by Meg Cabot
“What is it?” I’m laughing now. “Tell me.”
“I can’t tell you,” Luke says. “Chaz made me swear not to tell.You, of all people, especially.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, pouting. “I won’t tell. I swear.”
“Chaz said you’d say that.” Luke is grinning, so I know whatever it is he’s not supposed to tell me, it isn’t something bad.
“Just tell me,” I whine.
And then, just like that, I know. Or think I know, anyway.
“Oh my God,” I cry. “He’s going to propose!”
Luke stares at me over his bubbling chicken. “What?”
“Chaz! He’s going to ask Shari to marry him, isn’t he? Oh my gosh, that is so great!”
And I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner. Of course that’s what’s going on. That’s why Chaz asked me those searching questions about Shari in their place the other day. He was feeling me out to see if Shari had said anything about how living with him was going!
Because he wants to make it permanent!
“Oh, Luke!” I have to hold on to the counter to keep from falling off my stool, because I’m practically swooning, I’m so excited. “This is so fantastic! And I have the best idea for a dress for her… it’s like a bustier, you know, but with off-the-shoulder capped sleeves, in dupioni silk, and with little pearl buttons down the back, totally fitted through the waist, and then pooching out into this totally elegant belled skirt—not a hoop skirt, she wouldn’t like that… Oh, you know, she might not even want a belled skirt. Maybe I should make it more—well, here, this is what I mean.”
I reach for a notepad that his mother has left lying around—Bibi de Villiers, it says on the top of each page, in cursive—and scribble out the design I’m thinking of with a pen from the bank we both use.
“See, something like this?” I hold up the sketch, and see that Luke is staring at me with a mingled expression of horror and amusement.
“What?” I ask, shocked by the look on his face. “You don’t like it? I think it’ll be cute. In ivory? With a detachable train?”
“Chaz isn’t asking Shari to marry him,” Luke says, half grinning and half frowning. It’s clear he can’t tell which to do, so he’s doing both.
“He isn’t?” I put down the notepad and stare at my sketch. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive, ” Luke says. Now he’s completely grinning. “I can’t even believe you’d think that!”
“Well.” I am so crestfallen, I can’t hide it. “Why not? I mean, they’ve been going out forever—”
“Right,” Luke says. “But he’s only twenty-six. And he’s still in school!”
“Graduate school,” I point out. “And they are living together.”
“So are we,” Luke says with a laugh, “but we’re not getting married anytime soon.”
I force a laugh along with him, although the truth is, I don’t see anything funny about the situation. No, we may not be getting married anytime soon. But the possibility is still there, isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
But of course I don’t ask him this out loud. Because I’m still woodland-creaturing him.
“Chaz and Shari have known each other for a lot longer than we have,” I settle for saying instead. “It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing if they got engaged.”
“I guess not,” Luke admits—but grudgingly. “Still, I don’t exactly see either of them as the marrying kind.”
“What’s the marrying kind?” I ask… sort of hating myself even as the words are coming out of my mouth. Because it’s totally obvious from this conversation that marriage is the last thing on Luke’s mind.
And it’s ridiculous that it’s on my mind. At all. I mean, I have so many other things to worry about besides getting married. Like making a name for myself in my chosen field. Or even getting a paying job in my chosen field.
Plus, I’m supposed to be playing it cool. We’re living together on a trial basis. Like Shari said, Luke and I haven’t known each other that long…
But I can’t help it… maybe because my chosen field is all about helping women who have someone who is willing to make a commitment to them do so in the most perfect gown imaginable.
And I can’t help thinking that if I could get my love life in order, I’d have more time to concentrate on the career thing.
So, really, the only reason I want to get married—or even just engaged—is so I can be better at my job.
Plus the fact that Luke is… well. Luke de Villiers, the hottest, coolest guy I’ve ever known. And he picked me—ME.
“You know what I mean,” Luke is saying. “The marrying kind. People who don’t have anything else going for themselves. So they just get married, because they don’t know what else to do.”
I blink at him. “I don’t know anybody like that,” I say. “I don’t know anybody who just got married because they had nothing else going for them.”
“Oh, yeah?” Luke eyes me. “What about your sisters? I mean, no offense or anything, because my cousin Vicky’s no different. But from what you’ve said… ”
“Oh,” I say. I’d forgotten about Rose and Sarah. Who actually got married because they got pregnant. It’s like no one in my house ever heard of birth control. Except for me. “Yeah.”
“I actually know plenty of couples like that,” Luke assures me. “You know, from school… people who just don’t have a life, so they glom on to someone else’s—be it for money, or stability, or just because they think that’s what they’re supposed to do straight out of college. And trust me… they’re insufferable.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure they are. But… some of them must really be in love.”
“They probably think they are,” Luke says. “But when they’re that young, how do they even know what love is?”
“Um,” I say. “The way I know I love you?”
“Ah.” He reaches out to cup my cheek in his hand, smiling tenderly down at me. “That’s sweet. But I’m not talking about us. Hey, I almost forgot.” He raises his glass. “To the new job.”
“Oh,” I say, a little surprised. My new job is the last thing on my mind at the moment. “Thanks.”
We clink rims.
I’m not talking about us,he’d said. That’s something, isn’t it? That he believes we’re different. Because we are different.
“Want to set the table?” Luke asks, as he checks the coq au vin—which is filling the apartment with such delicious aromas that I suspect Mrs. Erickson, from 5B, will be knocking soon, to ask if she can have a bite. “I think this is going to be ready in a minute or two.”
“Sure,” I say—then, with elaborate casualness as I hop down from the stool and walk over to the case on the sideboard where Mrs. de Villiers keeps her silver—not her silver WARE. Her silver. Which has to be hand-washed after use, and put back in its special antitarnish cloth-lined case—so I can set the table, “So if he isn’t proposing, what is it?”
“What is what?” Luke wants to know.
“What Chaz told you not to tell me,” I say.
“Oh.” Luke laughs. “You promise not to say anything to Shari?”
I nod.
“He’s thinking about surprising her with a cat. From the animal shelter. You know. For the two of them. Because Shari loves animals so much.”
I blink at him. Because Shari doesn’t love animals. Chaz does. Chaz must be thinking about getting a cat for himself. Which isn’t a wonder. I mean, he’s alone so much, with Shari working all the time, he probably just wants some company. I kind of know the feeling, with Luke in classes all day.
But I don’t say this out loud. Instead I smile and say, “Oh.”
“Remember, don’t tell her,” Luke warns me. “You’ll ruin the surprise.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I lie. “I won’t tell her.”
Because you have to tell your best friend when her boyfriend is planning on surprising her with a pet. Any other course of a
ction is unthinkable.
Jeez. Guys really are weird.
Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide
Know your…
Bridal-gown necklines!
Halter neck—This cut features straps of material that join at the back of the neck. While it looks great on women with nice shoulders, it is usually cut low in back, making finding a bra difficult.
Scoop or round neckline—U-shaped neckline, often cut similarly low in both front and back. Flattering on just about anyone!
Sweetheart neckline—A heart-shaped neckline that is low in front and high in back.
Queen Anne neckline—This is a more accentuated version of the sweetheart neckline.
Off-the-shoulder neckline—This style features small sleeves or straps which actually sit just below the shoulder, leaving the shoulders and collarbone bare. This is not an ideal look for brides with wide shoulders, but it works nicely for curvy brides with full or medium-sized bosoms.
Strapless—This figure-hugging bodice has no straps or sleeves. Fuller-figured or broad-shouldered brides often look best in this style.
V-neck—Just like it sounds! This neckline dips to a V shape in front, which deemphasizes a large bustline.
Square—Again, just like it sounds. A neckline shaped like a square, and one that looks good on nearly everyone!
Bateau—This wide-necked look follows the collarbone to the edge of the shoulders, where the front and back panels join.
Jewel—Round and high cut, this style is good for small-busted brides, or those who belong to churches that frown on showing the upper chest and collarbone area for reasons of modesty.
Asymmetrical—This neckline, different on one side than it is on the other, often precludes its wearer from being able to find a suitable bra. Unless your dressmaker can put in built-in support, you’re going to have to wear a strapless bra or go braless if you choose this design… and is that really the first impression you want to give your future in-laws?
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 10
Silence, indifference, and inaction were Hitler’s principal allies.
— Immanuel, Baron Jakobovits (1921–1999), rabbi
Officially, the office of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn doesn’t open for business until nine A.M.
Unofficially, the phones start ringing at eight sharp. Which is why they need the receptionist there early, ready to transfer calls.
I’m in the fancy black leather swivel chair (with wheels on it) behind the reception desk, trying to grasp what Tiffany, the afternoon receptionist (no, really. That’s her name. I thought she was making it up, but when she got up to get us coffee from the high-tech kitchen in the back, I peeked in the drawers on either side of the desk, and I saw that, in addition to twenty different shades of fingernail polish and about thirty different samples of lipstick, she’s crammed all her pay stubs in there, and I read one, and it said, right there, in pink and black, “Tiffany Dawn Sawyer”), is explaining to me.
“Okay,” Tiffany says. She is supposed to be a model when she isn’t working behind the reception desk at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, and I believe it, because her skin is as clear and as smooth as porcelain, her hair is a lustrous shoulder-length curtain of tawny gold, she’s six feet tall, and she looks as if she weighs about a hundred and twenty pounds—especially after a big breakfast like the one she’s enjoying at the moment, courtesy of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn’s kitchens, black coffee and a pack of cherry Twizzlers.
“So, like, when you get a call,” Tiffany explains, her carefully made-up eyes heavy-lidded, because, as she’s already explained to me, she drank “way too many mojitos” last night, and she’s “still wasted,” “you ask who’s calling, and then you tell them to hold, and then you press the transfer button, and then you put in the person’s extension, and then when that person picks up, you say who’s calling, and if the person says he’ll talk to whoever is calling, you press send, and if the person says he doesn’t want to talk to whoever is calling, or if he doesn’t pick up, you hit the line the caller is on, and you take a message.”
Tiffany takes a deep breath, then adds gravely, “I know it’s rilly complicated. That’s why they asked me to come in early today so I could sit here with you and make sure you get the hang of it. So don’t, like, panic, or anything.”
I look at the two-sided typed list of extensions that Roberta from human resources has helpfully shrunk down to palm size, then sealed in clear contact paper, so I can’t stain or tear it. There are over a hundred names on it.
“Transfer, extension, say who’s calling, send or take a message,” I say. “Right.”
Tiffany’s ocean-blue eyes widen in surprise. “Good. You got it. God. It took me like a week to get that.”
“Well,” I say, not wanting to hurt her feelings. Tiffany has already told me her life story—she left her home in North Dakota right after high school graduation to come to the big city to model; in the four years since, she’s done a lot of print work, including the annual fall Nordstrom catalog; lives with a photographer she met in a bar, who’s promised to get her more print work and is “like, married, but, like, she’s a total bitch. Only he can’t divorce her ’cause he’s from, like, Argentina, and the INS is breathing down his neck, so he’s got to, like, pretend the whole thing is for real for a while longer. As long as he keeps paying for her place in Chelsea she’ll lie that they’re still together, but really she’s living with her personal trainer. But as soon as he gets his green card, it’s over. Then he’s going to marry me”; and dislikes the flavor grape—and I don’t want to make her feel bad, on account of the fact that she only has a high school diploma, and I’m a college graduate (well, practically), and so naturally I’m going to catch on to things a little faster than she is. “It is hard.”
“Ooooh, here’s a call,” Tiffany says, as the phone chirps softly. The ringers in the offices of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn are kept at a very low volume, so as not to annoy the partners—who, according to Tiffany, are extremely high-strung, due to their demanding hours and jobs—or the clients, who are extremely high-strung due to the hourly rates they are paying for legal help from Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn. “So, answer it, just like I told you.”
I pick up the receiver and say confidently, “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call?”
“Who the hell is this?” the man on the other end of the line demands.
“This is Lizzie,” I say, as pleasantly as I can, considering his tone.
“You the temp?”
“No, sir,” I say. “I’m the new morning receptionist. How may I direct your call?”
“Get me Jack” is the terse reply.
“Certainly,” I say, frantically scanning my little shrink-wrapped list. Jack? Which one is Jack? “Who may I say is calling?” I ask, stalling for time as I look for the name Jack.
“Jesus Christ,” the man on the other end of the line yells. “This is Peter fucking Loughlin, for fuck’s sake!”
“Of course, sir,” I say. “Please hold.”
“Don’t you fucking—”
I press hold with trembling fingers, then turn toward Tiffany, who is dozing in her seat, her lusciously long black eyelashes perfectly curled against her high cheekbones.
“It’s Peter Loughlin,” I cry, waking her up. “He wants someone named Jack! He swore at me! I think he’s mad I put him on hold… ”
Tiffany is on it like a frat boy on a pizza, snatching the receiver from me and muttering, “Shit. Shit shit shit,” beneath her breath before leaning over me to press the hold button, then saying smoothly, “Hi, Mr. Loughlin, it’s me, Tiffany… Yes, I know. Well, she’s new… Yes, I will… Of course. Here he is.”
Then her long, manicured fingers fly over the keypad, and the call—and Peter fucking Loughlin—is gone.
“I’m sorry,” I say tremulously, as Tiffany hangs up. “I just couldn’t find anyone named Jack on the list!”<
br />
“Stupid bitch,” Tiffany says, pulling out a ballpoint pen and scribbling something on the list Roberta gave me. Passing the list back to me, she sees my alarmed expression, and laughs. “Not you. That whore, Roberta. She thinks she’s so great, because she went to an Ivy League college. Like, so what? All it got her was a job scheduling people’s vacations. A monkey could do that. Big fuckin’ whoop.”
I blink down at the change Tiffany’s made on my list. She’s crossed out the first name “John” in front of the last name “Flynn” and written “Jack” over it. Because she’d used a ballpoint to write over clear contact paper, the change is barely legible.
“John Flynn’s real name is Jack?” I ask.
“No. It’s John. But he calls himself Jack, and so does everybody else,” Tiffany assures me. “I don’t know why Roberta put his real name instead of what people actually call him. Maybe because she wants to fuck with you. Roberta’s totally jealous of girls who are better looking than she is. You know, since she looks like a horse-faced troll.”
“Oh, there you are!” Roberta cries, as she pushes open the glass door from the elevator lobby and steps into the reception area. She’s wearing a trench coat—from the lining, I can tell it’s Burberry—and carrying a briefcase. For someone who only “schedules people’s vacations,” she looks superbusinesslike. “Everything all right? Tiffany showing you the ropes?”
“Yes,” I say, throwing Tiffany a panicky look. What if Roberta overheard her calling her a horse-faced troll?
But Tiffany doesn’t look the least bit worried. She’s fished a nail file from one of the many drawers into which she’s crammed her personal belongings, and is working on one of her gel tips.
“How are you this morning, Roberta?” Tiffany inquires sweetly as she files.
“I’m great, Tiffany.” Roberta, now that I look at her, does sort of resemble a horse. She has a really long face, and superbig teeth. And she’s kind of short and has terrible posture, making her, truth be told, a little bit troll-like. “Thanks so much for helping us out by pulling a double today in order to train Lizzie. We really appreciate it.”