Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  I look down at the Diet Coke I’ve bought but haven’t even opened yet. I can hardly believe this is happening. How could my day, which had started out so incredibly well, be going downhill so fast?

  “But…what about your boys?” I ask. “I mean, doesn’t he want them to come with you?”

  I can’t imagine Provence would hold any appeal whatsoever for the two club-hopping Henri boys.

  “Oh, no, of course not,” Madame Henri says. “No, and they don’t want to come with us. They have to stay and finish school. But that’s why we need to sell the building. We’ll need something to pay for that. New York University is so expensive.” She sighs. Her eyeliner, usually so carefully and expertly put on, is smudged, a clear sign of the stress she’s under. “And then we’ll need something to live on. If he’s doing nothing but playing pétanque all day…I suppose I could look for work, but there isn’t much a middle-aged woman who used to manage a bridal gown refurbishment shop can do in the south of France.” She sighs again, and I can see the pain the admission has caused her.

  “Of course,” I say. The urge to vomit that I’d felt while speaking to Tiffany earlier returns. “And you don’t think you can get by just from the sale of your house in New Jersey?”

  “Well, we hope to get a nice amount for it, of course,” Madame Henri says. “But nowhere near what we can get for the building. Miss Lowenstein is going to send over an inspector and then get an appraisal, but she says comparable buildings in this area are selling for four to five million dollars.”

  I nearly choke on my own saliva.

  Four to five million dollars? Four to five million?

  So I don’t have a hope of being able to buy the shop myself. I’m pretty sure you can’t get a mortgage for that amount. Not if you’re me, and you’re making thirty grand a year, and you have exactly two thousand dollars in your savings account.

  So I’m homeless and jobless. Great. Just great.

  “It’s just,” I say, clearing my throat. “The shop is doing really well. Really well.” Nowhere near four to five million well. But I don’t mention that. “And since you already own your home in Provence, and you’ll have the money from the sale of your house in New Jersey, it just seems like—”

  “Oh,” Madame Henri says. She’s looking across the street. Her husband is coming out of Goldmark Realty and glancing around impatiently for her. “Here he is. Elizabeth, listen…I know. I feel terrible. And I am doing what I can for you. I…will speak to Maurice, if you wish.” I stare at her in horror. Maurice? The rival wedding gown rehabilitator who was trying to run the Henris out of business when they first hired me…but didn’t, thanks only to my efforts?

  “Um…that’s all right,” I say in a strangled voice.

  “I will speak to you soon. Yes? I will telephone. Good-bye for now.” She kisses me on both cheeks and is gone.

  I sit there, trying to figure out what just happened. Did my boss’s wife really just tell me that they’re selling out and moving overseas? That I am out of both a job and a place to live? Worse, that I’m going to have to fire my staff? Where are Sylvia and Marisol going to go? I’m not so worried about Tiffany and Monique. They’ll find some poor sap to hire them to answer phones somewhere. But what about my seamstresses? How am I going to break this news to Shari? I promised her I’d take care of them.

  Oh my God, could my day suck more?

  This can’t be happening. It really can’t. What am I going to do?

  Sighing, I pull out my cell phone and look at my contacts. Who am I going to call? In times of crisis in the past, I’ve always called one number…home. And okay, generally I’ve wanted to talk to my mom. But Gran is always the one who answered. And whether I liked it or not, Gran is the one who generally gave me the single piece of advice that almost always ended up helping me the most.

  But Gran’s not here anymore.

  I think about calling Chaz. But this isn’t Chaz’s problem. It’s mine. If I’m ever going to stand on my own two feet, I can’t go running off to the man in my life every time something goes wrong. I have to work this through on my own.

  Besides, I know what Chaz is going to say: “Oh, you can move in with me.”

  No! I can’t let that happen! I have to solve this myself, without a guy helping me. Besides, that’s how I ended up in this mess with Luke, when I moved in with him out of necessity when Shari and I couldn’t find a place together, as opposed to because the two of us were actually ready for cohabitation.

  Suddenly, my cell phone chirps…and when I see who is at the other end of the call, I almost sag with relief.

  “Hi,” I say, picking up.

  “Hey,” Shari says in the gentle tone that I’ve begun to notice people use with the newly bereaved. “How are you? I’ve been meaning to call.”

  “Not good,” I say. “I really need to talk. And not on the phone. There’s—” I clear my throat. I am so phlegmy lately. Well, when you’ve been crying as much as I have, I guess it’s only natural. “Something I need to tell you. Can you take a break and meet me somewhere?”

  “Sure,” Shari says, sounding concerned. “How about the bubble tea place down here near my office?”

  Where Shari told me all but the real reason why she was leaving Chaz. How appropriate.

  “I’ll see you there in half an hour,” I say and hang up, then start hurrying toward the subway. At this time of day, a taxi down the FDR would be quicker. But I’m about to be unemployed. I need to save every penny I’ve got.

  Shari calls to say she’ll be late, of course. A crisis at the office arises, and she’s the only one, as usual, who can handle it.

  Fortunately she calls just as I’m exiting the subway, so I’m able to use my sudden windfall of spare time to window-shop. Her office is so far downtown that it’s actually on the fringes of Chinatown, and as I wander around, blindly going from window to window, I find myself walking past shops displaying wedding gowns. Some of them have Mandarin collars and toggles down the front, and yet the mannequins are wearing veils.

  Despite the fact that they are being sold in shops that are right next to fish markets or restaurant supply stores, the gown’s prices are right up there with those at Kleinfeld’s. I overhear two women in front of one window speaking in rapid Chinese while pointing at a particularly gorgeous gown, and while I can’t understand exactly what they’re saying, the meaning behind the words is clear: eight hundred dollars for the pretty white sheath with lace overlay is too much…especially for something any talented seamstress could make at home for a fraction of the price.

  I agree with them. Bridal gown shopping is a bitch.

  I find a table at the bubble tea place and end up waiting only five minutes before Shari comes bursting in, effusing apologies and sliding into the chair opposite mine before saying kindly, “Now, I’ve told everyone at the office that I’m not to be disturbed. I’ve turned off my phone and beeper, and I have all the time in the world. So tell me. How are you? What’s going on?”

  I surprise both of us by bursting into tears. I try to hide my face in a napkin, but the few students and other scruffy-looking, writer-looking types working on their fancy laptops at nearby tables still glance over at us in annoyance. The waitress, who was approaching to take our order, decides to give us a wide berth instead and goes off in the opposite direction.

  Shari is so shocked she can’t help laughing a little.

  “Lizzie,” she says. “What is it? Is it your grandmother? I’m so sorry. I know you miss her, but she died happy, Lizzie, in her sleep, with a beer in her hand. She’s probably in heaven right now, watching Dr. Quinn all the time. And every single episode has Sully in it!”

  I shake my head so violently that my hair falls out of the sloppy ponytail into which I’ve pulled it. Strands of it stick to my now-wet cheeks.

  “I-it’s not that,” I hiccup.

  “What is it, then?” Shari wants to know. “Is it Chaz? Did he do something to upset you? I’ll kill him. Jus
t say the word and I’ll go cut his wiener off—”

  “No.” I shake my head some more. “It’s not Chaz. It’s not Gran, either—”

  “Oh.” Shari nods knowingly. “I get it. You told him. Luke. Oh, Lizzie. I’m sorry. But, you know, it’s for the best. I mean, the truth is, you’re better off without him. I never could stand him. He was just so…perfect. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  I sit there staring at her in horror. I don’t think I could have spoken if I’d tried.

  “I mean, with the château and the good looks and the doctor thing and the apartment on Fifth Avenue,” Shari goes on. “There was something almost creepy about it. Like…what lucky star was he born under? Then when he was so mean to you last Christmas…Seriously, I couldn’t believe it when you said yes when he asked you to marry him. I pretended like I was happy for you because that’s what best friends do, but now…When are you going to dump him? Because I so want to buy a Carvel cake.” When she notices that I’m staring at her without having said a word, she explains, “To celebrate.”

  “Shari,” I say when I can finally summon the ability to speak. “I didn’t break up with Luke.”

  It’s Shari’s turn to stare at me for a while. Finally she says, “Oh. You didn’t?”

  I shake my head.

  “So…” She chews on her lower lip. “So I just really put my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?”

  I take a deep breath. Then I release it. Because suddenly the tears are back.

  Only this time I’m not going to let them win.

  Then I say, “Shari. The Henris are selling the building I live and work in and moving to France. I’m losing my job, my apartment, and, basically, my life. Plus, even though you apparently think Luke is too perfect, I wouldn’t exactly jump to that conclusion, because unlike Chaz, at least he actually wanted to marry me. Chaz most emphatically doesn’t. Still, I’m really happy that you’re so glad for me that I’m getting rid of him. But excuse me if I don’t feel like I have too much to celebrate right now. Especially with a Carvel cake.”

  “Lizzie.” It’s Shari’s turn to look horrified. “I—”

  But I realize I can’t sit there a second longer. I have to get out. I just have to. I push back my chair and stand up as the waitress is heading over. She gives me an annoyed look, but I keep heading toward the door.

  “Lizzie,” Shari calls after me. “Lizzie, come on! I didn’t know. You can’t just walk out of here like that! Come back here and talk to me. Lizzie!”

  But I keep going. I have to. Even though my tears are blinding me and I can’t see where I’m going.

  A HISTORY of WEDDINGS

  The reason brides have traditionally stood to the left of the groom is so that he’ll have his sword (right) arm free to fend off any last-minute would-be gentleman callers who might still want to press their suit.

  It’s also for this reason that originally best men were not attendants on the groom’s side, but the bride’s. They were supposed to defend the bride from any unwanted male attention that was not the groom’s.

  Unfortunately, the incidence of brides running off with best men tended to be rather high, so the position of best man was switched to the groom’s side, and a maid of honor was appointed to the bride to keep her chaste. Weddings (and wedding parties) sure used to be a lot more interesting!

  Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

  Don’t be a bridezilla! Yes, everyone is going to have an opinion on who you ought to hire and what you ought to choose for your flowers, your cake, your wedding photos. Take the advice you like, and politely ignore or laugh off the rest. Don’t take it all so personally! So what if your wedding isn’t as grand/expensive/beautiful/bohemian as cousin Jacqueline’s? It’s not a contest! It’s about your joining your life—forever—to someone else’s. GET. OVER. IT.

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  • Chapter 20 •

  Hail, wedded love, mysterious law; true source of human happiness.

  John Milton (1608–1674), English poet

  My cell phone won’t stop ringing. I know who it is. But I won’t pick up.

  I am standing on Madison Avenue between Seventy-seventh and Seventy-sixth Streets. I am staring into the windows of a shop. I’ve stopped crying and can now see clearly. I can make out every inch of the yards and yards of creamy white silk and petal soft lace draped on the mannequin in front of me. I can see every minute detail on the stitching, so fine it’s almost invisible, the delicacy of the beading, the luxuriousness of the stiff tulle crinoline that holds the skirt in place. The gown is perfection personified.

  It must cost thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands, maybe.

  And yet.

  And yet I think I could come up with something fairly close that—though it wouldn’t be quite as sumptuous—would make the girl wearing it feel just as special.

  For a fraction of the cost.

  I’m just saying. What I do is cheap—yeah, okay? I’ll admit it. But it’s still pretty good. People like it. Ava Geck liked it. Jill Higgins liked it. Hundreds—well, okay, dozens—of other brides have liked it. It was good enough for them.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t Vera Wang.

  But it was good enough for their wedding day. It made them feel special. It made them look beautiful.

  And that ability—that talent for taking something not so great and making it into something pretty, for not a lot of money—it’s all I have.

  I realize this as I stand there on the busy sidewalk, as the summer heat beats down on me and busy New Yorkers rush by.

  The reality is, that’s all I’ve got to contribute to the universe.

  It’s true. Shari helps women who’ve been abused. Chaz is going to teach philosophy, probably to students as snotty about it as he is. (But hey. That’s important. Probably.) Luke is going to save the children—or help already rich people get richer, depending on what he decides. Tiffany models and answers phones, and Ava Geck…well, Ava does whatever she does, while Little Joey protects her.

  And I make old wedding dresses pretty again. Sometimes I create new ones. For a fraction of what a designer gown at the shops around the corner on Madison Avenue would charge to do it.

  It’s an okay thing to do.

  It has to be. Because it’s all I’ve got.

  And there’s nothing wrong with that. Right?

  My phone rings again. This time, when I glance at the display screen, I see that it’s not Chaz, but Luke. Unable to imagine why he could be calling, I pick up.

  “I heard,” he says in a grim voice after I say hello.

  My heart seems to stop. For a second, all the sounds of the busy street behind me—the honking, the sirens, the squealing of brakes—seem to fade away. All I can hear is my own breathing. And that seems shallow and irregular.

  “You…heard?” I manage to wheeze.

  “About the shop closing? Yeah,” he says. “I called there first. Tiffany told me. Lizzie, I’m so sorry.”

  And my heart begins to beat again. And all the sounds of the city come floating slowly back.

  “Oh,” I say.

  God. I am so stupid. Also, I am the worst Bad Girl ever to grace the Bad Girl Scale in the history of Bad Girls.

  “Right. Yes. It’s awful. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “I do,” Luke says. “You’re going to move to Paris with me.”

  I am trying not to be run over by all the people who are hurrying along the sidewalk. For the most part, they are stepping around me. But every once in a while, a harried Upper East Side mom on her way to some important lunch appointment uptown doesn’t see me and almost barrels her Bugaboo baby carriage into me, and I have to move. This happens now, and in the confusion, I think I’ve misheard Luke.

  “I beg your pardon?” I say to him.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Lizzie.” He is thousands of miles away, but he sounds as if he were standing right beside me. Except for the car horns and occasional police
siren down Madison Avenue, which makes him slightly difficult to hear. I put my finger in my nonphone ear, just to be sure.

  “But just listen for a minute,” he goes on. “I tried the medical school thing. I did. You can’t say I didn’t give it a fair shot. But…I just don’t think I’m cut out for it. I can’t hack another five or six—or more—years of school. I can’t do it. I think it will kill me. I really do.”

  I watch as another young mother, this one pushing a newborn, walks by, a seven-or eight-year-old skipping by her side, an ice cream cone dripping all over his hand, down his arm, and onto the front of his shirt. Neither he nor his mom seems to care.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “But since coming to work for Uncle Gerald—Lizzie. It’s been great. I love it. I really do. I know when you first met me I was doing the same thing, and I said I didn’t like it, and I seemed burned out…but this is different. Gerald’s offered me my own department. I’ll have people working under me.” I’ve never heard Luke sound so enthusiastic. About anything. He sounds like his father sounds when he talks about wine. He sounds young. He sounds…happy. “There’s just one catch.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “It’s here,” Luke says. “In Paris. I’d have to move to Paris. Permanently.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “But that’s why when I heard what happened today at the shop,” he goes on excitedly, “I thought, it’s a perfect opportunity. You’re out of a job, and I just got offered a great one. Lizzie, you can come here, to Paris. You can start over, like I’m doing. You can open a new shop here. A bridal shop. I walked by one the other day, and your dresses are a thousand times nicer. And much more affordable. Everything here is so expensive. There’s a real demand for affordable fashion. That’s where your niche is, I think, Lizzie. That’s what you need to do. Open your own shop here in Paris. A shop that offers beautiful couture for the ordinary girl, at prices she can afford. For brides.”