by Meg Cabot
“I think so,” I say, looking down at my ring. “It might take some getting used to. I think I might be better at helping other people with their weddings than I am at planning my own. Whenever I think about it, I sort of want to throw up.”
“Okay.” Shari points at me. “That is not a good sign. Remember what I said. It’s okay for you to change your mind.”
I give her a queasy smile. “I know. But… I really do love him.”
“Do you?” Shari asks as she stands to go. “Or do you love the idea of him?”
“God,” I say with a laugh. “What kind of question is that?”
“For you? I think it’s a pertinent question. You have a history of falling in love with guys it turns out you basically didn’t know at all.”
“Yeah, but, Shari, come on. Luke’s not going to turn out to be gay or a gambling addict.” I have made some unfortunate mistakes in the guy department. “I mean, I lived with Luke, for crying out loud. For six months. I think I know him pretty well by now.”
“Yes,” she says. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? Still, people can surprise you, can’t they? After all, I lived with Chaz for nearly as long as you lived with Luke, and I turned out to be a—”
“Don’t say it.” I fling up a hand to stop her before she can say the word “lesbian.” Not that I mind. It’s just that I try so hard not to remember that night at Kathy Pennebaker’s when we were both sixteen. I’d been lusting after Tim Daly from the television show Wings. Shari and Kathy, it turned out, had been lusting after… well, each other. God, I’d been so blind. Although I suppose it’s just as well they never told me. It would have been all over school in half a second. I’d have tried to keep it a secret, of course, if they’d asked me. But somehow I can never seem to keep my mouth shut, despite my best intentions. “I got it. Look. Don’t worry. At the rate we’re going, it’ll be a long engagement, anyway. Luke’s got school to finish, and his uncle wants him to come work for him in Paris this summer, and I’ve got about five thousand dresses to get through before I’ll ever be able to lift my head to breathe. I’m not rushing to get married any time soon.”
Shari gives me a hug. “That’s my girl,” she says.
It’s as she’s squeezing me that I notice it—this weird splotchy thing on the inside of my right elbow. It looks like a mosquito bite, only it’s flat, not raised. And besides, it’s January in Manhattan. How could I have been bitten by a mosquito?
I don’t think anything of it. Then.
It’s only later that I realize what it really is: Just the beginning of the ruination of the rest of my life. That’s all.
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
I n ancient times, brides were traditionally expected to set forth on pre—wedding day pilgrimages from their own village to that of their betrothed. Due to the likelihood of her being set upon by thieves hoping to make off with her dowry (or the bride herself), the bride made this trip accompanied by armed maidens to defend her and her bling against marauders.
Thus was born the bridesmaid—or to be more historically accurate, the WARRIORMAID.
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
Today’s bridesmaids perform a much different function than their ancient predecessors, from helping to organize the engagement and bridal showers to shuttling guests—I’ve even heard of some babysitting and doing the bride’s laundry (ew).
Don’t forget your bridesmaids on your special day. A special gift—such as a silver necklace or bracelet—will go a long way toward showing them how much you appreciate all their help… although the basic human courtesy of not turning into a Bridezilla on them would also be nice.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 5 •
One should believe in marriage as in the immortality of the soul.
Honoré de Balzac (1799–1850), French novelist and playwright
Gum-Chewer is sitting in the shop when I get back downstairs. Even though my only previous conversation with her was over the phone, I know it’s her. I’d recognize that snap, crackle, and pop anywhere.
What shocks me is that I also recognize her instantly from Access Hollywood… and Inside Edition… and Entertainment Tonight… where she can frequently be seen wearing very little on the red carpets at the premieres of movies in which she is not starring, since she has no actual talent—none, at least, that’s been detected so far. Ava Geck’s only claim to fame, in fact, is that her family owns a chain of discount department stores (“Get It at Geck’s”), said to be worth more than a billion dollars. She herself is rumored to have a personal net worth of more than three hundred million dollars, thanks to some savvy fragrance deals and a few less fortunate reality-television appearances.
More impressive—to me, anyway—is that she also happens to be marrying a prince. Not a prince like Luke is a prince back in his father’s native France, where the aristocracy was abolished centuries ago, and no one kept track of who really was or was not a royal, and we really have only Luke’s father’s word for it, but in Greece, where, even if the royal family is no longer recognized as the head of state, they are nevertheless still allowed to hold and be addressed by their royal titles and are invited to state functions.
Somehow, someway, Greek Prince Aleksandros Nikolaos met—and apparently fell in love with and proposed to—Ava Geck.
It’s kind of surreal to see her without a television set framing her pointy face. Although the hulking bodyguard standing with his arms crossed beside her—not to mention the enormous rock on the ring finger of her left hand and the trembling Chihuahua on her lap—quickly makes me realize what I’m seeing is all too real.
“Oh, hey,” she says, with a quick glance at Tiffany when I walk in. “Is this her?”
Tiffany rolls her eyes. “I already told you, Ava. She won’t see you without an appointment.”
Tiffany and Ava have apparently already become acquainted. It appears to be an acquaintance of some long standing. And it is obviously not a very happy one.
“Um,” I say. “Hi. What’s going on?”
“Ms. Nichols.” Ava leaps to her precariously high stilettos—which are attached to purple suede thigh-high boots—upsetting the Chihuahua, who tumbles to the carpet with a yelp. This does not seem to concern its mistress in any way. “I’m so, like, sorry I’m here without an appointment. It’s just, like, I saw the story on Page Six about you, and the thing is, I live in Los Angeles and I’m in town for New Year’s—you know, I was doing a guest spot for Celebrity Pit Fight at Times Square for the ball drop? — and I have to get back, but I’m getting married this summer, and I, like, really, really, really want you to do my dress.”
“And I already told her,” Tiffany says, from between gritted teeth, “you don’t do original designs, just—”
“I know this girl keeps saying you only do restorations,” Ava says, flicking a scathing glance in Tiffany’s direction. “But I’m all, what’s the diff? I mean, if I bring in some heinous old dress and ask you to make it over, or if you just, like, make me a new one? Why can’t you just make me a new one? Okay? Because that’s what I want. I want a dress by someone who’s young and cool. Not some dried-up old-lady dress by someone with a freaking four-story shop on Madison Avenue. Ya know?”
Except it was kind of hard to tell what she was saying, between all the chewing sounds.
“Ms. Nichols?” Tiffany stands up. “Can I have a word with you in the back room?”
“God!” Ava cracks her gum. “What is the dealio? I have money. I’ll, like, pay you.”
“Um,” I say to Ava. I notice that the Chihuahua is getting ready to lift a leg against Madame Henri’s potted hydrangea. I dive to pick up the dog and place it gently back in a confused-looking Ava Geck’s arms. “Let me just consult with my, um, assistant here, to see what the schedule for this week looks like, and I’ll be right back.”
Ava looks relieved. At least if that’s what I’m to believe from the large pink bubble she blows.
&nbs
p; “Whatever,” she says.
I allow Tiffany to drag me into the back room.
“You cannot design a dress for her,” Tiffany hisses as soon as I’ve drawn the black velvet curtain across. “She’s a skanky crack whore.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “You met her in Narcotics Anonymous.”
“No,” Tiffany says. “But she’s still a skanky crack whore. Seriously, Lizzie. Did you see her on Celebrity Pit Fight? She made Lil’ Kim cry. Lil’ Kim. You can’t. You just can’t.”
“She’s hugely famous,” I say. “She’s a bazillioniare. And she’s marrying a prince. Do you have any idea what kind of press that will bring in?”
“Yeah,” Tiffany says. “Skanky crack whore press. Believe me, that is not the kind of press you want.”
“Tiffany,” I say, fighting for patience. “You don’t understand. At this point in my career, any press is good press. I’m totally doing the dress.”
“But she’s disgusting,” Tiffany insists. “Did you see the way she treated that dog? And what is with those boots?”
“Tiffany, she’s obviously deeply troubled. She needs our help, not our scorn. She’s clearly had no one in her life to gently guide her on how to act like a decent human being. And she really needs that, now more than ever… she’s marrying a prince! It’s going to be a royal wedding!”
“In Greece,” Tiffany points out. “Hel-lo.”
“Tiffany! How can you say that? Greece is the cradle of Western civilization, the birthplace of democracy, political science, Western literature and philosophy, the Olympic games—”
“Um, Lizzie, have you ever even tasted hummus?”
“Tiffany.” I glare at her. “I’m doing Ava’s dress. You’re either with me or you’re out.”
Tiffany rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Is this because of the prince thing? Because, like, you’re marrying a prince, and so you feel like you have this moral obligation to help her, because she’s marrying a prince?”
I ignore that. “Tiffany, we have a moral obligation to help this poor girl, because if we don’t, no one will, and she’ll just go on doing asinine things like pulling out Lil’ Kim’s hair extensions on Celebrity Pit Fight, and she’ll never discover her true inner potential.”
“And you think you can help her find it?” Tiffany sneers.
“Yes, Tiffany,” I say gravely. “Yes, I think I can.”
Except that the truth is, I don’t think I can. I know I can.
“Fine. If you want to play Dr. Dolittle to her Eliza Higgins,” Tiffany says, “it’s your funeral. I’ll just do what you’re paying me for: answer the phones.”
“It’s Professor Higgins,” I correct her, “and Eliza Doolittle. Professor Higgins is the guy who gives the Cockney flower girl the makeover. Dr. Dolittle is the guy who could talk to animals.”
“Fine,” Tiffany mutters. “I can tell this was a bad day to cut back on my Adderall.”
I throw back the black velvet curtain and find Ava Geck closely examining a dressmaker’s dummy wearing a House of Bianchi off-the-shoulder number I’ve retrofitted with sleeves for a bride who’s being married in a conservative synagogue.
“I like this one,” Ava says, straightening up when I come in. She’s still chomping on her gum. “Can you make me something like this?”
I’m surprised. Pleasantly so. For a girl who’s shown her panties so many times on television, it’s a surprisingly modest choice.
“I think we can come up with a gown you’ll like,” I say. “Something a little more Ava-like.”
Ava gasps, then claps her hands. The Chihuahua barks excitedly and spins around in circles. Even the bodyguard cracks a smile. A very small one, but a smile just the same.
“Oh, thank you!” Ava cries. “This is gonna be bitchin’!”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just a couple of ground rules, though. Rule number one… when you enter Chez Henri, you have to de-gum. When you leave, you may re-gum.” I hold out my hand expectantly.
Ava stares at me blankly. “What?”
“Your gum,” I say. “There is no gum allowed in Chez Henri. You’re welcome to go over to Vera Wang and chew gum, but not here. It’s uncivilized to stand around looking like a cow chewing her cud. So either spit it out or leave.”
Ava, looking stunned, spits her gum out into my hand. I drop the wad into a nearby trash can, which the Chihuahua quickly runs over to inspect.
“Rule number two,” I say, wiping my hand off with a tissue I pluck from the box on Tiffany’s desk. “You must show up on time for all fittings. If you’re not going to be able to make it for whatever reason, you must call at least an hour before your appointment to let us know. Failure to do this more than once, and your contract with us will be canceled. It’s not polite to stand people up. We have lots of clients and could reschedule someone else in your time slot if we know you won’t be able to make it in advance. Okay?”
Still looking dazed, Ava nods. The bodyguard, I notice, is still smiling, although now he looks slightly bemused.
“All right, Ava,” I say. “Why don’t you step into the dressing room over here so I can take your measurements?”
Ava hurries to oblige, tripping a little over her ridiculously high-heeled boots.
It’s going to be, it’s clear, a long morning.
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
Bridesmaids in ancient Roman times were the first to wear identical gowns—identical not only to one another’s but to the bride’s as well. This was in an attempt to trick demons from taking the bride’s soul prior to her wedding night. Any woman who’d protected three brides from evil spirits was considered too impure to marry herself, having absorbed too much black magic. This is where the expression “three times a bridesmaid, never a bride” comes from.
So they weren’t making it up about the three times a bridesmaid thing! And you just thought they were talking about your aunt Judy.
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
You love your friends because of their unique personalities. Well, their bodies are unique too. So don’t squeeze your bridesmaids into identical gowns. They’ll hate it, and if you’re really their friend, you should hate that they hate it. Choose a shade that will flatter all of them, and let them each choose a dress in that color that they like, one that they’ll really wear again.
So what if they won’t all look exactly the same? It’s them you love, not their look, right?
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 6 •
Two such as you with such a master speed cannot be parted nor be swept away from one another once you are agreed that life is only life forevermore together wing to wing and oar to oar.
Robert Frost (1874–1963), American poet
Luke has promised to come over and make me a nice dinner because of the day I’ve had—though Madame Henri calls just after five to let me know that her husband has gotten through his surgery with flying colors—but the truth is, all I want to do is take a hot bath, read a fashion magazine, and go to bed.
Only how can I tell this to Luke, who went to the market and picked up two sirloins and marinated them (his post-baccalaureate premed classes don’t start up again until after Martin Luther King Day), especially for me?
So when he calls just before six with an apologetic note in his voice and says, “Listen,” it’s all I can do to keep from clicking my heels together with joy. He’s canceling! Alleluia! And hello, this month’s Vogue.
“There’s a Michigan game on tonight,” he says. “And Chaz really wants me to watch it with him. You know how he is about the Wolverines. And the truth is… he seemed kind of depressed on the phone when he called to tell me about it.”
“Chaz is depressed?” This is news to me. He hadn’t seemed a bit depressed when he’d had his hand down my bra. Not that I add this last part out loud, of course.
“Well, I mean, it’s only natural he’d be a little down, you know,” Luke says. “We’re getting married, and his girl
friend left him… for another woman. I really thought he’d have someone else by now—I’ve never seen him go without a date for this long.”
“Shari only broke up with him at Thanksgiving,” I point out dryly. I notice there’s a new red splotch on the inside of my elbow where the old one, which has faded away, was. So it wasn’t a mosquito bite. What could they be? Maybe an allergy to the detergent I’m using? But I haven’t switched detergents lately.
“For Chaz, a month and a half is a real dry spell,” Luke says. “Now his best friend is marrying the cutest girl in the world… No wonder he’s depressed.”
“Then you should absolutely stay home and watch basketball with him,” I say. I’m already fantasizing about the Chinese food I’m going to order in. Moo shu chicken with hoisin sauce. Maybe I’ll even eat it in the bathtub.
“Well, that’s the thing,” Luke says. “The game’s only on satellite. We’ll be watching it at O’Riordan’s Sports Bar, which is around the corner from your place, on Lexington. So I thought, if you wanted to stop by later… ”
“Gosh, honey,” I say sweetly. “There’s nothing I can imagine wanting to do more than sit around with you and your depressed guy friend watching sports.”
“We’ll be ordering chicken wings,” Luke says in an effort to tempt me.
“That is so hard to resist… ”
“Come on,” Luke says in a more serious tone. “Chaz loves you, you know that. He wants to say congratulations in person. And seeing you will cheer him up. You know how much he likes teasing you about your weird outfits. Besides, if you don’t show up, I won’t see you all day.”
Except it isn’t my outfit I’m afraid of Chaz teasing me about.
Not that I’m about to mention this, either.
“Luke,” I say. “The whole point of our not living together is so that we can use this time of our engagement to explore who we are as individuals, so that when we come together as a married couple we’ll have a clearer idea of exactly what we want out of—”