by Meg Cabot
“Oh, it’s great,” I say, slipping onto a stool at the end of the kitchen counter. I can’t tell what’s sizzling in the pans on the stove in front of her because they all have lids. But it sure smells…a lot. The kitchen is tiny, more of a galley than an actual kitchen. There is a window at the end of it that looks out onto a bright, sunlit garden bursting with rose blossoms. Mrs. M looks like a rose herself, all pink-cheeked and shiny in jeans and a peasant top.
Although the peasant top doesn’t appear to be from this season’s crop of them. In fact, it might actually be a peasant top from all the way back when peasant tops first made an appearance in serf-free society, way back in the days of Haight-Ashbury!
Now I know why Andrew thinks it’s okay to go around in a break-dancing jacket. But while some vintage pieces-like Mrs. Marshall’s blouse-are great, other examples-such as Andrew’s jacket-aren’t. Clearly the Marshall family needs to be brought into the vintage-know.
It’s a good thing they have me to help. I’ll have to be very sensitive to the fact that they don’t have a lot of money to spend on clothes. But I’m living proof you don’t have to spend a lot in order to look great. I got this sweater set on eBay for twenty dollars! And my stretch Levi’s are from Sears. And okay, they came from the juniors department…but how thrilled was I at being able to fit into something from the juniors department?
Not that, in our weight-obsessed society, this is something to brag about. Why should women have to fit into child sizes in order to be considered desirable? That is both sick and depressing.
Although…they’re nines! I fit into a nine! I never fit into a nine, even back when I was the age I was supposed to wear one.
“That’s a very pretty top,” Mrs. M says about my sweater set.
“Thanks,” I say. “I was just admiring yours!”
She laughs when she hears this. “What, this old thing? It must be thirty years old if it’s a day. Very likely older.”
“That’s neat,” I say. “I love old clothes.”
This is so cool! Andrew’s mother and I are bonding. Maybe later we can go shopping, just Mrs. M and me. She probably doesn’t have many opportunities for girl talk, having three sons and all. Maybe we can get manis and pedis and go to Harrods for champagne! Wait-do people in England get manis and pedis?
“I just can’t tell you how great it is to meet you, after hearing about you for so long,” I say. I’m not trying to suck up, either. I really mean it. “I’m so excited to be here!”
“How nice,” Mrs. Marshall says, looking genuinely pleased for me.
I can see that her fingernails are square and strong-looking and completely without polish. Well, she probably doesn’t have time for frivolities like manicures, being a busy social worker. “And what do you look forward to seeing most here, then?”
For some reason my mind flashes to the picture of Andrew’s naked ass. I can’t believe I thought of that! It must be the jet lag.
I say, “Oh, Buckingham Palace, of course. And the British Museum.” I don’t mention that the only parts of the museum I’m interested in touring are the rooms where they keep the historical costumes. If they even have any rooms like that. I can see boring old art back home anytime I want. I’m moving to New York City after Andrew gets his master’s, anyway. He already agreed.
“Oh, and the Tower of London.” Because I hear that’s where they keep all the fancy jewels. “And…oh, Jane Austen’s house.”
“Oh, you’re a fan, are you?” Mrs. Marshall looks a bit surprised. Clearly none of Andrew’s previous girlfriends had such sophisticated taste in literature. “Which one’s your favorite, then?”
“Oh, the A amp;E version with Colin Firth, of course,” I say. “Although the costumes in the Gwyneth Paltrow one were really nice, too.”
Mrs. Marshall looks at me a bit oddly-maybe she can’t understand my Midwestern accent any easier than I can understand her British one. But I’m really trying to enunciate clearly. Then I realize what she means and say, “Oh, you mean of the books? I don’t know. They’re all so good.” Except there aren’t nearly enough descriptions of what the characters are wearing.
Mrs. Marshall laughs and asks, “Would you like to help yourself to some tea? I’m certain you must be parched after your trip.”
What I’d really like, of course, is a diet Coke. But when I ask if the Marshalls have any, Mrs. Marshall gives me another odd look and says she’ll have to pick some up at “the market.”
“Oh no,” I say, mortified. “Really, it’s all right. I’ll just have some tea.”
Mrs. Marshall looks relieved. “Oh, good,” she says. “Because I don’t like the thought of your putting all those nasty, unnatural chemicals into your body. They can’t be good for you.”
I smile at her, even though I have no idea what she’s talking about. Diet Coke does not contain nasty chemicals. It contains lovely and delicious carbonation, caffeine, and aspartame. What’s unnatural about that?
But I’m in England now, so I will do as the English do. I pour myself some tea from the ceramic pot sitting by the electric kettle and, at Mrs. M’s urging, put milk in it, because that is apparently how British people drink it, instead of with honey or lemon.
I’m surprised to discover that it’s actually quite good that way. Which I mention out loud.
“What’s good?” A sandy-haired boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, wearing a dark-rinse jean jacket with acid-washed jeans (ouch-although beneath the jacket he’s got on a Killers T-shirt, which redeems him a bit), has come into the kitchen, then freezes when he sees me.
“Who’s that?” he wants to know.
“What do you mean, who’s that?” Mrs. M demands tartly. “This is Liz, your brother Andy’s girlfriend from America-”
“Oh, c’mon, Mum,” Alex says, grinning. “What do I look like? That’s not her. She’s not-”
“Alex, this is Liz,” Mrs. M interrupts even more tartly. She doesn’t look as much like a rose now. Or I guess she does, just one whose thorns are showing. “Say hello to her properly, please.”
Alex, looking sheepish, sticks his right hand out. I shake it.
“Sorry,” he says. “Pleased to meet you. It’s just that Andy said-”
“Alex, please take this out to the table,” Mrs. M says, shoving a handful of knives and forks at her youngest son. “Breakfast will be ready soon.”
“Breakfast? It’s nearly time for lunch, isn’t it?”
“Well, Liz hasn’t had breakfast yet, so that’s what we’re having.”
Alex takes the silverware from his mother and goes out into the dining room. Geronimo, which is what they named their collie-isn’t that the cutest?-who had been pressing against the side of my legs the whole time I’d been sitting down, trails after him, apparently in hopes of coming across a stray piece of food.
“Do you have any brothers, Liz?” Mrs. M asks me, all prickliness gone now that her son has left the room.
“No,” I say. “Just two older sisters.”
“Your mother was very fortunate,” Mrs. M says. “Boys are quite a handful.” Then she turns off the oven and calls, “Alex, tell your dad breakfast is ready. Give a shout to Alistair as well.”
Andrew, Alistair, and Alexander. I love the names Andrew’s parents picked out for their three boys! How cute to give them all A names…just like Paul Anka did, only he had daughters-Alexandra, Amanda, Alicia, Anthea, and Amelia.
And how cute that they all call me Liz and not Lizzie. Nobody ever calls me Liz. Nobody except Andrew, of course. Not that I ever told him to. He just…does.
“Well,” Mrs. Marshall says, smiling at me. “Why don’t you have a seat, Liz? Then we can eat.”
“Let me help you bring things to the table,” I say, sliding down from my stool.
But Mrs. Marshall shoos me out of the kitchen, saying she doesn’t need any help. I go into the dining room-which is really just part of an L off the living room, where the family’s dining table is. Geronimo is alr
eady sitting next to the chair at the head of the table, alert for any scraps that might fall his way.
“Where should I sit?” I ask Alex, who, in typical teen fashion-I guess it’s universal-shrugs.
Just then Mr. Marshall walks in and pulls out a chair for me with gallant flair. I thank him and sit in it, trying to remember when my own father ever pulled out a chair for me, and failing.
“Here we are,” Mrs. Marshall says, emerging from the kitchen with several platters that are steaming. “In honor of Andy’s friend Liz’s first visit to this country, a genuine English country breakfast!”
I sit up a bit straighter in my seat to show how excited and flattered I am. “Thank you so much,” I say. “You really didn’t have to go to so much-”
Then I see what’s on the platters.
“Tomato ratatouille,” Mrs. Marshall says proudly. “Your favorite! And our own very English interpretation of the same dish, stewed tomatoes. Also stuffed tomatoes, and an egg and tomato omelet. Andy told me how much you love tomatoes, Liz. I hope this meal will make you feel right at home!”
Oh. My. God.
“Liz?” Mrs. Marshall, I realize, is looking down at me with concern on her rosy face. “Are you all right, dear? You look a little…peaked.”
“I’m fine,” I say. And take a big gulp of my milky tea. “It looks great, Mrs. Marshall. Thanks so much for going to all this trouble. You didn’t have to.”
“It was my pleasure,” Mrs. Marshall says, beaming as she takes a seat in a chair across the table from mine. “And please, call me Tanya.”
“Right. Tanya,” I say, hoping my eyes don’t look as wet as they feel. How can he have made such a mistake? Did he not even READ my e-mails? Was he not even listening that night of the fire?
“Who’s missing?” Mrs. Marshall asks, looking at the empty chair across from Andrew.
“Alistair,” Alex says, reaching for a piece of toast. Toast! I can eat toast. No, wait, I can’t. Not if I want to stay a junior size nine. Oh God. I’m going to have to eat something. The egg and tomato omelet. Maybe the egg will drown out the taste of the tomato.
“ALISTAIR!” Mr. Marshall bellows.
From somewhere deep in the house, a male voice calls, “Oy! I’m coming!”
I take a bite of the omelet. It’s good. You can barely taste the-
Oh no. Yes you can, actually.
The thing is, it was an honest mistake. About the tomatoes, I mean. Anyone could get something like that mixed up. Even a soul mate.
And, I mean, at least he remembered I’d mentioned tomatoes. He may not have remembered what I actually said about them. But he obviously knows I said something.
And it’s not like he’s not busy, teaching the children to read and all.
And waitering, apparently.
Seeing that no one is looking at me, I knock some of the omelet on my plate and down onto the napkin on my lap. Then I look over at Geronimo, who has left Mr. Marshall’s side, apparently sensing he’s not going to be scoring any scraps over there.
The collie meets my gaze.
Next thing I know, I have dog nose in my crotch.
“What’s this now?” A boy who must be Andrew’s second-youngest brother, Alistair, appears in the doorway. Unlike his mom and two brothers, Alistair’s hair is bright, coppery red-probably the same color his dad’s had been, before he lost it all…judging from his eyebrows, anyway.
“Oh, hullo, Ali,” Mrs. Marshall says. “Take your seat. We’re having a traditional English breakfast to welcome Andrew’s friend Liz from America.”
“Hi,” I say, looking up at the redhead, who appears to be just a year or two younger than me. He is dressed from head to toe in Adidas apparel…Adidas warm-up pants, jacket, T-shirt, and shoes. Perhaps they’ve asked for his personal endorsement. “I’m Lizzie. Nice to meet you.”
Alistair stares at me for a minute. Then he bursts out laughing.
“Right!” he says. “Come off it, Mum. What kind of joke is this supposed to be, anyway?”
“It’s not a joke at all, Alistair,” Mr. Marshall says in a cold voice.
“But,” Alistair bleats, “she can’t be Liz! Andy said Liz is a fatty!”
Little is known about costume from the period of the second century until well into the 700s, thanks to barbarian invasions by the Goths, Visigoths, Ostrogoths, Huns, and Franks. We do know, thanks to these invasions, that few people had time to think about fashion, as they were busy fleeing for their lives.
It isn’t until Charlemagne came to rule in 800 that we have any sort of detailed description of wardrobe at the time, which included cross-gartered trousers that came to be known as braies, or breeches, that garment so well beloved by historical romance authors around the world.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
6
But speak the truth, and all nature and all spirits help you with unexpected furtherance. Speak the truth, and all things alive or brute are vouchers, and the very roots of the grass underground there do seem to stir and move to bear you witness.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882),
U.S. essayist, poet, and philosopher
It takes five rings before Shari answers. For a minute I’m worried she won’t pick up at all. What if she’s asleep? I know it’s only nine o’clock after all, Europe time, but what if she hasn’t adjusted to the time difference as well as I have? Even though she’s been over here longer. She was supposed to have gotten to Paris two days ago, stayed one night in a hotel there, then traveled down to the chateau the next day.
But then again, she’s Shari-great at school stuff, not so good at everyday life stuff. She’s dropped her cell phone in the toilet more times than I can count. Who knows if I’ll even get through to her?
Then, to my relief, she finally picks up. And it’s clear I haven’t wakened her-because there is music blaring in the background. A song in which the refrain, Vamos a la playa, plays over and over, to a Latin beat.
“Liz-ZIE!” Shari yells into the phone. “Is that YOOOOOU?”
Oh yes. She’s drunk.
“How are yooooouuuuu?” she wants to know. “How’s London? How’s hot, hot, hot Andrew? How’s his aaaaaaaasssssssssss?”
“Shari,” I say in a low voice. I don’t want the Marshalls to hear me, so I’m running the water in the bathtub. I’m not wasting it. I really do plan to take a bath. In a minute. “Things are weird here. Really weird. I need to talk to someone normal for a minute.”
“Wait, let me see if I can find Chaz,” Shari says. Then she cackles. “Just kidding! Oh my God, Lizzie, you should see this place. You’d die. It’s like Under the Tuscan Sun and Valmont combined. Luke’s house is HUGE. HUGE. It has a name-Mirac. It has its own VINEYARD. Lizzie, they make their own champagne. THEY MAKE IT THEMSELVES.”
“That’s great,” I say. “Shari, I think Andrew told his brothers I was fat.”
Shari is silent for a moment. I am urged once again to Vamos a la playa. Then Shari explodes.
“He fucking said that? He fucking said you were fat? Stay where you are. Stay right where you fucking are. I’m getting on the Chunnel train thingie and I’m coming over there and I’m going to cut his balls off-”
“Shari,” I say. She is yelling so loudly I’m worried the Marshalls might hear her. Through the closed door. Over the TV and the running water. “Shari, wait, that isn’t what I meant. I mean, I don’t know what he said. Things are just really weird. I got here, and the very first thing, Andrew took off for work. Which was okay. I mean it was fine. Because the truth is”-I can feel the tears coming. Oh, great-“Andrew isn’t working with children. He’s a waiter. He works from eleven in the morning until eleven at night. I didn’t even know that was legal. Plus, he doesn’t even have his own place. We’re staying with his parents. And his little brothers. Who he told I was fat. Also, he told his mom that I like tomatoes.”
“I take it back,” Shari says, “I’m not going
there. You’re coming here. Buy a train ticket and get over here. Be sure to ask for a youth pass. You’ll have to change trains in Paris. Buy a ticket there for Souillac. And then just call me. We’ll pick you up at the station.”
“Shari,” I say, “I can’t do that. I can’t just leave.”
“Like fuck you can’t,” Shari says. I hear another voice in the background. Then Shari is saying to someone else, “It’s Lizzie. That fucker Andrew works all day and all night and is fucking making her stay at his parents’ and eat tomatoes. And he said she was fat.”
“Shari,” I say, feeling a twinge of guilt, “I don’t know that he said that. And he’s not-who are you telling this to, anyway?”
“Chaz says get your far-from-fat ass on a train in the morning. He will personally pick you up at the train station tomorrow night.”
“I can’t go to France,” I say, horrified. “My return ticket home is from Heathrow. It’s nonreturnable and nontransferable and non-everything.”
“So? You can go back to England at the end of the month and fly home from there. Come on, Lizzie. We’ll have SO MUCH fun.”
“Shari, I can’t go to France,” I say miserably. “I don’t want to go to France. I love Andrew. You don’t understand. That night outside McCracken Hall…it was magical, Shar. He saw into my soul, and I saw into his.”
“How could you?” Shari demands. “It was dark.”
“No it wasn’t. We had the glow of the flames from that girl’s room to see by.”
“Well, then maybe you just saw what you wanted to see. Or maybe you just felt what you wanted to feel.”
She’s talking, I know, about Andrew’s stiffy. I stare blindly down at the water splashing into the tub.
The thing is, I am generally a very happy person. I even laughed after Alistair said that thing at the table, about me being a fatty. Because what else are you supposed to do when you find out your boyfriend’s been going around telling people you’re fat?
Especially since the last time Andrew saw me, I had been fat. Or at least thirty pounds heavier than I am now.