Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  “People who buy our clothes want to make repairs themselves,” Multiple Facial Piercings says. “Leave your résumé at the counter, and we’ll call you…”

  Her heavily made-up eyes flick from the top of my head—my hair is pulled back in a wide, Jackie O–style scarf—to my dress, a rare 1950s Gigi Young blue and white polka dot with an accordion-pleated skirt—to my shoes—white ballet-style flats (because you can’t wear heels when you’re tromping around Manhattan). It is clear from her expression that Multiple Facial Piercings doesn’t like what she’s seeing.

  “…or not.” Multiple Facial Piercings tosses her Mohawk, then lifts a hand to wave at me. I see that what I’d taken for festively colored sleeves is actually her bare arm, the skin of which is completely covered in tattoos. “Buh-bye.”

  “Um.” I can’t stop staring at the tattoos. “Bye.”

  Okay. Okay, so maybe the New York employment scene is a little…different from the one back in Ann Arbor.

  Or maybe I just hit the wrong store on the wrong day.

  Yeah, that’s it. They can’t all be like that one. Maybe heading to the Village first thing was a mistake.

  Or maybe I shouldn’t even be thinking retail. Maybe I should try hitting some bridal shops—not Vera Wang, obviously, since I already crashed and burned there (the woman who answered the phone at Vera Wang corporate, when I called to see if they’d received my résumé, made it more than clear that they would definitely be calling me—in ten years, when they managed to wade through all the other résumés aspiring wedding-gown designers had dropped off)—and leaving my résumé and some photos of some of the gowns I’ve worked on. Maybe that would make more sense. Maybe…

  Oh God, what am I going to say to Luke? Shari’s right, moving in with someone is a big deal, and not something you should just do because it’s cheaper than paying a broker’s fee.

  Although of course that isn’t why I’m doing it. I love Luke, and I think living with him would be totally dreamy.

  So long as, you know, I enter into it without any expectations-like Shari said—of marriage. Just take things one day at a time. Because we’re both in transitional stages of our lives right now, Luke in school, and me…well, doing whatever it is I’m going to do. We can’t be thinking of marriage. That’s years away.

  Although not too many years, I hope. Because I’d really like to go sleeveless on my wedding day and God only knows how long it’s going to be before I lose all the elasticity in my arms and get that jiggle thing which can be so unattractive in a bride. Or anyone.

  Okay, this isn’t working. This traipsing around, dropping my résumé off at vintage clothing stores. I need to regroup. I need to get out the phone book or go online and really concentrate my efforts on places that fit my style. I need to—

  Ooooh, look at those steaks. Maybe that’s what I need to do. Pick up something for dinner. I mean, Luke isn’t going to feel like going out after a long day of orientation.

  And okay, I’m not the world’s best cook. But anyone can grill a steak. Well, I guess broil it, since we have no grill.

  That’s what I’ll do. I’ll get some steaks, and a bottle of wine, and I’ll make dinner. Then Luke and I can have a discussion about our living together, and what it means. And then I’ll go back to job hunting tomorrow after we’ve got it all straightened out.

  Perfect. Okay.

  Only maybe I’ll shop in Luke’s neighborhood, instead of down here, since I don’t want to have to carry a lot of stuff uptown on the subway. Where is the subway, anyway?

  “Um, excuse me. Can you tell me how to get to the six train?”

  Oh! How rude!

  And I’m not an asshole. How can someone be an asshole just for asking where the subway is? God, is it really true what they say about New Yorkers? So far they do seem kind of rude. Is this why Kathy Pennebaker came back home? I mean, besides the whole other-people’s-boyfriend addiction thing?

  Or was she driven to steal even more boyfriends by the uncaring attitude of her New York neighbors?

  Okay, where am I? Second Avenue and Ninth Street. East Ninth Street, because the east and west sides are divided by Fifth Avenue (where Luke’s mother’s apartment is. Overlooking Central Park…and the Met). Luke told me that to get to Fifth Avenue, if you’re heading west from the East River, you have to cross First, Second, and Third avenues, and then Lexington, Park, and finally Madison (to remember the order in which these nonnumbered avenues go, Luke told me to “Look Past My Face”—or Lexington, Park, Madison, Fifth).

  The streets—East Fifty-ninth Street, home to Bloomingdale’s, and East Fiftieth Street, where Saks is, for instance—run perpendicular to the avenues. So Bloomingdale’s is on Fifty-ninth and Lexington Avenue, Saks on Fiftieth and Fifth Avenue. Luke’s mother’s place is on Eighty-first and Fifth…around the corner from the Betsey Johnson on Madison between Eighty-first and Eighty-second.

  Then of course there’s the West Side. But I’ll have to learn that later because right now I’m having a hard enough time figuring out the side I’m actually living on.

  Okay, so the subway up and down the East Side runs along Lexington Avenue. So all you have to do when you’re lost, Luke said, is find Lexington, and you’ll eventually find the subway.

  Unless of course you’re in the Village, like I am, where Lexington suddenly turns into something called Fourth Avenue, then Lafayette, and finally Centre Street.

  Again, not something I’m going to worry about right now. I’m just going to head west from Second Avenue, hoping to find Lexington in one of its many forms, and a subway stop home, somewhere around here…

  Home. Wow. I’m already calling it home.

  Well, isn’t that what any place is? Any place that you share with someone you love, I mean?

  Maybe that’s why Kathy left New York. Not the rude people or the incomprehensible street layout or the whole boyfriend-stealing thing, but because there just wasn’t anybody here that she loved.

  Who loved her back, anyway.

  Poor Kathy. Chewed up by the big city, then spat out again.

  Well, that’s not going to be me. I’m not going to be the next Kathy Pennebaker of Ann Arbor. I am not going back home with my tail between my legs. I am going to make it in New York City if it kills me. Because if I can make it here, I can make it any—

  Oooh, a cab! And it’s vacant!

  And okay, cabs are expensive. But maybe just this once. Because I’m so tired, and it’s so far to the subway, and I want to get back in time to start making Luke dinner, and—

  “Eighty-first and Fifth, please.”

  —oh, look, there’s the Astor Place subway stop right there. If I had just walked one more block, I could have saved myself fifteen bucks…

  Well, that’s okay. No more cabs this week. And this is so nice, sitting in this clean air-conditioned cab, instead of fighting my way down the stairs to the smelly platform to wait for a supercrowded train where I won’t even be able to get a seat. And then there are the panhandlers in every car, asking for money. I can never seem to say no. I don’t want to turn into one of those hardened, jaded New Yorkers, like Multiple Facial Piercings, who seemed to find my Gigi Young dress so amusing. When you can’t empathize with another’s hardship—or realize how hard it is to even FIND a Gigi Young dress in wearable condition—what’s the point of even being alive?

  So I end up getting off the subway five dollars poorer every time I ride it, not even counting the fare. It’s practically cheaper to take a cab. Sort of.

  Oh God. Shari’s right. I have to get a job—and a life.

  And fast.

  Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide

  If you are on the petite side, why not try an A-line gown? Full skirts can make a short bride look as if she is being swallowed up by material—unless she opts for a ballgown or fishtail cut…but this does not flatter every petite bride universally, so tread with caution when trying on “princess” or “mermaid” gowns!

 
; Off-the-shoulder and scoop necklines—even thin straps—are recommended for the petite bride. Column or sheath skirts are not. Remember, you are getting married, not working behind the counter at Ann Taylor Loft!

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  Chapter 5

  Show me someone who never gossips, and I’ll show you someone who isn’t interested in people.

  —Barbara Walters (b. 1929), American television journalist

  I’m marinating the steaks when the phone rings. Not my cell, but the apartment phone—Luke’s mother’s phone.

  I don’t answer it because I know it’s not for me. Besides, I’m busy. It’s no joke trying to prepare a semigourmet meal in a New York–style galley kitchen, which is basically about as big as the inside of the cab I took to get back uptown this afternoon. Luke’s mom’s apartment is really nice, as one-bedroom Manhattan apartments go. It’s still got its original prewar crown molding and gold fixtures and parquet floors, and all.

  But the kitchen seems to have been built more for unpacking take-out than preparing eat-in.

  Mrs. de Villiers’s answering machine kicks on after about five rings. I hear her voice—her Southern accent exaggerated for dramatic effect—drawl, “Hello, you’ve reached Bibi de Villiers. I’m either on the other line or nappin’ at the moment. Please leave a message, and I’ll get right back to y’all.”

  I giggle. Napping. Vogue should do a spread on Bibi. Talk about professional hostesses. Plus, she’s married to a prince. Well, a pseudoprince. And she’s got great—if slightly conservative—taste in clothes. I’ve never seen her in anything but Chanel or Ralph Lauren.

  “Bibi.” A man’s voice fills the apartment…which is also filled with the smell of freshly chopped garlic, which I’m using in the marinade, along with soy sauce, honey, and olive oil, all of which I picked up at Eli’s over on Third Avenue…which is quite a hike from Fifth. “I haven’t heard from you in quite a while. Where have you been?”

  Clearly, this friend of Bibi’s does not know she reconciled with her husband during her niece’s wedding in the South of France, and that the two of them—Luke’s parents—were still in Dordogne, tripping the light fantastique…as the French would say. Or not, actually.

  “I will be waiting for you in the usual place,” the man goes on, “this weekend. I only hope I do not wait in vain.”

  Wait a minute. The usual place? Waiting for her? Who the heck is this guy? And how come, if he and Bibi are so close, he doesn’t even know which country she’s in?

  “Good-bye for now, chérie,” the man says. And then he hangs up.

  Chérie? Was this guy for real? Who goes around leaving messages on people’s machines, calling them chérie? Except maybe gigolos.

  Oh God. Did Luke’s mother employ a gigolo?

  No, of course not. She wouldn’t have to. She’s a vital, beautiful woman—and obviously loaded, as one can tell merely by glancing at the art on the walls of her Manhattan pied-à-terre. The Renoir is the crown jewel of her collection, of course. But she has no shortage of Mirós and Chagalls and even a tiny Picasso sketch that hangs in the bathroom.

  And I’m not even going to mention her shoe collection, which crowds the entire top shelf of the bedroom closet…box after box marked Jimmy Choo, Christian Louboutin, and Manolo Blahnik.

  What would a woman like that be doing with a gigolo?

  Unless…unless he’s not a gigolo, but a lover! It would make sense for Bibi de Villiers to have taken a lover. She was, after all, in divorce proceedings with Luke’s father…until I came along, that is. Why wouldn’t a sophisticated woman of the world like Luke’s mom have a boyfriend…a boyfriend she’s forgotten all about since getting back together with Luke’s dad?

  At least, I assume she’s forgotten about him. Obviously she has, if he doesn’t even know where she is…

  Oh God. This is so…awkward. Why did he have to call now, tonight, when Luke and I have to have our Moving in Together talk? I can’t say to Luke, “Hey, this random guy left a message for your mom, calling her chérie…and we need to figure out how I can move in with you without losing my identity as an individual.”

  Maybe if I check the caller ID I can figure out where this guy called from. That, at least, might give me a clue as to—

  Oh. Oh, great. I erased the message. At least if that flashing Delete sign is any indication.

  Okay. Well, that solves that.

  Besides, it’s probably better this way. It’s not like the guy left his name. I can’t be all, “Um, hi, Mrs. de Villiers? Yeah, a random dude with a French accent who isn’t your husband called and asked if you’re going to meet him at the usual place, at which he will be waiting.” Because that could embarrass her.

  And I’m all about trying not to embarrass my future in-laws.

  Dang. I just did it again, didn’t I? I have to get marriage off my brain. I think I’ll go set the dining table. With the beautiful silver that one day might be mine if—

  Ack! Okay, maybe I need to turn on the TV. The news should be on. That will distract me.

  “Police made a gruesome discovery in the backyard of a house the media is now calling the Harlem House of Horror. Human remains—six complete skeletons so far, with more expected to be uncovered—”

  Oh my God, what kind of place is this? A backyard filled with human skeletons? No. Just no. Changing the channel.

  “—seventh hit-and-run at that corner in the past month alone. This time it was a young mother killed as she was attempting to walk her small children to school—”

  Good Lord! Maybe I’ll try reading the want ads instead. Oooh, Page Six, the gossip section! I’ll just take a quick look before I get to the job listings—

  —New York high society is all abuzz about the impending nuptials of John MacDowell, sole heir to the MacDowell real estate fortune. The bride, Jill Higgins, is an employee at the Central Park Zoo. The couple met at the Roosevelt Hospital emergency room, where Miss Higgins was being treated for a back injury she received while lifting a seal that had escaped its enclosure, and where John MacDowell was having an ankle wrapped after twisting it during a polo match—

  Oh! How romantic! And what a fun job, working with seals! If only I could—

  Luke’s key is turning in the lock! He’s home!

  Thank God I peeled off my Spanx two hours ago. The red marks must have faded by now.

  And I’m not wearing them anymore. Luke is going to have to love me for me—the real me—or it’s over.

  Except…look how adorable he is, in those faded jeans and that nice button-down shirt I picked out for him to wear! Maybe it’s all right to wear my Spanx just a little longer…until I’ve lost those fifteen extra pounds I brought home from France. Which I’m sure to do soon, given all the walking you have to do in this town. Plus, I completely ignored the baguettes at Eli’s…

  “Hey,” he says. There’s a big smile on his face. “How’s it going?”

  Hey, how’s it going. This is what my boyfriend says to me, ten hours after asking me to move in with him. It’s clear he hasn’t exactly been agonizing over my answer.

  Or maybe he has and is trying to play it casual.

  “What’s that smell?” he asks.

  “Garlic,” I say. “I’m marinating a couple of steaks.”

  “Great,” he says, putting down his keys on the little marble-topped console table by the door. “I’m starved. How was your day?”

  Wow. How was your day? This is what it’s like to live with someone. I mean, a guy. It’s a lot like living with a girl, really.

  Except that instead of waiting around for my answer, the way Shari used to when we were roommates, Luke comes over, puts his arms around my waist, and gives me a kiss.

  Okay. Not so much like living with a girl. At all.

  “So,” Luke says, grinning down at me. “When are you going to break the news to your parents?”

  Oh, okay. The reason he hasn’t been agonizing over my answer to his question is t
hat he already knew what my answer was going to be.

  I drop my arms from around his neck, stunned.

  “How did you know?”

  “Are you kidding me?” He’s laughing now. “The Lizzie Broadcasting System has been hard at work all day.”

  I glare at him. “That’s impossible. I haven’t told anyone! Anyone except—” I break off, flushing.

  “Right,” Luke says, playfully flicking the tip of my nose with one long index finger. “Shari told Chaz, who called to demand my intentions.”

  “Your—” Now I’m not just flushing. I’m blushing. “He had no right to do that!”

  But Luke is still laughing. “He thinks he does. Oh, don’t look so mad. Chaz thinks of you as the little sister he never had. I think it’s sweet.”

  I didn’t. In fact, I was going to give Chaz a very unsisterly piece of my mind next time I saw him.

  “What did you say?” I can’t help asking, curiosity overcoming my anger.

  “About what?” Luke’s found the bottle of wine I’d bought and opened to let breathe, and is pouring us each a glass.

  “Your, um, intentions.”

  I’m trying to keep it casual. And light. Guys don’t like it when you get too heavy, I’ve noticed. They especially don’t like it when you try to talk too much about the future. They’re like little woodland animals. Everything’s well and good when you’re just doling out the nuts and everything’s cool.

  But the minute you bring out the net to try to catch them—even if it’s for their own good, like to help them escape a forest fire—all hell breaks loose. No WAY was I bringing up the C word with Luke. Two months into a relationship might be early enough to consider moving in together. But it was WAY too early to start bandying about the word “commitment.”

  Even if one of us did have wedding dresses permanently on the brain.

  “I told him not to worry,” Luke says, handing one of the wine-glasses to me. “That I would do everything in my power not to sully your reputation.” Luke clinks the edge of his glass to mine. “Also that he should be thanking me,” he adds with a wink.