That, I decide, is enough for one night.
As the water heats, I take a bottle of Evian (spelled backward—naive—did you know that?) down the hallway to where my laptop is hidden in the guest bedroom, what I like to think of as my own version of the mad scientist’s laboratory. It would be cool if I could access it through a revolving door operated by moving a bust of Shakespeare. Better yet, if I had a fire pole.
I quickly check Belinda’s personal e-mail—[email protected]—and find it is overflowing with messages from the likes of Lori DiGrigio and Belinda’s agent Charlotte Barnes and even David Stanton. There is also one from lennonlives@ princeton.edu. The subject: Met your editor recently.
Nigel Barnes.
I am tempted to open it. However, I don’t because Belinda’s column was due yesterday and I have yet to write it. Not really a problem since I also edit it, which puts me in the weird position of being both anxious and mad at myself at the same time.
Anyway, enough dithering. I must get to work.
Opening Belinda’s official e-mail—[email protected]—I find there are ten pages of letters, only three of which I choose to answer. The rest I will reply to semipersonally, in that I thank them for writing and advise them to find a real counselor to help them solve their problems. OK, so I’m a bit cautious these days. Perfectly understandable, considering how I went a bit over the top, you might say, with that business about losing massive amounts of weight by walking five miles and holding off on that extra chocolate-chip cookie.
In preparation for writing my responses, I put on the Beatles’ “Across the Universe” and focus on being beautiful and fabulously serene. I become Belinda, even rereading the first letter out loud in a British accent.
Dear Belinda:
My sister is forty years old and still lives off my parents even though she’s married with two children, doesn’t work, and her husband is a corporate executive. She gets them to water her plants, clean out her garage, drive her kids to after-school activities, and even “loan” her gobs of money. It’s making me crazy, especially since I work and have never so much as asked them for a cup of sugar.
Aren’t I ethically obligated to tell my parents she is fleecing them? Or should I stay out of it? I keep thinking that if I don’t say anything, someday they’ll wake up and find themselves bilked of all money and their golden years.
—Signed, GREEN-EYED SIBLING IN DES MOINES
I’d like to tell her that as a sister of Eileen Devlin I can relate—big-time—but I don’t. Instead I answer with this:
Dear GREEN-EYED:
Let’s face it; you’re pissed—a state that can wreak havoc on a girl’s complexion. Remember that the key to being fab is to be blissfully free of the major bugaboos that torment us women—anxiety, greed, envy and lack of self-worth. Tell yourself that you are fabulous. That it is a gift being so independent and free of parental reliance.
Then reverse the karma by doing something for your parents instead of expecting them to do something for you. You might want to mow their lawn (or, better yet, hire an adorable young man to do so) or cook them a four-course meal (or, if I were you, take them to a smashing restaurant). Soon the envy will stop gnawing away at your psyche and everyone will decide you are simply the most fab person in the world and isn’t it too bad your sister can’t be more like you.
As for the ethical question of whether to tell your parents, you and I both know that this “dilemma” is just a ruse for your jealousy. What you’re really asking is if it’s OK to tattle on your sister. And it’s never OK to tattle, unless not doing so somehow hurts an innocent party. Besides, I’m positive your parents are very well aware of the score that may, one expects, show up in the reading of their final will and testament.
—Belinda
I get chills seeing Belinda’s name, knowing that each month 500,000 readers believe she is real and strolling through London in pink cowboy boots when, actually, she’s reeking of Bengay in sweats on a Saturday night in Central New Jersey. Which reminds me—the lid on the spaghetti pot is banging in the kitchen. I rush in, dump half the box of whole-wheat spaghetti into the boiling water, and give it a quick stir before running back to the next letter.
Dear Belinda:
My boyfriend and I have been living together for seven years and he has yet to bring up the M word. My family used to tease him about it until he told my father on Christmas Eve that “there are some women you marry and some women you f*&k and guess which one your daughter is,” which prompted my father to dump eggnog over his head.
Unfortunately, we—along with my father—have been invited to my cousin’s wedding. My cousin is the one who introduced my boyfriend to me and she really wants us to attend as a couple. Plus, I love him and I think he does want to marry me, eventually. He’s just commitment phobic.
Is it wrong for me to bring my boyfriend after the way he treated my father? Or, should I forget my family and bring him anyway?
—Signed, DOORMAT GIRLFRIEND, I KNOW
Oh, brother. Dear Shoot Yourself Now Whydontcha is what I want to say.
Dear DOORMAT:
I suppose the real question is why you are still living with the jerk. I mean, if one of your girlfriends confided that you were a perfectly fine mate to lie about with in the flat, eating crisps and watching Big Brother, but that you were not fit to be seen with in public, how long would you wait to ditch her? A minute?
Being a doormat is not fab. This prince has no intention of asking you to marry him, now or ever. And if he did, I shouldn’t think you’d agree. Not if you aren’t a card-carrying masochist.
The “ethical” thing to do in this case is to attend the wedding sans designated other and to wear a low-cut dress and very high, very sexy, ridiculously expensive shoes. Ask your cousin to seat you at the singles table and if she objects, tell her she’s lucky you don’t sue her for inflicting mental cruelty by setting you up with this prize. Remember to hold your head high and relax. You are desirable. You are wonderful. You are fab.
—Belinda
I check my watch. Two more minutes until the spaghetti is done. I take a swig of bottled water and scan the next one quickly.
Dear Belinda:
My husband is a great guy. Kind. Hard working. Super with the kids. However, he has this one habit that’s driving me up the wall. He snorts every five minutes. Snort. Pause. Snort. It used to be seasonal with allergies, but now as he gets older I notice it’s all the time. Living with him is definitely not fab. If I bring it up, he acts like I’m the problem. I’m on the verge of divorce.
As a wife and cohabitant of this home, I feel I have the right to demand a snort-free environment. Am I wrong? No kidding. Help me!
—Signed, READY TO BLOW IN KENTUCKY
OK, this is one of the more repulsive letters I’ve had. I’ll need to check with my doctor sources—the local clinic around the corner—before answering it. For all I know, snorting every five minutes could be the sign of some serious disease at which point, as Belinda would say, Ready to Blow in Kentucky needs to make sure hubby has left her enough in life insurance.
I should dump the spaghetti in the colander, but I don’t. Instead, brimming with curiosity, I go into Belinda’s personal messages and click on Met your editor recently from [email protected].
Dear Belinda:
Nigel Barnes here. Thought it fitting for me to properly introduce myself, considering I have been designated by the Tinseltown tabloids as your latest paramour and all that. (I do hope you spare yourself the misery of watching CNN, but if by any chance you have been in an airport in the past forty-eight hours, it was likely impossible for you to miss seeing yours truly providing commentary on my close friend Eric Clapton and Soledad’s frequent references to you and me as the latest posh couple.)
Oh, brother.
As luck would have it, I ran into your charming and delightful editor, a Nola Devlin (Irish, is she?), who was kind enough to provide me with your persona
l e-mail. I do believe she was coming on to me.
What? I was so not coming on to him.
Nola’s very pretty, though, unfortunately, she’s somewhat large-boned, if you get my drift. It’s too bad, as otherwise I could see myself asking her out because she’s obviously very bright and has lovely eyes.
But I can’t help it. I so dislike fat people in general and fat women in particular. It’s in my genes. Perhaps you could let her down gently for me, make up something about you lusting after me. I’m sure you understand.
By the way, it so happens that I’ll be traveling up to Deeside for Christmas. I’m a MacLeod, you know, so Scotland is my second home. I’d love to stop by for a visit at Balmoral.
Cheers,
Nigel
Big-boned? So dislikes fat women? Talk about a bloody twit. Livid, I change my computer clock to reflect the London five hour difference and rip off a quick note.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: Met your editor recently
Hello, Nigel! How brilliant of you to write. I
believe I’ve heard your name before. Is it that
you work at some finishing school, Princeton
School for Girls, is it? In the buildings and
grounds department, I think.
Unfortunately, as you know, the Windsors have quite a hair across their arse about the MacLeod clan. Can’t stand them, I’m afraid. So while I would love to entertain you at Balmoral where the hunting and riding are absolutely divine (as are our seven-course meals and fine French champagne) a visit from one of your “types” is simply out of the question.
I’m sure you understand.
It’s too bad you are dead set against asking out Nola. If you’d made a favorable impression, I might have been persuaded to bend Cousin Charlie’s ear or, at the very least, that of Camilla. We do go back years, even further than the infamous MacLeod/Windsor feud.
Cheers!
Belinda
Ha! I press Send and shout with glee. The rub is in. Let’s see how Princeton’s gift to women responds to that one.
Finally, though I don’t want to, I click on Lori’s e-mail, which is warmly entitled: Record Keeping
Belinda:
Pursuant to our Ethical Standards Policy, please fax to our offices a copy of your résumé. It seems the original one you sent us, including the entire packet of application materials, is missing.
All best,
Lori DiGrigio
Managing Editor
Sass! Magazine
Princeton North
Corporate Center, 5th Floor
East Brunswick,
New Jersey 08816
“We’re Not Your
Mother’s Magazine.”
Now that’s interesting. How lucky is that? Or . . . wait. Maybe it’s not lucky but devious. Perhaps this is a trap set up by Lori to check whether the résumé Belinda sends her now is the same as the one she sent her a year ago. That would be just like her.
I respond.
Dear Ms. DiGrigio:
As I do not have a facsimile machine, I will ask my agent, Charlotte Dawson, to send you a copy of my vita. So sorry you are having trouble keeping your records together. Was it the new girl who lost them? Dawn was such an efficient secretary. Too bad you had to let her go.
Cheers,
Belinda
I sit back and reread the e-mail before sending it, priding myself on the new-girl crack. Lori’s new pampered assistant Alicia needs to be sent back to Swarthmore where she came from. It was completely catty the way she stole Dawn’s job.
There are all sorts of menacing sounds coming from the stove. Hisses and snaps. But I just have to take a peek first at David Stanton’s e-mail—Inquiry—and then I swear to myself I will run back to the kitchen.
Dear Ms. Apple:
I apologize for using this medium to correspond, but my secretary cannot seem to find your London address, as your records have inexplicably disappeared.
My main purpose in writing you is to let you know what a fine asset you have been to Sass! I have thoroughly enjoyed your columns, though I take issue with the way you advise our readers that “sometimes, white lies are preferable to the truth.” It is my opinion, Miss Apple, that lying in any degree is never preferable, but punishable.
Oh, lighten up.
My question pertains to a problem with one of our employees. During a routine company audit, we discovered that the résumé she submitted is completely fraudulent. In fact, our lawyers are having a horrible time verifying one aspect of its truthfulness.
Tell me—should she be fired on the spot? Or should we proceed with legal proceedings to recover all the $150,000 we’ve paid her over the year?
I am so grateful for a “modern ethics expert” on our staff to handle this thorny issue.
Mr. David Stanton
David A. Stanton, publisher and president
Sass! Fit! and Fix Up! Magazines
Stanton Media, Inc.
West 57th Street
New York, New York 10019
Holy crap!
I stare at the e-mail, unable to breathe. Could it be that this is also a test? That perhaps he is poking me to see if I’m cooked?
In a flash of panic, I calculate the possibility of packing up my computer and my apartment and heading out of town, across the plains of the Far West, never to return to Jersey again. Recover the $150,000! But that’s my entire savings. I must fight back.
Dear Mr. Stanton:
Thank you so much for your lovely words regarding my column and the opportunity to write for your delightful magazine. In answer to your inquiry, I’m afraid I would need more details in order to provide you with a full and complete answer. As my beloved mother—
Dang. She’s Irish, right? Or was, rather. I type in the first female Irish name that comes to mind.
—Rosie O’Grady used to say, “Never be a judge and jury without sitting through the whole trial.”
Looking forward to your response,
Belinda Apple
Done. That should buy me some time. Now I can get the spaghetti . . .
Just as soon as I click on Charlotte Dawson’s message written in usual literary agent shorthand.
B—
where r u? Left mesgs on cell. need to discuss before mon. re: film offer. ASAP
Chapter Eleven
This is what my mother means when she says God always sends an angel to soften the sting of the devil. Here I am, reeling from David Stanton’s “gotcha” e-mail and lo and behold, Charlotte drops the bomb that there’s a film offer on the table.
Never have Charlotte and I spoken of film. Doing a book, yes, but it would be a book of columns. What is she talking about? I jump out of my chair and begin pacing, thoughts whirring around my head like dried peas in a blender.
It must have something to do with that article the New York Intelligentsia wrote about me last month—“Tempting Apple”—about how I grew up poor on the outskirts of London and was beaten by my cruel father until my Irish mother ran away with me and I changed my name to Belinda Apple so my father couldn’t find me and how that’s why I keep myself hidden to this day.
Damn me and my overactive imagination. I wish sometimes I could put a cork in it to keep the genie in the bottle.
If only it weren’t Saturday night, then I could call Charlotte at her office and find out what all this is about. Now I’ll be tormented until Monday. I wish there were some way I could . . .
Belinda’s cell phone! Of course. Surely Charlotte left a more detailed message on that. I find Belinda’s phone buried in the bottom of my purse. Turning it on, I dial my mailbox and enter the password. I’m so impatient, I can’t stand still. Forty-two messages. Shoot. Most are hang-ups and then my agent’s clipped voice comes on.
“Belinda, Charlotte.” Charlotte talks as if her mouth has been wired shut. “Listen, we’ve had a very generous offer for the film right
s to your life story from a producer with a fairly impressive track record. Ship of Fools, Death’s Door, Finesse . . . that kind of thing. Anyway, he claims to have an in with Paramount, which has been looking for a Sex and the City meets Bridget Jones and he’s convinced your biography is it. Loves the story of you being on the run. So Silkwood. Don’t want to leave any more info on a message. By the way, you might need to be in California by the end of next week to brainstorm. Call me.” Click.
Oh, my word! There really is a film deal! Eeeeek!
And then it all comes together. The repeat phone calls. The numerous messages from CDA. Here I thought Charlotte was calling because of the trouble Belinda’s in at Sass! when all along it had to do with the film rights to my life story. Me. On the big screen. Who’d have ever thought that frumpy ol’ Nola Devlin, who drives—drove—an Audi Fox and lives with a cat and goes to church with her parents would be the subject of a major Hollywood production?
Hold on. I survey my guest bedroom, the windows fogging from the steam wafting in from the kitchen, and reassess the situation. This biography isn’t about me, Nola Devlin of Princeton, New Jersey. It’s about Belinda Apple of Chelsea, London. The only problem here is there is no Belinda Apple on the run from her cruel father. How can there be a biographical film about her life when there’s been no life?
The Cinderella Pact Page 8