by Meg Cabot
Shari regarded me with an expression I might almost have called sarcastic.
“Yes, Lizzie,” she said. “I have been in love with you since the first grade when you showed me your Batgirl Underoos. The only reason I’m with Pat is because I know I can’t have you because you stub bornly refuse to love me and not Luke. Now come over here and kiss me, you little minx.”
I blinked at her. And she burst out laughing.
“No, you idiot,” she said. “Although I love you dearly as a friend, I have never been romantically interested in you. You’re actually not my type.”
I don’t want to sound pejorative, but her tone seemed to imply that she couldn’t understand why anyone would be interested in me romantically.
I didn’t say so at the time, but I was kind of wondering the same thing. I mean, doesn’t Pat realize that Shari is an inveterate blanket hog (as I discovered to my disadvantage when we were forced to share a sleeping bag at camp that time those mean girls threw mine in the lake) and has, to my knowledge, never once returned a book she borrowed? It was a miracle that Chaz, a known bibliophile, even put up with her as long as he did. I purposely never loaned Shari my clothing, because I knew I’d never see it again.
Of course Shari never asked to borrow any of my clothing. My style is just a little too retro for her, I guess.
But, whatever.
“You have a type?” I asked her with a raised eyebrow. “Because you seem to cover a pretty wide range—”
“Primarily,” Shari interrupted, “I like people who can keep their mouths shut once in a while.”
“Well, then, it’s no wonder you and Chaz broke up,” I said, just as the elevator, groaning with the strain, finally arrived.
“Ha ha,” Shari said. Then, giving me a hug, she said, “Take care of him for me, will you? Don’t let him slide into one of his funks where he stays inside all day reading Heidegger and never ventures out except to buy booze. Promise?”
“Like you have to ask,” I said. “I love Chaz like the brother I never had. I’ll make sure to get Tiffany to invite him out with her and some of her model friends. That should cheer him up.”
“That ought to do it, all right,” Shari agreed.
And the elevator doors closed and she was gone.
And that was that.
Well, except for the part where now I can’t sleep a wink, because I keep replaying it all over and over in my head.
“Hey.” The word, spoken so softly beside me, causes me to jump. I turn my head. Luke is awake, and blinking at me sleepily.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “Did I wake you?” I hadn’t been making any noise. Had I managed to wake him with my noisy thoughts? I’ve read that couples can become so close that they can read each other’s minds.Ask me to marry you, Luke. Luke, ask me to marry you. Luke. I am your father… Oh no, wait—
“No,” he says. “It’s this damn metal bar—”
“Oh yeah. It’s killing me, too.”
“Sorry about this,” Luke says with a sigh. “We just have to put up with them for one more night and then they’ll be gone.”
“It’s all right,” I say. I can’t believe he’s worrying about me when he has something so much bigger to worry about—his mother’s secret affair, I mean.
Except of course he doesn’t know about that. Because I haven’t told him. How can I? He’s so happy his parents are back together.
And something like that could totally sour him against marriage forever. I mean, what if he concludes, from his mother’s catting about—not to mention Shari’s recent abandonment of Chaz, and his own ex-girlfriend’s leaving him for his own cousin — that women are incapable of fidelity?
And things between us have been going so well—familial visitations aside. Even having Tiffany and Raoul to Thanksgiving dinner didn’t prove the disaster I thought it would, as they provided a welcome distraction for Chaz, who seemed to take great pleasure in watching Tiffany gad about in her thigh-highs and catsuit—I really think Luke might have forgotten all about that whole “people our age don’t even know what love is” thing.
Maybe I’ll even be getting an extra-special present for Christmas. The kind that comes in a very small box.
Hey. You never know.
“Well,” Luke says, his lips suddenly in my hair, “I think you’re a trouper. You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. And hey—did I mention that turkey you made was delicious?”
“Oh,” I say modestly. “Thanks.”
Well? He doesn’t need to know it came already cooked.
“I think you’re a keeper, Lizzie Nichols,” he says, his lips now moving lower than my hair, and toward some other parts of my body that can appreciate lips more than hair.
“Oh,” I say in a different voice. “Thanks!” A keeper! Why, that’s practically a marriage proposal. Calling someone a keeper is like saying you never want to throw them back into the dating pool for someone else to snatch instead. Right?
“And you’re sure,” he says, from down there, “that you and Shari never—”
I sit up and glare at him in the darkened room. “Luke! I told you! No!”
“Whatever!” he says with a laugh. “I’m just asking. You know Chaz is going to ask, too.”
“I told you.” I can’t believe this. “You can’t say anything to Chaz. Not until Shari’s told him. I wasn’t even supposed to say anything to you—”
Luke laughs—not very nicely, I might add. “Shari told you something and asked you to keep it a secret?”
“I am capable of keeping some things to myself, you know,” I say indignantly. Because, seriously… if he only knew what I’ve been keeping to myself since I moved in.
“I know,” he says with a laugh. “I’m just teasing you. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to him. But you know what Chaz is going to say.”
“What?” I ask, relenting—but only because he looks so handsome in the moonlight spilling in from the windows.
“That if Shari was going to decide to become a lesbian, why did she have to do it after they’d broken up?”
I yank the sheet up over the parts of my body he seems to be finding so interesting.
“For your information,” I say, “Shari is not a lesbian.”
“Bi, lesbian. Whatever. What’s with this?” He tugs at the sheet.
“What’s with the labels?” I demand, tugging back. “Why do people have to be defined by their sexual preference? Can’t Shari just be Shari?”
“Sure,” Luke says, looking taken aback. “Why are you being so defensive about this?”
“Because,” I say. “I don’t want people to call Shari my ‘lesbian friend.’ And I’m sure she doesn’t, either. Well, actually, I’m sure Shari doesn’t care. But that’s not the point. She’s just Shari. I don’t call Chaz your ‘heterosexual friend.’”
“Fine,” Luke says. “I’m sorry. I’ve never had my best friend’s girlfriend ditch him for another girl before. I’m a little confused at the moment.”
“Welcome to the club,” I say.
Luke rolls over to stare at the ceiling.
“Obviously,” he says after a moment’s silence, “there’s only one thing we can do.”
“What?” I ask suspiciously.
He shows me.
And, in the end, I have to admit—he has a point.
Which he makes—nice and emphatically, I might add.
Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide
Feeling the glove…
Some brides opt for a more formal look by donning gloves on the big day. Gloves come in many lengths, and can be the perfect accessory for the fashion conscious or merely traditional bride. They have a practical use, as well—brides who wear gloves certainly needn’t worry about their manicure… or smearing their own messy fingerprints on their pure white gown.
The most common types of bridal gloves are:
Opera Length—These long white gloves stretch from the fingertips to the upper arm.
&
nbsp; Elbow length—Like the opera length, only these end just above the elbow.
Gauntlet—These kinds of gloves are hand-and-fingerless, covering only the forearm.
Fingerless—Just like the lace ones Madonna used to wear. Or the woolly ones Bob Cratchitt is often pictured wearing.
Wrist—These gloves cover the hand only, like ski gloves.
Gloves should be removed for the ring part of the ceremony (it is considered ill-bred to wear rings OVER glove fingers. If your glove does not open at the wrist, cut a small hole beneath the wedding finger of your left-hand glove so you can easily wiggle your finger through to receive the ring) and of course while dining.
Brides with very muscular arms or those wearing long sleeves should avoid gloves altogether.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 18
No one gossips about other people’s secret virtues.
— Bertrand Russell (1872–1970), British philosopher
The Monday after Thanksgiving, we got slammed at the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn reception desk. I don’t know if there have ever been any official studies on this, but I would say, just judging from my own observations, divorce requests definitely go up after a long holiday weekend.
A sentiment with which I could actually sympathize, having spent mine with the de Villierses… who are all very charming people, but not without their annoying quirks. Like Mrs. de Villiers’s annoying quirk of talking about Dominique, Luke’s ex, and how happy she and Blaine, Luke’s cousin, are. Apparently Dominique is doing a great job managing Blaine’s financial affairs… and he needs the help, because his band, Satan’s Shadow, is superhot on the indie metal circuit.
Another hot topic of conversation for Mrs. de Villiers is Blaine’s sister’s pregnancy. Vickie isn’t even due until the spring and doesn’t even know the baby’s sex yet, but Luke’s mother is already buying tiny onesies and booties and cooing over how much she can’t wait to have a grandchild of her own, making Luke look extremely uncom for table and putting back my woodland-creaturing of him weeks, possibly even months.
And Mr. de Villiers’s annoying quirk wasn’t much better. His was not looking where he’s going and consequently putting his foot through my Singer 5050—which I purposely moved from the dressing table to the floor beneath my hanging rack, thinking no one would trip over it there, since there was a metal bar in the way.
And yet somehow Luke’s father managed to destroy it… or at least the bobbin.
He apologized profusely and offered to pay for a new one. But I told him it was all right, that the machine was old and I’d been intending to get a new one anyway.
I swear I don’t know where some of the things that come out of my mouth even come from.
Anyway, they’re gone. They left Sunday afternoon, after much kissing and talk of all the fun they’re going to have at Château Mirac over Christmas and New Year’s. Of course, they pressured me to come along, but I could tell they didn’t really mean it. Well, Luke did, of course. And maybe his dad did.
But his mom? Not so much? The smile she gave me as she said, “Oh, do come, Lizzie, it will be such fun,” didn’t go all the way up to her eyes. They didn’t crinkle at the sides like they normally did when she smiles.
No. I know where I’m not wanted. And that’s at the de Villierses’ familial holiday celebration in France.
Which is fine. It is. It’s totally cool. I explained I only had the long weekend off anyway, which I’d be spending flying home to see my parents, before returning to work on Monday.
I don’t think it’s my imagination that Mrs. de Villiers looked kind of relieved about that. I mean, that she was getting her son all to herself.
Which you would think she’d realize makes the grandchild production thing kind of difficult. But maybe she has other candidates in mind… ones who aren’t working two jobs, one of them nonpaying, and the other hardly worth bragging to her girlfriends about. I mean, a receptionist? So not as glamorous, say, as an investment banker or market analyst…
Especially not the Monday after Thanksgiving, when everybody and their mother seems to want a divorce lawyer. Tiffany says the only busier time in the office is right after New Year’s, which is when a lot of proposals take place, so people want to come in for their prenups.
I’ve said, “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call?” so many times, my throat is getting sore, and I’m starting to rasp a little. Fortunately, Tiffany has come in early (as usual) to shoot the breeze, and is willing to spell me for a few minutes while I run to the ladies’ room to spray a little Chloraseptic down my throat.
“So Raoul says he can get your friend Shari in to see his internist,” Tiffany says, as she takes my chair. “You know, if she’s still sick. Is she still sick?”
“She’s not sick,” I say, opening my drawer and pulling out my Meyers handbag—which barely fits in there, thanks to the back issues of Vogue which Tiffany insists on saving. “She and Chaz broke up.”
“They did?” Tiffany swings her wide, blue-eyed gaze up at me. “Right before your party? God, no wonder he said she was sick. How totally embarrassing. So is one of them moving out? Which one? Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me?”
Because I’ve been trying really hard not to mention anything about it to anyone—especially people like Tiffany who could conceivably say something to Chaz’s father. Obviously Luke knows, but he’s the only person I’ve told. I’m really trying not to be such a gossip these days. Shari asked me not to say anything to anyone until she’d had a chance to speak to Chaz about it—which I hope to God she has, because I don’t know how much longer I can keep from saying anything to him when he calls the office to return his father’s phone calls. Between that and the thing about Luke’s mom, I am BURSTING with secrets.
And it’s driving me mental.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Look, let me just go spray my throat and I’ll be right back—”
Tiffany doesn’t get a chance to reply, though, because the phone chirps and she has to grab it. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call?”
The ladies’ room of the law offices is actually situated outside the lobby, by the elevator doors. To get in, you have to punch in a code. This is not to keep random tourists from wandering in off the street to use the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn bathrooms, since for one thing random tourists can’t even get into the building without an appointment and passing a security screening. I don’t actually know why all the offices in this building keep the doors to their ladies’ (and men’s. The management of this building is not sexist) rooms locked, and require a code to enter.
In any case, one of the duties of the receptionist at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn is to give the code to any clients or visiting lawyers who ask for it. The code is very easy to remember: 1-2-3.
And yet some clients (and lawyers) have to be given the code two, even three times before they retain it. This can be annoying to the receptionist, though of course we never show it. Still, it makes me wonder why we need the lock at all, since in all the time I’ve been using the ladies’ room at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, no one has ever been in it at the same time I have. It’s the most underused bathroom in all of New York.
The day I go in to spray my throat (and put on a little lipstick and fluff up my hair) is no exception. I’m alone in the very clean, very beige bathroom. I’m gazing at my reflection in the huge mirror hanging above the sinks, grateful that last night I finally got to sleep in my own (well, Luke’s mother’s own) bed, instead of on the pull-out couch, because the bags under my eyes from tossing and turning around so much are finally starting to fade. I swear, when I am a certified wedding-gown specialist with my own shop, and I finally have some money to spare, I am going to buy one of those Pottery Barn pull-out couches that don’t have the metal bar across the middle, that are actually comfortable.
Well, first I’m going to buy my own apartment so I actually have a p
lace to keep my stuff where it won’t get tripped over and broken.
Then I’m buying the couch.
And I probably won’t even have to worry about ever sleeping on it again, because the next time Luke’s parents come to visit, they can just stay at Luke’s mother’s apartment, and not mine—
It’s as I’m enjoying this lovely fantasy that I hear something. At first I think it’s just the heel of my shoe on the tiles beneath me. But then I realize I’m not alone in the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn ladies’ room. The door to the last stall is closed.
I’m about to sneak away to give the person some privacy when I hear the noise again. It’s kind of a whimpering noise. Like a little kitten.
Or someone crying.
I duck down to see if I recognize the person’s shoes beneath the stall door. Instantly I realize I’m looking at the feet of Jill Higgins, New York’s current most famous bride-to-be. Because on those feet are a pair of Timberlands.
And nobody wears Timberlands to Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn but Jill.
Who is apparently taking a break in the bathroom to cry for a while before her next appointment with Chaz’s dad.
I know, as an employee of the firm, I should quietly leave the ladies’ room, and pretend like I never heard what I’m hearing.
But as a not-yet-certified wedding-gown specialist—and more important, a girl who knows what it’s like to be constantly ragged upon (as my sisters have ragged upon me for my entire existence)—I can’t just turn and walk away. Especially since I know—I just know — I can help her. I really can.
Which would explain why I walk over to the door of her stall and quietly tap on it—although I’ll admit, my heart was thumping. I really need this job, after all.
“Um… Miss Higgins?” I call through the stall door. “It’s me, Lizzie. The receptionist?”
“Oh… ”
I’ve never heard so much emotion piled into a single word. That “oh” is laden with fear—I guess about what I’m going to say or do, having caught John MacDowell’s fiancée weeping in the bathroom. Am I going to call the press? Pass her a box of Kleenex? Run and get Esther? What? — regret, self-loathing, embarrassment, and even what sounds like a healthy dose of mortification.
