Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

by Meg Cabot

  “You are the shit,” Tiffany screams into the phone. “You have it fucking made!”

  “You know,” I say. “It really doesn’t feel that way right now. Because right now, I can’t get a thing done because I don’t have anyone to ANSWER MY PHONES!”

  “Jesus Christ, you don’t have to yell,” Tiffany says. “You need someone to answer your phones? I’ll answer your fucking phones.”

  I blink, not certain I’ve heard her correctly. “What? No. Wait. I—”

  “I’ll be right there. Where are you again? I can stay till only one because you know I’ve got Pendergast at two. God, I wish I could quit that place. But the benefits are so good. As soon as Raoul gets rid of that troll wife of his and I can get on his insurance, I’m giving Roberta my two weeks’ notice. God, I can’t wait to see her pruny, dried-up face when I do. But I can get someone to come in at one and help you out. I wonder what Monique is doing today. I know she got booted from Chanel for doing blow in the back room. But—”

  “Tiffany.” I’m gripping the edge of my desk. “Really. It’s fine. I don’t need your help. Or Monique’s.” Whoever that is.

  “—it’s cool,” Tiffany goes on, “’cause she’s in Narcotics Anonymous now. So am I. That’s how I met her. Coke is for whores.”

  I realize there’s no point in telling Tiffany that the Anonymous part of Narcotics Anonymous means you actually aren’t supposed to tell people you—or other people you meet there—go to meetings. It will just go in one ear and out the other, like so much of what I tell Tiffany.

  “Look, you said your boss had a heart attack, right?” Tiffany goes on. “We’ll just come in and help out until he’s back on his feet, or whatever. Don’t act like you don’t need us. I can hear the frigging phone ringing off the hook in the background.”

  “Um, thanks. It’s just—” How can I explain that if I were stranded on a desert island and Tiffany pulled up in a rescue boat, I wouldn’t get in it. Love her like a sister? Yeah. Trust her? Not so much. “I don’t have the money to pay you. I mean, we’re not exactly making huge profits yet, and—”

  “What are we talking about here?” Tiffany wants to know. “Twenty bucks an hour?”

  “Twenty?” I gasp. “Who do you think we are, UPS? I was going to call Manpower and offer ten—”

  “Ten!” Tiffany lets out a bark of laughter. “I haven’t made ten bucks an hour since I used to babysit my neighbor’s kid back in North Dakota. But,” she adds, more soberly, “I guess it’ll be worth it if I can get my hands on a Lizzie Nichols original. Those things are going to be next to impossible to get by the time Raoul’s green card comes in and he can finally ditch the troll, I know it. Just like I know Monique’s gonna want one, too. Her boyfriend, Latrell, just popped the question at Christmas. With a four-carat square-cut pink diamond from Harry Winston. Latrell’s in the music industry.” Her tone becomes reverential. “He knows Kanye.”

  “Wait,” I say. This can’t be happening.

  “Look, I’ll be there in twenty,” Tiffany says. “We can discuss it then. You want a muffin or something? I’m starving. I’ll pick up muffins on the way. Fuckin’ Page Six! Can you believe it? Oh my God, Lizzie, this is gonna be so righteous. You’re gonna be so much of a better boss than Roberta. God, I hate her. Ciao, baby.”

  Tiffany slams down the phone. I stare at the receiver, not sure what just happened. Had I just solved the problem—or created a bigger one?

  I’m taking messages from everyone on hold—with assurances that Ms. Nichols (I’m posing as her assistant, Stephanie. I’ve always wanted to be a Stephanie) will be calling them right back—when a floral delivery guy makes his way into the shop, barely able to see past the huge bouquet—two dozen yellow roses in a crystal vase—that he’s holding.

  “Delivery for Lizzie Nichols,” he says.

  “That’s me,” I cry, jumping up from Madame Henri’s desk and rushing over to take the flowers from him. They’re so heavy I have to stagger back to the desk with them before I can sign for them and tip him.

  As soon as he’s gone, I tear open the tiny envelope that accompanies them, expecting to find a note from Luke, thanking me for agreeing to be his bride…or maybe from his parents, welcoming me to the de Villiers family.

  I’m shocked when I read, instead, the following:

  Sorry for my bad attitude the other day.

  I never was a morning person.

  I never was a morning person.

  Of course I’m thrilled for you both. If you’re happy,

  I’m happy.

  Congratulations. You’ll make a beautiful bride.

  Chaz

  I’m so stunned, I have to sit down for a few minutes—and ignore the phones—in order to regain my composure. Can he really mean it? Can Chaz really be all right with Luke and me getting married?

  And if he is, why do I still feel a little bit like throwing up every time I think about it? Not about Chaz being all right with it—I’m pretty sure—but about Luke and me actually going through with it?

  Oh, I seem all right enough with the idea of being engaged. I don’t seem to mind flashing my ring around. I’d been fine on the phone yesterday—after our prolonged interlude in the bedroom—with our parents.

  It’s when I actually try to picture the wedding itself—and even more oddly, the dress—that my mind seems to go blank, and the vomit rises up in the back of my throat.

  That’s not a very good sign.

  But prewedding jitters are normal, right? Everyone goes through them. Maybe not the day after they’ve gotten engaged. But I’m probably just getting mine over with sooner than other people do. I’ve always been precocious that way. My mom said I used to put together first-day-of-school outfits for all my stuffed animals. And that was before I even started preschool.

  The bells over the front door tinkle, and Tiffany, wearing dark sunglasses (even though it’s overcast—and winter—outside) and a black catsuit beneath her new fox stole (“Which is totally faux, by the way,” she reminds me later. “Do you know what they do to the poor foxes to get their fur off? It’s disgusting”), walks in and says, “Whoa. Who went overboard with the roses?”

  I quickly thrust Chaz’s card into the pocket of the Mollie Parnis silk dress I’m wearing.

  “Luke,” I lie automatically.

  “Luke?” Tiffany whips off her sunglasses and squints at the roses. “I thought you guys, like, broke up.”

  “Not anymore.” I hold out my left hand. “We’re engaged.”

  “No shit.” Tiffany grabs my hand. She doesn’t have to squint at all to see my diamond. “Holy crap, Nichols. That’s three carats, at least. Tiffany, right?”

  “No,” I say. “He got it in Paris—”

  “Cartier,” Tiffany says, clearly impressed. “Even better. Platinum band, emerald cut. This thing cost as much as a fucking house—well, in North Dakota. He may have acted like a dick,” she adds, in reference to the sewing machine Luke gave me for Christmas, which in a roundabout way became the catalyst for our realizing we wanted different things out of life, and led to our breaking up, “but you have to admit. The guy came through in the end. I’m not sure about the roses, though. Interesting color choice. Yellow means platonic friendship, you know.”

  Platonic friendship? Well, that’s good. I mean, because they’re not actually from Luke. They’re from Chaz.

  And that’s all I want from Chaz. His friendship, I mean. Platonic is good.

  “Well, because Luke and I are friends, first and foremost,” I twitter. Oh my God, what am I even talking about?

  Tiffany makes a face.

  “If Raoul ever bought me yellow roses,” she says, “I’d stuff them up his butt. So where do I sit?”

  “Tiffany,” I say, beginning a speech I’ve been mentally rehearsing since hanging up the phone with her. “I—”

  “Is this good?” Tiffany asks, collapsing her nearly six-foot (and barely one-hundred-and-twenty-pound) body into Madame Henri’s
chair, behind the desk with the telephone (which is ringing shrilly) on it. “Here. I brought you a chocolate croissant. They were out of muffins. And a Diet Coke. I know how you are.”

  I catch the white paper bag she tosses to me. It’s truly weird how everyone just thinks they can bring me Diet Coke and everything will be okay.

  Especially since it’s pretty much true.

  “Hello, Chez Henri, this is Tiffany, how may I help you?” Tiffany, not skipping a beat, begins picking up calls as if she’s worked at Chez Henri her whole life. “Ms. Nichols? I’m not sure. Hold, please.” Tiffany places the call on hold. “Do you only do restorations, or do you do original designs? I mean, I know you’re doing an original design for me, but for, like, the commoners?”

  “Right now,” I say, slowly chewing the end of chocolate croissant I’ve bitten off, “I’m only doing rehab and restoration.”

  “Got it. Where do I log your appointments?”

  I point at the black leather appointment book on Madame Henri’s desk.

  “But,” I say. “Tiffany, we have to talk. I can’t—”

  Tiffany just looks at the appointment book and snorts. “High-tech,” she says, then flips it open, grabs a pencil, and hits the hold button. “Only restorations. All right. I’ve got an opening next week on the tenth at eleven o’clock. No? Please hold…”

  I am starting to think hiring Tiffany might not be such a bad idea. She seems to have just…well, taken over.

  And that’s a good thing. A very good thing. For now. Maybe I should worry about how I’m actually going to pay her later.

  I’m getting ready to retreat to the back room to look over what I’ve got to do—if I can at least get my head around that, maybe I can get my head around Tiffany working for me…and, oh yeah, the part where I’m engaged—when the bells over the front door tinkle once more, and my confused-looking best friend, Shari, wanders into the shop.

  “Oh my God,” I say, nearly dropping my can of soda as I rush to hug her. “I’m so glad you came.”

  “I got your message,” she says, giving Tiffany a curious glance. “They said you said it was an emergency. It better have been, to have made me come all the way uptown. What’s so important that you have to tell me in person? And what’s she doing here?”

  “Come on,” I say, taking Shari by the hand. “I’ll tell you upstairs, in my place. Tiffany, can you handle things down here for ten minutes?”

  Tiffany gives me the finger while saying, “Ma’am, I’m sure your daughter is a lovely girl, but Ms. Nichols only does restorations. If you have a gown to restore, we’re in business. If not, I’m afraid you’re going to have to look elsewhere for your daughter’s wedding dress. Oh, really? Do you eat with that mouth, ma’am?”

  “What,” Shari asks again impatiently, “is she doing here? What’s going on? Seriously, Lizzie, this better be important. I have clients who could actually be dying as we speak. And I mean literally.”

  I realize that the speech I’ve planned for Shari, who’s always been my staunchest supporter, isn’t anywhere near eloquent enough. So I simply turn and show her my ring.

  “Oh,” Shari says. “My. God.”

  A HISTORY of WEDDINGS

  When brides weren’t being taken by force in ancient cultures, they were sold or bartered for gold, land, or even livestock (like a cow—can you imagine?).

  For many centuries, it was common practice to use the weddings of offspring to bring high-ranking families together, but it wasn’t until medieval times that laws were enacted that required any sort of religious rite be part of the actual ceremony (along with the exchange of goods and the signing of contracts). It was also around this time that dowries began to become more common, so that it wasn’t just her lovely self the bride brought to the marriage, but some cold hard cash and maybe a few dozen head of cattle too. What’s more, often the bride was expected to deliver the cash to her in-laws herself (more on this later).

  Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

  The legal experts at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn agree: the marriages that work best are the ones where both parties are joined at the heart and the bank account. Couples who share their assets tend to stay together longer. Apply for a joint checking account, at least for shared expenses… unless one of you has excessive amounts of debt or other legal or financial troubles. If that’s the case, the debt-free party should be seeing a lawyer…possibly at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn.

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  • Chapter 4 •

  There is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship, communion or company than a good marriage.

  —Martin Luther (1483–1546), German theologian

  Wait.” Shari is staring at me over the yellow tabletop in the kitchen. “He asked you to marry him…and you said yes?”

  I’ll admit this is not the sort of reaction I was hoping for. In fact, Shari has a lot more in common with her ex-boyfriend Chaz than she’d probably like to know.

  “I’m not rushing into anything, Shar,” I say to her. “I swear. I’ve totally thought this through.”

  “You have.” Shari is still staring at me. She hasn’t taken her coat off, even though I offered to take it from her. Judging from her body language—arms folded across her chest, head cocked at one angle as she glares at me, legs crossed—I would say she is feeling cranky toward me…maybe even downright hostile. “He got home from France yesterday morning. And he proposed yesterday morning?”

  “Yeee-es…”

  “And you said yes as soon as he proposed?”

  “Um…yes?”

  “So you thought this through…when?”

  “Well…since then.” I can tell where this is heading, and I attempt to head it off. “I mean, you’ll notice, Shari, that he’s not living here. I’m not letting him move in. And I’m not moving back in with him. Nuh-uh. I’m not making that mistake again. We’re living in our own separate apartments until the wedding.”

  “Which is?” Shari demands.

  I stare at her over the cups of tea I’ve made for us. “Which is what?”

  “Which is when, Lizzie?” Shari asks. “When is this alleged wedding taking place?”

  “Um,” I say, taken aback. “Well. Probably this summer…”

  “Right.” Shari unfolds her arms and uncrosses her legs. “You’re insane. I’m leaving. Good-bye.”

  I pull her back down before she can abandon her chair, however.

  “Shari, come on,” I say. “Don’t do this. You’re not being fair—”

  “I’m not being fair?” Shari cries. “Lizzie, come on! Did you, or did you not, just spend a night on my couch last month because that no-good boyfriend of yours pulled your heart out of your chest and crushed it to bits when he told you he couldn’t see you in his future—something he might have mentioned, by the way, before he asked you to move in? And now for some fucked-up reason—probably because he’s gone for a week without getting laid—he’s decided, Oh, hey, I guess I can see Lizzie in my future after all, throws a diamond ring in your face, and you’re all, Okay, Luke, anything you say, Luke. Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to sit here and watch you throw your life away. You deserve better. You deserve a guy who actually loves you, Lizzie.”

  I blink at her. The next thing I know, I’m crying.

  “How can you say that?” I ask with a sob. “You know Luke’s not like that. You know—”

  But that’s all I manage to get out. Because I’m weeping too hard to say anything more.

  After a while, tired of listening to me sniffle, Shari gets up, comes around the table, and puts her arm around me.

  “Lizzie,” she says in a softer voice than she used before. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I just…I worry that the reason you said yes to Luke is because you wanted to marry him so badly, and then when you found out he didn’t want to marry you, you moved on. And then when he suddenly came back and wanted to marry you after all, you thought you had to say
yes because you’d been so adamant that that’s what you wanted all along. But you know, Lizzie, it’s okay to change your mind.”

  “I haven’t!” I shout through my tears. “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Shari says with a shrug. “Because you grew up a little since last month, maybe? I was there, remember? I saw you do it. But look…If you really want to marry Luke, then of course I’ll support you. If you want to marry Luke, then I want you to marry Luke too.”

  “No…” I’m crying too hard to speak clearly. “No, you hate Luke.”

  “Now you’re just being irrational. I do not hate Luke. I do think he’s got a lot to learn about being a man. And, frankly, I think you could do better. But I’ll support you no matter who you love, same as you’ve supported me, so long as you don’t stuff me into a lime-green taffeta hoop skirt that matches your sisters’—which you aren’t going to do, are you?” Shari asks suspiciously.

  “What?” I force a laugh as I wipe away my tears. “Oh God, no. Are you kidding?”

  Except that I’d once picked out a bridesmaid dress for Shari. Dupioni silk…Only for some reason I can’t picture it in my head anymore. It’s kind of funny how, before I’d gotten engaged, all I’d ever done was sit around and planned what my wedding was going to be like.

  And now that I’m actually having one, whenever I try to imagine it, my mind just goes blank.

  “So, where’s it going to be?” Shari wants to know. “Château Mirac?”

  “Um,” I say. “Maybe. My mom wants me to do it in our backyard.”

  Shari brightens. “That’d be nice.”

  I roll my eyes. “Shari.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “It would make so much more sense to do it at the château. That place was practically built for weddings. And it’s where we fell in love and all. And there’s the added cost-benefit of its being free, since Luke’s family owns it.”

  “Ye-e-ah,” Shari says slowly. “Except it’s far for your family to travel. And there’s your grandmother to consider.”