Queen of Babble in the Big City (10 page)

“And told you never to open the box,” Monsieur Henri adds. “That breaking the seal would cause the material to yellow—and void your money-back guarantee.” Making a tsk-tsking noise, Monsieur Henri looks down at the dress he’s holding. Which, I have to say, is not the nicest gown I’ve ever seen. I mean, it’s okay.

But if the reason the older woman broke the seal on the box in which the gown had been preserved was so that her daughter could wear it to
her
wedding, well, she was in for a surprise. Because I
couldn’t see Miss Blowout putting on that high-necked, Victorian-looking thing for all the Suzy Perettes in the world.

“I have seen this a thousand times,” Monsieur Henri says sadly. “It is such a shame.”

The older woman looks alarmed. “Is it ruined?” she wants to know. “Can it be saved?”

“I don’t know,” Monsieur Henri says dubiously. I can see that he’s playing them. All the dress needs is a nice white-vinegar soak and maybe a cold-water wash with some OxiClean.

“Gee, that’s too bad,” Blowout says, before Monsieur Henri can say anything more. “I guess we’ll just have to get a new dress.”

“We are not getting you a new dress, Jennifer,” Big Hair snaps. “This dress was good enough for me, and good enough for each of your sisters. It’s good enough for you!”

Jennifer looks mutinous. Monsieur Henri doesn’t need to put on his glasses to see this. He hesitates, and it’s clear he’s not certain how to proceed. Madame Henri clears her throat.

But I jump in, before she can say a word, with, “The stains can be removed. But that’s not the real problem, is it?”

Jennifer is looking at me suspiciously. So, actually, is everyone in the shop.

“Elizabeth,” Monsieur Henri says, using my first name for the first time in our acquaintance—and in a sugary-sweet voice I know is completely fake, too. He clearly wants to kill me. “There is no problem.”

“Yes, there is,” I say, in a voice just as fakey as his. “I mean, look at that dress, and then look at Jennifer here.” Everyone in the shop glances at the dress, then at Jennifer, who preens a little, sweeping back the stick-straight ends of her blowout. “Do you see the problem now?”

“No,” Jennifer’s mother says bluntly.

“This dress was probably very flattering on you, Mrs.—” I pause and look questioningly at Jennifer’s mom, who says, “Harris.”

“Right,” I say. “Mrs. Harris. Because you’re a statuesque woman,
with excellent carriage. But look at Jennifer. She’s very petite. A dress with this much material will overwhelm her.”

Jennifer narrows her eyes and scissors a glance in her mother’s direction. “See?” she hisses. “I told you.”

“Er, uh,” Monsieur Henri blusters uncomfortably, still looking as if he wants to kill me. “In point of fact, Mademoiselle Elizabeth is not, er, technically speaking, an employee of—”

“But this gown could easily be altered to flatter someone of Jennifer’s proportions,” I say, pointing to the high neckline, “merely by opening up this area here, giving it more of a sweetheart neckline, and maybe getting rid of the sleeves—”

“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Harris says. “It’s a Catholic ceremony.”

“Then tightening the sleeves,” I go on smoothly, “so that they don’t bell. A girl with a figure as good as Jennifer’s shouldn’t hide it. Especially on a day when she wants to look her best.”

Jennifer has been listening to all of this intently. I can tell because she’s stopped fiddling with her hair.

“Yeah,” she says. “See, Mom? That’s what I
told
you.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Harris murmurs, chewing her lower lip. “Your sisters—”

“Are you the youngest?” I asked Jennifer, who nodded. “Yeah, I thought so. Me, too. It’s hard being the youngest, always getting your big sisters’ hand-me-downs. You get to a point where you’d just die to have something—
any
thing—new, something all your own.”

“Exactly!”
Jennifer explodes.

“But in the case of your mother’s wedding gown, you
can
have that,” I say, “and still observe family tradition by wearing it…you just have to give it a few tweaks to make it uniquely your own. And we can easily do that here—”

“I want that,” Jennifer says, turning to her mother. “What she said. That’s what I want.”

Mrs. Harris looks from the gown to her daughter and then back again. Then she lets out a little laugh and says, “Fine! Whatever you want! If it’s cheaper than a new gown—”

“Oh,” Madame Henri steps forward to say, “it will be, of course. If the young lady would like to come with me to change, we can begin measuring for the alterations right away…”

Jennifer flicks her blowout back and, without another word, follows Madame Henri to the dressing room.

“Oh,” Mrs. Harris cries, after glancing at her watch. “I have to go put money in the meter if we’re staying. Excuse me—”

She hurries out of the shop. As soon as the door eases shut behind her, Monsieur Henri turns to me and, indicating the yellowed dress he’s still holding, says hesitantly, “You are quite adept with the, er, customer.”

“Oh,” I say modestly. “Well, that one was easy. I know exactly how she felt. I have older sisters myself.”

“I see.” Monsieur Henri’s gaze is shrewd as he looks down at me. “Well, I will be interested to see if you can work a needle as well as you work your mouth.”

“Watch me,” I say, plucking the gown from his hands. “Just watch.”

If you are top-heavy, or have an hourglass figure, I have one word for you: strapless!

I know what you are thinking…strapless, at a wedding? But strapless is no longer considered immodest in most churches!

And with the right support in the bodice, this look can be extremely flattering on a top-heavy bride, especially when paired with an A-line skirt. V-necklines are also terrific on large-on-the-top women, as are off-the-shoulder and scoop-neck designs.

Just remember that the higher the neckline, the bigger the boobs look!

L
IZZIE
N
ICHOLS
D
ESIGNS
™

Nothing travels faster than light, with the possible exception of bad news, which follows its own rules.

—Douglas Adams (1952–2001), British author and radio dramatist

A
receptionist?”

That’s what Luke says when I tell him the news. For once, he’s gotten home before I have, and is making dinner—coq au vin. One of the many advantages of having a boyfriend who is half French is that his culinary repertoire extends beyond mac and cheese. Plus, there’s the kissing.

“Right,” I say. I’m sitting on a velvet-cushioned stool in front of the granite-topped bar beneath the pass-through between the kitchen and dining/living room.

“But.” Luke is pouring us each a glass of cabernet sauvignon, then hands me mine through the pass-through. “Aren’t you…I don’t know. A little overqualified to be a receptionist?”

“Sure,” I say. “But this way I’ll be able to pay the bills and still do what I love—for part of the day, anyway. Since I haven’t had any luck finding a paying fashion gig.”

“It’s only been a month,” Luke says. “Maybe you just need to give your job search a little more time.”

“Um.” How can I explain this to him without revealing the fact
that I am flat busted broke? “Well, I am. If something better comes along, of course I can always quit.”

Except I don’t want to. Quit Monsieur Henri’s, anyway. Because I’m starting to like it there. Especially now that I know who Maurice is: a rival “certified wedding-gown specialist” who owns not one but four shops throughout the city, and who has been stealing away Monsieur Henri’s clientele with his promise of a new chemical treatment to combat cake and wine stains (no such treatment exists), and who overcharges his customers for even the simplest alterations, and underpays his vendors and employees (although I don’t see how he could underpay them more than Monsieur Henri is underpaying me).

Worse, Maurice has been bad-mouthing Monsieur Henri, telling every bride in town that Jean Henri is retiring to Provence and could pick up and leave at any time, due to his business falling off—which is apparently true, judging from the Henris’ private conversations, which they aren’t aware I completely understand. Well, almost completely.

As if all of that were not bad enough, the Henris have heard a rumor that Maurice is planning on opening up another one of his shops…DOWN THE STREET FROM THEIRS! With his glitzy red awning and matching signature red carpet (yes!) outside the front door, the Henris don’t have a chance of competing…not with their subtle yet tasteful front window display and modest brownstone.

No, even if the Costume Institute calls tomorrow, I plan on sticking around at Monsieur Henri’s. I’m in too deep to get out now.

“Well,” Luke says, sounding dubious, “if it makes you happy…”

“It does,” I say. Then I clear my throat. “You know, Luke, not everyone is cut out for the traditional nine-to-five thing. There’s nothing wrong with taking on a job you’re maybe overqualified for if it pays the bills and allows you to do the thing you really love in your spare time. As long as you really do the thing you love, and don’t spend all your free time watching television.”

“Good point,” Luke says. “Taste this and tell me what you think.” He holds out a spoon containing some of the juice from the coq au vin. I lean over the bar to taste it.

“Delicious,” I say, thinking my heart just might bubble over with joy. I have a boyfriend who loves me…and is a terrific cook. I have a job I love. And I have a way to pay the rent on the kick-ass apartment I’m living in.

New York isn’t working out so badly after all. Maybe I won’t be Ann Arbor’s next Kathy Pennebaker.

“Oh, hey,” I say. “We’re going out Saturday night with Chaz and Shari. To celebrate my new job. And because we haven’t seen them in forever. Is that okay?”

“That,” Luke says, stirring, “sounds great.”

“And you know?” I’m still leaning across the pass-through. “I think we should really try to make it a fun night. Because I think Chaz and Shari are going through a tough time.”

“You get that feeling, too?” Luke shakes his head. “Chaz seems pretty miserable these days.”

“Really?” I raise my eyebrows. I can’t exactly say Chaz seemed miserable when I saw him. But then maybe I was too busy bawling my eyes out to notice. “Wow. Well, I’m sure it’s just a transitional thing. Once Shari settles into her new job, they’ll be fine.”

“Maybe,” Luke says.

“What do you mean, maybe?” I ask. “What do you know that I don’t know?”

“Nothing,” Luke says innocently.
Too
innocently. He’s smiling, though, so I know whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.

“What is it?” I’m laughing now. “Tell me.”

“I can’t tell you,” Luke says. “Chaz made me swear not to tell.
You,
of all people, especially.”

“That’s not fair,” I say, pouting. “I won’t tell. I swear.”

“Chaz said you’d say that.” Luke is grinning, so I know whatever it is he’s not supposed to tell me, it isn’t something bad.

“Just tell me,” I whine.

And then, just like that, I know. Or think I know, anyway.

“Oh my God,” I cry. “He’s going to propose!”

Luke stares at me over his bubbling chicken. “What?”

“Chaz! He’s going to ask Shari to marry him, isn’t he? Oh my gosh, that is so great!”

And I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner. Of
course
that’s what’s going on. That’s why Chaz asked me those searching questions about Shari in their place the other day. He was feeling me out to see if Shari had said anything about how living with him was going!

Because he wants to make it permanent!

“Oh, Luke!” I have to hold on to the counter to keep from falling off my stool, because I’m practically swooning, I’m so excited. “This is so fantastic! And I have the best idea for a dress for her…it’s like a bustier, you know, but with off-the-shoulder capped sleeves, in dupioni silk, and with little pearl buttons down the back, totally fitted through the waist, and then pooching out into this totally elegant belled skirt—not a hoop skirt, she wouldn’t like that…Oh, you know, she might not even want a belled skirt. Maybe I should make it more—well, here, this is what I mean.”

I reach for a notepad that his mother has left lying around—Bibi de Villiers, it says on the top of each page, in cursive—and scribble out the design I’m thinking of with a pen from the bank we both use.

“See, something like this?” I hold up the sketch, and see that Luke is staring at me with a mingled expression of horror and amusement.

“What?” I ask, shocked by the look on his face. “You don’t like it? I think it’ll be cute. In ivory? With a detachable train?”

“Chaz isn’t asking Shari to
marry
him,” Luke says, half grinning and half frowning. It’s clear he can’t tell which to do, so he’s doing both.

“He isn’t?” I put down the notepad and stare at my sketch. “Are you sure?”

“I’m
positive,
” Luke says. Now he’s completely grinning. “I can’t even believe you’d think that!”

“Well.” I am so crestfallen, I can’t hide it. “Why not? I mean, they’ve been going out forever—”

“Right,” Luke says. “But he’s only twenty-six. And he’s still in school!”

“Graduate
school,” I point out. “And they
are
living together.”

“So are we,” Luke says with a laugh, “but we’re not getting married anytime soon.”

I force a laugh along with him, although the truth is, I don’t see anything funny about the situation. No, we may not be getting married anytime soon. But the
possibility
is still there, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

But of course I don’t ask him this out loud. Because I’m still woodland-creaturing him.

“Chaz and Shari have known each other for a lot longer than we have,” I settle for saying instead. “It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing if they got engaged.”

“I guess not,” Luke admits—but grudgingly. “Still, I don’t exactly see either of them as the marrying kind.”

“What’s the marrying kind?” I ask…sort of hating myself even as the words are coming out of my mouth. Because it’s totally obvious from this conversation that marriage is the last thing on Luke’s mind.

And it’s ridiculous that it’s on my mind. At all. I mean, I have so many other things to worry about besides getting married. Like making a name for myself in my chosen field. Or even getting a
paying job
in my chosen field.

Plus, I’m supposed to be playing it cool. We’re living together on a trial basis. Like Shari said, Luke and I haven’t known each other that long…

But I can’t help it…maybe because my chosen field is all about helping women who have someone who is willing to make a commitment to them do so in the most perfect gown imaginable.

And I can’t help thinking that if I could get my love life in order, I’d have more time to concentrate on the career thing.

So, really, the only reason I want to get married—or even just engaged—is so I can be better at my job.

Plus the fact that Luke is…well. Luke de Villiers, the hottest, coolest guy I’ve ever known. And he picked me—ME.

“You know what I mean,” Luke is saying. “The marrying kind. People who don’t have anything else going for themselves. So they just get married, because they don’t know what else to do.”

I blink at him. “I don’t know anybody like that,” I say. “I don’t know anybody who just got married because they had nothing else going for them.”

“Oh, yeah?” Luke eyes me. “What about your sisters? I mean, no offense or anything, because my cousin Vicky’s no different. But from what you’ve said…”

“Oh,” I say. I’d forgotten about Rose and Sarah. Who actually got married because they got pregnant. It’s like no one in my house ever heard of birth control. Except for me. “Yeah.”

“I actually know plenty of couples like that,” Luke assures me. “You know, from school…people who just don’t have a life, so they glom on to someone else’s—be it for money, or stability, or just because they think that’s what they’re supposed to do straight out of college. And trust me…they’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure they are. But…some of them must really be in love.”

“They probably think they are,” Luke says. “But when they’re that young, how do they even know what love is?”

“Um,” I say. “The way I know I love you?”

“Ah.” He reaches out to cup my cheek in his hand, smiling tenderly down at me. “That’s sweet. But I’m not talking about us. Hey, I almost forgot.” He raises his glass. “To the new job.”

“Oh,” I say, a little surprised. My new job is the last thing on my mind at the moment. “Thanks.”

We clink rims.

I’m not talking about us,
he’d said. That’s something, isn’t it? That he believes we’re different. Because we
are
different.

“Want to set the table?” Luke asks, as he checks the coq au vin—which is filling the apartment with such delicious aromas that I suspect Mrs. Erickson, from 5B, will be knocking soon, to ask if she can have a bite. “I think this is going to be ready in a minute or two.”

“Sure,” I say—then, with elaborate casualness as I hop down from the stool and walk over to the case on the sideboard where Mrs. de Villiers keeps her silver—not her silverWARE. Her silver. Which has to be hand-washed after use, and put back in its special antitarnish cloth-lined case—so I can set the table, “So if he isn’t proposing, what is it?”

“What is what?” Luke wants to know.

“What Chaz told you not to tell me,” I say.

“Oh.” Luke laughs. “You promise not to say anything to Shari?”

I nod.

“He’s thinking about surprising her with a cat. From the animal shelter. You know. For the two of them. Because Shari loves animals so much.”

I blink at him. Because Shari doesn’t love animals. Chaz does. Chaz must be thinking about getting a cat for himself. Which isn’t a wonder. I mean, he’s alone so much, with Shari working all the time, he probably just wants some company. I kind of know the feeling, with Luke in classes all day.

But I don’t say this out loud. Instead I smile and say, “Oh.”

“Remember, don’t tell her,” Luke warns me. “You’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I lie. “I won’t tell her.”

Because you
have
to tell your best friend when her boyfriend is planning on surprising her with a pet. Any other course of action is unthinkable.

Jeez. Guys really
are
weird.