Queen of Babble in the Big City (17 page)

“Well, I don’t know,” Monsieur de Villiers confesses. “But it doesn’t matter. You must come and try a glass of this—”

He leads Chaz away before I can ask him any more questions.

“So your friend’s sick, huh?” Tiffany slinks over to thrust her concave stomach at me. “That’s too bad. I was looking forward to meeting her. Hey, so what’s the deal with all these paintings on the walls? Are they real or what?”

“Could you excuse me for a moment please?” I ask Tiffany. “I just have to, um, check the turkey.”

She shrugs. “Whatever. Hey, Raoul. You should tell them about that racehorse you owned that one time—”

I hurry into the kitchen, where Luke is trying to find a place to put down the pies—no easy task, considering all the food the granite counters are practically sagging under.

“So what did he say to you?” I stand on tiptoe to hiss in his ear. “Chaz, I mean. About Shari. When he came in?”

Luke just shakes his head. “Not to ask. I think that means—not to ask.”

“I have to ask,” I sputter. “He can’t just come in here without my best friend and say not to ask where she is. Of course I’m going to ask. I mean, what does he think?”

“Well, you asked,” Luke says. “What did he say?”

“That she was sick. But that she wasn’t at home or at the office. But that doesn’t make any sense. Where else could she be? I’m calling her.”

“Lizzie.” Luke looks helplessly at all the food, some of which is still sizzling on the stove. Then he looks back at me. Something in my expression must have told him not to pursue it, though, since he just says with a shrug, “Go on. I’ll start bringing stuff out to the table.”

I give him a quick kiss, then hurry over to where my cell phone is charging (my Happy Thanksgiving call to my parents had worn out my battery, since they’d forced me to speak to each of my sisters, their various children, and Grandma, too—who hadn’t even wanted
to talk to me, as doing so required taking her attention away from the episode of
Nip/Tuck
—“I just adore that Dr. Troy”—she was watching,
Dr. Quinn
apparently not being on yet).

“Uh, I’ll be right back,” I say to my guests. “I just have to run to the store to get some more, um, cream.”

Mrs. de Villiers—the only one, besides Luke, who knows how very, very far it is from her apartment to any store that might be open and selling cream on Thanksgiving Day—looks at me in horror. “Can’t we do without?” she wants to know.

“Uh, not if we want whipped cream with our pumpkin pie!” I cry.

And slip out the door. Fortunately, no one even seemed to notice I’m not wearing a coat. Or carrying my purse, for that matter.

As soon as I get to the door to the emergency exit, I start dialing. Inside the stairwell, it’s cold…but private. And for once I get excellent reception. Shari picks up on the second ring.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” she says. She knew it was me from the caller ID. “Just enjoy your meal. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Uh, no, we
won’t
,” I say. “We’ll talk about it right now. Where are you?”

“I’m fine,” Shari says. “I’m at Pat’s.”

“Pat’s? Your boss? What are you doing there? You’re supposed to be here. Look, Shari, I know you and Chaz had a fight, but you can’t leave me alone with all of them like this. Tiffany is wearing a suede BODYSUIT. With a zipper that goes from her throat to her crotch. You can’t do this to me.”

Shari is laughing. “I’m sorry, Lizzie,” she says. “But you’re just going to have to fend for yourself. I’m not leaving here.”

“Come
on
!” I’m begging, but I don’t care. “You guys fight all the time. And you always make up.”

“It’s not a fight,” Shari says. “Listen, Lizzie, we’re right in the middle of dinner over here. I’m really sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow and explain, okay?”

“Shari, don’t be this way. What did he even do this time? I can tell he feels terrible about it. He’s already had three scotches, and he only just got here. Just—”

“Lizzie.” Shari’s voice sounds different. Not sad. Not happy. Just different. “Listen. I’m not coming over. I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want you to freak out—I want you to enjoy your holiday. But Chaz and I didn’t just have a fight, okay? We’ve broken up. And I moved out.”

Finding the perfect dress for your bridesmaids…

I know what you’re thinking. You’re remembering all the hideous dresses you were forced by your sisters and friends to wear at their weddings, and you want to get revenge by choosing something similarly frightening, and forcing them to wear it.

Well, stop right now.

This is your opportunity to be the bigger person…also, to accumulate some good bride karma (and let’s face it, all of us can use a little of that).

It is impossible to find a dress that looks good on everyone—unless of course your bridesmaids are all Victoria’s Secret models (but even then there are going to be issues over the color of the material. Not even covergirls look good in every shade).

But you can significantly reduce your bridesmaids’ angst by:

Picking a dress that flatters the most figure-challenged person in the group. If it looks good on your size-eighteen niece, it will look good on your size-eight roommate. Or—and I know this is radical—give your bridesmaids a color that you know they all look good in (black is flattering to nearly everyone), and ask them to pick their own dresses. True, they won’t all match completely. But neither do their personalities. And that’s what you love them for anyway, not how they look.

If you really want them to all have the same dress, pick one that they can afford, or pay for all the dresses yourself. Yes, I know—they made you pay for yours when you were
their
bridesmaid, so why should you pay for theirs? But we are RISING above their level, remember? Asking your friends and family to spend three hundred bucks or more on a dress
they will never wear again (DO NOT tell yourself that they will. Surrender the fantasy, they WON’T) is unreasonable. Pick one they can all easily afford—or pay for it yourself.

Alterations, alterations, alterations. A good seamstress can fix any number of problems with fit. Employ one. And make sure your bridesmaids get to her in plenty of time for her to make any necessary adjustments.

Your wedding is supposed to be a happy time. One reason some brides have a difficult time with it is because they refuse to be flexible and to think of anyone else’s feelings save their own. DO NOT BE THAT BRIDE.

Your bridesmaids will thank you for it.

L
IZZIE
N
ICHOLS
D
ESIGNS
™

What you don’t see with your eyes, don’t witness with your mouth.

—Jewish proverb

I
t wasn’t any one thing,” Shari is telling me over a bubble tea break at a place near where she works called the Village Tea House. I wanted to meet at Honey’s. But Shari said she is over dive bars. Which I guess I can understand.

But I sort of prefer red vinyl booths to velvet throw pillows on the floor. And diet Coke to herbal tea with tapioca on the bottom. They don’t serve diet Coke at the Village Tea House. I asked. They only serve beverages with “natural” ingredients here.

Like tapioca is natural.

“We just…grew apart, I guess,” Shari goes on with a shrug.

I am still having trouble processing all of this. About Shari and Chaz breaking up, I mean, and her moving out…and missing my Thanksgiving dinner, which, not to brag, turned out pretty darn well.

Well, except for the part where Mrs. de Villiers insisted we all play charades after dinner, and her team of Luke, Tiffany, and herself creamed my team of myself, Chaz (who was so drunk he could barely move), Monsieur de Villiers (who doesn’t understand anything about how to play), and Raoul (ditto). Not that I am competitive or anything. I just hate boring party games like that.

Oh, and the part where I had to drag myself to work this morning at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, even though practically no one called and I was the only one there, except for all the junior partners, of course. And Tiffany, who showed up hungover (of course), claiming she and Raoul went out after leaving my place and “got so wasted” drinking at Butter with a bunch of other models (I don’t see how these girls can drink so many high-caloric cocktails, like mojitos and cosmos, and stay so thin).

“I don’t understand how you could grow apart,” I say to Shari, shaking my head, “when you were
living with
each other. I mean, Chaz’s apartment is not all that big.”

“I don’t know.” Shari shrugs again. “I guess I just fell out of love with him.”

“It was the curtains, wasn’t it?” I can’t help asking gloomily.

Shari gapes at me. “What? The curtains you made?”

I nod. “I shouldn’t have gone with Chaz’s choice of material.” Chaz had insisted I make their living room curtains out of a bolt of red satin he’d found in a Chinatown thrift shop. I wouldn’t have agreed—I was thinking a muted sage linen—except that the material was embroidered with gold Chinese characters (the clerk at the shop had said they spelled “good luck”), and had such a deliciously kitsch look to it that I agreed with Chaz that it really livened up the place, and that Shari would get a kick out of it.

But when I’d come over to hang the finished curtains, Shari had asked me pointedly if I was trying to make their apartment look like Lung Cheung, the neighborhood Chinese restaurant where we used to eat as kids back in Ann Arbor.

“No, of course it wasn’t the curtains,” Shari says with a laugh. “Although with the gold couches, they do sort of make the place look like a bordello.”

I groan. “We really thought you’d like it.”

“Listen, Lizzie. It wouldn’t have mattered what anybody did to that place. I was never going to like living there. Because I didn’t like who I was when I was living there.”

“Well, maybe this is a good thing, then,” I say. I’m trying to put a positive slant on things, I know. But Chaz was so devastated by Shari’s moving out, it’s hard not to want to see him happy again…even if Shari doesn’t look all that devastated herself. In fact, Shari looks better than I’ve seen her since we moved to New York. She’s even got on some makeup, for a change.

“Maybe some time apart will help you guys to figure out what went wrong,” I say. “And make you appreciate what you had more. Like…you two could start dating again! Maybe that’s what went wrong in the first place. When you’re living with someone, you kind of stop dating. And that can take all the romance out of the relationship.” You know what else can take all the romance out of a relationship? Sleeping on a pull-out couch with your boyfriend’s parents in the next room. But I don’t mention this.

“But maybe if you guys are
dating
,” I go on, “the fire of your love will be reignited, and you’ll get back together.”

“I am never getting back together with Chaz, Lizzie,” Shari says, calmly removing her tea bag from her mug and laying it on the side of the earthenware plate we’ve been provided for this purpose.

“You never know,” I say. “I mean, a little time apart might actually make you miss him.”

“Then I’ll just call him,” Shari says. “I still want to be friends with him. He’s an amazing, funny guy. But I don’t want to be his girlfriend anymore.”

“Was it all the cookies?” I ask. “You know, that he doesn’t have a job, and had nothing to do all day except read and bake and clean and stuff?” Which actually sounds like a dream existence to me. With all the work I’m being saddled with—Monsieur Henri has me practicing ruching…like I didn’t master the art of ruching in eighth grade, when I realized ruching hides a less-than-flat tummy. I’m getting a little tired of playing Sewing Kid to Monsieur Henri’s Mister Miyagi—I barely have time to run the vacuum once in a while, let alone do any baking.

On the other hand, I
am
learning a lot. Mostly about the chal
lenges of parenting teen boys in the new millennium. But also about running a bridal-design business in Manhattan.

“Of course not,” Shari says. “Although speaking of jobs, I should be getting back to mine soon.”

“Just five more minutes,” I beg. “I’m really worried about you, Shari. I mean, I know you can take care of yourself, and all of that, but I still can’t help feeling like this is all my fault. If I had just moved in with you and not Luke, like we were supposed to—”

“Oh, please,” Shari says with a laugh. “Chaz and I breaking up had nothing to do with you, Lizzie.”

“I let you down,” I said. “And for that, I am so, so sorry. But I think I can make it up to you.”

Shari’s straw hits the tapioca at the bottom of her mug. “Oh, this ought to be good,” she says, about my offer to make it up to her. Not about the tapioca. Although Shari has always loved stuff like that.

“Seriously,” I say. “Did you know that there’s an empty apartment just sitting above Monsieur Henri’s?”

Shari keeps on slurping. “Go on.”

“Now, I know Madame Henri wants two thousand a month for it. But I have seriously been doing so much work for them—they’re totally dependent on me at this point. So if I ask them to let you live in the apartment at a reduced rate—say, fifteen hundred a month—they’ll have to say yes. They’ll just HAVE to.”

“Thanks, Lizzie,” Shari says, putting down her mug and reaching for her raffia slouch bag. “But I’ve got a place.”

“At Pat’s? Living with your
boss
?” I shake my head. “Shari, come on. Talk about taking your work home with you—”

“It’s actually pretty cool,” Shari says. “She has a ground-floor place in Park Slope, with an actual yard in the back, for her dogs—”

“Brooklyn!” I’m shocked. “Shari, that’s so far!”

“It’s actually a straight shot on the F,” Shari says. “The stop is right outside where I work.”

“I mean from me!” I practically yell. “I’ll never see you anymore!”

“You’re seeing me now,” Shari says.

“I mean at night,” I say. “Look, won’t you let me at least talk to the Henris about you possibly moving into the place above the shop? I’ve seen it, and it’s really cute, Shari. And pretty big. Considering. It’s on the top floor, and the place below it is just used for storage. You’d have the whole building to yourself after work hours. And one whole wall is exposed brick. You know how much you love that look.”

“Lizzie, don’t worry about me,” Shari says. “I’m good, really. I know this whole thing with Chaz seems like the end of the world to you. But it’s not to me. It’s really not. I’m happy, Lizzie.”

And just like that, it hits me. Shari really
is
happy. Happier than I’ve seen her since we moved to New York. Happier, really, than I’ve seen her since college. Happier than I’ve seen her since those early days back at McCracken Hall, when she first started going out with (or sleeping with, basically) Chaz.

“Oh my God,” I say, as reality finally sinks in. “There’s someone else!”

Shari looks up from her bag, which she’s digging through to find her wallet. “What?” She looks at me strangely.

“There’s someone else,” I cry. “That’s why you say you and Chaz are never going to get back together. Because you’ve met someone else!”

Shari stops looking for her wallet and stares at me. “Lizzie, I—”

But even in the winter afternoon light, spilling in through the Village Tea House’s less-than-clean windows, I can see the blush slowly suffusing her cheeks.

“And you’re in love with him!” I cry. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it! You’re sleeping with him, too, aren’t you? I can’t believe you’re sleeping with someone I haven’t even met. Okay, who is he? Spill. I want all the details.”

Shari looks uncomfortable. “Lizzie, look. I have to get back to work.”

“That’s where you met him, isn’t it?” I demand. “At work? Who
is he? You’ve never mentioned a guy at work. I thought it was all women. What is he, like the copier repairman or something?”

“Lizzie.” Shari isn’t blushing anymore. Instead, she’s gone kind of pale. “This really isn’t how I wanted to do this.”

“Do what?” I stir the tapioca at the bottom of my mug. I am totally not eating it. Talk about empty carbs. Wait—does tapioca even have carbs? What
is
tapioca, anyway? A grain? Or a gelatin? Or what? “Come on. You’ve only been gone from work for like ten minutes. No one’s going to die if you’re gone five minutes more.”

“Actually,” Shari says. “Someone might.”

“Come on,” I say again. “Just admit I’m right, and that there’s someone else. Just say it. I’m not going to believe you’re really over Chaz until I hear you say it.”

Shari, her lips set in a straight line, stabs at her tapioca with her straw. “All right,” she says, her voice so soft I can barely hear her above the pan flute music they’re playing over the speakers in every corner of the tea shop. “There’s someone else.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t hear you. Would you mind repeating that a little louder, please?”

“There’s someone else,” Shari says, glaring at me. “I’m in love with someone else. There. Are you satisfied?”

“No,” I say. “Details, please.”

“I told you,” Shari says, diving back into her bag and pulling a ten-dollar bill from her wallet. “I don’t want to do this now.”

“Do what?” I demand, grabbing my coat as she shrugs into hers and clambers to her feet. “Tell your best friend about the guy you just dumped your long-term boyfriend for? When would be a good time to do it? I’m just wondering.”

“Not now,” Shari says. She’s picking her way past floor pillows on which our fellow tea-drinkers are sitting. “Not when I have to get back to work.”

“Tell me on the way,” I say. “I’ll walk you back.”

We reach the door and step out into the cold winter air. A semi
trailer barrels by on Bleecker Street, followed by a stream of cabs. The sidewalk is crowded with busy shoppers taking advantage of the Black Friday sales. Somewhere in this city, Luke is being dragged in and out of museums by his father, and Mrs. de Villiers is having her clandestine meeting with her lover.

Apparently, she isn’t the only one who’s been up to clandestine meetings.

Shari is uncharacteristically silent on our walk back to her office. Head ducked, she keeps her gaze on her feet…which is actually important to do in New York City, what with so many of the sidewalks being in such a sorry state of disrepair.

She’s clearly upset. And I’m upset that I’ve upset her.

“Look, Share,” I say, trotting along behind her. She’s walking about a million miles an hour. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of the situation. Honest. I’m happy for you. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Shari stops walking so abruptly, I practically run into her.

“I’m happy,” she says, looking down at me. She’s standing on the curb and I’m in the gutter. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m living with purpose—like what I do has meaning. I’m helping people—people who need me. And I like that feeling. It’s the best feeling in the world.”

“Well,” I say. “That’s great. Could you let me up on the sidewalk, though? Because I’m afraid I’m gonna get run over.”

Shari reaches down and pulls me by the arm up onto the sidewalk beside her. “And you’re right,” she says. “I
am
in love. And I want to tell you all about it. Because that’s a big part of why I’m so happy right now, too.”

“Cool,” I say. “So spill.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Shari says, her eyes shining—and not just because it’s cold enough out to make them water.

“Well, how about a name?”

“Pat,” she says.

“The guy you’re in love with is named Pat?” I laugh. “How weird! That’s your boss’s name!”

“The girl,” Shari corrects me.

“The girl what?”

“The
girl
I’m in love with,” Shari says. “
Her
name is Pat.”