Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  Which I’m sure would be fun and all of that, but not something I think Luke is quite ready for—to be subjected to my coworkers, I mean. So far, I’ve managed to keep him a safe distance from both Monsieur and Madame Henri, and the fine folks of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn.

  Although, considering that I still haven’t told my family he and I are living together, you might say I’m keeping him from my family, as well.

  “Luke’s parents are coming to town,” I say truthfully.

  “Rilly?” Tiffany looks up from the nail she’s filing. “They’re coming all the way from France?”

  “Uh, no, Houston,” I say, after a slight pause during which I pick up, answer, and transfer a call for Jack Flynn. “They only spend part of the year in France, and the rest in Houston, where Luke’s from. They’re coming here for Thanksgiving so his mom can do some holiday shopping and his dad can go to some Broadway shows.”

  “So they’re taking you out for Thanksgiving dinner?” Tiffany looks impressed. “Sweet.”

  “Uh,” I say. “Not exactly. I mean, I’m cooking the dinner. Luke and I are. For the two of them, and Shari and Chaz, too.”

  Tiffany stares at me. “Have you ever cooked a turkey before?” she wants to know.

  “No,” I say. “But I’m sure it won’t be hard. Luke’s a really good cook, and I printed out a bunch of recipes from the Food Network’s Web site.”

  “Oh yeah,” Tiffany says, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “That’ll work out great, then.”

  But I don’t let her negativity get me down. I’m convinced our Thanksgiving is going to work out great. Not only will Luke’s parents—whom we’ll be giving up our bed to, since it is, technically, his mom’s bed—have a great time, but so will Chaz and Shari. In fact, if everything goes as planned, Chaz and Shari will be so moved by the example of loving bliss Luke and I (and his parents) make, that they’ll start getting along again.

  I’m sure of it. More than sure. I’m positive.

  “Your own family must miss you,” Tiffany says casually. “Are they mad you aren’t coming home for Thanksgiving?”

  “No,” I say, glancing at the clock. Four more minutes before I can leave…and be rid of Tiffany for another day. Not that I mind her that much, she’s just…well, wearing. “I’m going home for Christmas.”

  “Oh? Luke going with you?”

  “No.” I’m having to hide my annoyance now. Luke’s parents spend Christmas and New Year’s at their château in France. They’d asked him to join them this year.

  And yeah, I was disappointed about this. Not that he hadn’t asked me to come with him. He had. Although he’d preceded the invitation with the words, “I suspect you’ll want to spend the holidays with your own family, but…”

  Which he had actually suspected wrongly.

  But not completely. I DID want to spend the holidays with my own family…and with Luke. I’d wanted him to come back to Ann Arbor with me to meet my parents. This didn’t seem like an unreasonable expectation to me, either. I’d met his family, after all. It seemed to me that if Luke really wanted to make a long-term thing out of our relationship, he’d want to meet my family.

  But when I’d asked him if he wanted to fly home with me, he’d winced and said, “Oh hey, I’d love to. But, you know, I already got my ticket to France. I got a really excellent deal on it. And it’s non-transferable and nonrefundable. I could check and see if they have any left for you, though, if you want to come with me…”

  But the truth is, I only get three days off work at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn (Monsieur Henri’s is shutting down for the entire week between Christmas and New Year’s), not exactly enough time to fly to France and back. But—lucky me—plenty of time to visit Ann Arbor. When I get back, I’ll be stuck working—and living—alone until Luke gets back after New Year’s.

  That’s right. After New Year’s. I get to ring in the New Year solo here in Manhattan while he’s off whooping it up in the South of France. Happy New Year to me!

  Not that I shared any of this with Tiffany. It wasn’t any of her business. Besides, I knew what she’d say. Her boyfriend had come out to meet her parents in North Dakota the first year they’d started dating.

  “Well.” Tiffany is heaving a sigh. “I guess Raoul and I will just hang out at home and have take-out or something. Since neither of us cooks.”

  I am not going to ask Tiffany and her boyfriend to join us for our Thanksgiving meal. It’s just going to be me and Luke, his parents, and Chaz and Shari. A nice, civilized meal, like the ones we all used to have over the summer at Château Mirac.

  One fifty-nine. I am so close to being out of here.

  “The Chinese place near us does a kind of turkey dumpling on Thanksgiving,” Tiffany goes on. “It’s pretty good. Though of course I miss sweet potatoes. And pecan pie.”

  “Well, there are lots of restaurants in my neighborhood that are serving three- and even four-course Thanksgiving meals that day,” I say cheerfully. “Maybe you guys could make a reservation at one of those.”

  “It’s not the same as being in someone’s home,” Tiffany says. “Restaurants are so cold. For Thanksgiving, you want cozy. There’s nothing cozy about a restaurant.”

  “Well,” I say. Two o’clock. I’m done. I’m out.

  I stand up. “I’m sure you can find a restaurant that delivers Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Yeah,” Tiffany says with a sigh, getting up to take my chair. “But it’s not the same as home-cooked.”

  “That’s true,” I say. Don’t do it, Lizzie, I’m telling myself. Do not fall for it. No pity invitations. “Well, I have to run—”

  “Yeah,” Tiffany says, not looking at me. “Good luck with the wedding dresses thing.”

  I am halfway out the door, my coat over my arm, when I feel myself pulled back, as if by some kind of tracking device.

  “Tiffany,” I hear my mouth saying, even though my brain is shrieking Nooooo!

  She glances up from the computer screen, which she’s using, I know, to check her horoscope. “Yeah?”

  “Would you and Raoul like to come over for Thanksgiving dinner?” Nooooo!

  Tiffany does a good job of dissembling indifference. She really would make a terrific actress.

  “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I’ll have to check with Raoul. But, like…maybe.”

  “Well,” I say. “Just let me know. Bye.”

  I curse myself in the elevator the whole ride down to the lobby. What is the matter with me? Why did I invite her? She can’t cook so it’s not like she’s going to bring anything.

  And she certainly isn’t going to be able to add anything to the table conversation. All Tiffany Sawyer knows anything about is the latest pump from Prada and which Hollywood celebrity is sleeping with which Hollywood producer’s son…

  And I’ve never even met this Raoul character, her married—married!—lover. Who knows what he’s like. From what Daryl says, nothing that great (though Daryl is admittedly biased).

  Oh, why do I let my big mouth get me into these things?

  I try to cheer myself up, however, with the thought that Raoul might balk at the idea of coming to Thanksgiving dinner at a perfect stranger’s place.

  Although considering that this perfect stranger has an apartment on Fifth Avenue, this seemed unlikely. Having a Fifth Avenue address, I’m finding out, is like living in Beverly Hills or something. New Yorkers—even transplanted ones—are insane about real estate…maybe because there’s so little of it actually available, and what there is is prohibitively expensive.

  So whenever I tell people where I live, their eyes bulge out a little. And without my even mentioning the Renoir.

  Oh well. I’m doing a kind thing. It’s not like Tiffany has anyone else, not being particularly close to her ultraconservative parents, who don’t approve of her relationship with Raoul. And Lord knows Roberta isn’t likely to have her over for dinner anytime soon. My doing so will score me some
bonus karma points, which I really need, given the amount of trouble my big mouth is always getting me into…

  …a fact driven home harder than ever when the elevator doors open on the lobby level and I step out to see a familiar face at the security desk. Jill Higgins, on her way up to another appointment with Chaz’s dad. Today she’s wearing her usual ensemble of jeans, sweater, and Timberlands—even though the Post did a whole make-over spread about her this weekend, where they had a paper-doll cutout of Jill with all these different outfits to put on her, including her zoo uniform and a tacky bridal gown.

  I hesitate. I’ve been thinking about Jill a lot—every day, practically. Well, it’s kind of hard not to, considering there always seems to be some story or other about “Blubber” in the local rags. It’s like New Yorkers can’t seem to believe that someone as rich as John MacDowell could fall in love with a woman who isn’t as stereotypically beautiful as…well, Tiffany.

  And the fact that Jill’s a working girl—and works with seals, no less—seems to have made her an even bigger target for acid-tongued New York society. Apparently, she’ll be the first MacDowell wife ever to hold a job (aside from volunteer work for charity that is).

  And the fact that Jill has said she intends to keep her job working with the seals even after she’s married has the matrons of Fifth Avenue (I know. My own street!) cringing.

  All of which has me worried. Seriously. And okay, not as worried as I am about Shari and Chaz (naturally). But still. I can’t stop thinking about what Tiffany told me my first day of work—that John MacDowell’s family is making that poor girl wear some ancestral bridal gown that’s been in their family for a million years on her big day.

  I’m willing to bet that ancestral gown’s a size two, at the largest.

  And Jill’s a size fourteen or twelve, at the smallest.

  How’s she going to fit into a dress like that? And she has to—she has to wear it. That whole thing about the dress…that is a clear challenge by her fiancé’s mother. It’s like Mrs. MacDowell is saying, “Do this…or you’ll never fit in with the rest of us. Literally.”

  Jill has got to rise to the challenge, or she’ll never have any peace from her in-laws. And the press’ll certainly never stop calling her Blubber.

  And okay. Maybe I’m projecting. But from what I’ve read—and what I know, from working at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn—I’m not far off.

  So what’s Jill going to do? She has to be taking that dress to someone for alterations…but who? Is it someone who understands the urgency of the situation? Is it someone who is going to tell her the truth—that there is no way you can squeeze a size-twelve body into a size-two gown without using a lot of hideous panels?

  Oh God. Just the thought of panels is making me shudder.

  And as I stand there, watching Jill show her driver’s license so that the security guard can make her a pass, I realize that I want her to come to me. I know it sounds crazy. But I don’t want anybody else working on Jill’s dress. Not because I’m afraid of her falling prey to a huckster like Maurice…although I am. But because I want her to look beautiful on her wedding day. I want John’s family to gasp as she comes down the aisle, because she looks so beautiful. I want that dress to be an in-your-face to her mother-in-law. I want the New York press to take back that “Blubber,” and substitute it with “Beautiful.”

  And I know I can make that happen. I just know it. Doesn’t Jennifer Harris love what I—under Monsieur Henri’s watchful eye, of course—have done so far to her mother’s bridal gown? Even her mother grudgingly admitted during her daughter’s latest fitting that the gown looks “better” on Jennifer than it ever did on any of her other girls.

  There’s only one reason for that: my hard work.

  I want to do the same for Jill. I mean, she threw out her back lifting a seal! A girl like that deserves the very best in certified wedding-gown specialists.

  And okay, I don’t quite have my certification yet. But it’s really only a matter of time…

  Only how? How can I let Jill know I’m here for her if she needs me? I can’t very well slip her my business card (oh yes. I’d had business cards made up, with Monsieur Henri’s address and my cell number on them), while also maintaining the level of “discretion and professionalism” Roberta told me Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn expects from its employees. I’m pretty sure something like that could get me fired…and I still need this job.

  But not as much, I realize all at once, as Jill moves toward the security gate, and I spot the most hideous of all fashion faux pas—VPLs, or visible panty lines—below her waist. Oh God! VPLs! Someone must help her!

  And, by God, that someone is going to be me. Which is more important anyway, my making rent or this poor, put-upon girl looking the best she possibly can on her wedding day? That’s a no-brainer. I’m just going to go up to her and offer my services. We’re not in the office now, I’m on my own time. And maybe she won’t even remember where she’s seen me before. No one ever remembers receptionists…

  “Excuse me—”

  Oh! Too late! She’s going through the security gate. Dammit! I’ve missed her.

  Well, that’s okay. No, really, it’s fine. I’ll get her next time. If there is a next time…

  There has to be a next time.

  “So.” A lanky guy in gray cords that I’d noticed hanging around one of the magazine stands in the lobby is sidling up to me.

  Great. This is all I need. To be hit on by yet another guy who thinks from my clothes that I’m some midwestern rube who is going to fall for his line about how he’s a photographer for a modeling agency, and do I want to go back to his studio with him so he can take some pictures of me? Because he wants to make me a star. Yawn.

  “Sorry,” I say, turning around and heading toward the lobby doors. “Not interested.”

  This, of course, is why New Yorkers have a reputation for rudeness. But it’s not our fault! It’s guys like this who make New Yorkers so suspicious of any stranger who tries to speak to them on the street!

  “Wait.” Gray Cords is following me. Oh no! “Was that Jill Higgins you were waving to just then?”

  I stop. I can’t help myself. The words “Jill Higgins” have this magic effect on me. That’s how much I want to get my hands on her wedding dress.

  “Yes,” I say. Who is this guy? He certainly doesn’t look like a pervert…but then, how do I know what a pervert looks like?

  “So, you’re a friend of hers?” Gray Cords wants to know.

  “No,” I say. And suddenly—just like that—I know who he is. It’s amazing how hardened you can become after just a few months in Manhattan. “What paper are you with?”

  “The New York Journal,” he says matter-of-factly, taking a PDA from one of his pockets and turning it on. “Do you know what she’s doing here? Jill, I mean? There are a lot of law firms in this building. Was she headed up to one of them? Would you happen to know which one…and why?”

  I can feel my face turning bright red. Not because I’m embarrassed for having said something indiscreet. Because for once I haven’t. My face is getting red because I’m angry.

  “You people—” I want to hit him. I really do. “You should be ashamed of yourself! Following that poor girl around, calling her ‘Blubber’—what gives you the right to judge her? Huh? What makes you think you’re so much better than she is?”

  “Relax,” Gray Cords says, looking bored. “Why do you feel so sorry for her, anyway? She’s gonna be richer than Trump in a couple of months—”

  “Get away from me!” I shout. “And get out of this building, before I notify security!”

  “Okay, okay.” Gray Cords slinks away, muttering the four-letter word for the female sex organ that I apparently remind him of.

  But I don’t care.

  And just to ensure he stays away from Jill when she comes out, I march up to the security desk, point Gray Cords out to Mike and Raphael, and inform them that he just exposed himsel
f to me. The last I see of Gray Cords, he is being chased out of the building by two men wielding billy clubs.

  There are times when having a big mouth and no great reservations about telling outright lies really comes in handy.

  Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide

  The last thing anyone wants on her wedding day is to end up on prime-time television—you know, with one of those moments where the bride slips and a dominolike effect causes everyone she comes into contact with to fall as well, until the last person lands with his face in the wedding cake, like something on America’s Funniest Home Videos (although there is really nothing funny about wasted cake).

  So be sure to break in your wedding shoes before the big day…not just to save yourself from blisters, but to keep yourself from slipping, as well. Women’s shoes have notoriously slick soles. You can avoid having your feet slide out from under you at an inopportune moment by applying no-skid stickers to the bottom of your shoes (on the outside, not the inside, silly).

  Forget to buy stickers? Never fear! By carefully (so as not to cut yourself) running a knife blade across the sole of your shoe in a hatchmark pattern, you can also prevent slipping on just about any surface (save ice. But if you’re getting married on ice, you have a completely different set of problems).

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  Chapter 13

  Gossip is dying out because fewer and fewer people care to talk about anything besides themselves.

  —Mason Cooley (1927–2002), American aphorist

  By the time I finally get to Monsieur Henri’s shop later that afternoon, I’m no longer freaking out about having invited Tiffany and her boyfriend to dinner. It was the right thing to do. Thanksgiving is about family, and Tiffany is certainly part of mine.

  Well, my work family, anyway. Sure, she can be annoying—she’s still only cleared one drawer in the reception desk for me, and she leaves sticky, half-gnawed Twizzlers everywhere. Plus, she’s repeatedly erased my wedding-gown site bookmarks on our shared computer.