“Next Time, Don’t Throw Cake:” My Cinderella in the Big City Story

I was a poor, single mom of two young kids newly arrived in New York with a typewriter and a dream. I knew no one except my agent. When he invited me to a dinner party at his wealthy friend’s apartment on the Upper East Side, it was as if a fairy godmother had waved her magic wand over me.

But what to wear? I owned nothing suitable in the way of evening wear, not even a pair of dress shoes. My evening attire to date consisted of a robe and slippers, sweats if I was working feverishly at my typewriter into the wee hours. I was also short on money. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me.

What I lacked in funds I made up for in style. I bought a dress on sale at a discount clothing store, a sparkly scarf from a sidewalk vendor, and a pair of inexpensive dress shoes that pinched my toes but were cute. Voila!

When the day arrived, I was whisked to the party by coach (aka an NYC yellow cab). For this small-town girl, it was a dream come true—my first-ever fancy party. I was nervous, wanting to make a good impression. The venue when I arrived was every bit as luxurious as I imagined. A palatial apartment with views of Central Park, where we were greeted by a butler (or possibly a member of the catering staff). The guest list included moguls and models, literary types and society folk.

I chatted with an elegant young woman who asked what I did for a living. “I’m a writer,” I told her. At the time, I was ghost-writing for the popular teen series, “Sweet Valley High” to pay my bills until I could find the time to write the Big Book that was but a gleam in my eye back then. (Which would later become the NY Times’ bestseller Garden of Lies and launch me as a novelist.)

She smiled knowingly. “If you’re interested in making money, call me,” she replied, handing me her business card. She went on to explain that she was a flight attendant who moonlighted as an “escort.”

Great, I thought. I’m being recruited as a prostitute. Sayonara, Cinderella. Hello, “Pretty Woman.”

It seemed to set the tone for the evening.

After we’d enjoyed a sumptuous catered supper, it was time for dessert, which was served in the formal dining room. I helped myself to a small piece of cake and was walking away from the table when…

My new shoes skidded on the freshly-waxed parquet floor and I went down like an ice skater taking a spill while attempting a triple axel, landing flat on my ass. The beautiful glass plate I held went flying to hit the wall, which now featured a design of smooshed cake along with its elegant wallpaper.

My dream come true had become a nightmare.

I wasn’t drunk—I’d had one glass of champagne earlier in the evening—but wished I were. Sober, I was able to grasp the full dimensions of my humiliation. My face was red as I pulled to my feet, my pride in tatters.

So much for my Cinderella Story. More like Don’t Ever Invite This Person to a Party Unless You Have a Low Deductible on Your Homeowner’s Insurance.

The icing on the cake, no pun intended, was our host saying to me, as we were leaving, “Next time, don’t throw cake.” Said with a wink. I wanted to die.

I cried in the taxi on my way home.

But you know what? I survived, and today I can laugh at the mishap of my 32-year-old self. The moral of the tale? Glass slippers are fine in fairy tales, but in real life, they pinch and don’t pair well with slick flooring.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to resort to turning tricks. I found out I could earn a living as a writer.

Oh, and another thing. I discovered I’m not a party animal. I’m content to stay in most evenings, so chances are I won’t be throwing cake at your party. You’ll likely find me curled up with a good book.