by Meg Cabot
“I’m making time and a half after two o’clock, right?” Tiffany wants to know.
“Of course,” Roberta says, her smile tightening perceptibly. “Just like we discussed.”
Tiffany shrugs. “Then it’s all good,” she says in a syrupy-sweet voice.
Roberta’s smile tightens even more. “Great,” she says. “Lizzie, if you—”
The phone chirps. I leap upon it. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn,” I say into the receiver. “How may I direct your call?”
“I have Leon Finkle for Marjorie Pierce,” a woman’s voice purrs.
“One moment please,” I say, and press the transfer button. Then, highly aware that Roberta is watching my every move, I find Marjorie Pierce’s extension on my cheat sheet, press the numbers, then say, when a voice on the other end picks up, “Leon Finkle for Marjorie Pierce?”
“I’ll take the call,” the voice says. And I press send and watch as the little red light by the transfer buttons disappears. Done. I hang up.
“Very nice,” Roberta says, looking impressed. “It took Tiffany weeks to even learn that much.”
The look Tiffany darts Roberta would have frozen the hottest mochaccino. “I didn’t have as good an instructor as Lizzie does,” she says coldly.
Roberta gives us another brittle smile and says, “Well, carry on. And, Lizzie, I’ll need you to stop by my office before you leave so you can fill out those forms to get you on our insurance.”
“I’ll do that,” I say, and since the phone is chirping again, leap to seize the receiver. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn,” I say.
“Jack Flynn, please,” a voice on the other end of the phone says. “Terry O’Malley calling.”
“One moment, please,” I say, and press transfer.
“Stupid fucking bitch,” Tiffany is muttering beneath her breath, as she nibbles a Twizzler.
“Terry O’Malley for Mr. Flynn,” I say, when a woman picks up Mr. Flynn’s line.
“Her vagina has cobwebs from lack of use,” Tiffany says.
“Send the call, please,” the woman says. I press send.
“You know she had the nerve to tell me not to paint my nails at the desk?” Tiffany is rolling her eyes in the direction Roberta has just disappeared. “She said it wasn’t professional.”
I refrain from pointing out that I don’t think it’s very professional to paint your nails at your job in a law office, either.
The phone chirps again. I answer it. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn,” I say. “How may I direct your call?”
“To yourself,” Luke says. “I just called to wish you luck on your first day.”
“Oh.” I feel my knees melt as they always do when I hear his voice. “Hi.”
I’ve gotten over the thing from last night. The thing where he’d said people our age are too young to know what love really is. Because he said he didn’t mean us. Obviously he was just making a generalization. Most people our own age probably don’t know what love is. Tiffany, for instance, probably doesn’t know what love really is.
Besides, after dinner, he illustrated very competently that he knows what love is. Well, making love, anyway.
“How’s it going?” Luke wants to know.
“Great,” I say. “Just great.”
“You can’t talk because there’s someone sitting right next to you, right?” Which, of course, is one of the reasons that I love him so much. Because he’s so perceptive. About most things, anyway.
“Right,” I say.
“That’s okay, my first class starts in a minute anyway,” he says. “I just wanted to see how things were going.”
As he’s speaking, the glass door to the reception area opens and a blond, slightly stocky-looking young woman comes in. She’s dressed in jeans and a white turtleneck sweater that does nothing to flatter her, along with a pair of Timberland boots. You don’t really expect to see a lot of these kinds of boots in the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn offices. The woman looks familiar for some reason, but I can’t place her.
I do notice, however, that Tiffany has looked up from the nail she is repolishing and that her jaw has fallen.
“Uh, I gotta go,” I say to Luke. “Bye.”
I hang up. The young woman is approaching the reception desk. I see that she’s pretty, in a healthy, all-American-girl kind of way, although she wears very little makeup and doesn’t seem to mind that a layer of belly fat is resting gently across the waistband of her too-low low-rise jeans, instead of being safely tucked away inside the waistband of jeans with a slightly higher rise, as would be more flattering.
“Hi,” the woman says to me. “I’m Jill Higgins. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Mr. Pendergast?”
“Of course,” I say, quickly scanning my cheat sheet for Chaz’s dad’s extension. “Have a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thank you,” the woman says with a smile that reveals a lot of healthy-looking white teeth. While she goes to sit down on one of the leather couches, I punch in Mr. Pendergast’s extension.
“Jill Higgins is here for her nine o’clock appointment with Mr. Pendergast,” I say to Esther, Mr. Pendergast’s attractive, fortyish assistant, who’d stopped by to introduce herself upon arriving at work.
“Shit,” Esther says. “He’s not in yet. I’ll be right up.”
I hang up just as Tiffany pokes me in the shoulder.
“Do you know who that is?” she whispers, nodding at the young woman on the couch.
“Yes,” I whisper back. “She told us her name. It’s Jill Higgins.”
“Yeah, but, like, do you know who Jill Higgins is?” Tiffany wants to know.
I shrug. The woman’s face looks familiar, but I’m pretty sure she isn’t a television or movie star, because she’s too normal-size.
“No,” I whisper back.
“She’s only marrying, like, the richest bachelor in New York,” Tiffany hisses. “John MacDowell? His family owns more Manhattan real estate than the Catholic church. And the churchused to own the most of anyone in the city… ”
I swivel my head to look at Jill Higgins with renewed interest.
“The girl who works in the zoo?” I whisper, remembering the Page Six article I read about her. “The one who threw her back out lifting the stranded seal?”
“Exactly,” Tiffany says. “The MacDowell family’s trying to get her to sign a prenup. Basically, they’re trying to make it so she doesn’t see, like, a dime unless she pushes out an heir. But the groom wants to make sure her rights are protected, so he’s hired Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn to represent her.”
“Oh!” I am struck by the pathos of this. Jill Higgins looks so nice and normal! How could anyone be so mean as to think she might be a gold digger? “That’s so sweet of him. I mean, John MacDowell, to hire lawyers for her.”
Tiffany grunts. “Yeah, right. He’s probably only doing it so that later on, when things go, like, south, she can’t say she was swindled.”
This seems like a very cynical take on it to me. But then what do I know? This is only my first day. Tiffany’s been working here for two years, the longest any receptionist has stayed with Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn so far.
“Did you hear what they call her?” Tiffany whispers.
“Who?”
“The press. What they call Jill?”
I look at her blankly. “Don’t they just call her Jill?”
“No. They’re calling her ‘Blubber.’ Because she works with seals, and she’s got that tummy.”
I frown. “That’s mean!”
“Also,” Tiffany goes on, clearly enjoying herself, “because she cried when one of them asked her if it makes her insecure to know there are so many women out there who are way more attractive than she is, dying to get their hands on her fiancé.”
“That’s horrible!” I glance over at Jill. She looks remarkably calm for someone dealing with all of that. Lord knows how I’d react in the same situation. The pres
s would probably call me Niagara—because I’d never stop crying.
“Miss Higgins!” Esther appears in the lobby, looking trim in a houndstooth skirt suit. “How are you? Won’t you come on back? Mr. Pendergast is running a little late, but I’ve got coffee for you. Cream and sugar, right?”
Jill Higgins smiles and gets up. “That’s right,” she says, following Esther down the hall. “How nice of you to remember!”
After she’s out of earshot, Tiffany snorts and goes back to painting her nails. “You know, that MacDowell guy may be rich and all,” she says. “And yeah, okay, she gets to quit her job throwing fish to those nasty seals. But I wouldn’t marry into that family for less than twenty mil. And she’ll be lucky if she sees a few hundred thousand.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking Tiffany should be an actress and a model, she has so much flair for the dramatic. “They can’t be that bad—”
“Are you kidding?” Tiffany rolls her eyes. “John MacDowell’s mom is such a battle-axe, she isn’t letting that girl plan one single part of her own wedding. Which I guess makes sense, since she’s from Iowa or something, and her dad’s, like, a mailman or something. But still… Blubber doesn’t even get to choose her own wedding gown! They’re making her wear some old monstrosity they’ve had moldering around the mansion for a million years. They say it’s ‘tradition’ that MacDowell brides wear it… but if you ask me, they’re just trying to make her look bad so that John MacDowell has second thoughts and dumps her for some society bitch his mom’s got all picked out for him.”
My ears have perked up at this. Not the part about the society girl John MacDowell’s mom wishes he were marrying instead of Jill, but the other part. “Really? Who is she using as her wedding-gown specialist? Do you know?”
Tiffany blinks at me. “Her what?”
“Her wedding-gown specialist,” I say. “I mean, she has one… right?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Tiffany says. “What’s a wedding-gown specialist?”
But at that moment the reception area doors open again and a man I recognize as Chaz’s father—basically an older, grayer version of Chaz, only without the turned-around baseball cap—walks in… then stops when he sees me.
“Lizzie?” he asks.
“Hi, Mr. Pendergast,” I say brightly. “How are you today?”
“Well, I’m just great,” Mr. Pendergast says with a smile, “now that I’ve seen you. I’m really happy you’ve joined us here at the firm. Chaz couldn’t seem to say enough good things about you when I spoke to him the other day.”
This is high praise, considering the fact that Chaz, so far as I know, goes out of his way to avoid speaking to his parents whenever possible. The fact that he called them on my behalf is enough to make my eyes fill with tears. He really is the greatest guy in the world. Aside from Luke, of course…
“Thank you so much, Mr. Pendergast,” I say. “I’m so happy to be here. It’s so nice of you to—”
But at that moment the phone chirps.
“Well, duty calls,” Mr. Pendergast says with a twinkle. “See you later.”
“Sure,” I say. “And Miss Higgins is already here… ”
“Great, great,” Mr. Pendergast calls, as he hurries back to his office.
I pick up the phone. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn,” I say. “How may I direct your call?”
After I send the caller successfully on his way, I hang up and look at Tiffany. “I’m starving,” she says. “Want to order from Burger Heaven downstairs?”
“It’s not even ten,” I point out.
“Whatever, I’m so hungover I could die. I need some grease in my stomach or I’ll york.”
“You know what?” I say to Tiffany. “I really think I’m getting the hang of this. You can leave if you want.”
But Tiffany doesn’t take the hint. “And give up time and a half? No, thanks. I’m getting a double cheeseburger. You want one?”
I sigh… and give in. Because it looks like it’s going to be a long day. And the truth is, I can tell I’m going to need the protein.
Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide
Okay, big girls, don’t think I’ve forgotten you! Designers may have—so many dressmakers seem scared to take on those of us who are size sixteen or higher.
But there’s really no need, because large-size women CAN look great in a wedding gown… if they pick the right one! The best option is to go for a fitted bodice with an A-line skirt.
Full skirts are out on the plus-side bride, as they tend to make wide hips look even wider, as do column or sheath skirts. But an A-line skirt that gently skims the contours is a flattering look on a larger girl. Strapless gowns are not usually recommended for very large brides as they require a very fitted bodice that can be unflattering to someone with a sizable belly. But this varies from body shape to body shape.
Plus-size brides, more than anyone, can benefit from the help of a certified wedding-gown specialist, since we can really help them find a style that is both flatteringand appropriate for their special day.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 11
To find out a girl’s faults, praise her to her girlfriends.
— Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790), American inventor
The dwarf is singing “Don’t Cry Out Loud.”
“I don’t know about anyone else,” Chaz says, “but I find his performance exceptionally moving. I give it an eight.”
“Seven,” Luke says. “I find the fact that he’s actually crying a little distracting.”
“I give it a ten,” I say, blinking back tears of my own. I don’t know if it’s that all Melissa Manchester songs make me a little nostalgic, or if it’s the fact that this particular one is being sung so poignantly by a weeping dwarf dressed like Frodo from Lord of the Rings, complete with a Gandalf staff. Maybe it’s the three Tsingtaos I had with dinner, and the two Amaretto sours I’ve downed since, here in the booth. But I’m gone.
The same can’t be said of my best friend Shari, however. She’s picking at the label of her Bud Light, looking distracted—pretty much how she’s been all night.
“Hey,” I say, nudging her with my elbow. “Come on. How do you rate his performance?”
“Uh.” Shari sweeps some of her curly dark hair from her eyes and peers at the man on the little stage at the back of the bar. “I don’t know. A six.”
“Harsh,” Chaz says, shaking his head. “Look at him. He’s singing his guts out.”
“That’s just it,” Shari says. “He’s taking it too seriously. It’s karaoke.”
“Karaoke is an art form in many cultures,” Chaz says. “And, as such, should be taken seriously.”
“Not,” Shari says, “at a dive bar called Honey’s in Midtown.”
The tenor of Shari’s voice has changed. Chaz is just being playful, but she sounds genuinely annoyed.
Then again, she’s seemed that way ever since she and Chaz arrived at the Thai place downtown where we met to have dinner. No matter what Chaz says, Shari either disagrees or ignores him. She even berated him for ordering too much food… as if there is such a thing.
“It’s probably just stress,” I had said to Luke, as the two of us walked slightly behind Chaz and Shari on our way toward Canal Street, dodging fish guts that had been tossed into the gutters by the Chinese markets on either side of the street. “You know how hard she’s been working lately.”
“You’ve been working pretty hard yourself,” Luke had replied. “And you aren’t acting like a grade-A—”
“Hey, now,” I’d interrupted. “Come on. Her job is slightly more stressful than mine. She’s dealing with women whose lives are at stake. The only thing the women I work with have at stake is whether or not their butt is going to look big on their wedding day.”
“That can be stressful,” Luke had insisted with touching loyalty. “You shouldn’t put yourself down.”
But the truth is, I do
n’t actually believe what’s bothering Shari is work stress. Because if it was just that, the delicious piles of pad thai and beef satay we’d just consumed—not to mention all that beer—would have helped. But it hadn’t. She’s as cranky now, after dinner, as she’d been before dinner. She hadn’t even wanted to come to Honey’s. She’d wanted to go straight home to bed. Chaz had prac tically forced her into the cab with us, instead of letting her find a separate one to take her back to their place.
“I just don’t get it,” Chaz had said to us after Shari excused herself to go to the bathroom between courses at dinner. “I know she’s unhappy. But when I ask her what’s wrong, she says everything’s fine and that I should leave her alone.”
“That’s the same thing she says to me,” I’d said with a sigh.
“Maybe it’s hormonal,” Luke had suggested. Which, considering all the bio he was taking, was a natural leap.
“For six weeks?” Chaz had shaken his head. “Because that’s how long it’s been. Ever since she started that job… and moved in with me.”
I’d swallowed. It was all my fault. I just knew it. If I had just moved in with Shari like I’d promised, instead of ditching her to live with Luke, none of this would have happened…
“If you think you can do so much better,” Chaz is saying now, shoving the songbook across the table of the booth we’re sitting in, “why don’t you give it a whirl?”
Shari looks down at the black binder in front of her. “I don’t do karaoke,” she says coldly.
“Um, that’s not what I recall,” Luke says, waggling his dark eyebrows. “At least, not from a certain wedding I remember… ”
“That,” Shari says dourly, “was a special occasion. I was just trying to help out Big Mouth over there.”
I blink. Big Mouth? I mean, I know it’s true and all… but I’ve been getting better. Really. I haven’t told ANYONE about meeting Jill Higgins. And I’ve managed to keep from Luke the fact that his mother’s lover (if that’s who the guy even is… which, more and more, I’m starting to suspect) has called theapartment yet again. I’m a veritable vault of incendiary information!