Free The Cinderella Pact by Sarah Strohmeyer Page A

covering my ears and eyes at all the gross parts.
    Nancy insists on treating us to lunch at the Princeton Arms on Nassau Street. She parks several blocks away, part of her plan, she observes, to be like Belinda who lost tons and tons of weight simply by adding up five miles every day here and there.
    â€œReally,” I say again, “you shouldn’t take Belinda too seriously. She’s just a ditzy Sass! columnist, kind of loosey-goosey with the truth.” I laugh as if loosey-goosey with the truth is all fun and games.
    â€œShe better not be loosey-goosey with the truth, or she’ll be looking at a hefty libel suit someday.”
    That does it. I resolve to keep my mouth shut whenever Nancy mentions Belinda’s column.
    We stop at the Ann Taylor window to comment on the slim pencil skirts and strapless sundresses. In the good old days we cursed Ann Taylor as an evil bitch who designed the kind of clothes that made us miserable. But now we are drawn to Ann Taylor’s altar of anorexia like religious converts. Visions of us finally being allowed into stores like this are what keep us going, and override Deb’s concern about pouch splitting.
    At the Princeton Arms, Nancy leads us to the club level with her special key that comes from being a partner in her swanky law firm. The lounge is gorgeous. Deep walnut paneling, discreet lighting, and breathtaking panoramic views of Princeton University. It’s very quiet, except for the occasional shuffling of newspapers.
    A beefcake waiter named Brian pours out our glasses, plunks the bottle back in the chilled silver bucket, bows, and leaves. All three of us watch him go, his rearview almost as good as his front. Then Nancy raises her glass and we do the same.
    â€œTo Deb. For having the guts to lose her guts.”
    â€œHear, hear,” we chime, clinking glasses.
    â€œSoooo,” Nancy begins, getting right down to business. “What’s this about Paul not being on board?”
    Deb pushes back her blond curls. I try to imagine her sixty pounds thinner, dimple-free. Will she be the same old Deb? It’s hard to envision her as something besides the Earth mother to Anna and Dylan. She’s such a homebody, always doing crafts, covering her windows with children’s glass paint, knitting, tatting—whatever that is. Deb hardly ever leaves the house if she can help it.
    â€œIt’s not so much that he’s not on board, as that he still has to get used to the idea,” she says. “You know, he’s so accustomed to me being this way. Then there are the risks of surgery. He’s not exactly thrilled about that.”
    â€œUnderstandable.” Nancy puts on her courtroom frown. “But of course he’s going to take care of you when you get back from the hospital.”
    â€œUhhh . . . more like Anna. She’s on school vacation.”
    â€œAnna’s fifteen. She has her own life. What about Paul?”
    I tense up for Deb’s sake. Sometimes Nancy’s well-meaning grilling can be a bit hard to take.
    â€œHe has work.” Deb says this in such a way that it’s obvious work means something other than work.
    Nancy slaps her thighs. “Alrighty. Then I’ll arrange for a nurse.”
    â€œNo, don’t . . .” Deb starts, but Nancy won’t hear of it.
    â€œListen. I am happy to. It’ll put my mind at ease knowing that you’ve got professional care. I don’t want you oozing and dripping all over the place with only a teenager at the helm. You can even stay with me for the first week, if you want. Lord knows I have the room now that Ron has, um, moved in with his Latina lover.”
    At this Nancy takes a large gulp of champagne, an overboard attempt at trying to appear carefree, in my opinion. Since Ron walked out, she’s consistently maintained that his leaving was for the best. But anyone who knows Nancy and Ron knows otherwise.
    I’ve always liked Ron.