Queen of Babble in the Big City (15 page)

It’s in the bag!

Ever wonder what a bride should carry on her wedding day? Well, I’m here to let you in on the mystery:

—Lipstick, pressed powder (to control shine), and concealer (in case of blemishes)—

Even if you have your makeup done by a professional, carry these items with you in a small pouch or clutch. You will need them—especially between toasts at the reception (brides, be subtle with makeup fixes at the table…excuse yourself for anything more than a quick check in the compact mirror).

—Breath mints—

Trust me, you’re going to need them.

—Medications—

If you are prone to migraines, count on getting one on your wedding day. Migraines are often brought on by stress, and what’s more stressful than committing yourself for all eternity to your lover in front of hundreds of friends and family members? Make sure you have your prescription migraine medication with you on your special day, or any other medications that might help you through the day, including aspirin, muscle relaxants (go easy on these), beta-blockers, and homeopathics like aromatherapy oils.

—Deodorant—

If you perspire more than average, especially when stressed or overheated, have a minitube of this in your bag for emergencies. You won’t regret it.

—Feminine hygiene products—

It happens. Some of us will be having our period on our big day. If you’re due for yours, wear protection just in case, and carry some extra for even more security.

And, of course,

—Tissues—

You know you’re going to cry—or someone close to you will, anyway. So come prepared.

L
IZZIE
N
ICHOLS
D
ESIGNS
™

It is one of my sources of happiness never to desire a knowledge of other people’s business.

—Dolley Madison (1768–1849), American First Lady

I
completely regret agreeing to let Luke’s parents stay with us over the Thanksgiving weekend.

And okay, I know it’s his mom’s apartment. And I know it’s supernice of her to allow us to live in it, rent free (well, in Luke’s case).

And I know we all got along great when we were staying at Château Mirac, the de Villiers ancestral home in France, over the summer.

But it is one thing to share a château with your boyfriend’s parents.

It is quite another to share a one-bedroom apartment with them…while also having promised to prepare a traditional Thanksgiving dinner when, truth be told, you’ve really never cooked all that much before.

The gravity of the situation didn’t really hit me until Carlos, the doorman, buzzed up to say Luke’s parents had arrived. An hour before we were expecting them, and while I was in the middle of sorting through several bouquets of freesia and irises, to which I’d treated myself—as well as Mrs. Erickson from 5B—from the flower
section at Eli’s, and purchased with part of Mrs. Harris’s hundred dollars. There’s nothing more welcome than having a vase of fresh cut flowers sitting out when people come to visit—and there’s no nicer gift for someone who has helped you, as Mrs. Erickson had by recommending Monsieur Henri’s to me, either.

But when the flowers are purchased in bunches from a florist, and still have to be arranged, and are lying in messy piles on top of the stove while you look for vases, it’s sort of hard to feel the welcoming effect. Especially when you’re still in your sweats from doing the grocery shopping—which is still sitting in bags on the kitchen floor—and your boyfriend isn’t home from school yet, and the doorman buzzes to inform you that your “guests” are here…

“Send them up,” I tell Carlos through the intercom. What else could I say?

Then I run around like a crazy person, trying to clean up. The place isn’t
that
bad—I’m something of a neat freak—but all of the lovely touches I’d been hoping to have when Luke’s parents walked in—a tray of freshly mixed cocktails (kir royales, their favorite), party nuts in bowls, assorted cheeses on a platter—have to be abandoned as I cram the dirty laundry in a hamper, run a quick brush through my hair, slap on a bit of lip gloss, then fling open the door.

“Helloooo!” I cry, noticing that Mr. and Mrs. de Villiers look—well,
older
than when I’d last seen them. But then, who doesn’t after a plane ride? “You’re early!”

“There was
no
traffic coming into the city from the airport,” Mrs. de Villiers drawls in her Texan accent, giving me a kiss on either cheek, as is her custom. “Leaving the city, yes. But coming in? No.” Her gaze sweeps the apartment, taking in the grocery bags, the lack of cocktails, and my sweats. “Sorry we’re early.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” I say breezily. “Really. It’s just that Luke isn’t home from class yet—”

“Well, we will just have to start celebrating without him,” Monsieur de Villiers says, as he unveils a bottle of chilled champagne he’s managed to procure somewhere along the way from the airport.

“Celebrating?” I blink. “Is there something to celebrate?”

“There is always something to celebrate,” Monsieur de Villiers says. “But in this case the fact that the Beaujolais nouveau has been released.”

His wife is pulling an Armani wheelie-suitcase. “Where can I park this?” she wants to know.

“Oh, your room, of course,” I say as I hurry to produce champagne flutes. “Luke and I will be taking the couch.”

Monsieur de Villiers winces as the cork from the bottle of champagne he is opening pops. “I told you we should have stayed in a hotel,” he calls to his wife. “Now these poor children will have spinal injuries from sleeping on a pull-out couch.”

“Oh no,” I say. “The couch is fine! Luke and I are so grateful to you for—”

“It’s a fine pull-out couch!” Mrs. de Villiers insists on her way to the bedroom. “I’ll admit it’s not the most comfortable in the world, but no one is going to suffer a spinal injury!”

I try to imagine how this conversation would go if it were my own parents, and fail. My parents are still in the dark about Luke and me living together, and I have every intention of keeping it that way…at least until we announce our engagement. I mean, if we ever get engaged, that is. It’s not that they’re morally against people living together before they get married. They’re just against me living with someone I’ve only known for a few months.

Which actually says a lot about how much they trust my judgment about people.

Although, looking back on some of my exes, I think maybe they have a point.

“It’s fine,” I assure Monsieur de Villiers. “Really.”

“Well.” Mrs. de Villiers has dropped her bag off in the bedroom and returned. “I’m happy to see you’ve made yourself at home in there.”

I realize she’s referring to the standing rack from Bed Bath & Beyond—and my vintage-dress collection.

And that she sounds…well,
bemused
about it.

And not necessarily in a good way.

“Oh,” I say. “Yes. I’m sorry. I know my clothes take up a lot of room. I hope you don’t mind—”

“Of course not!” Mrs. de Villiers says—a little too heartily. “I’m glad you’re making use of the space. Is that a
sewing machine
I saw on my dressing table?”

Oh. My. God.

“Um, yes…well, you see, I needed a table to put it on, and your dressing table is just the right height…” She hates me. I can tell. She totally hates me. “I can move it if you need me to. It’s no problem…”

“Not at all,” Mrs. de Villiers says with a smile that’s, well, a trifle brittle. “Guillaume, I’ll take a little of that champagne. Actually, make that a lot.”

“I’ll just go move it,” I say. “The sewing machine. I’m sorry, I should have thought about it before. Of course you need a place to do your makeup—”

“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. de Villiers says. “You can do it later. Sit down right now and have some champagne with us. Guillaume and I want to hear all about your new job. Jean-Luc says you’re working in a law office! That must be so exciting. I had no idea you were interested in the law.”

“Uh,” I say, taking the glass Monsieur de Villiers offers me. “I’m not—” Why didn’t I move that sewing machine last night, when it occurred to me that Mrs. de Villiers might not appreciate having it sitting there smack in the middle of her dressing table?
Why
?

“Are you doing paralegal work?” Mrs. de Villiers wants to know.

“Um, no,” I say. What about all my stuff in the bathroom? I have a ton of beauty products in there. I tried to consolidate it all in my plastic shower caddy from the dorm, but ever since I started working with a model, it’s gotten a lot bigger, since Tiffany won’t stop giving me samples, and some of them are pretty awesome. Like anything
from Kiehl’s, which I admit I never heard of until I moved here. But now I’m addicted to their lip balm.

But where would I put all that stuff, if not the bathroom? There’s only the one bathroom…and that’s the place where shower caddies
go
…

“Administrative work?” Mrs. de Villiers is asking.

“No,” I say. “I’m the receptionist. Do you want me to move my stuff out of the bathroom? Because I totally can. I’m sorry if it seems like my stuff is everywhere, I know there’s a lot, but I can really move it—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. de Villiers says. She’s finished her first glass of champagne and holds out her glass toward her husband for a refill. “When does Jean-Luc get home?”

Oh, God. This is awful. She’s already wondering when Luke’s going to get here. I’m wondering the same thing. Someone needs to save us from this awkward silence—oh, wait. Monsieur de Villiers is turning on the TV. Thank God. We can watch the news or something—

“Oh, Guillaume, turn that off,” his wife says. “We want to visit, not watch CNN.”

“I just want to see the weather,” Monsieur de Villiers insists.

“You can look outside to see the weather,” his wife scoffs. “It’s cold. It’s November. What do you expect?”

Oh, God. This is excruciating. I’m going to die, I just know it. I saw her disappointed expression when I said I’m just a receptionist at Chaz’s dad’s firm. Why did she wince like that? Because she can’t imagine her son dating a mere receptionist? It’s true his last girlfriend was an investment banker. But she was older than me! Well, by a couple of years. But whatever, she had a business degree! I was a liberal arts major. What does anybody expect?

Oh, God. There’s an awkward silence. Nooooo…Okay, think of something to say. Anything. These are bright, intellectual people. I should be able to chat with them about anything…anything at all…

Oh! I know…

“Mrs. de Villiers, I just love your Renoir,” I say. “The one hanging over your bed?”

“Oh.” Luke’s mother looks pleased. “That little thing? Thank you. Yes, she’s adorable, isn’t she?”

“I love her,” I say truthfully. “Where did you get her?”

“Oh.” Mrs. de Villiers looks toward the windows overlooking Fifth Avenue, a faraway gleam in her eyes. “She was a gift from someone. A very long time ago.”

I don’t have to be a mind reader to know that the “someone” Mrs. de Villiers was referring to had been a lover. It
had
to have been. How else to explain the dewy look that came over her face?

Could it, I couldn’t help wondering, have been the same man who keeps calling the apartment, asking for her?

“Um,” I say. Because I don’t know what else
to
say. Luke’s father seems oblivious, switching the channels from New York 1 to CNN. “Nice gift.”

The most expensive thing anybody has ever given me is an iPod. And that was from my parents.

“Yes,” Mrs. de Villiers says with a catlike smile as she sips her champagne. “Wasn’t it?”

“Look.” Monsieur de Villiers points at the television. “You see? It’s going to snow tomorrow.”

“Well, we don’t have to worry about it,” his wife says. “We don’t have to go anywhere. We’ll be nice and snug in here.”

Oh, God. It’s true. We’ll all be stuck inside the whole day, me cooking (with Luke’s help, hopefully), and his parents…God. I don’t even know. What are they going to do? Watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade? The football games? Somehow they didn’t strike me as parade or football people.

Which meant they were just going to be sitting here. All day. Slowly sucking out my soul with their well-meaning but ultimately barbed comments…
You really should consider becoming a paralegal, Lizzie. You’d make a lot more money than a mere receptionist.
What? Certified wedding-gown specialist? I’ve never heard of that as a career path. Well, it’s true you did do wonders with my wedding gown. But that’s hardly a career for a college-educated person. I mean, aren’t you a glorified seamstress? Don’t you worry that you’re wasting all the money your parents paid for your education?

No! Because my education was free! Because my dad works at the college I went to, and free tuition is one of his job benefits!

Oh, God. Why did we all get along so well in France, and yet we have nothing to say to one another here?

I know why. Because they thought I was just Luke’s summer fling. Now it’s clear I’m more than that, and they aren’t happy about it. I know it. I just know it.

“You guys must be starving after your long plane ride,” I say as I spring up, determined not to let myself sink into despair. “Let me fix you something to eat.”

“No, no,” Monsieur de Villiers says. “We are taking you and Jean-Luc out tonight. We have reservations. Don’t we, Bibi?”

“Right,” Mrs. de Villiers says. “At Nobu. You know how much Jean-Luc loves sushi. We figured it would be just the right pick-me-up for him, considering how hard he’s been studying.”

“Right,” I say, in desperation. Desperation because I’m longing to get out of the same room with them. “I, uh, just got back from the store. I bought some cheese. Let me just put it out for you both. You can snack on it until Luke gets home and we can leave for the restaurant—”

“Don’t go to any trouble on our account,” Monsieur de Villiers says, waving a hand dismissively. “We can get our own snacks!”

Oh, God. They won’t even let me act like a hostess. Which I guess is understandable, since this isn’t even my apartment anyway.

Still. They don’t have to rub it in so much.

The telephone rings, startling me from my sullen musings. Not my cell phone—the apartment phone, the one listed under Bibi de Villiers’s name. The one only a single person has ever called on, since I’d moved in.

The man who leaves the disappointed messages for Bibi! The messages I’ve never mentioned to Luke.

Or his mother.

“Um, that’s probably for you,” I say to her. “Luke and I don’t use your number. We have our cells.”

Mrs. de Villiers looks startled but pleased. “I wonder who that can be,” she asks, getting up and heading to the phone. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming to town. I wanted to be free to shop uninterrupted. You know how it is.”

Actually, I did. There’s nothing more irritating than friends who want to schedule lunch with you when you’ve blocked out the whole weekend for shopping.

“Hello?” Mrs. de Villiers says, after lifting the receiver and removing the clip-on earring from her right ear.

And I thought my mom was the only woman left without pierced ears.

I know instantly that it’s the Guy Who’s Been Leaving All Those Messages. I can tell by the surprised but pleased expression on Mrs. de Villiers’s lovely face. Also the quick, wary look she darts at the back of her husband’s head as she breathes, “Oh, darling, how sweet of you to call. You have? Well, no, I haven’t been here. No, I’ve been in France and then back in Houston. Yes, of
course
with Guillaume, silly.”

Hmmm. So Guy Who’s Been Leaving All Those Messages knows she’s married.

What am I thinking? Of
course
he does. That’s why he only calls on her private line.

Wow. I can’t believe Luke’s mom is cheating on his dad. Or used to be, I guess. Which wasn’t necessarily cheating then, either, because they were separated, and in the act of divorcing. They only got back together a few months ago, over the summer…because of me.