmering champagne-colored evening gown. The exact same gown I'd been admiring in the window of Ann Taylor less than an hour before. It can't be, but it is.

“Like it?” he asks

“Yes . . . I—I saw it and . . .”

“I know. The saleslady told me you were salivating over it. Quite a mate you've got there, by the way. Now get up. Gordon is waiting at Salon Salon to spice up that mousy-brown mane of yours, and we have to hurry. We're already late.”

I am giddy. This can't be happening. I am actually going to the gala with Nigel Barnes. I am going in a floor-length Ann Taylor silk gown after being made over by none other than the most famous stylist in Princeton.

I can't help but think that this wouldn't have happened six months ago. Never would I have been able to fit into an Ann Taylor gown. Nor would a man be able to waltz in, talk to a clerk who knew me, and buy it off the rack as a gift—as though I were Audrey Hepburn or something.

It was worth it. The months of dieting. The exercise. It was all worth it just so I didn't have to say to Nigel, “I'm sorry. But there's no way I can squeeze into that. Perhaps a pair of black pants . . .”

“It's like I really am Cinderella,” I say dreamily as Nigel leads me out the door.

“Yes. But if you call me your fairy godmother once, just once, then I turn you into a pumpkin and I never turn you back.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

My dreams of being Cinderella cannot compare to the real thing. I know it's supposed to be the opposite, that no reality can match our sweet imagination, to paraphrase Paul Simon, but honestly, this evening is sparkling and surreal.

Though it didn't start out that way. I mean, we arrive at Salon Salon, my dress and makeup in tow, and find it is dark. Closed down for the night.