“That’s great,” I said, my throat constricting. His beautiful French-born chef was in total ruin. Walter didn’t need me anymore. My culinary career was in the crapper. I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have a fake fiancé. I really had nothing. They were probably buttering me up before they kicked me out. “Just swell.”
Walter smiled, which drew attention to the adorable dimples in his cheeks. His thick black hair brought out the brightness in his clear blue eyes.
“Here’s to my Sunday gal,” said Walter.
He and Robert raised their champagne glasses and clinked the bottle that I had picked up. Suddenly, the cut throbbed with a shooting pain. Instead of reaching for a glass, I chugged the Dom Pérignon straight from the bottle. Robert eyed me with a bit of disgust, but didn’t say anything.
“Here’s to Sunday,” I said.
“Do you remember the first day we met? Robert and I were talking about it earlier.”
“I do,” I said.
“Grab one of the gorgeous Baccarat crystal glasses you bought me for Christmas last year, Sophie,” said Walter. “Didn’t your grandmother tell you it’s the only way champagne should be served?”
Robert smirked and pointed to the buffet. “We certainly don’t drink Dom straight from the bottle.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “How crass of me.”
I meandered over to grab a glass—a coupe de champagne, the oldest design, preceding flute and tulip glasses. Legend had it that the bowl of the glass was modeled after the breast of Marie Antoinette. I settled back on the couch and Walter poured.
“Cheers to our Sophie,” he said. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
Lone moviegoers, Walter and I had struck up a friendly conversation at a French film—Manon des sources—at one of the local theaters two years prior. That night, we ended up back at his $3 million loft, where we drank wine and listened to Edith Piaf and Nina Simone. He was kind, sensitive, and liked the same things I did. As a chef working long hours, I didn’t have time to meet anybody, let alone date. And, other than a few chefs from the CIA—not operatives for the government, but students at the Culinary Institute of America—who were scattered across the country, I didn’t have any friends. I gave up going out with the brigade for nightcaps at Blue Ribbon Brasserie, a late-night hangout for chefs in the city and open until four a.m. Eric always lurked around, trying to convince me he was a “changed” man. His pleas to get me back in his bed got old real quick and bordered on extreme sexual harassment. Sometimes he’d corner me, placing his hands all over my body. I thought I’d just deal with it by keeping silent. That was probably a big mistake. I figured I had thick skin and if I worked hard, I’d be fine. Regardless, I thought I held my own, demanded respect. But that wasn’t the case. Eric never respected me.
With Walter things were calm, different. A new friendship developed. For one month we spent our Sundays together, talking and laughing. I knew he was gay from the get-go and we weren’t going to have a steamy romance, but I needed a friend I could actually talk openly to. Walter needed the same from me.
It wasn’t long before Walter offered me a very tempting proposition. A rich trust-fund kid from Greenwich, Connecticut, he was terrified of coming out to his old-money family, especially to his mother, Nicole, who wanted nothing more than for him to have grandkids she could tote around. He’d felt pressure—too much pressure—to live up to her expectations. While he gathered up his courage, he decided to live a small lie. I’d receive an amazing apartment to live in and pretend to be his fiancée. It was as if the universe had thrown Walter right into my lap. Eric and I had recently broken up and I’d been staying in a modestly priced hotel while looking for an apartment of my own. I really liked and trusted Walter, so I agreed to his plan. Plus, since I was his fake fiancée, he provided an excuse I could use to fend off Eric’s advances.
But now the jig was up. I sank onto the couch, wondering what I was going to do. Where would I go? Why would Walter want me to stick around? What did I have to offer him anymore?
“Walter,” I said. “Honestly, I don’t know what I would do without you.”
I was hoping he’d say, “I still need you” or “you still have me.” Instead, Walter continued, “So I bit the bullet today and I did it.” He grabbed Robert’s hand. “We actually did it. I picked up Robert and we went to see my mother. You should have seen her face when I told her Robert was my lover.”
“With all the Botox, I thought she was a tad expressionless,” said Robert. “But her mouth did drop a little bit.”
“You don’t know how amazing I feel,” said Walter with a laugh. “It’s like I’m free. Free to be me.”
As Robert tied his ascot around his neck, I let out a wicked laugh and jumped up from the couch. “I guess we should call off our engagement,” I said, fingering the five-carat diamond ring hanging from my necklace. Walter hadn’t given it to me. We’d found it in my mother’s affairs and thought it would be a great prop for our charade. The diamond was probably fake, but it served its purpose. Now it was useless—like me. I chugged more Dom Pérignon too quickly, choking on the bubbles.
“Sophie, what’s wrong?” asked Walter. “You should be happy, thrilled even. You’re my best friend. You don’t need to play along with this charade anymore. Isn’t it great? We can live the lives we want to live. No more hiding—”
“In the closet,” said Robert.
I held up a finger. “I get it, and I’m happy for you two. I am. But I’m having a really bad day—a momentous, life-crushing day.”
“What’s going on?” asked Walter, deep concern flashing in his eyes. “Sit down, Sophie. Stop pacing. Tell me what happened.”
“Oh, it’s really bad. Worse than bad. Epic,” I said. Gripping the bottle of champagne, I slumped on the couch and stared at the ceiling, the devastation of what had happened rolling in like ten-foot waves and pulling me under. My voice shook as I recounted what went down at Cendrillon.
Walter sat quietly in thought. He tapped his fingers on his thigh. “Maybe you should take a vacation. When was the last time you took one?”
“That would be never,” I said.
“Go somewhere. You’re always working so hard. Everybody needs a break,” said Walter. “What about Monica? Your chef friend in Los Angeles. Give her a call. Maybe a change of scenery is what you need. Until things cool down.”
He’d said exactly what I feared; he didn’t want me to stick around. “Now that I’m fired as your fake fiancée, are you booting me out, too?” I asked.