Queen of Babble in the Big City (11 page)

Know your…

Bridal-gown necklines!

Halter neck—This cut features straps of material that join at the back of the neck. While it looks great on women with nice shoulders, it is usually cut low in back, making finding a bra difficult.

Scoop or round neckline—U-shaped neckline, often cut similarly low in both front and back. Flattering on just about anyone!

Sweetheart neckline—A heart-shaped neckline that is low in front and high in back.

Queen Anne neckline—This is a more accentuated version of the sweetheart neckline.

Off-the-shoulder neckline—This style features small sleeves or straps which actually sit just below the shoulder, leaving the shoulders and collarbone bare. This is not an ideal look for brides with wide shoulders, but it works nicely for curvy brides with full or medium-sized bosoms.

Strapless—This figure-hugging bodice has no straps or sleeves. Fuller-figured or broad-shouldered brides often look best in this style.

V-neck—Just like it sounds! This neckline dips to a V shape in front, which deemphasizes a large bustline.

Square—Again, just like it sounds. A neckline shaped like a square, and one that looks good on nearly everyone!

Bateau—This wide-necked look follows the collarbone to the edge of the shoulders, where the front and back panels join.

Jewel—Round and high cut, this style is good for small-busted brides, or those who belong to churches that frown on showing the upper chest and collarbone area for reasons of modesty.

Asymmetrical—This neckline, different on one side than it is on the other, often precludes its wearer from being able to find a suitable bra. Unless your dressmaker can put in built-in support, you’re going to have to wear a strapless bra or go braless if you choose this design…and is that really the first impression you want to give your future in-laws?

L
IZZIE
N
ICHOLS
D
ESIGNS
™

Silence, indifference, and inaction were Hitler’s principal allies.

—Immanuel, Baron Jakobovits (1921–1999), rabbi

O
fficially, the office of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn doesn’t open for business until nine
A.M
.

Unofficially, the phones start ringing at eight sharp. Which is why they need the receptionist there early, ready to transfer calls.

I’m in the fancy black leather swivel chair (with wheels on it) behind the reception desk, trying to grasp what Tiffany, the afternoon receptionist (no, really. That’s her name. I thought she was making it up, but when she got up to get us coffee from the high-tech kitchen in the back, I peeked in the drawers on either side of the desk, and I saw that, in addition to twenty different shades of fingernail polish and about thirty different samples of lipstick, she’s crammed all her pay stubs in there, and I read one, and it said, right there, in pink and black, “Tiffany Dawn Sawyer”), is explaining to me.

“Okay,” Tiffany says. She is supposed to be a model when she isn’t working behind the reception desk at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, and I believe it, because her skin is as clear and as smooth as porcelain, her hair is a lustrous shoulder-length curtain of tawny gold, she’s six feet tall, and she looks as if she weighs about a hun
dred and twenty pounds—especially after a big breakfast like the one she’s enjoying at the moment, courtesy of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn’s kitchens, black coffee and a pack of cherry Twizzlers.

“So, like, when you get a call,” Tiffany explains, her carefully made-up eyes heavy-lidded, because, as she’s already explained to me, she drank “way too many mojitos” last night, and she’s “still wasted,” “you ask who’s calling, and then you tell them to hold, and then you press the transfer button, and then you put in the person’s extension, and then when that person picks up, you say who’s calling, and if the person says he’ll talk to whoever is calling, you press send, and if the person says he doesn’t want to talk to whoever is calling, or if he doesn’t pick up, you hit the line the caller is on, and you take a message.”

Tiffany takes a deep breath, then adds gravely, “I know it’s rilly complicated. That’s why they asked me to come in early today so I could sit here with you and make sure you get the hang of it. So don’t, like, panic, or anything.”

I look at the two-sided typed list of extensions that Roberta from human resources has helpfully shrunk down to palm size, then sealed in clear contact paper, so I can’t stain or tear it. There are over a hundred names on it.

“Transfer, extension, say who’s calling, send or take a message,” I say. “Right.”

Tiffany’s ocean-blue eyes widen in surprise. “Good. You got it. God. It took me like a week to get that.”

“Well,” I say, not wanting to hurt her feelings. Tiffany has already told me her life story—she left her home in North Dakota right after high school graduation to come to the big city to model; in the four years since, she’s done a lot of print work, including the annual fall Nordstrom catalog; lives with a photographer she met in a bar, who’s promised to get her more print work and is “like, married, but, like, she’s a total bitch. Only he can’t divorce her ’cause he’s from, like, Argentina, and the INS is breathing down his neck, so he’s got to, like, pretend the whole thing is for real for a while
longer. As long as he keeps paying for her place in Chelsea she’ll lie that they’re still together, but really she’s living with her personal trainer. But as soon as he gets his green card, it’s over. Then he’s going to marry me”; and dislikes the flavor grape—and I don’t want to make her feel bad, on account of the fact that she only has a high school diploma, and I’m a college graduate (well, practically), and so naturally I’m going to catch on to things a little faster than she is. “It
is
hard.”

“Ooooh, here’s a call,” Tiffany says, as the phone chirps softly. The ringers in the offices of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn are kept at a very low volume, so as not to annoy the partners—who, according to Tiffany, are extremely high-strung, due to their demanding hours and jobs—or the clients, who are extremely high-strung due to the hourly rates they are paying for legal help from Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn. “So, answer it, just like I told you.”

I pick up the receiver and say confidently, “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call?”

“Who the hell is this?” the man on the other end of the line demands.

“This is Lizzie,” I say, as pleasantly as I can, considering his tone.

“You the temp?”

“No, sir,” I say. “I’m the new morning receptionist. How may I direct your call?”

“Get me Jack” is the terse reply.

“Certainly,” I say, frantically scanning my little shrink-wrapped list. Jack? Which one is Jack? “Who may I say is calling?” I ask, stalling for time as I look for the name Jack.

“Jesus Christ,” the man on the other end of the line yells. “This is Peter fucking Loughlin, for fuck’s sake!”

“Of course, sir,” I say. “Please hold.”

“Don’t you fucking—”

I press hold with trembling fingers, then turn toward Tiffany, who is dozing in her seat, her lusciously long black eyelashes perfectly curled against her high cheekbones.

“It’s Peter Loughlin,” I cry, waking her up. “He wants someone named Jack! He swore at me! I think he’s mad I put him on hold…”

Tiffany is on it like a frat boy on a pizza, snatching the receiver from me and muttering, “Shit. Shit shit shit,” beneath her breath before leaning over me to press the hold button, then saying smoothly, “Hi, Mr. Loughlin, it’s me, Tiffany…Yes, I know. Well, she’s new…Yes, I will…Of course. Here he is.”

Then her long, manicured fingers fly over the keypad, and the call—and Peter fucking Loughlin—is gone.

“I’m sorry,” I say tremulously, as Tiffany hangs up. “I just couldn’t find anyone named Jack on the list!”

“Stupid bitch,” Tiffany says, pulling out a ballpoint pen and scribbling something on the list Roberta gave me. Passing the list back to me, she sees my alarmed expression, and laughs. “Not you. That whore, Roberta. She thinks she’s so great, because she went to an Ivy League college. Like, so what? All it got her was a job scheduling people’s vacations. A monkey could do that. Big fuckin’ whoop.”

I blink down at the change Tiffany’s made on my list. She’s crossed out the first name “John” in front of the last name “Flynn” and written “Jack” over it. Because she’d used a ballpoint to write over clear contact paper, the change is barely legible.

“John Flynn’s real name is Jack?” I ask.

“No. It’s John. But he calls himself Jack, and so does everybody else,” Tiffany assures me. “I don’t know why Roberta put his real name instead of what people actually call him. Maybe because she wants to fuck with you. Roberta’s totally jealous of girls who are better looking than she is. You know, since she looks like a horse-faced troll.”

“Oh, there you are!” Roberta cries, as she pushes open the glass door from the elevator lobby and steps into the reception area. She’s wearing a trench coat—from the lining, I can tell it’s Burberry—and carrying a briefcase. For someone who only “schedules people’s vacations,” she looks superbusinesslike. “Everything all right? Tiffany showing you the ropes?”

“Yes,” I say, throwing Tiffany a panicky look. What if Roberta overheard her calling her a horse-faced troll?

But Tiffany doesn’t look the least bit worried. She’s fished a nail file from one of the many drawers into which she’s crammed her personal belongings, and is working on one of her gel tips.

“How are you this morning, Roberta?” Tiffany inquires sweetly as she files.

“I’m great, Tiffany.” Roberta, now that I look at her, does sort of resemble a horse. She has a really long face, and superbig teeth. And she’s kind of short and has terrible posture, making her, truth be told, a little bit troll-like. “Thanks so much for helping us out by pulling a double today in order to train Lizzie. We really appreciate it.”

“I’m making time and a half after two o’clock, right?” Tiffany wants to know.

“Of course,” Roberta says, her smile tightening perceptibly. “Just like we discussed.”

Tiffany shrugs. “Then it’s all good,” she says in a syrupy-sweet voice.

Roberta’s smile tightens even more. “Great,” she says. “Lizzie, if you—”

The phone chirps. I leap upon it. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn,” I say into the receiver. “How may I direct your call?”

“I have Leon Finkle for Marjorie Pierce,” a woman’s voice purrs.

“One moment please,” I say, and press the transfer button. Then, highly aware that Roberta is watching my every move, I find Marjorie Pierce’s extension on my cheat sheet, press the numbers, then say, when a voice on the other end picks up, “Leon Finkle for Marjorie Pierce?”

“I’ll take the call,” the voice says. And I press send and watch as the little red light by the transfer buttons disappears. Done. I hang up.

“Very nice,” Roberta says, looking impressed. “It took Tiffany weeks to even learn that much.”

The look Tiffany darts Roberta would have frozen the hottest
mochaccino. “I didn’t have as good an instructor as Lizzie does,” she says coldly.

Roberta gives us another brittle smile and says, “Well, carry on. And, Lizzie, I’ll need you to stop by my office before you leave so you can fill out those forms to get you on our insurance.”

“I’ll do that,” I say, and since the phone is chirping again, leap to seize the receiver. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn,” I say.

“Jack Flynn, please,” a voice on the other end of the phone says. “Terry O’Malley calling.”

“One moment, please,” I say, and press transfer.

“Stupid fucking bitch,” Tiffany is muttering beneath her breath, as she nibbles a Twizzler.

“Terry O’Malley for Mr. Flynn,” I say, when a woman picks up Mr. Flynn’s line.

“Her vagina has cobwebs from lack of use,” Tiffany says.

“Send the call, please,” the woman says. I press send.

“You know she had the nerve to tell me not to paint my nails at the desk?” Tiffany is rolling her eyes in the direction Roberta has just disappeared. “She said it wasn’t
professional
.”

I refrain from pointing out that I don’t think it’s very professional to paint your nails at your job in a law office, either.

The phone chirps again. I answer it. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn,” I say. “How may I direct your call?”

“To yourself,” Luke says. “I just called to wish you luck on your first day.”

“Oh.” I feel my knees melt as they always do when I hear his voice. “Hi.”

I’ve gotten over the thing from last night. The thing where he’d said people our age are too young to know what love really is. Because he said he didn’t mean us. Obviously he was just making a generalization. Most people our own age probably don’t know what love is. Tiffany, for instance, probably doesn’t know what love really is.

Besides, after dinner, he illustrated
very
competently that he knows what love is. Well, making love, anyway.

“How’s it going?” Luke wants to know.

“Great,” I say. “Just great.”

“You can’t talk because there’s someone sitting right next to you, right?” Which, of course, is one of the reasons that I love him so much. Because he’s so perceptive. About most things, anyway.

“Right,” I say.

“That’s okay, my first class starts in a minute anyway,” he says. “I just wanted to see how things were going.”

As he’s speaking, the glass door to the reception area opens and a blond, slightly stocky-looking young woman comes in. She’s dressed in jeans and a white turtleneck sweater that does nothing to flatter her, along with a pair of Timberland boots. You don’t really expect to see a lot of these kinds of boots in the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn offices. The woman looks familiar for some reason, but I can’t place her.

I do notice, however, that Tiffany has looked up from the nail she is repolishing and that her jaw has fallen.

“Uh, I gotta go,” I say to Luke. “Bye.”

I hang up. The young woman is approaching the reception desk. I see that she’s pretty, in a healthy, all-American-girl kind of way, although she wears very little makeup and doesn’t seem to mind that a layer of belly fat is resting gently across the waistband of her too-low low-rise jeans, instead of being safely tucked away inside the waistband of jeans with a slightly higher rise, as would be more flattering.

“Hi,” the woman says to me. “I’m Jill Higgins. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Mr. Pendergast?”

“Of course,” I say, quickly scanning my cheat sheet for Chaz’s dad’s extension. “Have a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thank you,” the woman says with a smile that reveals a lot of healthy-looking white teeth. While she goes to sit down on one of the leather couches, I punch in Mr. Pendergast’s extension.

“Jill Higgins is here for her nine o’clock appointment with Mr. Pendergast,” I say to Esther, Mr. Pendergast’s attractive, fortyish
assistant, who’d stopped by to introduce herself upon arriving at work.

“Shit,” Esther says. “He’s not in yet. I’ll be right up.”

I hang up just as Tiffany pokes me in the shoulder.

“Do you know who that is?” she whispers, nodding at the young woman on the couch.

“Yes,” I whisper back. “She told us her name. It’s Jill Higgins.”

“Yeah, but, like, do you know who Jill Higgins is?” Tiffany wants to know.

I shrug. The woman’s face looks familiar, but I’m pretty sure she isn’t a television or movie star, because she’s too normal-size.

“No,” I whisper back.

“She’s only marrying, like, the richest bachelor in New York,” Tiffany hisses. “John MacDowell? His family owns more Manhattan real estate than the Catholic church. And the church
used
to own the most of anyone in the city…”

I swivel my head to look at Jill Higgins with renewed interest.

“The girl who works in the zoo?” I whisper, remembering the Page Six article I read about her. “The one who threw her back out lifting the stranded seal?”

“Exactly,” Tiffany says. “The MacDowell family’s trying to get her to sign a prenup. Basically, they’re trying to make it so she doesn’t see, like, a dime unless she pushes out an heir. But the groom wants to make sure her rights are protected, so he’s hired Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn to represent her.”