Queen of Babble in the Big City (13 page)

“Well,” I say. “You don’t have to put it quite like that. But maybe if you—”

“Lizzie, I am perfectly aware that I sound like a lunatic. There’s something wrong with me. I know it.”

“No,” I cry. “Shari, it’s just…it’s hard. It’s my fault, really. Maybe you guys weren’t ready to move in together. I should never have bailed on you like I did and moved in with Luke. I deserved to have beer poured on me. I deserve to have a lot worse than that done to me—”

“Oh, Lizzie,” Shari says, looking up at me with her dark eyes filled with tears again. “Don’t you get it? It has nothing to do with you. It’s me. There’s something wrong with
me
. Or at least with the concept of Chaz and me. The truth is…I just don’t know anymore, Lizzie.”

I stare at her. “Know what?”

“I mean, I look at you and Luke, and how perfect you two are together—”

“We’re not perfect,” I interrupt quickly. I don’t want to remind her about the woodland creature thing. Or the fact that I’m pretty sure Luke’s mom is having—or was having, anyway—an affair, and I haven’t told him. “Seriously, Shari. We—”

“But you seem so happy together,” Shari says. “The way Chaz and I used to be…but for some reason, it’s gone.”

“Oh, Shari.” I chew my lower lip, frantically trying to think of the right thing to say. “Maybe if you two got couples counseling…”

“I don’t know,” Shari says. She looks—and sounds—hopeless. “I don’t know if it would even be worth it.”

“Shari!” I can’t believe she would say that. About Chaz, of all people!

“Lizzie?” Someone bangs on the door. A woman’s voice calls my name again. “You’re up!”

I realize it’s the waitress and that my song’s waiting to be played—and performed.

“Oh no,” I say. “Shari, I…I don’t know what to say. I really think maybe you and Chaz are just going through a weird phase right now. I mean, Chaz is a great guy, and I know he really loves you…I’m sure things will get better with time.”

“They won’t,” Shari says. “But thanks for letting me unload on you. Literally. Sorry about the beer.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “It was kind of refreshing, in a way. It was getting hot out there.”

“Are you coming?” the waitress demands. “Or not?”

“Coming,” I call. Then I appeal to Shari. “Will you sing with me?”

“Not a chance,” she says with a smile.

Which is how I find myself all alone on the stage at Honey’s, assuring the bachelorettes, who are drunkenly catcalling me, the dwarf, who is glaring at me angrily for robbing him of yet more time in the spotlight, and Chaz, Shari, and Luke that young girls do get weary of wearing that same old shaggy…and that when they get weary, it would behoove everyone to try a little tenderness.

A piece of advice that, sadly, Chaz seems to have already employed…with less than satisfying results.

Fittings

Ensuring that your gown fits properly is one of the many duties of your certified wedding-gown specialist. You can help by bringing with you to your fittings the shoes, the headdress, and the kind of support or undergarments you plan on wearing on your special day. Too often a bride has not tried on her gown with the bra or shoes she plans to wear at her wedding, only to discover her straps are showing or that her gown is too long or short!

It’s important as well to be at or very close to whatever weight you want to be on your wedding day at your first fitting. Gowns can of course be taken in…but the less your seamstress has to do so, the better. And don’t even talk about letting gowns out…that’s a whole other story, and you don’t want to go there.

Generally only two fittings are necessary, but of course more can be scheduled if necessary…so long as you don’t wait too long! Not even the most brilliant certified wedding-gown specialist can work wonders overnight. Plan on having your last fitting about three weeks prior to your wedding day—and lay off the Krispy Kremes!

L
IZZIE
N
ICHOLS
D
ESIGNS
™

A rumor without a leg to stand on will get around some other way.

—John Tudor (b. 1954), American Major League baseball player

S
o what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Tiffany wants to know.

Even though her shift doesn’t start until two, Tiffany has been showing up every day at noon, and hanging out with me at the reception desk until I go home…sometimes even bringing lunch for both of us to nibble on surreptitiously beneath the desktop, since food is banned in the reception area (“Highly unprofessional,” is what Roberta called it the day she caught me innocently nibbling on a bag of microwave popcorn I filched from the office kitchen).

At first I just thought this was an odd habit of Tiffany’s—showing up two hours early to work every day, I mean. Until Daryl, the “fax and copy supervisor” (he’s in charge of making sure all the office fax and copy machines are fully stocked and in working order, and the faxes delivered promptly to their addressees), informed me that I had only myself to thank for Tiffany’s new and improved work ethic.

“She likes hanging out with you,” he said. “She thinks you’re funny. And she doesn’t have any friends except that nasty-ass boyfriend of hers.”

I was touched but surprised when I heard this. The truth is that Tiffany and I have little in common (save the desk chair we sit in, and a love for fashion, of course), and her potty mouth can be a little alarming at times. And I have never, for instance, seen her outside of work…hardly surprising, since we work completely different shifts. But not exactly what I’d call a true bond.

On the other hand, we’re both regularly screamed at by Peter fucking Loughlin. And that’s something that scars someone for life and therefore cemented our friendship.

Still, when Tiffany asks the Thanksgiving question, I’m afraid. Afraid that she’s about to follow it with an invitation to join her and the “nasty-ass boyfriend” (so called by Daryl for no other reason—that I can ascertain, anyway—than that he is keeping Tiffany from being available for Daryl to date) for their holiday meal.

Which I’m sure would be fun and all of that, but not something I think Luke is quite ready for—to be subjected to my coworkers, I mean. So far, I’ve managed to keep him a safe distance from both Monsieur and Madame Henri, and the fine folks of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn.

Although, considering that I still haven’t told my family he and I are living together, you might say I’m keeping him from my family, as well.

“Luke’s parents are coming to town,” I say truthfully.

“Rilly?” Tiffany looks up from the nail she’s filing. “They’re coming all the way from France?”

“Uh, no, Houston,” I say, after a slight pause during which I pick up, answer, and transfer a call for Jack Flynn. “They only spend part of the year in France, and the rest in Houston, where Luke’s from. They’re coming here for Thanksgiving so his mom can do some holiday shopping and his dad can go to some Broadway shows.”

“So they’re taking you out for Thanksgiving dinner?” Tiffany looks impressed. “Sweet.”

“Uh,” I say. “Not exactly. I mean, I’m cooking the dinner. Luke and I are. For the two of them, and Shari and Chaz, too.”

Tiffany stares at me. “Have you ever cooked a turkey before?” she wants to know.

“No,” I say. “But I’m sure it won’t be hard. Luke’s a really good cook, and I printed out a bunch of recipes from the Food Network’s Web site.”

“Oh yeah,” Tiffany says, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “That’ll work out great, then.”

But I don’t let her negativity get me down. I’m convinced our Thanksgiving is going to work out great. Not only will Luke’s parents—whom we’ll be giving up our bed to, since it is, technically, his mom’s bed—have a great time, but so will Chaz and Shari. In fact, if everything goes as planned, Chaz and Shari will be so moved by the example of loving bliss Luke and I (and his parents) make, that they’ll start getting along again.

I’m sure of it. More than sure. I’m
positive.

“Your own family must miss you,” Tiffany says casually. “Are they mad you aren’t coming home for Thanksgiving?”

“No,” I say, glancing at the clock. Four more minutes before I can leave…and be rid of Tiffany for another day. Not that I mind her that much, she’s just…well, wearing. “I’m going home for Christmas.”

“Oh? Luke going with you?”

“No.” I’m having to hide my annoyance now. Luke’s parents spend Christmas and New Year’s at their château in France. They’d asked him to join them this year.

And yeah, I was disappointed about this. Not that he hadn’t asked me to come with him. He had. Although he’d preceded the invitation with the words, “I suspect you’ll want to spend the holidays with your own family, but…”

Which he had actually suspected wrongly.

But not completely. I DID want to spend the holidays with my own family…
and
with Luke. I’d wanted him to come back to Ann
Arbor with me to meet my parents. This didn’t seem like an unreasonable expectation to me, either. I’d met his family, after all. It seemed to me that if Luke really wanted to make a long-term thing out of our relationship, he’d want to meet my family.

But when I’d asked him if he wanted to fly home with me, he’d winced and said, “Oh hey, I’d love to. But, you know, I already got my ticket to France. I got a really excellent deal on it. And it’s non-transferable and nonrefundable. I could check and see if they have any left for you, though, if you want to come with me…”

But the truth is, I only get three days off work at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn (Monsieur Henri’s is shutting down for the entire week between Christmas and New Year’s), not exactly enough time to fly to France and back. But—lucky me—plenty of time to visit Ann Arbor. When I get back, I’ll be stuck working—and living—alone until Luke gets back after New Year’s.

That’s right.
After
New Year’s. I get to ring in the New Year solo here in Manhattan while he’s off whooping it up in the South of France. Happy New Year to me!

Not that I shared any of this with Tiffany. It wasn’t any of her business. Besides, I knew what she’d say.
Her
boyfriend had come out to meet
her
parents in North Dakota the first year they’d started dating.

“Well.” Tiffany is heaving a sigh. “I guess Raoul and I will just hang out at home and have take-out or something. Since neither of us cooks.”

I am
not
going to ask Tiffany and her boyfriend to join us for our Thanksgiving meal. It’s just going to be me and Luke, his parents, and Chaz and Shari. A nice, civilized meal, like the ones we all used to have over the summer at Château Mirac.

One fifty-nine. I am so close to being out of here.

“The Chinese place near us does a kind of turkey dumpling on Thanksgiving,” Tiffany goes on. “It’s pretty good. Though of course I miss sweet potatoes. And pecan pie.”

“Well, there are lots of restaurants in my neighborhood that are serving three- and even four-course Thanksgiving meals that day,” I say cheerfully. “Maybe you guys could make a reservation at one of those.”

“It’s not the same as being in someone’s home,” Tiffany says. “Restaurants are so cold. For Thanksgiving, you want cozy. There’s nothing cozy about a
restaurant
.”

“Well,” I say. Two o’clock. I’m done. I’m out.

I stand up. “I’m sure you can find a restaurant that delivers Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Yeah,” Tiffany says with a sigh, getting up to take my chair. “But it’s not the same as home-cooked.”

“That’s true,” I say.
Don’t do it, Lizzie,
I’m telling myself.
Do not fall for it. No pity invitations.
“Well, I have to run—”

“Yeah,” Tiffany says, not looking at me. “Good luck with the wedding dresses thing.”

I am halfway out the door, my coat over my arm, when I feel myself pulled back, as if by some kind of tracking device.

“Tiffany,” I hear my mouth saying, even though my brain is shrieking
Nooooo!

She glances up from the computer screen, which she’s using, I know, to check her horoscope. “Yeah?”

“Would you and Raoul like to come over for Thanksgiving dinner?”
Nooooo!

Tiffany does a good job of dissembling indifference. She really would make a terrific actress.

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I’ll have to check with Raoul. But, like…maybe.”

“Well,” I say. “Just let me know. Bye.”

I curse myself in the elevator the whole ride down to the lobby. What is the
matter
with me? Why did I invite her? She can’t cook so it’s not like she’s going to bring anything.

And she certainly isn’t going to be able to add anything to the
table conversation. All Tiffany Sawyer knows anything about is the latest pump from Prada and which Hollywood celebrity is sleeping with which Hollywood producer’s son…

And I’ve never even met this Raoul character, her married—married!—lover. Who knows what
he
’s like. From what Daryl says, nothing that great (though Daryl is admittedly biased).

Oh, why do I let my big mouth get me into these things?

I try to cheer myself up, however, with the thought that Raoul might balk at the idea of coming to Thanksgiving dinner at a perfect stranger’s place.

Although considering that this perfect stranger has an apartment on Fifth Avenue, this seemed unlikely. Having a Fifth Avenue address, I’m finding out, is like living in Beverly Hills or something. New Yorkers—even transplanted ones—are insane about real estate…maybe because there’s so little of it actually available, and what there is is prohibitively expensive.

So whenever I tell people where I live, their eyes bulge out a little. And without my even mentioning the Renoir.

Oh well. I’m doing a kind thing. It’s not like Tiffany has anyone else, not being particularly close to her ultraconservative parents, who don’t approve of her relationship with Raoul. And Lord knows Roberta isn’t likely to have her over for dinner anytime soon. My doing so will score me some bonus karma points, which I really need, given the amount of trouble my big mouth is always getting me into…

…a fact driven home harder than ever when the elevator doors open on the lobby level and I step out to see a familiar face at the security desk. Jill Higgins, on her way up to another appointment with Chaz’s dad. Today she’s wearing her usual ensemble of jeans, sweater, and Timberlands—even though the
Post
did a whole make-over spread about her this weekend, where they had a paper-doll cutout of Jill with all these different outfits to put on her, including her zoo uniform and a tacky bridal gown.

I hesitate. I’ve been thinking about Jill a lot—every day, practically. Well, it’s kind of hard not to, considering there always seems
to be some story or other about “Blubber” in the local rags. It’s like New Yorkers can’t seem to believe that someone as rich as John MacDowell could fall in love with a woman who isn’t as stereotypically beautiful as…well, Tiffany.

And the fact that Jill’s a working girl—and works with
seals,
no less—seems to have made her an even bigger target for acid-tongued New York society. Apparently, she’ll be the first MacDowell wife ever to hold a job (aside from volunteer work for charity that is).

And the fact that Jill has said she intends to keep her job working with the seals even after she’s married has the matrons of Fifth Avenue (I know. My own street!) cringing.

All of which has me worried. Seriously. And okay, not as worried as I am about Shari and Chaz (naturally). But still. I can’t stop thinking about what Tiffany told me my first day of work—that John MacDowell’s family is making that poor girl wear some ancestral bridal gown that’s been in their family for a million years on her big day.

I’m willing to bet that ancestral gown’s a size two, at the largest.

And Jill’s a size fourteen or twelve, at the smallest.

How’s she going to fit into a dress like that? And she has to—she
has
to wear it. That whole thing about the dress…that is a clear challenge by her fiancé’s mother. It’s like Mrs. MacDowell is saying, “Do this…or you’ll never fit in with the rest of us.
Literally
.”

Jill has got to rise to the challenge, or she’ll never have any peace from her in-laws. And the press’ll certainly never stop calling her Blubber.

And okay. Maybe I’m projecting. But from what I’ve read—and what I know, from working at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn—I’m not far off.

So what’s Jill going to do? She has to be taking that dress to
someone
for alterations…but who? Is it someone who understands the urgency of the situation? Is it someone who is going to tell her the truth—that there is no way you can squeeze a size-twelve body into a size-two gown without using a lot of hideous panels?

Oh God. Just the thought of panels is making me shudder.

And as I stand there, watching Jill show her driver’s license so that the security guard can make her a pass, I realize that I want her to come to me. I know it sounds crazy. But I don’t want anybody else working on Jill’s dress. Not because I’m afraid of her falling prey to a huckster like Maurice…although I am. But because I want her to look beautiful on her wedding day. I want John’s family to gasp as she comes down the aisle, because she looks so beautiful. I want that dress to be an in-your-face to her mother-in-law. I want the New York press to take back that “Blubber,” and substitute it with “Beautiful.”

And I know I can make that happen. I just know it. Doesn’t Jennifer Harris
love
what I—under Monsieur Henri’s watchful eye, of course—have done so far to her mother’s bridal gown? Even her mother grudgingly admitted during her daughter’s latest fitting that the gown looks “better” on Jennifer than it ever did on any of her other girls.

There’s only one reason for that: my hard work.

I want to do the same for Jill. I mean, she threw out her back
lifting a seal
! A girl like that deserves the very best in certified wedding-gown specialists.

And okay, I don’t quite have my certification yet. But it’s really only a matter of time…

Only how? How can I let Jill know I’m here for her if she needs me? I can’t very well slip her my business card (oh yes. I’d had business cards made up, with Monsieur Henri’s address and my cell number on them), while also maintaining the level of “discretion and professionalism” Roberta told me Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn expects from its employees. I’m pretty sure something like that could get me fired…and I still need this job.