“Oh, no,” I wail. “We're too late.”
“Never fear,” Nigel says, pulling out his cell. He engages in a brief conversation while I rub my hands together, trying to keep warm. The clock on Nassau Street says it's quarter past eight, and the party is already under way.
Like magic, the door opens and there is Gordon in a black T-shirt and white jeans. I'm ushered in, Gordon looks around, shuts the door, locks it, and pulls down the shades.
“If they know I'm in business, they'll be demanding to be let in,” he says. “Now, where's that photo you showed me earlier.”
I say nothing as Nigel pulls out Belinda's photo from
Sass!
and the two men consult. Gordon is tall, fit in a kind ofâoh, I might as well just say itâgay-revue kind of way. It crosses my mind that, hey, maybe Nigel is gay, and that this is why he so easily agreed to be attached to Belinda in the tabloids. But I'm not about to ask. I am none too eager to be turned into a pumpkin.
“All right. I've got just the color. Come on, sweetheart. Where are you going with your coat on, already?” Gordon helps me off with my coat and leads me over to his chair. In a few minutes he comes back, stirring chemicals in a bowl. “You know, I never would have agreed to this if it hadn't been for Nigel. I've had a crush on him for years!”
I laugh as Nigel rolls his eyes, though he can't help but smile, too. Meanwhile, Gordon is rapidly painting my hair with pinkish goo and wrapping the hair sections in foil.
“Gordon lives next door to me, and that's it,” Nigel whispers. “Just in case you're wondering.”
“Listen, don't let his stiff British demeanor fool you. Nigel can really let it all hang out when he wants to.”
I raise an inquiring eyebrow at Nigel, who tells me to ignore everything Gordon says, that he is an incurable flirt.
“OK. I'm putting you under the dryer for five and then I'll check on you. You want me to get you something, hon? Coffee? Tea? Tequila?”
“Tequila,” says Nigel.
“Oh, you.” Gordon slaps him playfully and takes me to the dryer.
They are the fastest highlights I've ever had, and the most luxurious. In an hour's time I have been transformed into a stunning, sultry redhead. Auburn with deep red tones. Exactly like Belinda. Gordon then lifts my hair and wraps it into a glamorous French twist, tacking down the ends with petite rhinestone clips.
“Now, let me see what I can do. Makeup's not really my bag.” But that is a total lie. Studying the photo, Gordon arches my brows with pencil, darkens my lids, and makes my eyes sparkle. My skin is flawless. My lips are full and russet. Extremely kissable, if I do say so myself.
“You've done it. You're a master,” Nigel says. “Now, my ersatz Belinda, if you just step into the dress, I'll bring the car around.”
“Wait!” Gordon screams. “What about her shoes? Cinderella needs her glass slippers.”
“Don't worry. Got 'em covered.”
When I step out of Gordon's back office, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and gasp. I have never seen this woman before except, maybe, between the covers of
Sass!
My upper arms are more toned than my bathroom mirror had led me to believe, the every-other-day weightlifting regimen finally paying off. I am actually not embarrassed to be in a strapless dress. In fact, IâI can't believe I'm saying thisâI like it!
The bodice hugs my chest and fits perfectly at the waist, which is flattered by the satin bows. And with my newly red hair, the cream silk makes me luminescent. It's a dream. A dream I've treasured since childhoodâto become a princess. It makes up for all the proms and dances and society balls I've never been invited to.
“Well, look at you,” Gordon says. “Miss All Dressed Up and Ready to Party. No. No. Don't cry. That mascara's not waterproof, honey.”
I blink to keep from crying until Nigel walks in with a blast of cold. He is in a tux, a real tux, with a white silk scarf. I've never seen a man so handsome.
“Nigel!” I exclaim. “You can really clean up.”
“Can't he? Ohmigod.” Gordon feigns a heart attack. “Hold me back.”
“And for the final touch? I do believe these are Belinda's slippers.”
He is holding up a pair of very famous, rhinestone-studded pink cowboy boots, which of course, fit like a dream.
Â
The Stanton mansion is so lit up with candles and lights that the glow from its windows extends down the long driveway lined by dark, bare oaks.
“How did you know I was Belinda?” I ask Nigel as we wait in his car until other partiers have stepped inside. Nigel has sent word ahead that Belinda Apple is arriving, to build buzz.
“Your columns. They were written by someone pretending to be a Brit. I mean, what kind of colloquial dictionary were you using? It was as though you were going out of your way to write things like âbangers' instead of âsausages' and âmotorway' instead of âfreeway.' ”
“There is a book, actually.”
“Burn it. It's terrible. Then, when I met you, I saw the similarities. I heard about the scandal, did my own snooping around, and had pretty much resolved it was you. Of course, when you told me about your idea for a movie script about a fat girl posing as a thin British girl, well . . . it was obvious, wasn't it?”
I smile in the dark. I've become very fond of Nigel, whom I once considered a pompous braggart and a fattie bigot. “So, why are you doing all this for me?”
“Mostly because I like you. You are funny and bright and too good for that rag you work for. Also because I feel tremendously guilty about what I wrote Belindaâa note you must have read.”
“That said I was big-boned and you couldn't stand fatties.”
“That's the one. But let me ask you, did you ever analyze what made me so afraid to be near fat people?”
I mull this over. “Because you had a big British nanny who threatened to sit on you?”
Nigel laughs. “Oh, come on, Belinda. You can do better than that. Who hates fat people the most?”
And then it hits me. “Because you were once fat yourself.”
“Huuuge,”
Nigel says, holding out his arms to show how big.
“But you're so thin!”
“Not always. I spent most of my youth holed up in my room, listening to music and hiding from the world. Don't you know that about rock critics? We were all once upon a time loser teenagers.”
“No. I didn't know.”
“Then I went to university and started to slim down. Of course, you spend your nights going to the Palladium, snorting coke and smoking cigarettes until three, and you'll find your weight drops.”
“Nigel,” I say in a reproving tone.
“The coke is gone, and I'm cutting down on the fags, promise.” He peers out the window. “It's been fifteen minutes. By now you'll have quite a crowd gathered. Ready?”
“Wait.” I put a hand on his arm to stop him. “You've been so wonderful to me. I have to know. Are you looking for something between us?”
Smiling gently, Nigel leans over and kisses me sweetly on the cheek. “I am madly, deeply in love with you, my dear Nola. But I'm afraid there already is something between us. And he's right in there.”
I give his arm a firm squeeze and, mindful of Gordon's mascara warning, resolve not to cry as Nigel pulls up to the valet and we get out, ready to meet whatever awaits us as Nigel Barnes and Belinda Appleâthe party's celebrity couple.
Â
Nigel's right. There is a small crowd gathered as we enter the grand marble foyer. The air is filled with the sound of a string quartet playing Bach, along with merry conversation and glasses clinking as waiters and waitresses spin by carrying large silver platters of hors d'ouevres. I drink in the deep, Christmasy aromas of freshly cut pine boughs and woodsmoke.
It's not until the brass quartet switches to a rousing rendition of “Rule Britannia” that I realize all eyes are on us. I falter, and Nigel grips my arm tighter.
As we pass by, I nod to Governor Christie Todd Whitman, who points me out to Governor Thomas Keane, a large, affable fellow with a plaid cummerbund. I may be wrong, but I think that was former Governor Jim McGreevey in the corner. Is he trying to pick up Bruce Springsteen?
“You're doing fine,” Nigel assures me quietly. “Keep your head up, your lips in a smile, and don't forget the emperor who had no clothes.”
“The emperor who had no clothes,” I reply, spying Lori's black coif bobbing up and down, trying to get a closer, better glimpse of Belinda. “What do you mean?”
“If they believe you are Belinda and you believe you are Belinda, then, voilà , you're Belinda,” he says. “Just hope and pray there's no snotty kid to rat you out.”
Around us I catch faint whispers of: “Belinda Apple! . . . She's gorgeous. . . . So much taller than I thought she'd be. . . . They make such a lovely couple. . . . Don't you just love the British? . . . Is it true that they're engaged?”
Yet there's just one person I'm looking for. One man I desperately want to see. Where is he?
“Hey, Belinda!” I turn to find myself face-to-face with none other than Alicia, Lori's evilâbut fortunately daftâassistant. She is wearing a slinky red dress, the straps of which keep sliding off her slumped shoulders, and she shakes my hand limply, not recognizing me one bit. “I just want to tell you that I so like your columns. Also, thanks for writing back to Works for the Worst Boss Ever.” She winks. “I've got my résumés out now, thanks to you.”
Excellent. It is the best news I've heard all week.
I'm about to tell her so when I see Nancy and Ron by a baby grand piano. Ron looks at me and does a double-take.
“Uh-oh,” I say to Nigel. “I think I've just been spotted by the snotty kid.”
“Not to worry, my dear. I will execute Plan B. In here.” With apologies to Alicia, Nigel yanks me into a room of glass walls, illuminated only by tiny lights around its edges. “The conservatory. Every nouveau riche house has one.”
“It's not nouveau riche. It goes back to the nineteenth century.”
“Exactly.” He glances behind his shoulder. “You wait here. Stare out at the falling snow or something. Look diaphanous.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get your host . . .” He holds up a finger. “Don't say it. I'm not kidding about that pumpkin threat.”
He leaves and I stand with my hands behind my back, trying to act like an unapproachable celebrity who very much wants to be left alone. I can sense people milling around behind me.
“Miss Apple?” A woman who, thankfully, I've never met comes up to me holding a cocktail napkin and a pen. “Would you mind signing this? I am such a fan of your column.”
“No problem,” I say, completely forgetting my British accent.
“I thought your answer to Split My Pants in Bayonne was hysterical. I split my pants once in public and nearly died. Scotch tape is a great idea.”
I'd like to tell her this is based on a true story. My own true story, but I don't dare. Instead I sign
Belinda Apple
with a flourish, say thank you, and go back to the window.
“I think she doesn't want to be bothered,” my fan informs the rest of the group.
They leave, and it is getting cold and I worry that before Nigel can snare Chip, Alicia will remember who I am or Deb will rush to thank me and that'll be the end of my night. All I want is two minutes, a minute maybe, alone with him so I can hear him say the words that he's written only to Belinda.
That he is falling in love with me.
“Belinda?”
There is a light touch at my shoulder, and I turn cautiously.
I have to keep myself from saying his name, though I want to desperately. To think that this was once the truck-driving guy I passed off as a computer geek. In his own tux he is even more handsome than Nigel, and the white bow tie at his throat makes him sexier too, if indeed that is possible. He smells faintly of a subtle cologne that Olivia probably purchased for him.
Olivia. She must be here somewhere. Does she know I've arrived? Will I have to meet her? I don't want to. I just want him for one minute like this in the darkened conservatory under the tiny twinkling white lights. Just us and no one else. My miniature fairy tale to hold in my heart, to take out and read when I'm alone years from now.
“Belinda,” he says again. “I'm so glad you came. We finally meet.”
“David?” I pretend. “Thank you for inviting me.” I don't even try to fake the British accent.
“You look stunning.”
“As do you.”
“My God,” he says, seemingly speechless. “I had no idea you were so . . . beautiful.”
We're silent suddenly. And then the string quartet in the next room launches into “Baby It's Cold Outside,” the sultriest Christmas song ever.
“Care to dance?” he says, taking my hand.
“I'd love to.”
Which is when he brings me to him and we sway together drifting as if on air, spinning around the conservatory, the tiny white lights like little stars, blinking on the winter's eve.
“I'm afraid we don't have much privacy,” he whispers. “Everyone's watching us.”
“Including . . . Olivia?”
“I would assume. Listen, I need to see you alone. Not like this. How aboutâ”
“I can't.”
“Then later.”
“No . . . it won't work.”
“Are you going away?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Maybe forever.”