Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  But she’s been pretty nice to me, as well. I mean, she leaves all her fashion magazines behind for me to read (since I can’t exactly afford to buy my own), and almost always has some little beauty tip to give me—like that Vaseline works just as well for dry skin as expensive moisturizers, or that putting deodorant on your bikini line after shaving prevents ingrown hairs.

  Which is more than I can say for Madame Henri. Not about the deodorant (not that I’ve ever gone up to her and taken a big whiff) but about being nice to me. Oh, sure, she tolerates me.

  But only because I take on a significant portion of her husband’s workload, leaving him free to spend more time at home…a fact about which I’m not entirely sure he’s that happy.

  When I walk through the door that afternoon, in fact, Monsieur Henri and his wife are having a violent argument—only in French, of course, so that Jennifer Harris and her mother, who are there for Jennifer’s final fitting, can’t understand what they’re saying.

  “We’ve got to do it,” Madame Henri is saying viciously. “I don’t see how we’re going to manage otherwise. Maurice has sucked away every last bit of our business with those newspaper ads of his. And when he opens up that new shop of his down the street—well, I don’t need to tell you, that will be the nail in our coffin!”

  “Let’s wait,” her husband says. “Things might pick up.”

  Then, noticing me, he says in English, “Ah, Mademoiselle Elizabeth! Well, what do you think?”

  As if he has to ask. I’m standing there staring at Jennifer Harris, who has come out of the dressing room in her gown, and looks…

  Well, like an angel.

  “I love it,” Jennifer says.

  And anyone could see why. The gown—now with an open, Queen Anne–style neckline, and tight, over-the-wrist lace sleeves (with loops that go over the middle finger, to keep the lace in place)—looks fantastic.

  But it’s Jennifer herself who’s the most beautiful of all. She’s glowing.

  Of course, she’s glowing because I did a kick-ass job on her dress.

  But that’s beside the point.

  “Are you wearing the shoes you’re going to have on for the ceremony?” I ask, Monsieur and Madame Henri’s latest tiff forgotten as I hurry forward to fuss with her skirt. I’ve added a lace drape—to match the sleeves—at the waist, giving her more of a Renaissance-style look. Which, with her long neck and stick-straight hair, really works.

  “Of course,” Jennifer says. “You told me to, remember?”

  The hem is the perfect length—just sweeping the floor. She looks like a princess. No, like a fairy princess.

  “Her sisters are going to kill me when they see her,” Mrs. Harris says—but not unpleasantly. “Because she looks so much better than any of them ever did.”

  “Mom!” Jennifer knows she looks fantastic, so she can afford to be gracious. “You know that’s not true.”

  But the fact that she can’t take her gaze off her own reflection illustrates that she knows it is true.

  Pleased with the results of my labor—and Monsieur Henri’s, as well. He did, after all, provide the lace—I help Jennifer remove the gown and am packing it up for her while her mother pays the not insignificant bill (although it’s a lot less than if they’d bought a whole new dress, even if they’d gone to—shudder—Kleinfeld’s).

  I’ve given Jennifer her garment bag with instructions on how to steam any creases out (by hanging the gown in the bathroom with a hot shower going). Whatever happens, I inform her, DO NOT IRON it. Jennifer is so high on how pretty she looks in her dress that she just says “Okay” in a daze, and runs out to where her mother has parked the car without another word.

  Her mother, however, is more circumspect, stopping beside me after paying Monsieur Henri to squeeze my hand and say, while looking into my eyes, “Lizzie. Thank you.”

  “Oh, no problem, Mrs. Harris.” I’m a little embarrassed. It’s weird to be thanked for doing something you love and would have done in any case, whether or not anyone was paying you (which, in this case, no one was).

  But when Mrs. Harris takes her hand away from mine, I see that I’m wrong. Because she’s surreptitiously pressed a bill into my hand.

  Reminded immediately of Grandma and her emergency sawbuck (which I still have in my handbag), I look down and am surprised to see two zeroes after the number one on the bill Mrs. Harris has given me.

  “Oh, I can’t accept this,” I start to say.

  But Mrs. Harris has already swept out the door, with a promise that she’s going to tell all her friends with daughters of marriageable age about Monsieur Henri. “And I’ll make sure they stay away from that horrible Maurice!” is her parting cry.

  The second she’s gone, Madame Henri starts in again on her husband.

  “And as if things were not bad enough, those boys of yours stayed in the apartment again last night!”

  “They’re your sons, too,” Monsieur Henri points out.

  “No,” Madame Henri corrects him. “Not anymore. If all they are going to do is come into the city to go to the clubs, then dirty up my perfectly clean apartment—which they know they are not supposed to stay in—they are your boys. Because you will not discipline them.”

  “What do you want me to do?” he demands. “I want them to have the advantages I did not have growing up!”

  “They have had enough advantages,” says Madame Henri emphatically. “Now is the time to let them fend for themselves. Let them see what it is like in real life, to have to earn a paycheck.”

  “You know it’s not that easy,” Monsieur Henri says.

  Has he got that right. I look down at the hundred-dollar bill in my hand. It’s the first “found” money I’ve had since moving to this city. Everything here is so expensive! It seems like no sooner do I get a paycheck than it’s gone again, first to rent, then to Con Ed, then to food, then to cable (because I can’t live without the Style channel), and then, if there’s anything left over, to my cell phone bill.

  “Well,” Madame Henri says with a sniff. “I am having the apartment locks changed. And I am keeping the key here in the shop. Hidden.”

  And what about FICA taxes? FICA—Federal Insurance Contributions Act (or as Tiffany insists the letters really stand for, Fucking Idiots taking my Cash Assets)—seems to eat up more of my paychecks than anything.

  “How much is that going to cost me?” Monsieur Henri wants to know.

  “However much it is, it will be worth it,” Madame Henri declares. “If it means those pigs will be kept out of the place. You should see what I found in the bedroom wastebasket. A condom! Used!”

  It’s impossible to pretend I don’t understand French when I hear this. I can’t help making a face…especially when Madame Henri brandishes a plastic trash bag that apparently holds the evidence of her claim.

  “Ew!” I cry.

  When both Henris look at me curiously, I quickly wrinkle my nose and say, “That garbage smells.” Because, truthfully, it totally does. “Do you want me to take it out for you?”

  “Er, yes, thank you,” Madame Henri says after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s the garbage from our flat upstairs.”

  I take the bag between two fingers. “You own the apartments upstairs?” This is news to me. I didn’t know they owned the entire brownstone the shop is in. And I thought they lived in New Jersey. They certainly seemed to complain enough about the commute.

  Monsieur Henri nods. “Yes. The second floor we use for storage. The top floor is a little flat. I sleep there sometimes when I have to work late on a gown—” Which hasn’t happened, as far as I can tell, in a long, long time. Business hasn’t been good enough for any of us to pull any all-nighters. “Otherwise, it sits empty. Our sons use it from time to time—”

  “Without permission!” Madame Henri cries in English. “I would like to rent it out, help with some of the costs of the business—and to keep my pigs of sons from thinking they can sleep there whenever they miss the tr
ain home after a night of debauchery. But this oaf here does not like the idea!”

  “I don’t know,” Monsieur Henri says, not looking as if his sons’ alleged debauchery bothers him that much. “I don’t want the responsibility of being a landlord. And supposing we get one of those crazy tenants, eh? Like we read about in the papers? The ones with all the cats, who won’t move out? I don’t want that.”

  Madame Henri responds by shaking a balled-up fist at her husband. I smile and slip outside to deposit the trash bag in the can by the stoop. With everyone in New York seemingly scrambling to find a better place to live, it’s weird to hear about a place sitting empty…well, except for when it’s used as an occasional flophouse by a couple of party boys.

  “Mademoiselle Elizabeth,” Madame Henri says when I come back inside. “Do you know, perhaps, of someone looking to rent a small efficiency?”

  “No,” I say. “But if I hear of someone, I’ll let you know.”

  “It can’t be just anyone,” Monsieur Henri insists. “They must have references—”

  “And be willing to pay two thousand dollars a month,” Madame Henri adds.

  “Two thousand?” Monsieur Henri cries in French. “That is robbery, woman! Are you mad?”

  “Two thousand dollars a month for a beautiful one-bedroom is perfectly reasonable!” she fires back, also in French. “Do you know how much they are charging for studio apartments? Twice that!”

  “In buildings that have a swimming pool on the roof!” Monsieur Henri scoffs. “Which ours most decidedly does not have!”

  And the two of them are off and running, arguing back and forth. But I’m not alarmed. I’ve spent enough time with them by now to know that this is how they are. I mean, they argue all day long…

  …but I’ve seen Madame Henri fuss over her husband’s hair in an extremely loving way, while at the same time accusing him of purposely practicing unhealthy dietary habits in order to expire sooner and be rid of her.

  And Monsieur Henri regularly ogles his wife’s legs, while simultaneously telling her how much her nagging drives him crazy.

  Once I caught them kissing in the back room.

  Couples. They’re all a little nuts, in their own way, I think.

  I hope that when Luke and I are as old as Monsieur and Madame Henri, we can be just like them.

  Minus the failing business and degenerate sons, I mean.

  Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide

  It’s in the bag!

  Ever wonder what a bride should carry on her wedding day? Well, I’m here to let you in on the mystery:

  —Lipstick, pressed powder (to control shine), and concealer (in case of blemishes)—

  Even if you have your makeup done by a professional, carry these items with you in a small pouch or clutch. You will need them—especially between toasts at the reception (brides, be subtle with makeup fixes at the table…excuse yourself for anything more than a quick check in the compact mirror).

  —Breath mints—

  Trust me, you’re going to need them.

  —Medications—

  If you are prone to migraines, count on getting one on your wedding day. Migraines are often brought on by stress, and what’s more stressful than committing yourself for all eternity to your lover in front of hundreds of friends and family members? Make sure you have your prescription migraine medication with you on your special day, or any other medications that might help you through the day, including aspirin, muscle relaxants (go easy on these), beta-blockers, and homeopathics like aromatherapy oils.

  —Deodorant—

  If you perspire more than average, especially when stressed or overheated, have a minitube of this in your bag for emergencies. You won’t regret it.

  —Feminine hygiene products—

  It happens. Some of us will be having our period on our big day. If you’re due for yours, wear protection just in case, and carry some extra for even more security.

  And, of course,

  —Tissues—

  You know you’re going to cry—or someone close to you will, anyway. So come prepared.

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  Chapter 14

  It is one of my sources of happiness never to desire a knowledge of other people’s business.

  —Dolley Madison (1768–1849), American First Lady

  I completely regret agreeing to let Luke’s parents stay with us over the Thanksgiving weekend.

  And okay, I know it’s his mom’s apartment. And I know it’s supernice of her to allow us to live in it, rent free (well, in Luke’s case).

  And I know we all got along great when we were staying at Château Mirac, the de Villiers ancestral home in France, over the summer.

  But it is one thing to share a château with your boyfriend’s parents.

  It is quite another to share a one-bedroom apartment with them…while also having promised to prepare a traditional Thanksgiving dinner when, truth be told, you’ve really never cooked all that much before.

  The gravity of the situation didn’t really hit me until Carlos, the doorman, buzzed up to say Luke’s parents had arrived. An hour before we were expecting them, and while I was in the middle of sorting through several bouquets of freesia and irises, to which I’d treated myself—as well as Mrs. Erickson from 5B—from the flower section at Eli’s, and purchased with part of Mrs. Harris’s hundred dollars. There’s nothing more welcome than having a vase of fresh cut flowers sitting out when people come to visit—and there’s no nicer gift for someone who has helped you, as Mrs. Erickson had by recommending Monsieur Henri’s to me, either.

  But when the flowers are purchased in bunches from a florist, and still have to be arranged, and are lying in messy piles on top of the stove while you look for vases, it’s sort of hard to feel the welcoming effect. Especially when you’re still in your sweats from doing the grocery shopping—which is still sitting in bags on the kitchen floor—and your boyfriend isn’t home from school yet, and the doorman buzzes to inform you that your “guests” are here…

  “Send them up,” I tell Carlos through the intercom. What else could I say?

  Then I run around like a crazy person, trying to clean up. The place isn’t that bad—I’m something of a neat freak—but all of the lovely touches I’d been hoping to have when Luke’s parents walked in—a tray of freshly mixed cocktails (kir royales, their favorite), party nuts in bowls, assorted cheeses on a platter—have to be abandoned as I cram the dirty laundry in a hamper, run a quick brush through my hair, slap on a bit of lip gloss, then fling open the door.

  “Helloooo!” I cry, noticing that Mr. and Mrs. de Villiers look—well, older than when I’d last seen them. But then, who doesn’t after a plane ride? “You’re early!”

  “There was no traffic coming into the city from the airport,” Mrs. de Villiers drawls in her Texan accent, giving me a kiss on either cheek, as is her custom. “Leaving the city, yes. But coming in? No.” Her gaze sweeps the apartment, taking in the grocery bags, the lack of cocktails, and my sweats. “Sorry we’re early.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem,” I say breezily. “Really. It’s just that Luke isn’t home from class yet—”

  “Well, we will just have to start celebrating without him,” Monsieur de Villiers says, as he unveils a bottle of chilled champagne he’s managed to procure somewhere along the way from the airport.

  “Celebrating?” I blink. “Is there something to celebrate?”

  “There is always something to celebrate,” Monsieur de Villiers says. “But in this case the fact that the Beaujolais nouveau has been released.”

  His wife is pulling an Armani wheelie-suitcase. “Where can I park this?” she wants to know.

  “Oh, your room, of course,” I say as I hurry to produce champagne flutes. “Luke and I will be taking the couch.”

  Monsieur de Villiers winces as the cork from the bottle of champagne he is opening pops. “I told you we should have stayed in a hotel,” he calls to his w
ife. “Now these poor children will have spinal injuries from sleeping on a pull-out couch.”

  “Oh no,” I say. “The couch is fine! Luke and I are so grateful to you for—”

  “It’s a fine pull-out couch!” Mrs. de Villiers insists on her way to the bedroom. “I’ll admit it’s not the most comfortable in the world, but no one is going to suffer a spinal injury!”

  I try to imagine how this conversation would go if it were my own parents, and fail. My parents are still in the dark about Luke and me living together, and I have every intention of keeping it that way…at least until we announce our engagement. I mean, if we ever get engaged, that is. It’s not that they’re morally against people living together before they get married. They’re just against me living with someone I’ve only known for a few months.

  Which actually says a lot about how much they trust my judgment about people.

  Although, looking back on some of my exes, I think maybe they have a point.

  “It’s fine,” I assure Monsieur de Villiers. “Really.”

  “Well.” Mrs. de Villiers has dropped her bag off in the bedroom and returned. “I’m happy to see you’ve made yourself at home in there.”

  I realize she’s referring to the standing rack from Bed Bath & Beyond—and my vintage-dress collection.

  And that she sounds…well, bemused about it.

  And not necessarily in a good way.

  “Oh,” I say. “Yes. I’m sorry. I know my clothes take up a lot of room. I hope you don’t mind—”

  “Of course not!” Mrs. de Villiers says—a little too heartily. “I’m glad you’re making use of the space. Is that a sewing machine I saw on my dressing table?”

  Oh. My. God.