The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  It is at this moment that my knees actually knock under the protective cover of my desk. Until now, I secretly doubted the knocking-knee phenomenon. Not anymore. My knees really are knocking and for good reason. Connie does not issue idle threats. If she says she has proof, she does.And if she promises to go to Bill and out me, she will. Connie really, really wants this corner office.

  Nor is she pleased that when Bill asked who I’d recommend to replace me upstairs, I heartily encouraged him to pick Alice. Alice is smart and intuitive. Plus, she’s been working in Admissions so long, she can sort the wheat from the chaff with one glance. Rumor has it that Connie threatened to quit if Bill promoted Alice to admissions officer, which, last week, he did.

  Still clutching that Thoreau memo, she says, “At first I passed off your ramblings as the typical Genie Michaels babble. But the more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder, especially after Alice told me Hugh never calls to talk to you. Never.”

  “That’s because he has my cell.”

  “And he’s only been by the office once.”

  True, true. She had me there.

  “So I took Donna Mandretti out to lunch and we had a very interesting conversation.”

  Oh, no. Not Mandretti the Mouth, the blabbing secretary of the English Department with sodium pentothal running through her veins.

  “It was Donna who told me you and Hugh broke up, and that the rumor was he’d been seeing another woman for months.”

  I sit up, now attentive. “No kidding. Who?” Wrong response. “I mean, who could believe a ridiculous rumor like that?”

  Connie gives me a withering smile. “You are so pathetic, Genie. Here Hugh has already moved on to another woman while you cling to the desperate fantasy that he’ll eventually marry you. God.You’re so Fatal Attraction.”

  Fatal Attraction. Man, I hate that stupid movie.Who lives in an all-white cinder-block apartment anyway? I swear. No other film has done more to slam single women in their thirties than that misogynistic hour and a half of Glenn Close with a bad perm. Married women = good. Single women = bad. Thanks, Hollywood, very insightful.

  Connie’s threats and memories of bunny boiling are quickly exhausting me.

  "All right, Connie,” I say, logging out of my computer. “What do you want?”

  She squares her shoulders triumphantly. “Not much. Quit your job. Tell Bill that you want to go back to being an ordinary admissions counselor. Do that and our secret will remain our secret. Don’t do it and I’ll tell Bill everything.”

  I slap the spreadsheet closed. “You got yourself a deal there, honeybunch.”

  “You mean you’ll quit?”

  “No. I mean I’ll take my chances with Bill.” I reach down under my desk and fetch my purse.“In other words, you’ll have to kill me to get this job.”

  Connie flutters her evidence hysterically. “But you haven’t read what I’ve got here.This is indisputable proof that you’ve been lying and falsifying your personal information. Bill will fire you on the spot when he reads this. He might even blackball you so you’ll never be able to work for another university again.”

  “And if so, you should know that the memo comparing incoming minority students to last year’s total applicant pool plus an analysis of how we could improve acceptance rates for inner-city kids with SAT scores over two thousand was due on the dean’s desk yesterday, so you might want to work on that now.”

  With that, I turn off the light and close the door, leaving Connie in the office she so desperately desires.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I expected that after her dramatic presentation, Connie would have been perched outside Bill’s office the next morning, her file folder in hand. But she wasn’t. She spent the entire day holed up in her office and came downstairs only to go to lunch or fax something or pester Alice to make copies.

  The next day it was the same routine. And the day after that. And the day after that.

  It was really annoying. Let’s get on with it, already.

  All week, I checked my mailbox for an official notification from the dean that I was both terminated and blackballed for lying about being engaged. Every afternoon I steeled myself for the eventuality of coming back from lunch to find my office locked and some thug from Thoreau’s security standing guard.

  I imagined Alice shaking her head in disappointment. Bill cursing me in the three languages he speaks fluently. Throngs of campus personnel with torches chasing me off school property.

  Yet every morning was the same. Coffee on the burner. Faxes in the fax machine. Sherry the new secretary (Alice’s replacement) and Brandon discussing the weekend to come or the weekend that had just passed. Brandon pretending to fix the copy machine as he held forth on the best campsites in Maine or where you could buy a good used RV and how to grill a lobster.

  Meanwhile, I was left hanging and wondering what Connie was waiting for. She had her “indisputable proof.” She had the goods to get my job. Not only that, but Bill was headed to Martha’s Vineyard for his summer vacation. She had better act fast or she was going to blow this opportunity.

  Connie wasn’t my only problem.There was also Nick.

  Craftily, we managed to avoid each other all week. Nick left for work every morning before dawn, while I closed down the office every night so I could be assured Nick’s light would be off when I got home. I did my laundry Saturday morning; Nick did his on Saturday afternoon.We even took care to haul our trash to the curb at different hours, lest we accidentally brush shoulders over the recyclables and dissolve into a heap of steamy sex.

  I couldn’t wait until Patty’s shower was over on Saturday night so I could tell Nick the truth. I kept holding on to his promise that he would wait. I envisioned confessing everything, Nick accepting me, forgiving me, and, finally, us beginning a wonderful life together.

  But the universe has a funny way of twisting fate. Some might call it cruel.

  “I met Hugh.”

  It is the first complete sentence Nick has spoken to me since our tryst in the bathroom, and I don’t know what to make of it. We are on my porch and it is Saturday afternoon, hours away from Patty’s shower. Nick has his sleeves pushed up and is looking off to the thunderhead across the golf course, as if his heart is already elsewhere.

  “What do you mean, you met Hugh?”

  “He stopped by this afternoon, to check out the house. Took him long enough.”

  While I was at the dry cleaner’s picking up my dress for the party, dammit. That was Murphy and his law for you.

  Throwing the dress over the edge of the railing, I collapse into an Adirondack chair, my whole body now suddenly weak and achy, anticipating the worst.

  Surely, Hugh told Nick the truth, that he and I were not getting married.Then again, there was that odd experience with the New York Times. These days, I have no idea what Hugh is capable of. He’s toying with me, I think, like a mouse.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he loves the house.” Nick turns and folds his strong arms, laced with veins. “He loves the cabinets. The ceilings. The bookcases.The location . . . he can’t wait to move in.”

  "But . . .” Move in? What is going on with this man? Hugh can’t move in. Shoot, the last I knew he thought I was marrying Bill. “He’s not . . .”

  Nick cuts me off, an unfamiliar edge to his voice. “Don’t bother explaining, Genie. I think I made my feelings pretty clear the other day. I thought you had, too . . . in that kiss.”

  In that kiss. He’s right. So clear.

  “Then again, like the song goes, maybe a kiss is just a kiss.”

  Now he’s quoting Casablanca. He’s torturing me. “It wasn’t just a kiss.” I can’t bear to make eye contact with him so I kick a strip of peeling paint on the porch instead. “It was more. Much more.”

  “What you’re really saying is it could have been more, if you weren’t getting married. A last fling before settling down to wedded bliss.”

  Wh
at does that mean, I think, watching him pass by me and down the stairs.

  "Nick, hold on . . .” Rushing to the railing, I blurt, “I made it up. I was never engaged to Hugh. What happened was, he proposed to someone else on national television and left me with the job of explaining to everyone that actually he dumped me. So I lied and said he really did propose and then things kind of got out of hand and, oh, God, I can tell you don’t believe me and even if you do believe me, you probably think I’m nuts.”

  I’m crying, sobbing, actually, but Nick doesn’t seem to care. He is standing on our front walk, hands in his pockets, with a puzzled expression. He’s regarding me like I’m crazy, which makes perfect sense as right now I feel crazy.

  “I’ll rent out my apartment to Adrien. I’ll be out of here by Monday.”

  And then he’s gone.

  Chapter Thirty

  Patty, the big spender, has sent a limousine to pick me up and take me to Rowes Wharf, the fabulously swanky site of her fabulously swanky shower. While incredibly extravagant, the limo is also really thoughtful since I have no desire to wear my brand-new Ann Taylor übersexy Sophia silk dress with the spaghetti straps and plunging neckline while sitting on wet gum on the Green Line to Government Center.

  Then again, I have no desire to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to wait for Nick. That is, if he ever returns.

  Outside, the rain falls in horizontal sheets, marking a true New England nor’easter as I huddle under my umbrella and rush to the idling limo.

  “Wicked weathuh,” says my limo driver, Joe, a big beefy Southie. “People do kooky stuff in weathuh like this.”

  "I hope so,” I hear myself say as the Harbor Hotel comes into view. It is a huge, redbrick building that juts into Boston’s bay, part of the city’s refurbished waterfront. Joe informs me he’ll be waiting around the corner in case I want to leave early.

  “I won’t want to leave early,” I yell through the pounding rain.

  “So says you.” He gives me a thumbs-up and drives off.

  “You should ask him to stay,” the Harbor Hotel doorman advises. “That’s what he gets paid for. If he comes back again I’ll make him stick around.You never know when you’ll need to go home.”

  There is no home, I think, not without Nick.

  The party is on the fourth floor, where I find Patty wearing six-inch stiletto heels and a vintage Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress in leopard print. Her black hair is pushed back off her forehead and cascades in soft flips around her shoulders.

  She’s refined yet animalistic. Not many women could pull it off.“What happened to the Eileen Fisher?” I hand her my engagement gift, a set of note cards reading: We regret to inform you that our nuptials have been canceled.

  “You know what they say. It’s a jungle out there. Dress accordingly. Speaking of jungle love, where’s your Greek Adonis? I invited him, you know.”

  “We had a falling-out.” I don’t want to go into too much detail because this is Patty’s big night and I refuse to ruin it.

  “A little falling-out or a big falling-out?”

  “A suicide plunge.”Taking a deep breath, I explain about telling him the truth. “It doesn’t matter because I don’t think he believed me. At any rate, he said he’ll be out by Monday and he’s leasing the apartment to his brother.”

  “Genie. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I’m the one who made you wait.”

  True, I think, biting my lip to keep myself together. "Oh, well. Now I suppose we’ll find if true love will out.”

  “It will. You bet it will. Though, I’ve never understood that phrase. Just what is true love supposed to out?” she asks as we enter the lavish room, one wall of which is windows facing out to the stormy harbor.

  The men are in tuxes, the women in glittering designer wear. There’s a band and waiters in white coats serving salmon and caviar and champagne.The place smells of smoked fish and Chanel.

  "It’s perfect,” I tell her. “All that’s missing is a fiancé.”

  “Not anymore. There he is,” she says, pointing to two men engaged in deep conversation.

  I have to check once and then check again. This can’t be right. There has to be some mistake. Patty would never have chosen . . .

  “Hugh?”

  "Hugh?” Patty takes another look. “Not Hugh. Though . . . shoot. Is that Hugh?”

  Hearing his name, Hugh turns to us, dashing as usual in his authentic Savile Row. There is an air of triumph about him, a cockiness to his grin.

  “Who let him in?” Patty asks.

  "Todd,” I say, nodding to Hugh’s conversation partner.“I gotta go, Patty. Hugh’s probably just told Todd the truth and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of his wrath. Sorry.”

  Patty yanks me back. “You can’t go. It’s my shower.You have to stay.”

  It’s too late, anyway. Hugh and Todd are walking toward us. Todd is smiling, slapping Hugh on the back, while Hugh is focused completely on me. I have never seen him like this. I’m almost frightened.

  “Darling,” he coos, taking my hand and kissing it. “I thought you’d never come.” And before I can snatch my hand away, he reaches out and brings me to him, planting a soft, scotch-tainted kiss on my startled lips. He’s not drunk. He’s not forceful. He’s intent.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,”Todd says, clapping. “True love. Let’s give it up for the other engaged couple here, okay, people?”

  Several partygoers applaud. A gaggle of Hugh’s groupies trip over themselves taking photos of us with their cell phones.

  Hugh reluctantly ends our kiss, keeping his arm securely around my waist as if he can’t be parted from my side for a minute.“I need to be alone with you, darling. There’s so much I have to say.”

  It is all I can do to keep breathing.

  “Where’ve you been keeping my future in-law hidden, Genie?” Todd bellows.“I was beginning to wonder whether you two were really engaged or if you just made it up to rake in the loot.”

  Todd and Hugh laugh heartily as the synapses in my brain short-circuit and fire off sparks.

  “ ’Cause that’s what Patty did, you know,”Todd says, bending close. “Faked it.”

  “I never fake it,” Patty bawdily retorts. “What Patty wants, Patty gets.”

  I take my eyes off Hugh and shoot a look at my sweet, delicate best friend who seems perfectly fine with admitting her engagement is a ruse. She is smiling up at Todd like he’s her hero. Like he’s her . . . no. It can’t be. Not Todd. He’d never in a million years go along with a prank like this.

  “Do you mean to tell me,” Hugh drawls, “that this shower is nothing but a scam?”

  Patty says, “I don’t know if I’d call it scamming. Payback is more like it.”

  Todd shrugs. “Why not scam? Look, Patty’s never gonna get married. I’m never gonna get married. This is our once-in-a -lifetime chance to even the playing field with really engaged people—like you and Genie.”

  “Yes. Really engaged,” Hugh whispers in my ear.

  Wait. So Todd thinks we are getting married?

  “I say it’s a capital idea!” Hugh hoists his scotch. “A toast. To equality.”

  “To equality,” Todd agrees, toasting him back. “Here’s to screwing with society.”

  They clink glasses and I nearly faint. “I can’t believe you, Mr. Principled, agreed to be Moe Howard.”

  “Let’s just say that for tonight, Sister Eugenia, I’m the stooge.”

  Patty howls and reaches up to kiss Todd smack on the mouth. It’s supposed to be a fun kiss, playful, but they stay like that, attached. Then Todd wraps his arms around her and they kiss some more. I have the feeling it’s one of those oblivion kisses where the whole world drops away and there’s just the two of them.

  “This is our cue,” Hugh says, taking my hand and dragging me away to the dance floor.

  I’m still gaping at my brother, so tall, bending down to Patty, so tiny she is invisible, that I
barely notice Hugh has me in his grasp. The band strikes up “In My Life,” and, immediately, he dives in for another kiss.

  “Quit it,” I say, pushing him back.“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Doing? Why, I’m doing what I should have done years ago. I’m treating you like my lover.”

  This statement shocks me to where I’m tempted to make a break for it and dash to the limo. But Hugh holds me tight.

  “I know what’s going on,” he says. “I know what you’ve been up to.”

  “What have I been up to?”

  “Making me mad with desire, that’s what you’ve been up to.” He twirls me around and brings me to him again. “Bill called last week. Said Connie Robeson showed up with a copy of an e-mail I’d sent to you weeks ago, cautioning you to be careful, that we weren’t really betrothed.”

  “That thief!” I cry. "That is so illegal for her to snoop in my personal e-mail.”

  “No matter. It’s not important.” His lips brush against my cheek and as they do, somewhere in the distance, flashes go off. Hugh’s fans are lined up, watching us.“In a way it was for the best. It made me realize what a fool I’ve been.”

  "You mean, thinking Bill and I were engaged.” Because, I had to admit, that was pretty foolish.

  "No. I mean letting you go.”

  I search the room for a professional photographer beyond Patty’s gaping aunts and secretaries from her firm. “Is People magazine here or what?”

  “Oh, Genie,” he says, laughing a polite Britishy kind of laugh. “I have so missed your sense of humor.”

  “Really? Because the other day you rolled your eyes.”

  “Yes, well, mustard on the collar’s not actually funny, is it? Do you suppose there’s somewhere we can slip off to so I can escape this infernal limelight?”

  One year ago, Hugh would have died to be in “infernal limelight.”

  “Why do we need to be alone?”

  “Because I have to explain everything.” The song ends and Hugh agrees to sign a few autographs while I try to locate my exits, as if I’m on a plane and it’s going down. Patty’s on her cell standing by the door, so that won’t work. And, cripes, there’s Tony Pugliese by the other. I’d rather cross a swamp of alligators than cross him.