In a last-minute stroke of brilliance, I printed out the original answers from my application, photocopied them on cheap paper to look grainy, and included them in the package as Belinda’s. Surely this would set off bells in personnel when they saw my same answers and my name as a reference.
But no one from Sass! ever called.
Not even after Belinda’s application made it through the first round of cuts. Not even after Lori cruised by my desk one day and said casually, “Nola, I wonder if you could find a number for that applicant you recommended, Belinda Apple. The one on her résumé seems to be out of service.”
Finally, I thought, Lori is going to call Belinda and offer her the job. At which point I would come clean and we’d have a little discussion about judging people according to their qualifications, not their jeans size.
On my lunch hour I ran out and signed up for a new cell phone. I registered it under the name Belinda Apple.
“Apparently, Belinda has an American cell,” I said, handing Lori a slip of paper on which the number was written. “You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to find it.”
Lori snatched the number out of my hand.
Ten minutes later “Belinda’s” phone rang “Rule Britannia.”
“New ring tone?” Joel asked casually.
Yipes! How could I talk to Lori in a British accent with Joel sitting right next to me overhearing every word? Grabbing the phone, I found a vacant, dark conference room, shut the door, and locked it. Then I tried to channel my best Brit—I thought of teatime at Harrods and the Ministry of Silly Walks, and the entire cast of Love Actually. What the hell? If Renée Zellweger could pull it off as Bridget Jones, why couldn’t I?
“ ’Ellooo?”
Lori seemed confused. “Oh, I’m looking for a Belinda Apple. Is this she?”
Editors are so mindful of using the right pronoun. “This is she.”
After a few niceties Lori got right down to business. “We’ve read your columns and reviewed your application thoroughly, Belinda. And, well, let me just say that we found your answers to be exceptional. Such an original voice.”
“Brilliant,” I cooed. Though I was thinking, original? Are you blind? Those answers were photocopied!
“I especially liked what you said in your cover letter, that the women of today are faced with more thorny ethical issues than their mothers ever were. Whether or not to put the children in day care, if it’s OK to lie to your boss and say you’re sick when really your children are, if you should pretend that your husband makes more than you do, just to bolster his ego . . . Fantastic stuff!”
“Yes. It’s no wonder we are worrying ourselves into eating disorders, isn’t it?”
“So true, so true,” Lori agreed. “And I think your idea of teaching women how to stop worrying and to ‘be fab’ is fantastic. I mean what woman doesn’t want to learn how to, what was it again? . . .”
“ ‘Treasure every ordinary day while reaching for every extraordinary treasure.’ ”
“I love it.”
I have to say. It was rather a good idea. Now if only I could apply it to my own life.
“We were wondering if you could come in for an interview. I realize this might be difficult considering the distance . . .”
“Oooh, sorry,” I interrupted. “I’d love to but me mum’s sick.” I blushed. Me mum.
“Oh.” Lori paused. “Well, then, it’s a good thing our sales rep in London’s available to meet you in person.”
Eeep! Total and utter panic. London? Sass! has a sales rep in London?
“The thing is,” I said, trying to act quick on my feet, “is that I’m not in London, actually. I’m in . . . Ireland.”
“Ireland? But I thought you were . . .”
“British. I am, very. But me mum’s Irish and, you know, being on death’s door and all, she wanted to . . .” OK. What did she want to do? What would a dying Irish woman’s last wish be? To boil corned beef? Knock back a Guinness? Catch a leprechaun? “She wanted to visit the coast to look out on the Cliffs of Moher one last . . .”
“Say no more,” Lori cut in. “Listen, I feel confident, Belinda, in extending our offer anyway. Sight unseen.”
I waited. Sight unseen? Could it be that Lori was really attracted to the content of my application and not the appearance of Belinda?
“I’ve received approval from our publisher, David Stanton, to formally offer you employment as the author of an advice column we’d like to call ‘On Being Fab!: How to Do the Right Thing.’ I do hope you’ll accept.”
OK, that was it. That was my cue to declare dramatically, “Aha! So it was my size after all that made you dismiss me. Those answers were identical to the ones I, Nola Devlin, your very own Columns editor, had written, but you didn’t even bother to read them, did you, Lori DiGrigio?”
Yes. I had it all planned. My mouth was even open, my index finger lifted accusatorily and the “Ah” was already out when Lori said, “And I’ll be honest. One of the features that made you so attractive was your photo. I hope you won’t find this, ahem, unethical when I say you are simply stunning.”
My breath caught in the back of my throat. Stunning? No one in my life, not even my mother—and she’s not stingy with the compliments—had ever used the word stunning.
“Oh,” I said, so befuddled that I forgot to add the British accent.
“I mean, you must have done some professional modeling. David Stanton described you as ‘devastating,’ which, if you’ve read anything about Stanton, is very flattering.”
I found myself staggered. Suddenly, I was dizzy and delirious. I was devastating. I had no idea that being called devastating, stunning, whatever, could have such a loopy effect.
So this is why pretty women defy age at any cost. This is why they spend thousands of dollars on plastic surgery and starve themselves to itty-bitty dolls—because this being pretty shtick is better than being on drugs. Not that I take drugs. But if I did, I just think that going around every day being stunning would be better.
I wasn’t making any sense. Not even to myself. If I were behind the wheel, the cops could have arrested me for driving under the influence of feeling beautiful (DUIFB).
“Belinda?” Lori’s voice broke through my hallucinations. “Are you there? Is the connection all right? This call’s not going to Ireland, is it?”
“Yes, quite,” I managed to say, Brit accent and all. “I have an American mobile.” Mobile? From what Anglophilic portion of my brain had that come from?
“How odd. I didn’t know that was possible, to use an American cell overseas.”
Shit. Maybe it wasn’t possible. Quick. Fudge it, Nola. “Cuts down on long-distance charges to the States, doesn’t it?” Alone in the dark conference room, I was getting in the groove. The gorgeous Belinda groove. And like anyone on a high, the last thing I wanted to do was come down. No way was I giving this up—ever.
“Oh, I forgot the salary.” Lori coughed nervously. “We’re thinking of a graduated scale. Perhaps three thousand for each weekly column the first three months, increased to four thousand per column the next quarter and five thousand for the following two quarters. Does that seem . . . right?”
“Uh?” I was still doing the math. Geesh. That was more than two hundred thousand. Four times what I made in a year.
“Though you must have a literary agent. How stupid of me to approach you with this.”
“Ab—absolutely,” I stammered. “An agent.”
“Then just give me her name and we’ll work out the details.”
Agent? I didn’t have a freaking agent. The only agent I had was Tod Starett at Getaway Now! Travel in Piscataway. “Actually, I’m between agents. My one in London isn’t licensed to work in the States.”
“I see.” Lori sounded skeptical. “Interesting that your agents require licenses. That must be a British law.”
Literary agents didn’t require licenses?
“Well, as soon as you settle o
n one, give me the agency’s address and I’ll messenger the contracts over. Would starting next month be too soon? We’ll need to promo it for a while first. To build reader interest.”
“Next month? Brilliant.”
“Brilliant. I love the way you speak, I have to confess. I’m a sucker for British accents.”
“Me too.”
“Pardon?”
I flushed. “Nothing.” There was a knock at the conference room door, and the knob was twisting. Outside, someone was complaining about having reserved it for three o’clock. “I’m so sorry, but I have to rush off.”
“I totally understand. I’m late for a meeting as it is too. So glad to have you on board, Belinda. I’m positive you’ll be a definite asset to our publication.”
She hung up and I sat for a few minutes in the darkness, ignoring the banging on the door and the shouts for a key as rambling questions seared through my muddled brain. What had I done? How could I pull this off? Where does one find an agent? What if David Stanton insists on meeting me in person? How do you boil corned beef anyway?
Then it occurred to me that in the course of my “interview” to be an ethics columnist, I had committed no fewer than a dozen ethical violations, including lying about who I was, about my supposed Irish-born mother dying, and even her last wish on Earth. Surely I would burn in hell for if not eternity, then a damn long time.
When I did get around to opening the door, I found my worries vanish. I was face-to-face with none other than Lori herself, hands on hips, as sharp as ever. In fact, everything about Lori, from the bob of her jet-black hair, to the points of her silk collars, was angled viciously.
“Honestly, Devlin, if you need to make a personal call, go outside. It’s incredibly inconsiderate of you to tie up a reserved conference room.” She marched right past me, never giving me a second glance.
That, right there, sums up the difference between Belinda Apple and me. Belinda is a woman who doesn’t exist but whom people can’t help but notice, while I, who do exist, am almost always invisible.
Chapter Three
By the end of lunch—if you can call one-third of a salad lunch—I begin to get into this diet business. I could stick with it this time, I think. I could really, really, once and for all reveal my inner Cinderella. What I need is just a bit of motivation. Literary motivation.
What I need is a good, uplifting story from an overweight housewife who went from being a fuzzy blob in bad shorts on a green couch to a digitally clear busty babe in a bikini. Or perhaps a diet doctor who can relate case study after case study about patients who were too fat to walk through his door and after six months on his program—voilà!—were entering the Ironman Competition and throwing out all their medications and using their old jeans as leaf bags.
Yes. That’s what I must do, acquire some motivation immediately, before I lose momentum and drop out of the Cinderella Pact.
But I draw the line at gelatin.
Also, any recipe having to do with frozen buttermilk. I’ve been on too many eating programs where the dieticians try to “turn your favorite foods” into “healthy choices” with the ingenious but simple use of unflavored gelatin and frozen buttermilk.
Let’s be honest. Chocolate mousse made with dark Swiss chocolate, Grand Marnier, and heavy double cream is a delight to savor and should never be compared to the concoction made from unsweetened cocoa, Splenda, orange flavoring, and gelatin. Nor can frozen buttermilk ever be transformed into anything approaching ice cream. This is what drives veteran dieters like me back to the Toll House.
After Nancy, Deb, and I part outside the awful, new-management Willoughby Café, I detour down the street into a local bookstore, figuring I can afford a few minutes to check out the diet books before getting back to work.
I feel excited and rejuvenated as I march myself to the self-help section. This will be the moment I’ll look back on years from now when I am thin. I will be able to say, “I owe it all to Dr. _____ and his/her book on weight loss/exercise/self-esteem, which put me on the road to wellness/thinness/being a hot, sexy babe.”
There are so many subsections, it’s hard to figure out what I want. Am I diabetic? No. High cholesterol? Nope. Am I a sugar buster? A carb-o-holic? The adult child of a compulsive eater? Uh, yes. Perhaps I should eat according to my blood type. I can’t do that, though, since I can never remember if I’m an A or an O, and I’m too squeamish to take a test to find out.
Atkins I’ve done already—three times. With each Atkins diet I lost exactly twelve pounds, all of which immediately came back—like overnight—with one slice of pizza. Plus, testing my urine for ketosis got a bit stale.
South Beach takes too much work. Jane Brody means beans, and I hate beans. Dean Ornish is no fun. Ditto for the Zone. Then again, none of them is exactly a trip to the circus.
And then I see it—Who Moved My Fat?: Making the Weight-Loss Journey Fun! by Anne Renée Krugenheim, Ph.D. Hmm. She’s German and she has three names, so she must be a scientific expert.
I scan the index, searching for any disturbing signs of gelatin usage. Finding none, I venture to the back cover.
Congratulations! If you’re reading this right now, then you are taking the first step toward controlling your weight. You should be proud.
I smile. I am proud. Good for me.
And probably you’ve been on many diets before.
It’s like she knows me!
That’s because you’ve been taught to think of diets as a torturous means to a desired end.
They’re not?
No! Diet comes from the Greek word diata, which means “prescribed way of living.”
That makes me feel much better.
In Who Moved My Fat?: Making the Weight-Loss Journey Fun! Dr. Anne Renée Krugenheim will teach you to love your diet and yourself. Most importantly, you’ll learn how to lose weight without once feeling deprived or denied. She will map out a journey that you’ll want to take over and over for the rest of your life!
Ugh. I hate that, the rest-of-your-life part.
So what are you waiting for? Why not start your journey now?
Yes. Why not? I think, flinching at the cost—thirty-four dollars. Well, it’s money well spent and, besides, imagine all I’ll be saving by not buying ice cream and Doritos and cheese and crackers and chocolate.
I buy the book and rush back to my car, having taken much longer in the bookstore than I’d expected. I’ll have to hoof it if I want to make that mandatory ethics meeting on time and not lose my job.
The day has heated quickly and traffic is creeping up Route 1 to East Brunswick, home to the Princeton North Corporate Office Park that, in turn, houses Sass!’s editorial offices. Most readers assume we’re posh, writing from brick-walled lofts in Greenwich Village when, really, all the “magic” takes place in gray cubicles on gray, soundproof carpet in a concrete fortress of dental offices and insurance agencies.
As we stop and start up the crowded highway in an inexplicable traffic jam, I fear for my ancient Audi Fox, which is buckling and making odd sounds in its front. I’ve had to turn on the heater to cool off the engine, which means it is now a sweltering 100 degrees behind the wheel. I can’t tell you the wondrous miracles this heat is doing for my hair and general body odor.
I flip through Who Moved My Fat? and pick a chapter at random entitled “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” In it Dr. Anne Renée Krugenheim discusses the importance of informing everyone you know that you are embarking on “an exciting weight-loss journey that is guaranteed to change your life forever.”
The theory behind this is similar to the Alcoholics Anonymous step where you have to apologize to people for trashing their lampshades or puking on their carpet along with telling them that you’ve stopped drinking. That’s the thing about being fat. There aren’t many opportunities to trash lampshades. Still, Dr. Anne Renée Krugenheim is confident that making these phone calls will ensure that I won’t be “sidetracked” or “lost in the woods.”
I get the impression there will be no shortage of travel metaphors in Who Moved My Fat?
Call your loved ones now, Dr. Anne Renée Krugenheim admonishes us. Any delay postpones the journey.
Gee. I wouldn’t want to do that. I look up and discover the traffic has moved approximately one inch.
Before I hesitate a minute longer, I take out my cell and dial Mom’s number at work.
Mom is a secretary in the Princeton municipal clerk’s office. She’s the rectangular one in the sexless, hand-sewn denim jumpers and booster pins that say Go Tigers!, who puts homemade oatmeal raisin cookies on the counter to appease the locals coming in to pay their property taxes or buy dog tags. I am convinced that she has outlasted eight administrations, both Republican and Democrat, solely because of her secret recipe for Swedish meatballs in tangy sour cream sauce—a dish that could melt the hardest heart of any conniving politician.
Like me, Mom is not small, though she was thin—allegedly—when she married Dad. Somewhere after the honeymoon she got it into her head that being a wife meant serving up meat smothered in sauce, buttered vegetables (one grown above ground/one grown below), and a starch for every dinner, followed by a dessert to rival the ones on the cover of Woman’s Day.
Butterscotch brownies topped by vanilla ice cream (honestly, did we need the ice cream?). Banana pudding made with Nilla wafers. Blueberry pie and “lite” Cool Whip . . .
This was the house I grew up in. Meatloaf and twice-baked potatoes with sour cream. Short ribs and poppyseed noodles. Chicken potpie in a flaky crust. Pot roast cooked with dark beer. Lasagna with sausage and three kinds of cheese, accompanied by garlic bread. Knockwurst and sauerkraut in a Crock-Pot. (Crock-Pots are very big with my mother. She reveres them as miracles akin to the NASA space station.)
For dessert there was homemade thick hot-fudge sauce over mint-chip ice cream. Ginger cookies with unsulfured molasses for a snack every day after school along with a tall glass of cold whole milk. Even our Friday night fish was battered and fried. Plus, just in case we hadn’t been satisfied, a big basket of sliced white bread at every table at every meal, accompanied by a stick of butter.
The Cinderella Pact Page 3