The Prince Charming Hoax
Read The Prince Charming Hoax Online
Authors: Elyse Grant
The Prince Charming Hoax
Elyse Grant
The Prince Charming Hoax
Copyright © 2012 by Elyse Grant
Published by Visual Impressions Publishing
www.visualimpressionspublishing.com
Amazon
edition November 2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author
’
s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Preface
A debut novel usually introduces both an author and a character. In this instance, two authors and two characters are holding
“
coming out
”
parties.
I
’
ve always been a writer with many sidelines: editor, copywriter, publisher, and consultant...to name a few. About fifteen years ago, I was transitioning from life as wife and mother to single mom, and it occurred to me that my dating experiences and those of my friends would make entertaining reading. Five years later I was headed toward being an empty nester in a second marriage. I began writing a nonfiction book about women
’
s midlife adventures re-entering the dating world when the story abruptly morphed into fiction. You
’
ve probably heard authors talk about characters having lives and minds of their own. That
’
s exactly what happened to me.
I had interviewed dozens of women for dating and relationship stories to use in my nonfiction book
.
One day as I struggled with the structure and organization of the material, the interviews suddenly merged into the life stories of two characters, Leah Gold and Roxanne Stein: two friends with contrasting personalities and a shared propensity for choosing Mr. Wrong. Their story became
The Prince Charming Hoax,
my debut novel. I use my pen name, Elyse Grant, for fiction because truly the inspiration for storytelling comes from a source inside myself that is not a person I
’
ve yet shown the world.
While in the final editing stages preparing for the release of
The Prince Charming Hoax
, it occurred to me that I was also gearing up for my personal
“
release
”
as Elyse Grant, author of erotic fiction. Contemplating these momentous events, I was struck by the realization that Shelley Lieber and Elyse Grant are the real-life models for Leah Gold and Roxanne Stein. Shelley and Leah are the
“
good girls,
”
smart and creative with nurturing mom-type personalities. Roxie and Elyse are the
“
naughty girls,
”
sharp and ambitious with a penchant for bending the rules and having fun.
Every woman has these two personalities within, but mine have decided to go public!
The Prince Charming Hoax
is the first in a series. Please follow our continuing escapades in the real and literary worlds at
http://wordywoman.com
, where you
’
ll be able to access the blogs of Shelley Lieber and Elyse Grant.
Remember, this book is a work of fiction, and although fiction may at times resemble reality, truth is stranger than fiction.
Thank you for sharing the journey. I hope you enjoy
The Prince Charming Hoax
.
My best,
Shelley Lieber (aka Elyse Grant)
October 17, 2012
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to Marcy Santamaria, whose friendship, support, and encouragement fueled the inspiration to write this book. I am grateful to my early readers in the Fort Lauderdale (Florida) Writers Group, led by Jon Frangipane and Wendell Abern, and to Thomas Highsmith and Steve Yudewitz, members of our small Novel Writers Group, for making me accountable to finish a chapter a week. I may never have completed the novel without that commitment.
Thank you to my final beta readers for their invaluable editing and commentary: Cathy Courtenay-Smith, Lisa Emigh, Julia Harold, Paula Holland De Long, and Marti Saltzman.
I am deeply grateful to many unnamed friends who have encouraged me through the long and often-interrupted process of completing this work.
My appreciation and love to my fabulous husband, Joe Gemignani, who has recognized and encouraged the writer inside me since our first conversation one moonlit evening long ago in Dania Beach.
And to my Inner Spirit and Muse...thank you for expressing through me.
The Prince Charming Hoax
Chapter 1
Leah Gold
’
s BMW screeched to a halt in her driveway, piercing the 2 a.m. stillness of her South Florida suburban neighborhood. The click clack of her high-heel sandals echoed her brisk steps on the neatly landscaped stone walk leading to her townhouse.
After slamming the front door with a might that belied her petite frame, she kicked off her shoes and stripped, scooping up her garments without losing any momentum as she stomped down the hallway toward the spiral stairway.
None of her temper-tantrum antics were helping. She was still furious. At the top of the stairs, she stopped and leaned over the railing, yelling to an imagined audience in the living room below,
“
Fucking assholes! Men are such fucking assholes!
”
With twelve hundred square feet of marble floor, no carpet, and barely any furniture to absorb the sound, her near-empty house created an echo chamber. Her words spilled from the second-floor landing, hit the ground floor, and reverberated back around her. She forced an exaggerated laugh and continued toward her bedroom.
Glancing across the hall to her daughter
’
s room, Leah felt momentary relief that Ali was sleeping at a friend
’
s house. That girl could read her like a book, no matter how hard she tried to disguise her feelings, and Leah was grateful that tonight she didn
’
t have to try.
Throwing herself face down on her canopied bed, Leah swept aside the carefully placed decorative pillows and lace adornments as she stretched across the bed to pull her journal and favorite purple pen from the nightstand drawer. She began furiously pouring out her vengeance onto the page, stopping only briefly to impatiently push back her wavy blonde hair, which kept falling against her face as she bent her head down, intently focused on her writing.
June 4 2:13 a.m.
Pond Scum. Men are Pond Scum. We want to believe differently because we cannot reconcile the truth about them with our values—but the fact is: Men are pond scum, the lowest form of life in the universe.
My brother tried to warn me when I was 13, but I didn
’
t believe him. I still denied it at 18, 25, 42—until now. It
’
s time I accept the truth and learn to use it to MY advantage.
Too bad I
’
m not a lesbian. Women are a much higher life form.
Pond scum. What a fucking bunch of assholes. How did I get so lucky to collect so many? Must be some inner talent or perhaps self-destructive tendency.
Just remember the next time you think you
’
ve met a nice guy: There are NONE! They
’
re ALL pond scum.
Her anger only slightly abated, Leah sat up and glared into the long oval vanity mirror across from her bed.
“
What is wrong with me, anyway? Why can
’
t I get a guy to commit?
”
Her reflected image and those words brought her instantly back thirty-five years to the fifteen-year-old insecure teen who spent hours in front of the mirror, constantly inspecting herself and wondering why boys didn
’
t like her or ask her to parties, and why they always seemed to like her friends better.
All these years and nothing has changed, she thought.
She ran her fingers through her hair. She even still wore her hair the same way except that now she had gone blonde, a process she started when gray strands became noticeable in her naturally brunette hair. Her fingers traced the curve of her face and traveled down to her breast and hip. Of course, now there were a few more facial lines and certain body parts sagged slightly where they once stood firm.
Leah studied the full length of her naked body. At fifty she was still about the same size and weight she
’
d been at fifteen.
“
Why am I still comparing myself to other women and wondering why men don
’
t want me? Something
’
s wrong here, and it must be with me.
”
Staring at her reflection revealed no clues as to what that something was. She looked into her eyes, so blue they stood out from across the room. She shook her head and scolded her reflection.
“
There
’
s nothing wrong with me. Any of those assholes would be lucky to have a woman like me—good looking, trim, smart, independent, and sexy.
”
She made a face at herself and continued her journal entry.
Men are the problem. Men love to be seen with me, like I
’
m some sort of prize. But as soon as it becomes apparent that I
’
m not just going to be a background figure to boost their male egos, I get the boot. A strong woman intimidates them. You
’
re a tough broad, they tell me.
Well, screw them.
“
Tough
”
because I have my own mind and have more to say and do than stroke their already inflated egos? Why can
’
t men accept women as intellectual equals?
But, that
’
s not my real problem. My problem is that I continue to believe that somewhere out there is a man who is different. My Prince Charming, my Edward, a man who would give up the throne of England to marry me, the woman he loved.
Go ahead and kiss all the frogs you want, Leah. There are no princes, only toads. Waiting for the perfect guy is like waiting for Godot. Absurd.
Closing the journal, Leah stroked the soft suede cover like a favorite pet. She tried not to think the unsettling thoughts she dared never speak aloud, or write about in her journal. Putting her fears into spoken or written words might give them validity. She placed her treasured notebook and pen back in the drawer and turned off the lamp.
As usual, the darkness only increased the unnamed apprehension that haunted her. Sometimes, she
’
d toss and turn with growing uneasiness until she jumped from the bed trying to escape her torment. Many nights she
’
d wake drenched in sweat, unable to shake the terror until daylight came and forced the dark thoughts to subside.
She felt the familiar gnawing in her stomach, constriction in her chest, and nausea increasing. Leah closed her eyes.
“
Go away,
”
she whispered to her demons.
“
This night has been bad enough already.
”
She reached back into her nightstand drawer, but this time she placed her hand on her vibrator. She leaned back, barely making an indentation in the high pile of soft feather pillows. Pushing her hair off her face, she wiped her tears and let herself concentrate instead on the steady whir and pleasant pulsation between her legs. She moaned as her pleasure escalated, and she began rocking the bed with her own vibrations until she fell asleep, exhausted.