Queen Of Babble: In The Big City qob-2

by Meg Cabot

  Rose looks over and sees Angelo crumpled to the ground with his hands pressed between his thighs. Maggie, meanwhile, is now whacking the side of her parents’ minivan, to the enthusiastic support of her birthday-party posse.

  “Maggie!” Rose shrieks, leaping up from the picnic bench. “Not Mommy’s car! Not Mommy’s car!”

  “Don’t listen to Rose, Lizzie,” Sarah says, as soon as Rose is out of earshot. “Living with a guy before you marry him is the perfect way to find out if you two are compatible in the ways that really count.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know,” Sarah says vaguely. “If you both like watching TV in the morning, or whatever. Because if one person wants to watch Live with Regis and Kelly in the morning, and the other person needs absolute silence in order to face the day, there can be fights.”

  Wow. I remember how mad Sarah used to get if any of us turned on the TV in the morning. Also, I had no idea Sarah’s husband, Chuck, was a Regis and Kelly fan. No wonder she needed that Kahlúa in her coffee.

  “Besides,” Sarah says, running a finger along the side of what’s left of Maggie’s horse-shaped birthday cake, then sucking off the vanilla icing, “he hasn’t asked you, right? To move in with him?”

  “No,” I say. “He knows Shari and I are getting a place.”

  “I just don’t understand,” Mom says, coming up to the picnic table with a new pitcher of lemonade for the kids, “why you have to move to New York City at all. Why can’t you stay in Ann Arbor, and open a bridal gown refurbishment boutique here?”

  “Because,” I say, explaining for what has to be the thirtieth time alone since I got back from France a few days before. “If I really want to make a go of this, I need to do it in a place where I can have the broadest customer base possible.”

  “Well, I think it’s just silly,” Mom says, plunking down onto the picnic bench beside me. “The competition for affordable apartments and things like appointments to get cable installed in Manhattan are cutthroat. I know. Suzanne Pennebaker’s oldest daughter—you remember her, Sarah, she was in your class. What was her name? Oh, right, Kathy—went to New York to try her hand at acting, and she was back in three months, it was so hard just to find a place to live. What do you think opening your own business is going to be like?”

  I refrain from pointing out to Mom that Kathy Pennebaker also has a narcissistic personality disorder (at least according to Shari, based on the many, many boyfriends Kathy stole from girls we knew around Ann Arbor, then dumped as soon as the thrill of the chase was over). That kind of thing might not have made her too popular in a place like New York, where I understand heterosexual males are in somewhat short supply, and the womenfolk not opposed to using violence to make sure their man stays that way.

  Instead, I say, “I’m going to start out small. I’m going to get a job in a vintage clothes shop, or something, and get to know my way around the New York City vintage clothing scene, save my money… and then open my own shop, maybe on the Lower East Side, where rents are cheap.”

  Well, cheaper.

  Mom says, “What money? You aren’t going to have any money left, once you’ve paid your eleven hundred dollars a month just for your apartment.”

  I say, “My rent isn’t going to be that much, because I’ll be splitting it with Shari.”

  “A studio—that is an apartment with no bedroom, just a single open space—costs two grand a month in Manhattan,” Mom goes on. “You have to share it with multiple roommates. That’s what Suzanne Pennebaker says.”

  Sarah nods. She knows about Kathy’s boyfriend-stealing habit, too, which would have made getting along with roommates, at least of the female variety, difficult. “That’s what they said on The View, too.”

  But I don’t care what anyone in my family says. I am going to find a way to open my own shop somehow. Even if I have to live in Brooklyn. I hear it’s very avant-garde there. All the really artistic people live there or in Queens, on account of being priced out of Manhattan by all the investment bankers.

  “Remind me,” Rose says, as she comes back to the picnic table, “never to let Angelo be in charge of the birthday-party planning again.”

  We look over and see that her husband is back on his feet, but limping painfully toward Mom and Dad’s back deck.

  “Never mind me,” he calls to Rose, sarcastically. “Don’t offer to help, or anything. I’ll be fine!”

  Rose looks heavenward, then reaches for the margarita pitcher.

  “Perfect soul mate,” Sarah says, chuckling to herself.

  Rose glares at her. “Shut up.” Then she plops the pitcher down. “Empty.” There’s growing panic in her voice. “We’re out of margaritas.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mom says, looking concerned. “Your father just mixed that batch—”

  “I’ll go in and make more,” I say, hopping up. Anything to avoid having to hear more about how much of a failure I’m destined to be in New York.

  “Make it stronger than Dad did,” Rose advises, as a papier-mâché leg belonging to the piñata pony goes sailing past her head. “Please.”

  I nod and, seizing the pitcher, head toward the back door. I make it about halfway before I run into Grandma, who is just coming out of the house.

  “Hey, Gran,” I say. “How was Dr. Quinn?”

  “I don’t know.” I can tell Gran’s drunk, even though it’s only one in the afternoon, because her housecoat is on backward again. “I fell asleep. Sully wasn’t even in it. I don’t know why they bother making episodes that don’t have him in it. What’s the point? No one wants to watch that Dr. Quinn run around in her gauchos. It’s all about Sully. I heard them trying to talk you out of moving to New York.”

  I glance over my shoulder at my mother and sisters. They’re all three of them running their fingers along the edge of the leftover cake, then sucking the frosting off the tips.

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah. Well, you know. They’re just worried I’m going to end up like Kathy Pennebaker.”

  Grandma looks surprised. “You mean a man-stealing whore?”

  “Gran. She’s not a whore. She just—” I shake my head, smiling. “How do you even know about that, anyway?”

  “I keep my ear to the ground,” Grandma says mysteriously. “People think because I’m an old drunk, I don’t know what’s happening. But I keep it real. Here. This is for you.”

  She shoves something into my hand. I look down.

  “Grandma,” I say, not smiling anymore. “Where did you get this?”

  “Never you mind,” Gran says. “I want you to have it. You’re going to need it, moving to the city. What if you need to get out, and you need cash, fast? You never know.”

  “But, Grandma,” I protest. “I can’t—”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Grandma yells at me. “Just take it!”

  “Fine, I will,” I say, and shove the neatly folded ten-dollar bill into the pocket of my black-and-white vintage Suzy Perette sleeveless day dress. “There. Are you happy now?”

  “Yes,” Grandma says, and pats me on the cheek. Her breath is pleasantly beery. It reminds me of all those times in grade school she helped me with my homework. Most of the answers were wrong, but I always got bonus points for imagination. “Good-bye, you rotten stinker.”

  “Grandma,” I say, “I’m not leaving for three more days.”

  “Don’t sleep with any sailors,” Grandma says, ignoring me. “You’ll get the clap.”

  “You know,” I say with a smile. “I think I’m going to miss you most of all, Scarecrow.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grandma huffs. “Scarecrow who?”

  But before I can explain, Maggie, wearing the decapitated piñata pony’s carcass on her head, marches silently past us, followed by her suddenly mute party guests, each wearing a piece of piñata—a hoofed foot here, a segment of the tail there—on their heads, and stepping in perfect formation.

  “Wow,” Gran says, when the
last member of the macabre piñata-part parade has passed by. “I need a drink.”

  A sentiment I readily second.

  Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide

  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!

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  Chapter 3

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

  — Fran Lebowitz (b. 1950), American humorist

  It’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.”

&nb
sp; “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.”