Queen Of Babble: In The Big City qob-2

by Meg Cabot

  But it was hopeless. The only places I saw for a thousand dollars or less a month were roommate shares. In Jersey City. And urged potential sharers to keep an open mind.

  It was especially depressing to be sitting in Luke’s mother’s Fifth Avenue apartment, with the Mirós on the wall and the steps to the Metropolitan Museum of Art right outside the double-paned windows, looking at ad after ad that stated hombres de preferencia.

  Hombres? I don’t want to live with a bunch of hombres. I just wanted one hombre…

  And he still hasn’t called, much less left me a note. I came back to find the apartment exactly as I’d left it… clean, my sewing machine still in its box, sitting next to the now completely dried-out little Christmas tree. The box I put Luke’s present in is beside it, still wrapped. He hadn’t even bothered to see what I’d gotten him.

  I wonder if I can take both gifts back and exchange them for cash. It’s not like I don’t need the money.

  “So it’s not even like a present,” Tiffany points out. “Because his dad BROKE your sewing machine. So he got you something he actually OWED you. Not even something, like… new. Something you already have that he broke.”

  “Right,” I mutter. “I know. Okay?”

  “But I mean… what kind of present is THAT? If Raoul broke something of mine—or God forbid his DAD came to visit and broke something of mine—I would expect him to replace it, and not try to pass the replacement off as a CHRISTMAS PRESENT. Because he still owes you a PRESENT.”

  “I know,” I say, and am relieved when the phone rings. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call?”

  “Lizzie.” I’m surprised to hear Roberta’s voice on the other end of the line. “Is Tiffany there yet?”

  “Yes,” I say. Tiffany had come into work early, as usual, to ask how my Christmas had gone, and tell me all about hers, which had been spent at Raoul’s godmother’s estate in the Hamptons, where they’d made drunken love on a polar bear skin rug, and Raoul had gifted her with a canary diamond cocktail ring and a fox stole, which she is wearing inside because, as she says, “It’s part of my OUTFIT,” of snakeskin pants and a silk blouse.

  “Good,” Roberta says. “Could you ask her to take over the desk while you come back here and see me please? And kindly bring your coat and purse with you.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I hang up slowly, feeling all the blood in my body dropping to freezing temperature.

  Tiffany must read from my expression that something is wrong, because she tears her attention away from her ring for a moment and goes, “What?”

  “Roberta wants me to come back to her office,” I say. “Right now. And she wants me to bring my purse and coat.”

  “Oh, shit,” Tiffany says. “Shit, shit, shit. That fucking bitch. The day after Christmas, too. Talk about a fucking Grinch.”

  What did I do?I’m wondering, as I stand up and reach for my coat. I was so careful.No one saw Jill and me together after that one time. I’m sure of it.

  “Listen,” Tiffany says, sliding into the chair I’ve just vacated. “Just because we won’t be working together anymore doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. I really like you. You invited me to Thanksgiving dinner. No one else in this fucking place ever invited me anywhere. So I’m going to be calling you. Do you hear me? We’ll hang. If you want to go to the shows during Fashion Week, whatever… I’m here. Got it?”

  I nod dumbly and start for Roberta’s office. I can see that someone is in there with her already. As I get closer, I can see that the someone is Raphael, from the security desk downstairs. What is Raphael doing up here? I wonder.

  “You wanted to see me, Roberta?” I say, stepping into her office.

  “Yes,” Roberta says coldly. “Come inside and close the door, will you, Lizzie?”

  I do as she asks, glancing nervously at Raphael, who is looking nervously back at me.

  “Lizzie,” Roberta begins, not even bothering to invite me to sit down. “You recall a conversation we had a few weeks ago about your having been photographed by the press in the company of one of our clients, Jill Higgins, don’t you?”

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak, because my throat has gone dry with terror. Why is Raphael here? Have I broken the law? Is he going to arrest me? But he isn’t even a real cop…

  “You assured me at that time that your relationship with Miss Higgins had nothing whatsoever to do with this office,” Roberta goes on. “So kindly explain to me why I opened the Journal this morning to find this.”

  Roberta hands me a copy of the New York Journal, open to the second page…

  … on which there is splashed a huge black-and-white photo of Monsieur Henri and his wife, standing in front of the shop and grinning ear-to-ear beneath the headline “Meet the Designers of Blubber’s Wedding Gown!”

  The first thing I feel is a bubble of outrage burst inside my chest. Designers! They aren’t the designers of Jill’s dress! That’s me! I am! How dare they try to pass themselves off—

  But then as my gaze skims the article, I see that the Henris haven’t tried anything of the sort. They are extremely upfront about the fact that Elizabeth Nichols—“an exceptionally talented young woman,” according to Monsieur Henri—is the one who refurbished Miss Higgins’s wedding gown, after having met Miss Higgins “at the law offices of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, where Miss Nichols works as a receptionist, and where Miss Higgins sought representation for the handling of her prenuptial agreement with husband-to-be John MacDowell.”

  And then—grainy but still recognizable—is a picture of me, hurrying through the doors to the lobby of the very building in which I’m standing now.

  And all I can think is,Gray Cords! It was Gray Cords! I knew he was trouble the first minute I saw him!

  Also,Why, oh, why, did the Henris have to open their mouths about me and how Jill and I met? True, I never told them it was a secret—but why did I tell them anything about it at all? I should have just said she was a friend. Oh God. I’m such an idiot!

  “You know how much we here at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn pride ourselves on keeping our association with our clients private,” Roberta is saying. I can hear her voice only dimly through the roaring in my ears. “You were warned once before. You know I have no choice now but to let you go.”

  I look up from the newspaper article, blinking rapidly. The reason I’m blinking so much is that my eyes have filled with tears.

  “You’re firing me?” I cry.

  “I’m sorry, Lizzie,” Roberta says. And she actually looks as if she means it. Which helps. Kind of. “But we talked about this. I’ll make sure your last check gets mailed out to you promptly. I’ll just need your office key. Then Raphael will escort you out.”

  My cheeks burning, I dig around in my bag until I find my key chain. Then I remove the key to the office doors from it and hand it over. The whole time, my brain searches feverishly for some kind of response to the charges laid against me. But there’s really nothing I can say. She had warned me. And I didn’t listen.

  And now I had to pay the price.

  “Good-bye, Lizzie,” Roberta says, not unkindly.

  “Bye,” I say. But a bubble of spit, brought on by the fact that I am weeping openly now, prevents me from saying more. I let Raphael guide me with a hand on my arm through the office—conscious of everyone staring, although of course my vision is so blurred I can’t actually see whether or not they really are looking at me—and to the elevators. We ride down to the lobby in silence, because there are other passengers on board with us.

  When we reach the main floor, Raphael continues to guide me through the lobby, because I still can’t see. At the doors to the outside he stops and says a single word to me: “Bummer.”

  Then he turns around and heads back to the security desk.

  I push open the lobby doors and head outside into the bitter Manhattan cold. I have no idea where I’m going, really. Where can I go? I have no job, and soon, I’ll have no
place to live. I have no boyfriend, either, which is really, you know, freeing, on top of the just-getting-fired-and-having-no-place-to-live thing. I feel, in fact, just like Kathy Pennebaker probably did, when she finally admitted that New York City—that big, gutsy, glittering town—had beat her to a pulp and sent her packing.

  I’d actually seen Kathy while I’d been home for Christmas. She’d been at the Kroger, pushing a cart in the produce section, looking so washed out and wan, I hardly recognized her.

  Is that going to be me someday?I’d wondered, as I’d stared at her from my hiding place behind the nut and dried fruit bins. Will I cease to care what people think of me and go to the grocery store in an over large ALLSTATE 400AT THE BRICKYARD SUMMER RUMBLE NASCAR T-shirt and cropped cargo pants (in the winter)? Will I start dating a guy whose mustache is yellow from nicotine, and who is stocking up on cold medicine—so much so that he can only be planning on mixing up a batch of crystal meth for the weekend? Will I ever actually buy radishes? I mean, for a salad or even just to use as garnish?

  And then, hurtling down the street with tears streaming down my face, trying not to slip in the slush beneath my feet, I realize something.

  And not just because I’ve suddenly found myself standing in front of Rockefeller Center, its ice-skating rink and gold statue of a man lying down iconic to New York City’s image—the more so with the glittering, towering Christmas tree behind.

  No. No, I realize. That will not be me. That will never be me. I would never wear cargo pants in public. I don’t think I could bring myself to date someone who has a yellow mustache. And radishes are only good on tacos.

  I’m not Kathy Pennebaker. And I will never be Kathy Pennebaker. EVER.

  My resolve thus strengthened, I turned around and found a cab—on my first try! At Rock Center! I know! It was a miracle—and gave the driver the address of Monsieur Henri’s.

  When he pulled up in front of the building, I opened my purse to find I had no cash—except the ten-dollar bill Grandma had given me.

  But what choice did I have? I handed over the bill, told the driver to keep the change, and barged into the shop, where I found Monsieur and Madame Henri chuckling over the copy of the Journal with steaming mugs of café au lait in their hands and a plate of madeleines in front of them.

  “Lizzie!” Monsieur Henri cried delightedly. “You are back! Did you see? Did you see the story and photo? We are famous! Because of you! The phone won’t stop ringing! And the best news of all—Maurice! Maurice is closing his shop down the street and moving it to Queens, instead! All because of you! All because of that story!”

  “Yeah?” I unwind my scarf, staring at both of them with fury. “Well, I got fired because of that story.”

  This wipes the smiles off their faces.

  “Oh, Lizzie,” Madame Henri begins.

  But I hold up a single finger.

  “No,” I say. “Not a word. You’re going to listen to me. First off, I want thirty thousand a year plus commissions. I want two weeks’ paid vacation, full medical and dental. I want at least one sick day per month plus two personal days per year. And I want the upstairs apartment, rent free, all utilities paid for by the shop.”

  The couple continue to stare at me, openmouthed in surprise. Monsieur Henri is the first one to recover.

  “Lizzie,” he says, sounding wounded. “What you ask, of course, you deserve. No one is suggesting otherwise. But I don’t see how you can ask us to—”

  But Madame Henri silences him with a“ Tais-toi!”

  While her husband looks at her with surprise, she says to me, clearly and concisely,“No dental.”

  I practically feel my knees give beneath me, I’m so relieved.

  But I don’t let on. Instead, I say, with all the dignity I can muster, “Done.”

  And then I accept their invitation to join them for café au lait and madeleines. Because when your heart is broken, carbs don’t count.

  Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide

  Aaahhhh! You’re home from the honeymoon! Time to start enjoying wedded bliss, right?

  WRONG. You have work to do. Get out your stationery—maybe you’ve sprung for the thank-you cards that match your invitations; maybe you’re merely using your new monogrammed note cards—and your favorite pen, and start writing.

  If you were smart, you didn’t wait until after the honeymoon to begin the thank-you process, but started writing and sending out thank-you cards as you received each gift. If, however, for some horrible reason you chose to wait, you have your work cut out for you now. At the very least, you ought to have been saving each gift tag, with a note scribbled on the back as to what the gift actually was. If this is the case, you have it easy: just jot a thoughtful note—MENTIONING THE GIFT RECEIVED BY NAME—to each giver, signing it cordially with both spouses’ names.

  If you have not kept track of who gave you what, start doing some investigating. Because you can bet that even if you haven’t been paying attention, someone has. And that someone—usually a mother or mother-in-law—can tell you exactly what you received from whom.

  The reason you must mention the name of the gift received in your thank-you note is so that the giver knows for certain that you received their gift, and that it was acknowledged in some thoughtful way. Writing “Thank you so much for the gift” is neither polite nor satisfying to the giver… and in general will guarantee that when the baby shower comes around, you will not be receiving anything from that person.[1]

  Yes, you must handwrite each card. No, you may not send a photocopied or even printed letter of thanks to your guests.

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  Chapter 26

  I cannot tell how the truth may be; I say the tale as ’twas said to me.

  — Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832), Scottish novelist and poet

  “Wait,” Chaz says. “So he said he couldn’t picture a future with you in it?”

  I’m carting the second-to-last armload of clothes up the narrow staircase to my new apartment. Chaz, behind me, has the last one.

  “No,” I say. “He said he couldn’t picture the future, period. Because it’s too far away. Or something. You know what? The truth is, I don’t even remember anymore. Which is fine, because it doesn’t matter.”

  I reach the top of the stairs, turn left, and I’m in my new apartment. MY apartment. And no one else’s. Clean, furnished in shabby chic, and featuring faded pink wall-to-wall carpeting and cream-colored wallpaper with pink roses in every room save the bathroom, which is tiled in plain beige, it features floors that slope even worse than the ones in Chaz’s place; only four windows—two that look out onto East Seventy-eighth Street from the living room and two that look out into a dark courtyard from the bedroom; a kitchen so tiny only one person can enter it at a time.

  But it also boasts a full-size tub in the bathroom, with a scorchingly hot shower, and two tiny, but highly decorative, fireplaces—one of which by some miracle actually works.

  And I love every inch of it. Including the queen-size, lumpy bed, in which I’ve no doubt many unspeakable acts have been committed by the younger two Henris, but which a proper airing and a fresh set of sheets from Kmart ought to cure, and the tiny black-and-white television with rabbit ears, that I intend to replace with a color set as soon as I have enough money saved.

  “That sounds like Luke, though,” Chaz says, coming into the bedroom where we’ve assembled the hanging rack along one wall. “You know. That whole follow-through thing we were talking about.”

  “Yeah,” I say. It’s been a little over a week since Luke and I broke up—if, indeed, that is what happened that night in the hallway of his mother’s apartment building. I haven’t heard a word from him.

  And the pain is still too raw for me to talk about it very much.

  But Chaz seems to be unable to speak of anything else. It’s a small price to pay, I suppose, for his helping me to move—he borrowed a car from his parents and everything. He seems to feel it�
��s the least he can do, considering his best friend is responsible for my broken heart and his father’s company for my current state of pennilessness.

  But I’ve pointed out that the latter, at least, has turned out to work to my advantage, since it galvanized me into finally demanding the compensation I deserved from my “real” employers. Even Shari was stunned by what she called my “sudden development of cojones.”

  “Free rent and a salary? Good job, Nichols,” was what she said over the phone, when I called to tell her the news.

  Although, if you think about it, all of this really is Shari’s fault. She’s the one who went out with Chaz, who was the one who invited us all to Luke’s château last summer. In fact, the whole thing could be construed as Chaz’s fault. Chaz is the one—as he pointed out on the stairs a little while ago—who told Luke how much I love diet Coke, thus prompting Luke to buy me diet Coke that day in the village, and making me fall in love with him, because of his thoughtfulness.

  And Chaz is the one who got me the job at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn that I later lost.

  Of course, if he hadn’t invited us to France, I’d never have met Luke. And if he hadn’t told Luke about my loving diet Coke, I’d have never fallen in love with Luke. And if I hadn’t fallen in love with Luke, I probably wouldn’t have moved to New York. And if I hadn’t moved to New York, I wouldn’t have gotten the job at Chaz’s dad’s firm, and then I never would have met Jill, and thus made my dream of being a certified wedding-gown refurbisher a reality.

  So. Everything really is all Chaz’s fault.

  Which is why it’s only fitting he help me move.

  “Well,” Chaz says, as I take the last dress from him, and slip it onto the hanging rack. “That’s it. You sure that’s everything?”

  Even if it’s not, I can’t go back now. I left the key to Luke’s mother’s apartment with the doorman, along with a note—brief but cordial—thanking Luke for the use of the place, and asking that he get in touch with me about any outstanding bills or issues concerning the place.