Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  But when I’d come over to hang the finished curtains, Shari had asked me pointedly if I was trying to make their apartment look like Lung Cheung, the neighborhood Chinese restaurant where we used to eat as kids back in Ann Arbor.

  “No, of course it wasn’t the curtains,” Shari says with a laugh. “Although with the gold couches, they do sort of make the place look like a bordello.”

  I groan. “We really thought you’d like it.”

  “Listen, Lizzie. It wouldn’t have mattered what anybody did to that place. I was never going to like living there. Because I didn’t like who I was when I was living there.”

  “Well, maybe this is a good thing, then,” I say. I’m trying to put a positive slant on things, I know. But Chaz was so devastated by Shari’s moving out, it’s hard not to want to see him happy again…even if Shari doesn’t look all that devastated herself. In fact, Shari looks better than I’ve seen her since we moved to New York. She’s even got on some makeup, for a change.

  “Maybe some time apart will help you guys to figure out what went wrong,” I say. “And make you appreciate what you had more. Like…you two could start dating again! Maybe that’s what went wrong in the first place. When you’re living with someone, you kind of stop dating. And that can take all the romance out of the relationship.” You know what else can take all the romance out of a relationship? Sleeping on a pull-out couch with your boyfriend’s parents in the next room. But I don’t mention this.

  “But maybe if you guys are dating,” I go on, “the fire of your love will be reignited, and you’ll get back together.”

  “I am never getting back together with Chaz, Lizzie,” Shari says, calmly removing her tea bag from her mug and laying it on the side of the earthenware plate we’ve been provided for this purpose.

  “You never know,” I say. “I mean, a little time apart might actually make you miss him.”

  “Then I’ll just call him,” Shari says. “I still want to be friends with him. He’s an amazing, funny guy. But I don’t want to be his girlfriend anymore.”

  “Was it all the cookies?” I ask. “You know, that he doesn’t have a job, and had nothing to do all day except read and bake and clean and stuff?” Which actually sounds like a dream existence to me. With all the work I’m being saddled with—Monsieur Henri has me practicing ruching…like I didn’t master the art of ruching in eighth grade, when I realized ruching hides a less-than-flat tummy. I’m getting a little tired of playing Sewing Kid to Monsieur Henri’s Mister Miyagi—I barely have time to run the vacuum once in a while, let alone do any baking.

  On the other hand, I am learning a lot. Mostly about the challenges of parenting teen boys in the new millennium. But also about running a bridal-design business in Manhattan.

  “Of course not,” Shari says. “Although speaking of jobs, I should be getting back to mine soon.”

  “Just five more minutes,” I beg. “I’m really worried about you, Shari. I mean, I know you can take care of yourself, and all of that, but I still can’t help feeling like this is all my fault. If I had just moved in with you and not Luke, like we were supposed to—”

  “Oh, please,” Shari says with a laugh. “Chaz and I breaking up had nothing to do with you, Lizzie.”

  “I let you down,” I said. “And for that, I am so, so sorry. But I think I can make it up to you.”

  Shari’s straw hits the tapioca at the bottom of her mug. “Oh, this ought to be good,” she says, about my offer to make it up to her. Not about the tapioca. Although Shari has always loved stuff like that.

  “Seriously,” I say. “Did you know that there’s an empty apartment just sitting above Monsieur Henri’s?”

  Shari keeps on slurping. “Go on.”

  “Now, I know Madame Henri wants two thousand a month for it. But I have seriously been doing so much work for them—they’re totally dependent on me at this point. So if I ask them to let you live in the apartment at a reduced rate—say, fifteen hundred a month—they’ll have to say yes. They’ll just HAVE to.”

  “Thanks, Lizzie,” Shari says, putting down her mug and reaching for her raffia slouch bag. “But I’ve got a place.”

  “At Pat’s? Living with your boss?” I shake my head. “Shari, come on. Talk about taking your work home with you—”

  “It’s actually pretty cool,” Shari says. “She has a ground-floor place in Park Slope, with an actual yard in the back, for her dogs—”

  “Brooklyn!” I’m shocked. “Shari, that’s so far!”

  “It’s actually a straight shot on the F,” Shari says. “The stop is right outside where I work.”

  “I mean from me!” I practically yell. “I’ll never see you anymore!”

  “You’re seeing me now,” Shari says.

  “I mean at night,” I say. “Look, won’t you let me at least talk to the Henris about you possibly moving into the place above the shop? I’ve seen it, and it’s really cute, Shari. And pretty big. Considering. It’s on the top floor, and the place below it is just used for storage. You’d have the whole building to yourself after work hours. And one whole wall is exposed brick. You know how much you love that look.”

  “Lizzie, don’t worry about me,” Shari says. “I’m good, really. I know this whole thing with Chaz seems like the end of the world to you. But it’s not to me. It’s really not. I’m happy, Lizzie.”

  And just like that, it hits me. Shari really is happy. Happier than I’ve seen her since we moved to New York. Happier, really, than I’ve seen her since college. Happier than I’ve seen her since those early days back at McCracken Hall, when she first started going out with (or sleeping with, basically) Chaz.

  “Oh my God,” I say, as reality finally sinks in. “There’s someone else!”

  Shari looks up from her bag, which she’s digging through to find her wallet. “What?” She looks at me strangely.

  “There’s someone else,” I cry. “That’s why you say you and Chaz are never going to get back together. Because you’ve met someone else!”

  Shari stops looking for her wallet and stares at me. “Lizzie, I—”

  But even in the winter afternoon light, spilling in through the Village Tea House’s less-than-clean windows, I can see the blush slowly suffusing her cheeks.

  “And you’re in love with him!” I cry. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it! You’re sleeping with him, too, aren’t you? I can’t believe you’re sleeping with someone I haven’t even met. Okay, who is he? Spill. I want all the details.”

  Shari looks uncomfortable. “Lizzie, look. I have to get back to work.”

  “That’s where you met him, isn’t it?” I demand. “At work? Who is he? You’ve never mentioned a guy at work. I thought it was all women. What is he, like the copier repairman or something?”

  “Lizzie.” Shari isn’t blushing anymore. Instead, she’s gone kind of pale. “This really isn’t how I wanted to do this.”

  “Do what?” I stir the tapioca at the bottom of my mug. I am totally not eating it. Talk about empty carbs. Wait—does tapioca even have carbs? What is tapioca, anyway? A grain? Or a gelatin? Or what? “Come on. You’ve only been gone from work for like ten minutes. No one’s going to die if you’re gone five minutes more.”

  “Actually,” Shari says. “Someone might.”

  “Come on,” I say again. “Just admit I’m right, and that there’s someone else. Just say it. I’m not going to believe you’re really over Chaz until I hear you say it.”

  Shari, her lips set in a straight line, stabs at her tapioca with her straw. “All right,” she says, her voice so soft I can barely hear her above the pan flute music they’re playing over the speakers in every corner of the tea shop. “There’s someone else.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t hear you. Would you mind repeating that a little louder, please?”

  “There’s someone else,” Shari says, glaring at me. “I’m in love with someone else. There. Are you satisfied?”

  “N
o,” I say. “Details, please.”

  “I told you,” Shari says, diving back into her bag and pulling a ten-dollar bill from her wallet. “I don’t want to do this now.”

  “Do what?” I demand, grabbing my coat as she shrugs into hers and clambers to her feet. “Tell your best friend about the guy you just dumped your long-term boyfriend for? When would be a good time to do it? I’m just wondering.”

  “Not now,” Shari says. She’s picking her way past floor pillows on which our fellow tea-drinkers are sitting. “Not when I have to get back to work.”

  “Tell me on the way,” I say. “I’ll walk you back.”

  We reach the door and step out into the cold winter air. A semitrailer barrels by on Bleecker Street, followed by a stream of cabs. The sidewalk is crowded with busy shoppers taking advantage of the Black Friday sales. Somewhere in this city, Luke is being dragged in and out of museums by his father, and Mrs. de Villiers is having her clandestine meeting with her lover.

  Apparently, she isn’t the only one who’s been up to clandestine meetings.

  Shari is uncharacteristically silent on our walk back to her office. Head ducked, she keeps her gaze on her feet…which is actually important to do in New York City, what with so many of the sidewalks being in such a sorry state of disrepair.

  She’s clearly upset. And I’m upset that I’ve upset her.

  “Look, Share,” I say, trotting along behind her. She’s walking about a million miles an hour. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of the situation. Honest. I’m happy for you. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  Shari stops walking so abruptly, I practically run into her.

  “I’m happy,” she says, looking down at me. She’s standing on the curb and I’m in the gutter. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m living with purpose—like what I do has meaning. I’m helping people—people who need me. And I like that feeling. It’s the best feeling in the world.”

  “Well,” I say. “That’s great. Could you let me up on the sidewalk, though? Because I’m afraid I’m gonna get run over.”

  Shari reaches down and pulls me by the arm up onto the sidewalk beside her. “And you’re right,” she says. “I am in love. And I want to tell you all about it. Because that’s a big part of why I’m so happy right now, too.”

  “Cool,” I say. “So spill.”

  “I don’t even know where to start,” Shari says, her eyes shining—and not just because it’s cold enough out to make them water.

  “Well, how about a name?”

  “Pat,” she says.

  “The guy you’re in love with is named Pat?” I laugh. “How weird! That’s your boss’s name!”

  “The girl,” Shari corrects me.

  “The girl what?”

  “The girl I’m in love with,” Shari says. “Her name is Pat.”

  Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide

  Know your…

  Wedding-veil lengths!

  Shoulder—This veil just brushes—what else?—your shoulders. Remember, the taller the bride, the longer the veil should be. This length not recommended for petite brides.

  Elbow—This veil extends to just past your elbows. The more detailed your dress, the simpler you want to keep your veil.

  Fingertip—The ends of this veil hit you just at mid-thigh, or fingertip length. The longer the veil, the more attention is taken away from the bride’s midsection. So this length is recommended for fuller-figured brides.

  Ballet—The ballet length veil extends to the ankles (presumably this veil got its name for being a longer veil that brides still needn’t worry about tripping over).

  Chapel—This veil sweeps the floor, and sometimes drags upon it. If you choose this length, please practice walking in it before the ceremony, to avoid any veil-snagging disasters.

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  Chapter 17

  There are a terrible lot of lies going about the world, and the worst of it is that half of them are true.

  —Winston Churchill (1874–1965), British statesman

  I can’t sleep.

  And it’s not just the metal bar cutting into the middle of my back through the inadequately thin sofa bed mattress beneath me, either.

  Or the fact that I can hear my boyfriend’s father snoring, even though he’s separated from me by several dozen feet and a wall.

  It’s not even the slight traffic noises I can hear through the double-paned windows overlooking Fifth Avenue.

  It doesn’t have anything to do with the incredibly rich meal I just had at Jean Georges, one of New York’s premier destination restaurants for gourmands, which cost as much as twenty yards of dupioni silk…per person.

  Or even with the fact that my boyfriend’s mother came back from her day of Black Friday “shopping” loaded down with plenty of gift bags but looking oddly vital and glowing…especially for a woman who’d allegedly just slogged through the pre-Christmas hordes at Bergdorf Goodman. It wasn’t just my imagination, either. Her husband kept looking at her and going, “What is different? You have done something different! Is it your hair?”

  In response to which Bibi de Villiers merely called him an old goat (in French) and waved him away.

  And it isn’t even that my boyfriend and I are going to be on two different continents during our first New Year’s Eve as a couple, missing that vital Happy New Year stroke-of-midnight kiss.

  No. It’s not any of those things. I know that. I know what’s keeping me up—I know it perfectly well.

  It’s the fact that earlier today (or yesterday, I guess, considering it’s well after midnight by now), my best friend announced that she’s in love with her boss.

  Her female boss.

  And get this: her boss loves her back. Even asked her to move in.

  And Shari was happy to oblige.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, I love Rosie O’Donnell. That documentary about her gay cruise ship line totally made me cry.

  And I think Ellen DeGeneres is a goddess, too.

  But my best friend, who has always, by the way, liked GUYS? Not just LIKED guys, but has always SLEPT WITH guys—way more guys than me, I might add—and who has never expressed sexual interest in a woman the whole time I’ve known her?

  Well, except for that girl Brianna in the dorm.

  But Shari was really drunk that night and said she just woke up with Brianna in her bed and no idea how she got there.

  Wait. Was that a sign? Because Brianna (and her boyfriend, actually) was always hitting on me. But I just told her I wasn’t interested. Why didn’t Shari just say she wasn’t interested, like I always did?

  Although Lord knows I’ve never drunk as much as Shari (she can afford the empty calories. I can’t).

  Still.

  But wait. Shari always did like those foreign films at the Michigan Theater in Ann Arbor. You know, the French ones about young girls coming of age sexually, usually with another, older girl as their mentor, or whatever.

  God. That was a sign, too.

  And now that I think of it, there was that time Kathy Pennebaker—God. It always goes back to Kathy Pennebaker, doesn’t it?—invited us over to a slumber party, then wanted to take a group bubble bath. I was like, “Um, aren’t we a little old for a group bubble bath—at sixteen?”

  But Shari, if I recall correctly, actually joined Kathy in her parents’ bathroom, while I stayed downstairs to watch my then-crush, Tim Daly, on a Wings marathon.

  God. I’d wondered what all that splashing had been about. I even yelled up the stairs for them to keep it down, because I couldn’t hear what Tim was saying to Crystal Bernard.

  Jeez. How embarrassing.

  So, okay. I shouldn’t have been so surprised.

  And I guess, considering how much Shari has been talking about Pat, it isn’t that surprising. I mean, we all knew she liked her. We just didn’t know she LIKE liked her.

  And
what’s not to like? Because, after Shari dropped her little bomb, and I stood there on the curb with my mouth hanging open like an idiot, Shari grabbed my hand and said, “Come meet her.”

  I was too stunned to resist. Not that I’d wanted to. I was completely curious to meet this person for whom Shari had dumped Chaz, the previous love of her life.

  And, okay, Pat is no Portia de Rossi.

  But she’s a slender, vibrant woman in her early thirties, with a cascade of bright red ringlets going down her back, and skin the color of milk, with a quick laugh and bright, twinkling blue eyes.

  She shook my hand and said she’d heard a lot about me and that she supposed hearing about her and Shari was a shock, but that she loved Shari very much, and, more important, her dogs, Scooter and Jethro, seemed to love Shari very much.

  To which I didn’t know what to say, except that I’d like to meet Scooter and Jethro someday.

  So Shari and her new girlfriend invited me over to watch the Jets game next weekend.

  I seriously don’t know which is more shocking to me: that my best friend is in love with a girl, or that she’s started watching professional football.

  In any case, I said I’d be there. And then Shari walked me to the elevator.

  “Are you sure you’re okay about this?” Shari wanted to know, as we waited for the rickety two-person lift to arrive. “Because you look kinda…well, the way you looked that day Andy showed up at Luke’s cousin’s wedding.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Because I don’t feel that way at all. I’m totally happy for you. That’s all. I just…how long have you known?”