The Sleeping Beauty Proposal (29 page)

Nothing is guaranteed—nothing. So why not allow yourself some flexibility for all sorts of hurdles, like failure? Or like love? Or like not finding love between the ages of twenty-five and thirty?”

Kara is clearly hurt. Her eyes are scrunched up and her lower lip is pouting. Apparently, no one has dared to criticize her timeline before.

“I'm not doubting your capabilities, Kara,” I try to soothe. “I mean, we're all redrawing the rules, we women. What was true for our grandmothers did not work for our mothers and probably won't work for our daughters, either. There's a good chance you won't get married by age thirty. Actually, a big chance with the hours you'll be working at Darling, Smith & . . .”

“Okay. I get it. I get it.” Kara holds up her hands. “Do you think I don't know this? I know. But . . . it's hard. What if I work too much and I never get married?”

Like the way you're working now and have never had a date, I think. “So what?”

Kara blinks as if I've just trash-talked the pope. “So what?”

“Maybe you will get married. Maybe you won't.That doesn't mean your life will be a failure. As long as you're doing what you love, as long as you don't hold yourself back because you're a single woman—and that's sometimes what single women do, hold themselves back—you'll have a fabulous, rich, fulfilling life ahead of you.”

Kara is silent.This is not what she expected from a college interview. I may even be holding her up from her appointment down the road. (Standard operating procedure—Thoreau as warm-up for Harvard.)

“Are
you
married?” she asks, swallowing tears.

“No.And I'm very happy. I have friends and a great job where I get to meet bright students like you. I almost have it all.” And I do—almost have it all, that is. I have Nick and Patty and Todd and vacations on the Cape and nights out with Steve and my crazy family. "I even own a house. Part of a fabulous Victorian on a golf course with breathtaking views of the city.”

“Cool.”

“I bought it with a friend of mine. Actually, a guy who works with my brother.”

She shoots a glance at the photos of Hugh and me on my bookshelf. “Not your boyfriend?”

“No. Never. Ha!”Teenage girls. Such silly romantics.

“But you own a house with him?”

“As a matter of fact, he lives right upstairs.” I make another meaningless tick on my tablet.

“Is he cute?”

"Who, Nick? Oh my god, yes.” Crap! I can't believe I just said that out loud. This is a student interview here. I have completely lost my senses. "I mean . . .”

“I know what you mean.” Kara smiles and begins to fold up her timeline.“I may be only a senior in high school, but you don't have to tell me what's really going on. I'll remember that if I'm still unmarried and middle-aged like you, buy a house with a guy. Then get him hooked.”

"No . . . it's not like that.” Hey! Did she just call me middle-aged?

That's when I hear the high nasal giggle Connie emits only when she's flirting. Which means she hasn't come back to work all by herself.

I bet she's brought Hugh.

Chapter Twenty-four

This is my resolution: I am not going to make a big deal about Connie and Hugh finally making their grand entrance as a couple. I mean, it had to happen eventually and now everyone will know at last that Hugh's not marrying me, that he's hooked up with Connie, who is no doubt flashing her ring, the huge Spencer diamond, and giggling about how Hugh swept her off her feet.

Yes. It'll be fine. How can it not be?

Too bad I just spent $15 to FedEx him all the mementos he'd left behind at my old apartment—razor, toothbrush, shaving cream, a pair of shorts, his extra pair of glasses, his complete set of Nicholas Sparks novels (which he used for “inspiration” for
Hopeful, Kansas
), his Krups coffee grinder, and his seasoned Calphalon omelet pan (or, at least, it
was
seasoned until I stuck it in the dishwasher).

It would have been lovely to carry them downstairs and, with much flourish, drop the entire box at his feet so everyone would get the point that he'd been practically married to me when he proposed to Connie.

This is the fantasy I'm entertaining when my phone rings, causing me to jump so hard I spill the entire contents of Kara Wesko's file. It's Alice and I bet she's buzzing to tell me how she knew all along my engagement was a fraud and how Margery Rothman and Karen Caruso have now officially kicked me out of the Married Ladies' Club.

“Prepare yourself,” Alice says.

I swallow hard, preparing myself. “What's the word?”

“Bill's on the warpath. Whatever you said to that girl from Jersey must have been a whopper. She came down the stairs whining about you badgering her or whatever, so now Bill's trying to calm her down and also her father, who happens to be a potential bene.”

Bene
is admissions shorthand for
benefactor.
Terrific.As if I didn't have enough problems to worry about already.

Oh, well, at least Alice didn't bring up Hugh. Maybe he hasn't shown up after all. My imagination running wild and all that.

I ask, “Is Connie back?”

“Uh-huh. Have you seen her?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, you're in for a shock. She's sporting a real shiner. The biggest one I've ever seen.”

The Spencer family diamond. I knew it, just knew it. The bling of all blings. Hugh told me once it had been passed down from King Edward to his mistress, Hugh's great-grandmother Loria. He used to say it would be mine one day and that, together, we'd remove it from the Royal Vault in London and all the vault people would gather around smiling at us because only a Spencer truly in love would bestow the cherished Spencer diamond on a non-Spencer.

“You okay? 'Cause I know the suspense must be killing you,” Alice says.

The truth is I am not okay. I am tied up in knots over whether to confront Connie immediately and get it over with or simmer on low until I explode.The Spencer diamond indeed.

“I'm fine.”

Alice cracks her gum.“Keep telling yourself that.And remember my mantra: Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.”

“Didn't you have that made into a bumper sticker for Trey?”

“Yeah. When he was in the tank. Only it didn't go over with the cops that great.”

Connie's door slams shut and I get off the phone with Alice. That's it. It's now or never. No point in prolonging the pain.

But first—makeup. Pulling a hand mirror from my top drawer, I brush out my hair and redo my ponytail, smack some Clinique Honey Blush on my lips, and refresh my charcoal eyeliner.

You've got to look good to bitch good.

Then I march across to Connie's office and rap my knuckles on the door.

“Come in,” she calls out laconically.

Hugh's adoration fills the room. Flowers. Tons of them. White lilies. White roses. Freesias in pink, yellow, and orange. Plus lilies I've seen only in
National Geographic.
The perfume is so sickeningly sweet I nearly pass out, despite Connie's air-conditioner running full blast.

He really went overboard. Probably guessed I'd be in Connie's office first thing and wanted to be sure the message got across.
This is the woman I love now.
And to think I was beside myself the time he once sent me a half-dozen roses. Cheap date and cheap ditch. That's me.

“Hello, Connie.”

Connie keeps her perfectly coiffed blond head bent over whatever essay she's reading as if I'm not even there. Probably she's just too ashamed to face me and, really, who can blame her.

“Please, go,” she says.

All right. Apparently Connie is not familiar with the old expression “Pride goeth before a fall.” “No, I won't go. You and I have to clear the air.”

“I don't want to clear the air.” Coolly, she flips a page and moves on to something else in her file. “I know why you're here. You know why you're here. Therefore, we have nothing more to talk about, Genie. Let's try to get through this period the best we can until it's over.”

Amazing. Not even engaged two months and already their relationship is ending. Which proves a lingering suspicion I had that Connie, never enamored with British men, stole Hugh just to spite me. “And how soon, exactly, do you think it'll be over?”

“Any day now.The writing's on the wall.”

And then will Hugh come back to me? Or did he use Connie as an excuse to end our relationship? Some men are like that— can't leave unless there's another woman in the wings. Especially Hugh, who has definite mommy issues.

“Maybe you don't understand what I've been through, Connie. This experience has been really painful.”

“No more painful for you than for me.”

I take a few steps closer, hoping she'll stop with the paperwork and pay attention to our conversation. “Really? No matter what you've been through, the man you loved did not announce on national television that he was marrying someone else and then admit that after four years in a relationship he was never sexually attracted to you. Now
that's
pain. Not yours,
mine.
”

Slowly, Connie raises her big blue eyes and I let out a gasp before I can stop myself. Her eyes . . .

“Are you talking about Hugh Spencer,
the
Hugh Spencer, your future husband?”

Her left hand, which, until now, has been hidden by one leaf of the manila folder, is mostly bare.There is no Spencer diamond. There is no diamond at all. Just the dinky silver band she always wears.

Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. There's an excellent chance I might have just made one terrible mistake.

“Or are you talking about what I'm talking about?” she asks, tapping her pen.

“What
are
you talking about?”

“I'm talking about me taking over Kevin's position.” Connie squints, an act that must be hard to do with those swollen cheeks. “But it sounds to me as if you're talking about something else. Are you saying that when Hugh proposed . . . it wasn't to
you
?”

“I ... I . . . ” I feel faint, queasy. Of all people to confess my secret to, Connie Robeson would be my very last choice. But that's what I've done. I've told her the truth and now it'll be a matter of days—hours?—before the whole campus knows, too.

Panicked, I search for a topic change that will knock her for a loop, and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.“What happened to your face?”

Connie self-consciously touches her purple cheek.“It's a long story and no one's business.”

All these flowers everywhere. On the bookshelves. The windowsill. Even on top of the window air-conditioner. Possibly from someone feeling very, very guilty. “Did some man . . . beat you?”

“You might say that. His name is Dr. Hakell.”

“A
doctor
beat you?”

“More like cut me and mangled me. Of course, if I'd known he had an addiction to prescription painkillers, I might have gotten a second opinion before I let him near me with the knife.”

The words don't add up until on further inspection I see her tiny pink scars.

“Plastic surgery?”

“Gone wrong.Very wrong. Even when he tried to correct it the surgery went wrong. There. Now you know. I'm suing him and he's trying to butter me up with flowers and various bribes, but nothing can change the fact that until I can rest up for more surgery I am stuck with this face.”

“It's not so bad. Really.”

“Please. My eyes may be black and blue, but I can still see my reflection.”

So, that's why Connie was in England and why Alice didn't want anyone to know where she went. Also, why Alice shot me that look during the meeting when Bill inquired about Connie. Alice was covering for her and the look was so that I'd shut up.

Poor, poor Connie. What an awful thing to have happened. And she was so beautiful, too. There was no need for plastic surgery. I should hug her, let her know we all love her just the way she is.

"Oh, Connie!” I cry, rushing over to her with open arms.

“Don't touch me.” She pushes me away so hard I fly back into the filing cabinets. “Your sympathy is the last thing I want.”

“But—”

“Your life is perfect.You're engaged to Hugh Spencer and you just bought a new house by the country club.And—shoot—you've gotten so fit and tan while I've been away it makes me sick. I've put on ten pounds, spending every day on my couch and hiding from the world.”

I fight the temptation to say thank you, that, yes, I have been working out and doing my pre-wedding exercises and getting my nails done with Patty and using the spray-on tan Tina from the bank loaned me. And that, in fact, I happen to be wearing a pink lace-up tanga.

But that wouldn't be polite. Plus, there are more important issues to get straight.

“Listen, about Hugh. What I said . . . it kind of came out wrong.”

Underneath the bruises, Connie's eyes flash. “Oh, no. It came out perfectly right.You said he didn't find you sexually attractive. Seems to me there's not much hope in
Hopeful, Kansas.
”

“Actually—”

“You also said something about you not being the person he proposed to on television. Don't deny it.You
did.
”

Damn. Connie never listens to me at meetings when I vote for Suzie Plain Cheese of Dayton, Ohio. But God forbid I let slip a teeny tiny personal fact I shouldn't and,
bam!
her brain's a sponge. And she's just the kind of manipulative, plotting coworker who wouldn't think twice about using someone's weakness to her own advantage.