by Meg Cabot
“So you’re not going to be around much,” Luke says. “Don’t worry, I understand. And you’re right, what with my finals, you won’t be seeing much of me anyway. Not to mention the fact that I leave for France in just three weeks. For a couple of people who live together, we sure don’t seem to see each other much.”
“Except when we’re sleeping,” I agree. “But, you know. Then we’re unconscious.”
“Well,” Luke says. “I guess I’ll just have to be happy with what I can get. Although I was kind of hoping you could spare a little of your precious time to go tree-shopping with me.”
“Tree-shopping?” I stare at him for a few seconds before I realize what he’s talking about. “Oh, you mean you want to put up a Christmas tree?”
“Well, yeah,” Luke says. “Even though we won’t be able to spend the real holiday with each other, I was still hoping we could have our own private celebration before we both take off to be with our families. And to do that, we need a tree… especially since I got you a little something special, and I need a place to put it.”
My heart melts. “You got me a Christmas present? Ahhh, Luke! How sweet!”
“Well,” he says, looking pleased by my reaction, but a little embarrassed as well, for some reason. “It’s not really so much of a Christmas present, I realize now, as an investment in the future—”
Wait… did he just say what I think he did?
An investment in the future?
“Come on,” Luke says, getting up abruptly, and going into the kitchen. “You’ve got to eat something. Your voice is sounding a little scratchy. We don’t want you coming down with something. You have a wedding dress to design!”
Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide
The big send-off
Traditionally, wedding guests have been provided with tiny sachets of raw rice to open and then toss at the happily wedded couple as they leave the venue at which the wedding ceremony has taken place (usually a church). The rice represents fertility. Tossing it at the couple is supposed to represent your wish for them to have good luck and abundance in their future lives together.
In recent years, however, many churches and other buildings in which weddings are performed have banned the throwing of rice. The stated reason for this ban is that the uncooked rice is harmful to birds if swallowed. This is, in fact, an urban myth. Many species of birds and ducks depend on raw rice as a main staple of their diet.
The problem with the rice is that it actually poses a danger to humans… the hard granules are slippery beneath the feet, and many wedding sites choose to avoid a lawsuit by the banning of rice.
A popular substitute for rice these days is birdseed. However, this can pose just as big a risk to the health of your guests as rice, when it comes to creating a slippery surface.
Furthermore, rice, birdseed, and even confetti are extremely difficult to clean up, and for venues that perform multiple weddings per day, cleaning up after each bridal couple’s departure (since no bride wants to step in the rice or confetti of a previous bride) is time-consuming and expensive.
That’s why I always recommend bubbles as a wedding favor. Guests can create a pretty “canopy” of bubbles under which the newly wedded couple can duck on their way to their carriage or limo. And no one has ever filed a lawsuit from slipping on a bubble.
Just maybe from getting one in the eye.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 21
I lay it down as a fact that if all men knew what others say of them, there would not be four friends in the world.
— Blaise Pascal (1623–1662), French mathematician
“An investment in the future?” Shari sounds dubious on the other end of the phone. “But that could be anything. Stock certificates. One of those World Trade Center coins from the Franklin Mint.”
“Shari.” I can’t believe she’s being so dense. “Come on. Luke is not going to get me something from the Franklin Mint. It’s an engagement ring. It has to be. He’s trying to make up for not going home with me to meet my parents.”
“By buying you an engagement ring?”
“Yes. Because what better thing to give me right before I leave to go back home?” I’m a little giddy just thinking about it. “It’s like, even though he can’t be there, the ring will be, so everyone will know how serious it is between us. Oh, hold on.” I press the hold button, then line 2. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call?”
I send the call to one of the junior partners, then hit the button to line 1 again.
“It makes sense,” I say to Shari. “I mean, we’ve been going out for six months. We’ve been living together for four. It’s not as if it would be completely out of left field if he proposed.”
“I don’t know, Lizzie.” Shari sounds like she’s shaking her head. “According to Chaz, Luke is the kind of person who, um… lacks follow-through.”
“Well, maybe because of my careful tutelage,” I say, recalling Chaz’s not very charitable warning of several months earlier—which was just Chaz, being jealous of the fact that Luke has a girlfriend who actually likes him, and not her female boss, “he’s changed.”
“Lizzie.” Shari sounds tired. “People don’t change. You know that.”
“They can change in small ways,” I say. “Look how when you first started going out with Chaz, he had that thing, remember, where he ate pork chops and Rice-A-Roni every night? You totally weaned him off that.”
“By telling him if we didn’t have something else once in a while, I was going to stop sleeping with him,” Shari says. “But when I’m not around, that’s still all he ever eats.”
“Ooooh,” Tiffany chimes in, beside me, from over the top of the bridal magazine she’s reading. Because I brought a bunch of them in to work, for inspiration. “When you and Luke do get married, you could totally have your company’s PR person send out a press release, you know, to like Vogue and Town & Country, and they’ll send reporters out to cover your wedding, and that will just get you more clients. And free publicity.”
I stare at her. For someone who is so ditzy that she has, upon occasion, forgotten to lock the office door after closing for the day, Tiffany can be pretty savvy.
“That’s good,” I say to her. “That’s very good.”
“Hello,” Shari says. “Are you talking to me? Or to Miss Hairspray for Brains over there?”
“Hey, now,” I say. “Come on.”
“Well, I’m trying,” Shari says. “But seriously, Lizzie. I know you love Luke and all. But do you really see yourself with him fifty years from now? Even five years from now?”
“Yes,” I say, taken aback by the question. “Of course. Why? What’s wrong with him?” The other line chirps. “Crud. Hold on.” I press line 2. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call? Mr. Flynn? One moment please.”
A second later, I’m back with Shari. “Seriously. Why do you sound like you think Luke and I don’t have a future?”
“Well, honestly, Lizzie,” Shari says. “What do the two of you have in common? Except sex?”
“Lots of things,” I insist. “I mean, we both like New York. We both like Château Mirac. We both like… wine. And Renoir!”
“Lizzie,” Shari says. “Everybody likes that stuff.”
“And he wants to be a doctor,” I go on. “And help save people’s lives. And I want to be a certified wedding-gown specialist. And help make brides look good.We’re practically the same person. ”
“You’re making a joke out of it,” Shari says. “But I’m serious. One of the reasons I realized Chaz and I were wrong for each other, and Pat and I so right, is that intellectually Pat and I are compatible. And I don’t think the same could be said about you and Luke.”
I feel tears sting my eyes. “You think he’s intellectually superior to me, is that it? Just because he likes documentaries and I like Project Runway!”
“No,” Shari says, sounding exasperated. “W
hat I mean is, he likes documentaries and you like Project Runway … and yet you guys only ever watch documentaries. Because you’re so busy trying to get him to like you, that you just do whatever he wants, instead of telling him whatyou really want to do. Or watch.”
“That is not true,” I cry. “We watch shows I like all the time!”
“Oh, yeah?” Shari lets out a bitter laugh. “I had no idea you were such a Nightline fan. I always thought you were more of a David Letterman type of girl. But hey, if Nightline is what floats your boat—”
“Nightline is a totally good show,” I say defensively. “Luke watches it so he can stay abreast of world issues, since he often misses the evening news, being busy at the library, studying—”
“Face it, Lizzie,” Shari says. “I know you think you’ve found your handsome prince—literally. But do you really think of yourself as the princess type? Because I sure don’t think of you that way. And I’m pretty sure Luke doesn’t, either.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I demand. “I’m totally the princess type! Just because I make my own clothes instead of waiting for a fairy godmother to come along and sprinkle me with fairy dust—”
“Elizabeth?” It’s only then that I notice that Roberta has approached the reception desk. And that she does not look happy.
“Uh,” I say to Shari. “Ihavetogobye.”
I hang up. “Hi, Roberta,” I say. Beside me, Tiffany has pulled her feet from the desk and is making herself look busy by pulling open a drawer and arranging bottles of her fingernail polish in rainbow order.
Expecting to receive a warning about making personal calls on the firm’s time, I’m surprised when Roberta says, “Tiffany, it’s nearly two. Would you mind taking over for Lizzie a few minutes early so I can have a word with her in private?”
“Sure,” Tiffany says with a furtive glance at me that screams,You are so busted! And causes my stomach to twist into an immediate knot.
I follow Roberta back to her office, conscious of Daryl’s—the fax and copier supervisor—pitying glance. He apparently thinks I’m busted, too.
Well, whatever! If Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn wants to fire me over one personal call, then they better fire everyone else at the firm, too! I’ve overheard Roberta on the phone with her husband plenty of times!
Oh, God. Please don’t let me get fired… please…
I think I’m going to throw up.
It’s only when I walk into Roberta’s office and see that the New York Post is open on her desk to a large picture in the center of the second page that I realize this might not be about my using the firm’s phone for personal calls. Because even though they’re upside down, I can make out the words, “Blubber’s New Mystery Pal.” And I can see that the photo is of me walking Jill to her Town Car after her fitting the night before.
The knot in my stomach turns into something that feels more like a fist.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Roberta says, holding the paper up. “But isn’t this you?”
I swallow. My sore throat, which had been miraculously cured by Luke’s “investment for your future” remark, comes back with a vengeance.
“Um,” I say. “No.”
Honestly, I don’t know where the lie comes from. But once it’s out, there’s nothing I can do to stuff it back in.
“Lizzie,” Roberta says. “It’s obviously you. That’s the same dress you wore to work yesterday. You can’t tell me there’s another one like that anywhere in Manhattan.”
“I’m sure there are loads,” I say. And I’m not lying this time, either. “Alfred Shaheen was a very prolific designer.”
“Lizzie.” Roberta sits down behind her desk. “This is very serious. I saw you talking to Jill Higgins in the ladies’ room yesterday. And then, apparently, you met her somewhere after work. You know the firm takes the confidentiality of its clients extremely seriously. So I’m going to ask you again. What were you doing yesterday with Jill Higgins—and, if this photo is to believed, her fiancé, John MacDowell?”
I swallow again. I wish I had a Sucrets. Also, that I didn’t need this job so badly.
“I can’t tell you,” I say.
Roberta raises a single eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“I can’t tell you,” I say. “But I can tell you that it has nothing whatsoever to do with the firm. Honestly. It has to do with a completely different business. But it’s a business that also has confidentiality clauses. That I really can’t violate.”
Roberta’s other eyebrow rises to join the first. “Lizzie. Are you telling me that this is you in the picture?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny it,” I say, parroting the phrase Roberta herself told me to say whenever reporters call the firm, requesting information about people on whom they are writing stories.
“Lizzie.” Roberta does not look amused. “This is very serious. If you are harassing or otherwise bothering Miss Higgins—”
“I’m not!” I cry, genuinely startled. “She came to me!”
“For what?” Roberta demands. “What other line of work are you in, Lizzie?”
“If I told you that,” I say, “you’ll know why she came to see me. And she hasn’t given me permission to tell anyone that. So I can’t say. I’m sorry, Roberta.”
I can’t believe that I’m doing this. I mean, actually NOT spilling a secret for a change. This is a real sign of my inner growth. I should totally be celebrating.
Too bad I feel so much like vomiting.
“You can fire me if you want to,” I go on. “But I promise you, I am not bothering Jill. If you don’t believe me, call and ask her. She’ll tell you.”
“She’s Jill to you now?” Roberta says with more than a little sarcasm in her tone.
“She told me I could call her that,” I say, wounded. “Yes.”
Roberta looks down at the picture. She seems to be at a loss. “This is highly irregular,” she says at last. “I honestly don’t know what to say about it.”
“It’s nothing illegal,” I say.
“Well, I should hope not!” Roberta cries. “Are you going to be meeting her again?”
“Yes,” I say firmly.
“Well.” Roberta shakes her head. “All I can say in that case is, try to be more careful not to get your picture in the Post. If one of the partners had seen this and recognized you—”
“I had no idea there was a photographer there,” I say. “But I’ll definitely be more careful in the future. Is that it? Can I go now?”
Roberta looks startled. “Well, you’re in an awfully big hurry to get out of here. Christmas shopping?”
“No,” I say. “I have to get to that business that I’m doing for Jill.”
Roberta’s shoulders slump. “Fine,” she says. “But fair warning, Lizzie. This firm prides itself on its sterling reputation. Any whiff of impropriety on your part and you’re gone. Understand?”
“Totally,” I say.
Roberta looks down, dismissing me…
… and I bolt from her office. Heading back to the reception desk to get my coat and purse, I ignore Daryl’s whispered“ Yo! What’d you do this time?” and Tiffany’s“ Oh my God, are you all right? You look like someone just told you that your Prada handbag is a fake.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Seriously,”Tiffany hisses, “call me and tell me what she said. I’m collecting Roberta stories to submit to the Smoking Gun.”
I wave at her and hurry out, my heart hammering so hard in my chest, I’m afraid it’s going to fly out and hit the wall. When the elevator doors open, I rush inside without even looking to see who else is in there before pounding the button for the lobby. It isn’t until a voice beside me says, “Well, hello there, stranger,” that I look up and see that Chaz is in the car with me.
“Oh my God,” I cry. “Were you going up to see your dad? Why didn’t you say anything? I’d have held the door for you—oh no, and now you’re
going down. I’m sorry!”
“Relax,” Chaz says. “I wasn’t going up to see my dad. I was coming to see you.”
“Me?” I’m shocked.
“I was hoping I could take you for a drink,” Chaz says. “And pump you for the information I need about my ex in order for me to start rebuilding my male ego so I can learn to love again.”
I chew my lower lip. “Chaz,” I say. “I am trying really hard not to talk about people behind their backs. It’s this whole new thing with me. I have gotten in so much trouble in the past for being a big mouth, and I’m really trying to change. Because despite what some people think, people can change.”
“Sure they can,” Chaz says. The elevator has reached the lobby. “Come on. Let me take you for a beer at Honey’s.”
I’m about to say I can’t. I know Chaz is hurting, but I have a dress to design. I’m about to say,I have to get to the shop. We have this huge project—which is another thing I can’t talk about—and I’m in a time crunch, so I’ll see you later, okay?
But then I look into his face and see that it’s been a while since he shaved—and, as far as I can tell, changed baseball caps.
Which is how I find myself sitting across from him in one of the red vinyl booths at Honey’s, a sweating diet Coke in front of me, listening to the dwarf sing “Dancing Queen,” a not entirely unpleasant experience.
“I just need to know,” Chaz is saying into his bottle of beer. “I know it sounds stupid, but… I mean… do you think I did something to… turn her?”
“What? Of course not,” I cry. “Chaz! Come on. No.”
“Well, what happened then?” he demands. “I mean, a person isn’t straight one day and then gay the next. Unless maybe I did something to make her—”
“You didn’t,” I say. “Chaz. Trust me. You didn’t. It’s exactly like Shari explained to you. She just fell in love with someone else. And that person just happens to be another woman. It’s no different than if she’d met some other guy she ended up falling for instead of you.”