by Meg Cabot
“But why can’t Blaine’s friends stay in the hotel?” Vicky wants to know. “Why do mine have to? I’m the bride!”
“Blaine’s friends are in the wedding party,” her mother reminds her. “You’re the one who wanted them to play at the reception.”
“Huh,” Blaine, beside me, grunts as he stabs a piece of Camembert over and over with his butter knife. “Yeah, only after we landed that recording contract.”
“You guys aren’t celebrity recording artists yet,” Vicky hurls at him from the far end of the table. “I don’t see where you get off acting like one. Your stupid friends could stay in their VAN and not know the difference.”
“My stupid friends,” Blaine hurls back, “are the only remotely cool thing about your wedding, and you know it.”
“Um, excuse me. I think getting married at a French château is plenty cool enough,” Vicky snaps.
“Oh, right,” Blaine says, rolling his eyes. “Like having the hottest band on the Houston music scene right now play at your wedding isn’t something you’ve been bragging about to every publicist in town.”
“Would you two kindly shut the hell up?” their aunt Bibi asks in a voice I suspect is even more slurry than usual, thanks to all the champagne she put back earlier, while stonily ignoring her estranged husband, who continues to make every effort possible to sit or stand near her and include her in the conversation. It is kind of sad, actually, to watch how excited Monsieur de Villiers is to have his wife back—even if only temporarily and even if only for her niece’s wedding—and how totally unexcited she is to be back.
“Really, you two,” Mrs. Thibodaux says, looking close to tears, “now is not a time for bickering. It’s a time for pulling together, to try to weather this crisis as best we can.”
“Crisis?” Monsieur de Villiers looks confused. “What crisis? Victoria is getting married! How is this a crisis? It is a joyous occasion, no?”
Both Bibi and her sister look at him and say at the same time, “No.”
Vicky, after looking from one woman to the other, suddenly pushes her chair back, leaps to her feet, and runs from the dining room, a hand flung dramatically over her face.
Which is when Shari stands up and says, “On that note…thank you so much. We’ve had a lovely evening. And I’m pretty sure we’re all clear on what we’ll be needed to do tomorrow when the rest of your guests start arriving. But right now I think Lizzie and I will just get a head start on the dishes.”
“I’ll help you,” Chaz says, springing to his feet, obviously eager to get away from the fighting and talk of floral arrangements.
“Me, too,” Luke says.
But the minute he starts to get up, his mother lays a restraining hand upon his wrist and says, not slurring the word at all now, “Sit.”
Luke sinks slowly back into his chair, a pained expression on his face.
I start clearing the empty plates around my end of the table. I don’t think I can get out of that tense silence fast enough.
As I come into the high-ceilinged—but still old-fashioned—kitchen, I smile at Agnès and her mother when they look up from the supper they’re sharing at the massive butcher-block table.
“Ne pas se lever,” I say to them, not sure if this is the right way of saying “Don’t get up.” But I guess it is, since it has the desired effect—they both sit back down to finish their meal.
“Oh my God,” Shari says to me after smiling at the Laurents. “Oh my God. Oh my God. What was that out there?”
Chaz looks visibly shaken. “I feel violated,” he says.
“Oh, whatever,” I say, grabbing a trash can and beginning to scrape the remains on the plates off into it. “My own family is way more embarrassing.”
“Well,” Shari says, “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that. But that is a good point.”
“Weddings are just stressful, you guys,” I say, reaching for the plates Chaz has carried in and scraping them as well. “I mean, the expectations are so high, and then if things don’t go perfectly, people melt down.”
“Sure,” Shari says. “Melt down. But not spontaneously combust. You know what her problem is, don’t you? Vicky’s, I mean?”
“She’s a Bridezilla?” Chaz asks.
“No,” Shari says. “She’s marrying beneath her.”
“Shut up,” I say, laughing.
“I’m serious,” Shari says. “Dominique was telling us all about it at the pool today after you left for your little vineyard tour, Lizzie. Vicky’s marrying some computer software programmer whose family all comes from Minnesota or something, instead of the rich Texas oil baron her mom had all picked out for her. Mrs. Thibodaux is fit to be tied about it, but there’s nothing she can do to change Vicky’s mind. It’s lurve.”
“Where’s Mr. Thibodaux in all this?” Chaz wants to know. “Vicky’s dad?”
“Oh, he has some big important meeting to go to in New York for his investment company or something. He’ll be here just in time to walk her down the aisle, and not a minute before, if he’s smart.” Shari hands Chaz a dish towel. “Here. I’ll rinse. You dry.”
“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty dishes to me,” Chaz says.
I gaze at the two of them as they bicker at each other over the sink, thinking how lucky they are to have found each other. It hasn’t all been funny one-liners and trips to France for them, of course. There was the time Shari had to kill and dissect Mr. Jingles, her university-assigned lab rat, in order to pass advanced behavioral neuroscience, and Chaz urged her to spare Mr. Jingles by surreptitiously replacing him with a look-alike rat he found at PetSmart in the mall.
But Shari wouldn’t swap rats because she said as a scientist she needed to learn how to distance herself from her subjects…after which Chaz wouldn’t speak to her for two weeks.
Still. Overall, they are the cutest couple I know. Besides my mom and dad.
And I would give anything to have a relationship like that of my own.
Except, of course, I wouldn’t resort to busting up someone else’s to get it. Even if I could. Which I can’t.
So I don’t even know why I’m standing here thinking about a certain person I met on a train just the day before.
Agnès and her mother, once they finish their meal, refuse to leave without helping us with the rest of the dishes, and the job is done sooner than I would have thought, given the number of courses we had and the number of utensils we’d ended up using to eat them.
But even better than being done with our chores sooner than I thought we would be is the fact that Madame Laurent actually understands me when I ask her if she knows whether there’s any crème de tartre in the kitchen. Even better yet—she manages to produce a container of it for me. She looks a little confused at my joy over securing a common acidic compound but seems pleased to have been able to help. She and her daughter both wish us a bonne nuit—which we enthusiastically return—before returning to the millhouse for the night.
Chaz announces he’s going to see if he can’t rescue Luke from the clutches of his mother and Mrs. Thibodaux and cajole him into having a nightcap. He and Shari invite me along, but I tell them I’m tired and am going to bed.
Which is a lie, but I’m embarrassed to admit that I have other plans…and that they involve needing to find a basin big enough to soak the Givenchy dress in—with the cream of tartar—overnight.
I’m on my hands and knees with my head in the cabinet under the kitchen sink examining something I think might work—a plastic bucket that must have been placed there during some ancient leak—when I hear a door open behind me. Worried it might be Luke, and that if so he’ll be seeing me from my least flattering angle, I start to get up, misjudge the distance between the sink and my scalp, and bang my head on the inside of the cabinet.
“Ouch,” says a male voice from behind me. “That had to hurt.”
Clutching my head with one hand, I look over my shoulder and see Blaine, in his baggy black jeans, dyed-black hair, a
nd Marilyn Manson T-shirt, which I believe he is wearing to be ironic.
“You okay?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah,” I say. Letting go of my head, I reach for the bucket and climb to my feet.
“Whatcha doing down there, anyway?” Blaine wants to know.
“Just getting something,” I say, trying to hide the bucket behind my voluminous skirt. Don’t even ask me why. I just don’t feel like getting into an explanation of why I have it.
“Oh,” Blaine says. That’s when I notice the unlit, apparently hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips. “Okay. Well, listen. You got a light, by any chance?”
“Sorry,” I say. “No.”
He sags in the doorway. Really. He looks genuinely crushed. “Shit.”
I don’t approve of smoking, of course, but considering what this guy has had to sit through all night, I don’t blame him for needing a little stimulant.
“You could use one of the burners,” I suggest, pointing at the massive—and ancient—stove in the corner.
“Oh,” Blaine says. “Sweet.”
He slouches toward the stove, switches on the flame, bends down, and inhales.
“Ahhhh,” he says after he’s straightened again and exhaled. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
And I recognize a sweet, pungent scent that immediately reminds me of McCracken Hall. That’s when I realize what’s rolled into his cigarette is not tobacco.
“How,” I ask, truly stunned, “did you get that onto a transatlantic flight?”
“They’re called tighty-whities, baby,” Blaine says, dropping down into the kitchen chair Madame Laurent only recently vacated and swinging his combat-booted feet up onto the butcher-block table.
“You smuggled marijuana into France in your underwear?” I am stunned.
He looks at me and chuckles. “Marijuana,” he echoes. “You’re cute, you know that?”
“They have those sniffy dogs at airports now,” I remind him.
“Sure they do,” he says. “They’re trained to sniff for bombs, though, not ganja. Here.” He takes a deep toke on the joint, then holds it out to me. “Have some.”
“Oh,” I say, wrapping both arms around my bucket, then realizing, belatedly, that I must look very prim. “No thank you.”
He eyes me incredulously. “What? You don’t smoke weed?”
“Oh no,” I say, “I can’t afford to lose any more brain cells. I didn’t have that many to start with.”
He chuckles some more. “Good one,” he says. “So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?”
I assume he’s joking, since Château Mirac is hardly a dump.
“Oh,” I say, “I’m just visiting with my friends.”
“That tall dude,” Blaine says, “and the dyke?”
I take umbrage at this. “Shari isn’t a lesbian! Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian. But Shari isn’t one.”
He looks surprised. “She isn’t? Whoa. Coulda fooled me. Sorry.”
“She and Chaz have been dating for two years!” I’m still shocked.
“Okay, okay. Jeez, no need to jump all over me. I said I was sorry. She just seems kinda dykey to me.”
“She hardly said two words to you!”
“Right.”
“What, any woman who doesn’t fall all over you is a lesbian?”
“Relax,” Blaine says, “would you? God, you’re worse than my sister, for Christ’s sake.”
“Well, I can see why your sister might be upset with you,” I say, “if you go around accusing her friends of being lesbians when they’re not. Again, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Jesus,” Blaine says, “chill out. What, are you a lesbian or something?”
“No,” I say, feeling my cheeks start to heat up, “I’m not a lesbian. Not that—”
“—there’s anything wrong with it. I know, I know. Sorry. It’s just, you know, you’re here by yourself, and you got so upset when I asked about your friend…”
“For your information,” I say, “I’m here by myself because I just got out of a very bad relationship with a British guy. Yesterday. That’s why I’m here, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah? What’d he do? Cheat on you?”
“Worse. He cheated on the British government. Welfare fraud.”
“Oh.” Blaine looks impressed. “Hey, that’s bad. My last girlfriend turned out to be a disappointment as well. Only she dumped me.”
“Really? What for? Did you accuse her of being a lesbian, too?”
He smiles. “Funny. No. She accused me of being a sellout when my band signed with Atlantic Records. Dating a musician with a trust fund is one thing. Dating a musician with an actual recording contract turns out to be something else completely.”
“Oh,” I say. And he looks so sad that for a moment I really do feel sorry for him. “Well, I’m sure you’ll meet someone else. There must be lots of girls out there who’d enjoy dating someone with a recording contract and a trust fund.”
“I don’t know,” Blaine says, looking depressed. “If so, I haven’t met any.”
“Well,” I say, “give it time. You don’t want to rush into anything right away. You need to give yourself a chance to heal emotionally.” This sounds like such good advice. I should give serious consideration to taking it myself.
“Yeah,” Blaine says, sucking on his joint, “I hear ya. That’s what I told my sister about Craig. But did she listen? No.”
“Oh? Craig is your sister’s fiancé? Is he a rebound?”
“Oh, hell, yeah. I mean, he’s better than the last guy she almost married—least this one’s not part of Houston ‘society’”—he makes quotes around the word with the fingers that aren’t holding the joint—“but talk about boring. I mean, the guy practically makes Bill Gates look like freaking Jam Master Jay, if you get my drift.”
“Right,” I say.
“Still,” Blaine says with a shrug. “He makes her happy. Or as happy as any guy can. Still, Mom’d much rather have her marrying some guy like ol’ Jean-Luc.”
I am disgusted with myself for the way my heart turns over even at the mention of Luke’s name.
“Oh really?” I say in an attempt to appear only casually interested in the topic.
“Shit,” Blaine says, “are you serious? If Mom could get Vicks to hook up with some guy who went to one of those fruity boarding schools, like Luke did, and has a castle in France, she’d frigging cream herself. Instead,” he says with a sigh, “she got stuck with Craig.” He holds out a hand and examines the fingers that say F-U-C-K. “And me.”
“Oh yes,” I say, “I noticed your tattoos at dinner. That must have…hurt.”
“Truthfully,” Blaine says, “I don’t remember if it did or not, I was so wasted. Soon as I get back home, I’m having ’em lasered off. I mean, it was funny for a while, but I’m makin’ serious business deals now and shit. It’s embarrassing to walk into those corporate meetings with ‘Fuck You!’ tattooed on your hands, you know? We just sold one of our songs to Lexus, for a commercial. Six figures, dawg. It’s unbelievable.”
“Wow,” I say. “I’ll be sure to look out for it. What’s the name of your band, anyway?”
He blows a blue plume of marijuana smoke toward the ceiling.
“Satan’s Shadow,” he says reverently.
I cough. And not because of the smoke.
“Well,” I say, “that’s an…unusual name.”
“Vicky thinks it’s dumb,” Blaine says. “But I notice she still wants us to play her gig.”
“Well,” I say, “weddings are a big deal to girls. You should probably go apologize to your sister, don’t you think? I mean, she’s really stressed. I’m sure she didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“Yeah,” Blaine says, lumbering, with an effort, from his chair, “you’re probably right. Hey, you wouldn’t be interested, would you?”
I blink, confused. “Interested
? In what?”
“You know,” Blaine says. “Me. I’d never cheat the government. I’ve got a CPA for that.”
“Oh.” I smile at him, startled but flattered. “Thank you very much for the offer. Ordinarily, of course, I’d jump at the chance. But like I said, I’m just coming out of a relationship and I probably shouldn’t rush into anything new too soon.”
“Yeah,” Blaine says with a sigh, “it’s all about the timing. Well, g’night.”
“Night,” I say. “And, um, good luck. With Satan’s Shadow and all.”
He waves and shuffles from the kitchen. And I hurry out as well, clutching my bucket.
The late 1800s saw the prominence of the “puffed sleeve” on women’s gowns for which Anne Shirley so longed in the classic children’s book series Anne of Green Gables. Dresses were longer than ever, requiring skirts to be lifted while crossing the street, thus revealing lace-trimmed petticoats available now not only to the rich, thanks to mass production.
Amelia Bloomer’s trousers, meanwhile, finally found eager supporters in young female enthusiasts of the newly invented bicycle, and no amount of chastising from their parents, priests, or the press could induce girls to give up their “bloomers,” or their bicycles.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
Chapter 18
His talk was like a spring, which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses
—Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1802–1839), British poet
I got the rust stains out.
I know. I can barely believe it myself. I’m standing in the kitchen of Château Mirac early the next morning, having soaked the gown overnight in my room, then hurried downstairs—seemingly at the crack of dawn, but a glance at my cell phone tells me it’s only eight—to rinse it in the kitchen sink, which is much wider than the one in the bathroom across the hall from my room.