Manhattan Cinderella

by Kate O'Keeffe

  Downstairs in the living room, I find Sylvia sitting on one of the new, plush leather sofas she bought as part of her renovation of our penthouse. Everything in the room is either stark black or high-shine chrome, perfectly reflecting her warm and loving personality. Among the many crimes I can never forgive her for, making our once warm and comfortable family home look like a gaudy Italian fashion designer’s showplace is up there at the top of the list.

  Well, after the way she treats me like a freaking slave, that is.

  I come to a stop in front of her. “Sorry, all done. What do you need me to do?”

  She runs a critical eye over me that makes me want to squirm. “You know, Gabriella, you could be quite pretty, if you tried. Not like my girls, of course. They have a natural beauty you simply don’t possess.” She bobs her head at the sofa where her two daughters sit glued to their phones, completely ignoring her. “The spawn” as Cece call them behind their backs. They’re wearing the expensive designer clothes Sylvia lavishes on them, paid for with my dad’s cash, naturally.

  She lifts one perfectly manicured hand and examines her long red nails. “Who knows? If you’d put in more of an effort to be a good daughter, maybe your father would still be here?” Her eyes land on mine, a spiteful smile teasing at the edges of her artificially plumped mouth.

  I press my own lips together into a thin line. We both know me wearing some fancy dress wouldn’t have made a drop of difference in Dad’s decision to leave. I do my best to ignore the tension spreading across my chest. I absolutely refuse to let this woman see my pain.

  She raises her head in triumph, seeing right through my bravado. After a beat, she collects a bulging black plastic bag from the seat next to her and thrusts it at me. “Take these to High End Cleaners. Not that place that virtually butchered them last time. My girls can’t look like they scrub toilets for a living when they perform. Not like some people.” She arcs one of her eyebrows.

  I take the bag from her and peer inside. Dresses. Lots of them. “High End Cleaners. Got it.”

  “And here.” She holds out another plastic bag. It’s bright yellow with a picture of a grinning green frog, a crown atop its head.

  I take it from her and pull out a single silver high-heeled shoe and admire it. It has the most exquisite crystals on the strap of the toe of the sandal, the heel high, thin, and elegant. It’s a fairy-tale shoe, the kind a girl would wear to a ball to meet her prince.

  Not that I need one of those, of course. I’m a New Yorker, doing it for myself, not waiting for a prince. All of that. But nonetheless . . . it is a beautiful shoe.

  “That sandal needs to be taken to The Cobbler King. I can’t have Britney falling on the biggest night of the band’s career.”

  “Sure thing.” I slip the shoe back into the bag.

  She leans back in her seat and puts her hand over her heart, her sharp features softening as she gazes at her daughters. “I can barely believe you girls are opening for Rex Randall next Saturday. Rex Randall. I remember when he was part of that band back in the nineties, The Wrong Side of the Tracks. They were the most successful boy band of the decade, you know. Rex was easily the best looking, and the most talented. That’s why he was the breakout star.”

  An image of an aging rocker enters my head. Rex Randall had been famous for a few things other than being a member of that band. Things like repeated visits to rehab and sex scandals. You know, good old-fashioned family fun.

  “My girls are destined for great things, Gabriella. Great things. Aren’t you, my darlings?” Kylie and Britney grunt, not taking their eyes from their phones. “This concert is just the beginning.”

  I take a step closer to her, hoping the spawn don’t overhear what I have to say. “Errr, Sylvia?”

  “What is it?”

  “When I get to the recording studio today can I talk to you about doing, you know, the thing?” My breath catches in my throat.

  “The what?”

  “The thing,” I repeat under my breath.

  “Speak up, Gabriella. I can’t hear you.”

  Britney’s ears prick up. She peers at me over her phone, her interest clearly piqued.

  I square my shoulders. Dad had reluctantly agreed to allow me to leave college on the proviso I become a fully-fledged member of the Pop Princesses, not Sylvia’s overworked assistant. Sylvia had given him her word—which has grown to become less like a bond than an outright lie.

  “Look. I’ve been working on some new stuff. I really think you’ll like it.” Although it’s a last resort, I force a pleasant smile and add, “Please, Sylvia.”

  Her laugh is low and deeply unpleasant. “Oh, dear, sweet Gabriella. Can’t you see? That’s an absolute impossibility, not when the Pop Princesses are opening for Rex Randall.”

  “But you said I could. You gave Dad your word.”

  Sylvia and Britney share a look before she returns her attention to me. “As I’ve said, your father isn’t here, Gabriella,” Sylvia replies. “And, you see, the problem is, you’re, well, how do I put this? Let me find the words.” She taps her chin. “Oh, yes. That’s right. You’re not very good.”

  Britney snorts. I shoot her a glare, and she pokes her tongue out at me in response. What is she, seven?

  “And anyway, you just don’t have what Britney and Kylie have,” Sylvia continues.

  “What’s that?” The I.Q. of a gnat?

  “They have star quality, Gabriella. That undefinable thing you’ve either got or you don’t. Just look at them.”

  I glance over at my two stepsisters. Britney has lost interest in eavesdropping on our conversation and is now scratching her head and examining what she’s scraped off her scalp embedded under her nails, while Kylie’s chewing on her cuticle, her belly poking out over the top of her skirt as she reads her screen.

  Star quality my ass.

  “Your father made you an empty promise, saying you could become one of the Pop Princesses.”

  “But you said—”

  “Well, I’ve thought about it and have changed my mind, Gabriella. You can perform with the girls another time when they’re not playing at somewhere quite as special as Madison Square Garden. And besides, you’re much better suited to the role of assistant. You’re so,” she flicks her wrist, “useful.”

  Although Sylvia’s continued refusal to follow through on her promise to Dad shouldn’t surprise me, any remnant of hope I’d clung to is dashed with her cruel words. I fight to hold back the tears that sting my eyes.

  “My girls are very talented musicians. They don’t need you. See? ‘The Pop Princesses are the new darlings of pop.’” She brandishes the magazine at me, and I spy a small image of Kylie and Britney on one of the pages with the caption Are they the new Darlings of Pop? Really, the article is so small you could easily miss it.

  Britney looks up at me just long enough to sneer. “Not the new assistant to the darlings of pop.”

  Kylie snorts. “That would be, like, so hilarious.”

  “I know, right?” Kylie replies.

  “Exactly, my precious girls.” Sylvia shoots me a self-satisfied smirk. She flips the magazine over and scans the article, her lips curving into a smile. “Oh, yes. It’s all starting to happen for you two.” She looks up at me. “Kylie and Britney were named for the most famous pop stars of the Nineties, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” Of course I know. Telling how she had plans for her daughters before they were even out of diapers is one of Sylvia’s favorite stories.

  The softness in Sylvia’s eyes disappears. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be, Gabriella?”

  “Of course, Sylvia.” I clutch the bags to my body and obediently walk toward the front door, hating myself more with every goddamn step.

  “And meet us at the recording studio as soon as you’re finished,” she calls out.

  At the elevator, I press the “down” button as heat grows behind my eyes, my chest numb. Since Dad left, I’ve taken their crap, day in, d
ay out. Even though I act like it doesn’t bother me, even though I tell myself this won’t last, it’s getting harder to keep up the pretense. Especially when she snatches my big chance at a music career from me.

  The doors slide open and I step inside. I drum my fingers against my thigh and bite my lip. Why did I let myself get my hopes up? Sylvia was never going to follow through on her promise to help me. I was a fool to think there was even one iota of honor running through those veins.

  I need a new plan, and fast, one that doesn’t involve Sylvia Tremaine. I’ve got to make this happen—for me and for Cece.

  The elevator reaches the first floor and I walk out into the lobby. I spot Jerome at the front desk, dapper as always in his crisp uniform. He throws me a smile and a wink. I smile back as I trudge past him, deep in thought, through the glass double doors, and onto the tree-lined street.

  “Good morning, Miss Gabriella,” the doorman in his top hat says with a grin.

  I paste on a smile. “Clive! Howzit hangin’?”

  His face glows as his grin widens. “It’s hanging well today, thank you.”

  Usually, I love it when he plays along. Today? Today I’ve got things on my mind.

  I make my way down the tree-lined street, passing its elegant buildings with columns and wrought iron detailing. This has been my neighborhood my whole life, and I love everything about it, from Central Park to the hustle and bustle of Park Avenue, to the shelter entryway awnings give you when it rains. It’s my place, my family’s place—and I’m determined no gold-digger of a stepmother can take that from me.

  Even if right now, she thinks she’s won.

  I reach the intersection and scan the traffic for a cab. I know a lot of people use services like Uber, but to me, Yellow Cabs are a New York institution. I could barely imagine the city without them. Spotting one driving toward me, I stand on the curb, raise my hand, and whistle loudly. Sylvia hates it when I do that, so I like to do it a lot.

  I jump in the back and give the driver the address for High End Cleaners. Then, I sit back on the vinyl seat and watch while we glide past the traffic, the people, and the buzz that is the city of New York, the city I adore.

  When I reach my destination, I get out of the cab and push my way through the doorway into the cleaner. I spy the ancient owner, behind the counter. “Hi, Priscilla.”

  “Gabby, it’s lovely to see you.” She shoots me a grin, her lined face creasing up like a raisin.

  “You, too. How’s tricks?” I place the bag of dresses on the counter beside her.

  “Tricks are good if by tricks you mean business?”

  I lean against the counter. “What else?”

  “Oh, you’re a cheeky one. All these, honey?” She pulls the dresses out of the bag and spreads them out.

  “Yup.”

  Priscilla holds up one of the glittery outfits. I raise my eyebrows and Priscilla shoots me a look. “There’s not much to this one, at least.”

  “They’re all like that. They’re stage costumes.”

  Her face lights up. “Yours?”

  I shake my head and let out a defeated sigh. “Not in this lifetime.”

  “We’ll get onto these.” She hands me the receipt, which I slip into my purse. “What are you up to now? More errands?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to deliver this shoe to—” I search the floor, the counter, everywhere. Panic sets in. My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh, my God. I must have left it in the cab!”

  “Whatcha leave in a cab, honey?”

  “I’ve lost a shoe. A beautiful, fairy-tale shoe.”

  Now I truly sound like Cinderella.

  “Well, I hope you find it.” Priscilla puts the dresses back in the plastic bag and places them on a counter behind her. “Delicates!” she barks to some poor schmuck out back.

  I chew on my nail. How can I find that cab? There must be thousands of cabs in this city.

  I simply don’t know what to do.

  But there’s one thing I know for certain: Sylvia is going to freaking kill me when she finds out.

  Chapter 2

  Cole

  Forget the overwhelming bustle of New Yorkers, their thick accents are undecipherable to my “Tennessee ears.” And forget looking up at the skyscrapers I’d seen on magazine covers or in the news. I pause on the sidewalk as an endless stream of people rush by. Traffic roars and sirens blare.

  Nope, we’re not in Tennessee anymore, Toto.

  In fact, I’m beginning to wonder what the hell I’m doing in this city at all.

  I scrape my fingers over my stubbly jaw. I should have shaved, but I guess it’s too late now. Screw it. He’ll have to take me as I am.

  I take an ill-advised breath of not-so-fresh air as I step over a puddle that smells like fresh piss. Nice. I notice a guy in a long red jacket with gold buttons and a top hat watching me closely. I’m not sure how to greet a doorman, but I guess I have to learn. I nod at him and he nods back. I sling my beat-up duffle bag and guitar over my shoulder and push my way through the oversized revolving glass doors.

  I look around at the fancy interior and glance down at my clothes. My jeans, boots, and flannel plaid shirt sure as hell stand out in mid-town Manhattan. When I got dressed this morning, I figured if it’s good enough for my home town, it’s good enough for this place. But right now, standing in the lobby with its marble floors, double-height ceiling, and fancy chandelier the size of a small moon, I realize I’m dead wrong.

  What am I doing here?

  A couple sitting on some elegant chairs nearby shoot me a disapproving look. It’s a plaid shirt and work boots. Get over it. I don’t say it. Instead, I scan the area for the reception desk, locate it, and stride over. I’m here for a reason, and worrying over whether I fit in or not isn’t going to make any difference.

  “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?” a brunette behind the desk asks.

  I drop my bag down at my feet and lean my guitar up against the side of the solid wood desk. “I’m checking in, thanks, ma’am.”

  She smiles at me. “Oh, I love your accent! New to the city?”

  Accent? She’s the one with the accent. Huh. Guess I’m the one that sounds weird here. “Err, yes, ma’am. The name’s Grant, Cole Grant.”

  “Mr. Grant. Welcome to the Pavilion on Fifth.” Her eyes sweep over me, giving me itchy feet. Can’t she just get on with this? “I’m a ‘Miss,’ by the way, not a ‘ma’am.’”

  What am I meant to say to that? Good for you? “All right. Miss.”

  “Single occupancy, Mr. Grant?” She flashes me a flirty smile and bats her eyelashes. Seriously? I didn’t know women went in for that sort of shit anymore.

  “Yeah, that’s right: single occupancy. I left my wife and twelve kids back on the farm. Someone had to tend to those pigs and goats.”

  Her mouth drops open. “A wife and twelve kids?”

  “Yes, miss.” I pat my chest and hips like I’m looking for something in a pocket. “Now, where’d I put my favorite piece of straw to chew on?”

  The girl’s eyes narrow. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

  Playing up to some outdated country stereotype could be fun here in New York. A distraction from the real reason I’m here. “How can you tell?”

  She smiles. “My name is Courtney, as you can see here.” She toys with the nametag on her lapel.

  I glance at it for a moment before returning my eyes to her face. “Yup. Courtney. That’s what it says.”

  She lets out a laugh, as though I’ve made the most hilarious joke known to humankind.

  Why can’t this woman just get on with her job? “So, ah, checking in.”

  “Oh, of course.” She taps on her computer for a moment. “I have you in a suite, number forty-seven-forty-two, Mr. Grant.” She pushes an envelope with a keycard slotted into a flap across the counter toward me. “If you need anything, and I mean eh-neeee-thing,” she pauses, flashing me a meaningful look, “you just dial zero and ask for Courtn
ey. Got it?”

  I collect the keycard and ignore her come on, telegraphed in big, bold lettering as it is.

  “Is room forty-seven-forty-two on the forty-seventh floor?”

  She laughs again. “Oh, you are so cute.”

  “Err, thank you. But is it? On the forty-seventh floor?”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh, you were serious! Well, in that case, yes, it is. Have a wonderful stay, Mr. Grant. And remember, you can always dial zero.”

  Subtlety, thy name is not Courtney. “Sure, thanks.”

  Pity for her I don’t have time for some city chick to try to flirt her way into my pants. I’ve got other things on my mind. Much more important things.

  I look around the lobby as I try to locate the elevators. I may be in pretty good shape, but I’m not climbing forty-something flights before I meet Rex Randall. I need to be composed, ready—not sweating like a sinner in church on a Sunday.

  This is a big moment for me. Huge.

  I collect my duffle bag and guitar from the floor.

  “The elevators are to your left, Mr. Grant. Just past the sculpture.”

  I look where Subtle Courtney is pointing. The sculpture is hard to miss, what with it being the size of a small house. I turn back and smile at her. “Gotcha.”

  My ears pop as I shoot up in the elevator to the forty-seventh floor. I try not to think about how high I’m going. Heights and Cole Grant are not exactly a match made in heaven. But given I’m in Manhattan on someone else’s dime, who am I to complain?

  Once inside my suite, I walk through the fancy-looking living room and into the bedroom where I drop my luggage on the massive bed. I pause at a safe distance from the floor-to-ceiling window. A great view of Central Park and the city beyond may be what most people want in a Manhattan hotel, but for me, it just serves as a reminder of how fucking high off the ground I am here.

  I glance at my watch. Crap. I’ve really got to get a move on.

  As I wash up in the bathroom, I run a critical eye over my reflection in the mirror. My hair could do with a decent cut, and then there’s the stubble I didn’t quite manage to shave before I left my house, before the sparrows had woken up and had their first coffee of the morning.