Queen of Babble in the Big City (3 page)

Which type of wedding gown best suits you?

If you are lucky enough to be tall and slender, you can pretty much get away with any type or shape of gown. That is why models are tall and slender—anything looks good on them!

But supposing you are one of the millions of women who aren’t tall and slender? Which gown best suits you?

Well, if you are short, with a fuller figure, why not try a gown with an empire waist? The flowing silhouette will make your body look longer and more slender. That’s why this style of gown was favored by both the ancient Greeks and the very fashion-conscious Josephine Bonaparte, Empress of France!

L
IZZIE
N
ICHOLS
D
ESIGNS
™

Great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and small people talk about wine.

—Fran Lebowitz (b. 1950), American humorist

I
t’s my own fault, really. For believing in fairy tales.

Not that I ever mistook them for actual historical fact, or anything.

But I did grow up believing that for every girl, there’s a prince out there somewhere. All she has to do is find him. Then it’s on with the happily ever after.

So you can only imagine what happened when I found out. That my prince really IS one. A prince.

No, I really mean it. He’s an actual PRINCE.

And okay, he isn’t exactly recognized, really, by his native land, since the French did a pretty thorough job of killing off most of their aristocracy over two hundred years ago.

But in the case of my particular prince someone in his family managed to escape Madame Guillotine by hotfooting it to England, and years later, even managed to get the family castle back, probably through intense and prolonged litigation. If they were anything like the rest of his family, I mean.

And okay, today owning your own château in the South of France
means about a hundred grand a year in taxes to the French government, and nonstop headaches over roof tiles and renters.

But hey, how many guys do you know who actually own one? A château, I mean.

But I swear to you, that’s not why I fell in love with him. I didn’t know about the title or the château when I met him. He never bragged about it. If he had, I would never have liked him in the first place. I mean, what woman would? That you’d want to be friends with, anyway.

No, Luke acted exactly the way you’d expect a disenfranchised prince to act about his title—as if he were embarrassed by it.

And he IS embarrassed by it, a little. That he’s a prince—an ACTUAL prince—and the only heir to a sprawling château (on a thousand-acre, sadly not very productive vineyard) a six-hour train ride from Paris. I only found out about it by accident, when I noticed this portrait of a very ugly man in the main hall at Château Mirac, and I noticed that on the nameplate, it said he was a prince, and he had the same last name as Luke.

Luke didn’t want to admit it, but I finally pried it out of his dad. He says it’s a lot of responsibility, being a prince, and running a château and all. Well, not the prince thing, so much, but the château part. The only way he can do it all—and turn enough of a profit to pay off their taxes every year—is by renting the place out to rich American families, and the occasional film studio, to shoot period movies in. God knows his vineyard doesn’t turn much of a profit.

But by the time I found out about it—the prince stuff—I was already head over heels for Luke. I knew right away he was the guy for me, the minute I sat down next to him on that train. Not that I thought he’d ever, in a million years, feel the same way about me and all. He just had such a nice smile—not to mention really long eyelashes, the kind that Shu Uemura try so hard to emulate—I couldn’t help falling for him.

So the fact that he has a title and an estate are really just frosting on what’s already the most delicious cake I’ve ever tasted. Luke isn’t
like any of the guys I knew in college. He isn’t the least bit interested in poker or sports. All he cares about is medicine—it’s his passion—and, well, me.

Which suits me just fine.

So I guess it’s only natural that I started planning my wedding immediately. Not that Luke’s proposed—at least, not yet.

But, you know, I can still start PLANNING it. I know we’ll be getting married SOMEDAY. I mean, a guy doesn’t ask a girl he doesn’t intend to marry to move in with him, right?

So, you know, WHEN we get married, it will be at Château Mirac, on the big grassy terrace there, overlooking the entire valley—over which the de Villiers at one time practiced their feudal lording. It will be in the summer, of course, preferably the summer right after my vintage bridal gown refurbishment shop—Lizzie Nichols Designs—is bought out by Vera Wang (another thing that hasn’t happened yet. But it’s bound to, right?). Shari can be my maid of honor, and my sisters can be my bridesmaids.

And unlike what they did for their bridesmaids (namely, me), I will actually choose tasteful gowns for them to wear. I won’t force them to cram into any mint-green taffeta hoop skirts, the way they made me. Because unlike them, I am kind and thoughtful.

I suppose my whole family will insist on coming, even though none of them has ever been to Europe before. I’m a little worried my relatives won’t be quite sophisticated enough for the cosmopolitan de Villiers.

But I’m sure they’ll end up actually getting along like a house on fire, my father insisting on manning the firepit, Midwest-barbecue style, and my mother offering Luke’s mother tips on how to get the yellow out of her nineteenth-century linen sheets. Gran might be a little bit trying, seeing as how they don’t have
Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman
in France. But after a kir royale or two, I’m sure she’ll calm down.

I just know my wedding day will be the happiest day of my life. I can totally picture us standing in the dappled sunlight on the grassy
terrace, me in a long white sheath, and Luke looking so handsome and debonair in an open-collared white shirt and black tuxedo pants. Like a prince is how he’ll look, really…

I just have to figure out how I’m going to handle this next part, and I’m home free.

“Okay,” Shari says, opening up the copy of the
Village Voice
she’s just snagged, and turning it to the classifieds. “Basically, there’s nothing out there that’s worth looking at that isn’t listed by a broker.”

The thing is, this is going to take finesse. Not to mention subtlety.

“Which means we’re just going to have to bite the bullet and pay one. It sucks,” Shari goes on, “but in the long run, I think it’s going to be worth it.”

I can’t just blurt it out. I have to lead up to it, slowly.

“I know you’re short on cash,” Shari says. “So Chaz says he can loan us what we need to pay the broker. We can pay him back when we get on our feet. Well, when
you
get on
your
feet.” Because Shari has already landed a job at a small nonprofit, based on an interview she had last summer, before she left for France. She starts work tomorrow. “I mean, unless Luke is willing to front you. Is he? I know you probably hate to ask, but come on, the guy is loaded.”

I can’t just spring it on her out of nowhere.

“Lizzie? Are you even listening to me?”

“Luke asked me to move in with him,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Shari stares at me across the booth’s sticky tabletop. “And you were going to tell me this…when?” she asks.

Great. I’ve already blown it. She’s mad. I knew she was going to get mad. Why can’t I ever keep my big mouth closed.
Why?

“Shari, he just asked me this morning,” I say. “Just now, before I left to come meet you. I didn’t say yes. I said I had to talk to you about it.”

Shari blinks at me. “Which means you want to,” she says. There’s a definite edge to her voice. “You want to move in with him, or you’d have said no right away.”

“Shari! No! I mean, well…yes. But think about it. I mean, face it, you’re always going to be over at Chaz’s place anyway—”

“Spending the night at Chaz’s,” Shari says acidly, “isn’t the same as
living
with him.”

“But you know he’d love you to,” I say. “Think about it, Shari. If I move in with Luke, and you move in with Chaz, then we don’t have to waste time looking for apartments anymore…or waste money on a broker and first and last month’s rent. It will save us about five grand. Each!”

“Don’t do that,” Shari says sharply.

I blink at her. “Do what?”

“Make it about money,” she says. “It’s not about money. You know if you needed money, you could get money. Your parents would send you money.”

I feel a spurt of irritation with Shari. I love her to death. I really do. But my parents have three kids, all of whom need money all the time. Supervisors at the cyclotron, which is what my dad is, make a comfortable living. But not enough to support their adult children in perpetuity.

Shari, on the other hand, is the only child of a prominent Ann Arbor surgeon. All she ever has to do when she needs money is ask her parents for some, and they fork over however much she wants, no questions asked.
I’m
the one who’s been working in retail—and before that, babysitting every Friday and Saturday night throughout my teens, thus denying me anything resembling a proper social life—for the past seven years, scraping by on minimum wage, and denying myself life’s more expensive pleasures (movies, eating out, shampoo other than Suave, a car, et cetera) in order to save enough to one day escape to New York, and pursue my dream.

I’m not complaining. I know my parents did the best they could by me. But it’s annoying how Shari doesn’t understand that not everyone’s parents are as forthcoming with cash as hers are. Even though I’ve tried to explain it to her.

“We can’t let ourselves become slaves of New York,” Shari goes
on. “We can’t make major life decisions—like moving in with a boyfriend—be about the cost of rent. If we start doing that, we’re lost.”

I just look at her. Seriously, I don’t know where she gets this stuff.

“If it’s just about money,” she says, “and you don’t want to go to your parents, Chaz will float you a loan. You know that.”

Chaz, who comes from a long line of fiscally thrifty lawyers, is loaded. Not just because his relatives keep dropping dead and leaving their financial assets to him, but because in addition to their cash, he’s also inherited their frugality, and invests conservatively while living quite modestly—at least in comparison to his net worth, which is allegedly even more than Luke’s. Not that Chaz has a château in France to show for it.

“Shari,” I say. “Chaz is YOUR boyfriend. I’m not taking money from YOUR boyfriend. How is that any different than moving in with Luke?”

“Because you aren’t having sex with Chaz,” Shari points out with her usual asperity. “It would be a business arrangement, strictly impersonal.”

But for some reason, the idea of asking Chaz for a loan—even though I know he’d think nothing of it, and say yes in an instant—isn’t working for me.

Besides, it’s not really about the money. It never was.

“The thing is,” I say slowly. “It’s not just about the money, Share.”

Shari lets out a moan, and drops her face into her hands.

“Oh, God,” she says to her lap. “I knew this was going to happen.”

“What?” I don’t understand what she’s so upset about. I mean, I know Chaz is no prince and all, with his turned-around Michigan baseball hats and perpetual razor stubble. But he’s really funny and sweet. When he isn’t going on about Kierkegaard or Roth IRAs. “I’m sorry. But can’t we make this work? I mean, what’s the problem, exactly? Is it the triple stabbing? You don’t want to live in Chaz’s place because of the neighborhood? But the police told you, it was a domestic dispute. That will never happen again. I mean, unless they let Julio’s dad out of Rikers—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Shari snaps. In the glow from the neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign on the wall beside our booth, her wildly curling black hair has a bluish sheen. “Lizzie, you’ve known Luke a month. And you’re going
to move in with him
?”

“Two
months,” I correct her, hurt. “And he’s Chaz’s best friend. And we’ve known Chaz for
years
.
Lived with
Chaz for years. Well, in the dorm, anyway. So it’s not like Luke’s this complete stranger, like Andrew was—”

“Exactly. What
about
Andrew?” Shari demands. “Lizzie, you just got out of a relationship. A completely fucked one, but a relationship, nonetheless. And look at Luke. Two months ago, he was living with someone else! And now he’s just going to rush right in to live with someone new? Don’t you think maybe you guys need to take it a little more slowly?”

“We’re not getting
married
, Share,” I say to her. “We’re just talking about living together.”

“Luke might be,” Shari says. “But Lizzie, I know you. You’re already secretly fantasizing about marrying Luke. Don’t deny it.”

“I am not!” I cry, wondering how she could possibly know the truth. And okay, she’s known me for my whole life, practically. But come on. That’s spooky.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Lizzie,” she says, in a warning voice.

“Oh, all right,” I say, slumping back against the bloodred vinyl booth. We’re at Honey’s, a seedy Midtown karaoke bar halfway between Chaz’s apartment, where Shari is staying on East Thirteenth between First and Second Avenues, and Luke’s mom’s place, on East Eighty-first and Fifth Avenue, so it’s equally difficult (or easy, depending on how you want to look at it) for us to get to.

Honey’s may be a dive, but at least it’s usually empty—at least before nine at night, when the serious karaoke practitioners show up—so we can talk, and the diet Cokes are only a dollar. Plus, the bartender—a punky Korean-American in her early twenties—doesn’t seem to care if we order something or not. She’s too busy fighting with her boyfriend over her cell phone.

“So I want to marry him,” I say dejectedly, as the bartender yells,
“You know what? You know what? You suck,”
into her pink Razor. “I love him.”

“It’s fine that you love him, Lizzie,” Shari says. “It’s perfectly natural. But I’m still not convinced moving in with him is the best idea.” Oh, great. Now she’s chewing her lower lip. “I just…”

I look up from my diet Coke. “What?”

“Look, Lizzie.” Her dark eyes seem fathomless in the dim light of the bar. Even though outside it’s sunny, only being noon. “Luke’s great and all. And I think what you did—getting his parents back together, and convincing Luke to go after his dream of pursuing a medical career—was really cool of you. But as far as you two long-term—”

I blink at her, totally stunned. “What about it?”

“I just,” Shari says, “don’t see it.”

I can’t believe she’s saying this. My best friend—ALLEGEDLY.

“Why?” I demand, horrified to feel tears stinging my eyes. “Because he’s a prince—sort of? And I’m just a girl from Michigan who talks too much?”