by Meg Cabot
“I didn’t decide to become a Bad Girl,” I insist. “It just happened. I couldn’t help it.”
Tiffany shakes her head. “That’s what they all say.”
At that moment the bells over the front door tinkle, and Monsieur Henri comes in, followed by his wife, looking tight-faced, and another woman I’ve never seen before. The woman is dressed in a summer-weight business jacket and skirt and is carrying a briefcase. She looks a little too young to be a mother of the bride, but a little too old to be the kind of bride who wears the type of gowns in which we generally specialize. Not to be ageist or anything. But it’s true.
“Ah, Elizabeth,” Monsieur Henri says when he sees me. “You’ve returned, I see. We were very sorry to hear of your loss.”
“Um,” I say. I haven’t seen Monsieur Henri since his first—and last—venture to the city after his heart surgery. According to his wife, with whom I’ve spoken on the phone several times since then, he’s been back at their home in New Jersey, brushing up on his pétanque skills and watching Judge Judy. “Thank you. I’m sorry I was away for so long.”
I was actually gone for four days, only two of which were actual workdays. But I can’t think of any other reason why Monsieur Henri should be back so suddenly, and with what appear to be reinforcements.
“Not to worry, not to worry,” Monsieur Henri says, waving my concerns off as if they were nothing. “Now, Miss Lowenstein. This is the shop, as you can see. Let me take you into the back room.”
“Thank you,” Miss Lowenstein says, giving me the briefest of smiles as she passes by, following closely behind Monsieur Henri.
I turn my bewildered gaze on Madame Henri, who can barely look me in the eye. “Oh, Elizabeth,” she says to the carpet. “I hardly know what to say.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tiffany says, breaking off while taking a slurp of her cappuccino. “I totally forgot to tell you… ”
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
F or many years it’s been assumed that the wedding veil, which was traditionally worn over the face, was used to disguise the bride, and thus protect her from evil spirits. But more recent historians argue that perhaps the veil served a more practical purpose… the veil may actually have been to keep her betrothed, in case of an arranged marriage, from seeing the face of his intended until after he was already committed. A less than charitable interpretation, but have you seen some of those twelfth-century portraits?
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
Make sure the color of your veil matches that of your dress! Not all whites are the same. Never choose an ivory veil to go with a cream-colored dress. You might think the difference is slight, but believe me, it will show up in the photos, and you’ll notice, and slowly, over the years, looking at the photos will drive you insane. Make sure you match the color of your dress to your veil. These are two items you won’t want to mix and match.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 19 •
Marriage—a book of which the first chapter is written in poetry and the remaining chapters written in prose.
Beverley Nichols (1898–1983), English writer and playwright
“I should have told you,” Madame Henri says miserably as she dumps another sugar packet into her latte. We’re sitting at a table in the window booth at the corner Starbucks, and she keeps glancing nervously toward the doors of the Goldmark Realty Offices, through which her husband has disappeared with Miss Lowenstein, Goldmark’s self-proclaimed top sales agent. “But it was all decided so suddenly, and you’d already had the bad news about your grandmother… I just didn’t have the heart to pile on this bad news as well.”
“I understand,” I say.
I don’t, actually. I really don’t see how, after everything I’ve done for them—all my hard work these past six months—they can do this to me. I mean, I can—it’s their business, after all, and they have the right to sell it if they want to. But it seems awfully cold. On the Bad Girl Scale, I’d give what they’re doing about a five hundred.
“So… he really just wants out?”
“He wants to go back to France,” Madame Henri says glumly. “It’s so strange. All these years, before the heart attack, I was begging him to take more time off, to spend more time with me at our house in Provence, and he wouldn’t hear of it. For him, it was always work, work, work. Then he has the heart attack, and suddenly… he doesn’t want to work anymore. At. All. All he wants to do is play pétanque. That’s all I hear about. Pétanque this and pétanque that. He wants to retire to our house in Avignon and just play pétanque until he dies. He’s already contacted his old friends there—his schoolmates—and formed a team. They have a league. A pétanque league. It’s insane. I suppose I should be glad he’s found something that interests him. After the operation, I thought nothing would, ever again. But this… it’s obsessive.”
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 g
o? 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. Just 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 runn
ing 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.
