Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  “This is hand-done?” he asks, squinting at the photo, then reaching for a pair of bifocals tucked away in his shirt pocket.

  “Yes,” I say, trying hard not to look at his wife. Stupid! Well, what does she know? She obviously can’t read. Because it says right on my résumé that I’m a University of Michigan grad. Or I will be in January, anyway. The University of Michigan doesn’t accept stupid people…even if their fathers are supervisors at the cyclotron.

  “You took out the rust stains,” Monsieur Henri says, “without chemicals?”

  “Just cream of tartar,” I say. “I soaked it overnight.”

  Monsieur Henri says, somewhat proudly, “Here we too do not use chemicals. That is how we received our endorsement from the Association of Bridal Consultants and became Certified Wedding-Gown Specialists.”

  I don’t know how to reply to that. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as certified wedding-gown specialists. So I just say, “Sweet.”

  Madame Henri elbows her husband.

  “Tell her,” she says in French. “Tell her the other thing.”

  Monsieur Henri peers down at me through the lenses of his eyeglasses. “The National Bridal Service gave us their highest recommendation.”

  “That is more than they have ever given that cochon Maurice!” Madame Henri cries.

  I think calling this poor Maurice guy—whoever he is—a pig might be a bit much.

  Especially since I’ve never heard of the National Bridal Service, either.

  But again I manage, for once in my life, to keep my mouth shut. There are two wedding gowns on dressmaker’s dummies in the window of the tiny shop. They’re restoration refurbishments, according to the placard in front of them…and they’re exquisite. One is covered in seed pearls that dangle like raindrops, glistening in the sun. And the other is a complicated confection of lacy ruffles that my fingers itch to touch, in order to figure out how they were created.

  Mrs. Erickson was right. Monsieur Henri knows his stuff. I could learn a lot from him—not just about sewing, either, but about running a successful business.

  Too bad Madame Henri is such a—

  “This is a very stressful job,” Monsieur Henri goes on. “The women who come to us…to them, this is the most important day of their lives. Their gown must be absolutely perfect, and yet delivered on time.”

  “I’m a total perfectionist myself,” I say. “I’ve stayed up all night to finish gowns when I didn’t even have to.”

  Monsieur Henri doesn’t even appear to be listening. “Our clients can be very demanding. One day they want one thing. The next day, something else—”

  “I’m completely flexible,” I say. “And I’m also very good with people. You might even say I’m a people person.” Oh, God. Did I just say that? “But I would never let a client pick something that isn’t flattering.”

  “This is a family-run business,” Monsieur Henri says with sudden—and alarming—finality, closing my portfolio with a loud snap. “I am not looking to hire outsiders.”

  “But—” No. He is not turning me away. I have to know how he made those ruffles. “I know I’m not family. But I’m good. And what I don’t know—I’m a very quick learner.”

  “Non,” Monsieur Henri says. “It is no use. I built this business for my sons—”

  “Who want nothing to do with it,” his wife says bitterly in French. “You know that, Jean. All those lazy pigs want to do is go to the discotheque.”

  Hmmm. Her own sons are pigs, too? Also…discotheque?

  “—and I do all my own work,” Monsieur Henri continues loftily.

  “Right,” Madame Henri snorts. “That’s why you have no time for me anymore. Or your sons. They run so wild because you are always here at the shop. And what about your heart? The doctor said you’ve got to reduce your stress levels, or you’ll have a stroke. You keep saying you want to work less, leave the shop to someone else to run sometimes, so we can spend more time in Provence. But do you do anything about this? Of course not.”

  “I live right around the corner,” I say, trying not to let them catch on that I understand every word they’re saying. “I can be here whenever you want me. If, you know, you want to spend more time with your family.”

  Madame Henri’s gaze locks onto mine. “Perhaps,” she murmurs, in her native tongue, “she is not so stupid after all.”

  “Please,” I say, fighting down an urge to yell, If I’m so stupid, would I be living on Fifth Avenue? Because, of course, people who judge you by what avenue you live on are stupid. “Your gowns are so beautiful. I want to open a shop of my own someday. So it only makes sense that I’d want to learn from the best. And I have references. You can call the manager of the last shop I worked in—”

  “Non,” Monsieur Henri says. “Non, I am not interested.”

  And he shoves my résumé back at me.

  “Who’s stupid now?” his wife demands tartly.

  But Monsieur Henri—perhaps because he’s seen the tears that have suddenly sprung up in my eyes…which, I know. Crying! At a job interview!—seems to soften.

  “Mademoiselle,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “It is not that I don’t think you have talent. It is that we are a very small shop. And my sons, they are in college now. This is very expensive. I cannot afford to pay another person.”

  And then I hear four words come trickling out of my mouth—like spit does, while I sleep—that I never in a million years would have guessed I’d ever say. And immediately after I’ve spoken, I want to shoot myself. But it’s too late. They’re already out there.

  “I’ll work for free.”

  God! No! What am I saying?

  Except that it’s seemed to work. Monsieur Henri looks intrigued. And his wife is smiling as if she’s just won the lottery or something.

  “An internship, you mean?” Monsieur Henri lowers his bifocals to look at me more closely.

  “I…I…” Oh God. How am I going to get out of this one? Especially since I’m not even sure I want to. “I guess so. And then when you see how hard I work, maybe you could consider promoting me to a paid position.”

  Okay. There, that sounds better. That’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll work like a dog for him, make myself indispensable. And then, when he can’t do without me, I’ll threaten to walk away unless he pays me.

  I’m pretty sure this is not the most effective strategy for getting a job. But it’s the only one I’ve got at the moment.

  “Done,” Monsieur Henri says. Then he whips off his bifocals and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Welcome.”

  “Um.” I slip my hand in his, feeling all the calluses on his fingers and palm. “Thanks.”

  About which Madame Henri observes in smug French, “Ha! She really is stupid after all!”

  Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide

  Know your…

  Wedding-gown train lengths!

  The three basic wedding-dress train lengths are:

  The Sweep Length Barely touches the floor

  The Chapel Length Trails on the floor about four feet out from the dress

  The Cathedral Length Trails six feet out from the dress (or more…but only if you’re royalty!)

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  Chapter 7

  The best way to keep one’s word is not to give it.

  —Napoleon I (1769–1821), French emperor

  I’m crying as I measure.

  I can’t help it. I’m just so screwed.

  And it’s not like I know anyone is home.

  So when Chaz comes out of his bedroom, holding a tattered paperback and looking sleepy, and goes, “Holy Christ, what are you doing here?” I let out this little shriek and fall over, sending the measuring tape flying.

  “Are you all right?” Chaz reaches for my arm, but it’s too late. I’m already flat on my butt on his living room floor.

  I blame the sloping parquet. I really do.

  “No,” I sob. “No,
I’m not all right.”

  “What’s wrong?” Chaz isn’t quite laughing. But there is a definite upward curl to the corners of his lips.

  “It’s not funny,” I say. Life in Manhattan has completely robbed me of my sense of humor. Oh, sure, it’s all fine and good when Luke and I are in bed together, or curled up on his mom’s couch, watching Pants Off/Dance Off on her plasma screen (artfully hidden from view beneath a genuine sixteenth-century tapestry depicting a lovely pastoral scene when not in use).

  But the minute he walks out the door to go to class—which is basically from nine to five every weekday—and I’m left on my own, all of my insecurities come rushing back, and I realize that I’m as close to striking out in Manhattan as Kathy Pennebaker did. The only difference between us, really, is that I don’t have a personality disorder.

  That’s been clinically diagnosed, anyway.

  “Sorry,” Chaz says. He’s trying not to smile as he looks down at me. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing sneaking into my apartment in the middle of the afternoon? Luke won’t let you cry in his mom’s place, or something?”

  “No.” I stay where I am on the floor. It feels good to cry. Also, Shari and Chaz keep the place pretty clean, so it’s not like I’m worried about getting my dress dirty or anything. “Shari gave me your spare key so I could come in and measure for the slipcovers and curtains I’m making you.”

  “You’re making us slipcovers and curtains?” Chaz looks pleased. “Cool.” He stops looking pleased when I keep on crying. “Or maybe not cool. If it’s making you cry.”

  “I’m not crying because of the slipcovers,” I say, reaching to dab at my eyes with the backs of my wrist. “I’m crying because I’m such a loser.”

  “Okay. I’m going to need a drink for this one,” Chaz says with a sigh. “You want one?”

  “Alcohol won’t solve anything,” I wail.

  “No,” Chaz agrees. “But I’ve been reading Wittgenstein all afternoon, so it might make me feel less suicidal. You in or you out? I’m thinking gin and tonics.”

  “I’m i-in,” I hiccup. Maybe a little gin is what I need to buck myself up. It always seems to work for Grandma.

  Which is how, a little while later, I find myself sitting next to Chaz on his gold-trimmed couches (the cushions are gold, too. If I didn’t know they came from a law office, I’d swear his couches came from a Chinese restaurant. An upscale one. But still), telling him the wretched truth about my finances.

  “And now,” I conclude, holding on to my tall, frosty drink glass, the contents of which are mostly consumed, “I have a job—I’m not going to say it’s my dream job, or anything, but I think I could learn a lot—but it doesn’t pay, and I have no idea how I’m going to get rent money for next month. I mean, I can’t even temp now, because I don’t have my days free, on account of having to be at Monsieur Henri’s. And you know how much I suck at bartending and food service. Honestly, unless I sell off my vintage clothing collection, I don’t think I’m going to make it. I don’t even know how I’m going to get the subway fare to get back home from here. And I can’t tell Luke, I just can’t, he’ll just think I’m stupid, like Madame Henri does, and it’s not like I can ask my parents for money, they don’t have any, and besides, I’m an adult, I should be supporting myself. So clearly I’m going to have to tell Monsieur Henri that I’m very sorry, but I made a mistake, and then head down to the closest temp agency and hope they have something—anything—for me.”

  I draw in a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s either that, or go back to Ann Arbor and hope my old job at Vintage to Vavoom is still available. Except that if I do that, everyone will go around saying how Lizzie Nichols tried to make it in New York but struck out, just like Kathy Pennebaker.”

  “She the one who used to steal everyone’s boyfriend?” Chaz asks.

  “Yes,” I say, thinking how nice it is that Shari’s boyfriend already knows all the important people and references from our lives, so I don’t have to explain them to him, the way I do Luke.

  “Well,” he says. “They won’t compare you to her. She’s got a personality disorder.”

  “Right. She has more of an excuse for striking out in New York than I do!”

  Chaz considers this. “She’s also a big whore. I’m just quoting Shari, here.”

  I think I’m getting a migraine. “Can we leave Kathy Pennebaker out of this?”

  “You brought her up,” Chaz points out.

  What am I doing here? What am I doing, sitting on my best friend’s boyfriend’s couch, telling him all my problems? Worse, he’s my boyfriend’s best friend.

  “If you tell Luke,” I growl, “anything about what I said here today, I’ll kill you. I really mean it. I’ll—I’ll kill you.”

  “I believe you,” Chaz says gravely.

  “Good.” I climb to my feet—not very steadily. Chaz didn’t skimp on the gin. “I’ve got to go. Luke’ll be home soon.”

  “Hold on there, champ,” Chaz says, and pulls me back down to the couch by the back of my beaded cardigan.

  “Hey,” I say. “That’s cashmere, you know.”

  “Simmer down,” Chaz says. “I’m going to do you a solid.”

  I hold up both hands, palms out, to ward him off. “Oh no,” I say. “No way. I do not want a loan, Chaz. I’m going to do this on my own, or not at all. I’m not touching your money.”

  “That’s good to know,” Chaz says dryly. “Because I wasn’t planning on offering you any of my money. What I’m wondering is if you could do the wedding-gown thing part-time. Like, afternoons only.”

  “Chaz,” I say, putting my hands down. “I’m not getting paid to do the wedding-gown thing. When you aren’t getting paid, you can pretty much make your own hours.”

  “Right,” he says. “So you have your mornings free?”

  “Regrettably,” I say.

  “Well, it just so happens,” he says, “that Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn just lost their morning receptionist to a touring company of Tarzan, the musical.”

  I blink at him. “Your dad’s law firm?”

  “Correct,” Chaz says. “The receptionist position there is apparently so demanding that it has to be split into two shifts, one from eight in the morning until two in the afternoon, and the other from two in the afternoon until eight in the evening. The afternoon shift is currently held by a young woman with modeling aspirations, who needs her mornings free for go-sees…or to recover from her hangover from partying the night before, whichever you care to believe. But they’re looking for someone to fill in for the morning shift. So, if you’re serious about wanting a job, it might not be a bad gig for you. You’d have your afternoons free for Monsieur Whatsisname, and you wouldn’t have to sell off your Betty Boop collection, or whatever it is. It only pays twenty bucks an hour, but it comes with benefits like major medical and paid vaca—”

  But he doesn’t get to go on. Because I’ve already thrown myself at him when I hear the words “twenty bucks an hour.”

  “Chaz, are you serious?” I cry, grasping big handfuls of his T-shirt. “Will you really put in a good word for me?”

  “Ow,” Chaz says. “That’s my chest hair you’re pulling.”

  I let go of him. “Oh God. Chaz! If I could work all morning, then go to Monsieur Henri’s in the afternoons…I might be able to make it. I might actually be able to make it in New York City after all! I won’t have to sell my stuff! I won’t have to go home!” More important, I won’t have to admit to Luke how much of a failure I am.

  “I’ll call Roberta in human resources and set up an appointment for you,” Chaz says. “But I’m warning you, Lizzie. It’s not easy work. Sure, all you’re doing is transferring phone calls. But my dad’s law firm specializes in divorces and matrimonial planning—in other words, prenups. Their clients are pretty demanding, and the lawyers are pretty uptight. Things can get really tense. I know, my dad had me work in the mailroom one summer when I was just out of high school. An
d it sucked.”

  I’m barely listening. “Is there a dress code? Do I have to wear panty hose? I hate panty hose.”

  Chaz sighs. “Roberta can tell you all about that. Listen. Not to make it not all about you for a change, or anything, but do you know what’s up with Shari?”

  That gets my attention. “Shari? No. Why? What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know.” For a minute, Chaz looks younger than his twenty-six years—which is only three years older than Shari and I are, and yet in so many ways, light-years older than that, even. I personally think that’s what comes of sending your kid off to boarding school during those integral tween and teen years. But maybe that’s just me. I can’t imagine having a kid and purposely sending him away, the way Chaz’s parents did, just because he was a little ADD. “She just can’t seem to stop talking about this new boss of hers.”

  “Pat?” I’ve heard the Pat stories ad nauseum myself. Every time I talk to Shari, it seems like she has another story about her intrepid new boss to share.

  But it isn’t a wonder, really, that Shari’s impressed by the woman. She has, after all, been instrumental in saving hundreds, maybe even thousands of women’s lives by getting them out of their abusive family situations and into new safe environments.

  “Yeah,” Chaz says, when I mention this. “I know all that. And I’m glad Shari likes her job, and all. It’s just…I hardly ever see her anymore. She’s always working. Not just nine to five, but evenings and some weekends, too.”

  “Well,” I say. Regrettably, I’m beginning to sober up already. “I’m sure she’s just trying to keep afloat. From what she says, the girl who had the job before her kind of left everything in a huge mess. She told me it would be months before she got it all straightened out.”

  “Yeah,” Chaz says. “She told me that, too.”

  “So,” I say. “You should be proud of her. She’s helping to make a difference.” Unlike me. And, I want to add, Chaz, who is only working on his Ph.D., after all. Although when he gets it, he intends to teach. Which is admirable. I mean, molding young minds, and all. Certainly more than I can say I’ll ever be doing.