by Meg Cabot
“Um, yes…well, you see, I needed a table to put it on, and your dressing table is just the right height…” She hates me. I can tell. She totally hates me. “I can move it if you need me to. It’s no problem…”
“Not at all,” Mrs. de Villiers says with a smile that’s, well, a trifle brittle. “Guillaume, I’ll take a little of that champagne. Actually, make that a lot.”
“I’ll just go move it,” I say. “The sewing machine. I’m sorry, I should have thought about it before. Of course you need a place to do your makeup—”
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. de Villiers says. “You can do it later. Sit down right now and have some champagne with us. Guillaume and I want to hear all about your new job. Jean-Luc says you’re working in a law office! That must be so exciting. I had no idea you were interested in the law.”
“Uh,” I say, taking the glass Monsieur de Villiers offers me. “I’m not—” Why didn’t I move that sewing machine last night, when it occurred to me that Mrs. de Villiers might not appreciate having it sitting there smack in the middle of her dressing table? Why?
“Are you doing paralegal work?” Mrs. de Villiers wants to know.
“Um, no,” I say. What about all my stuff in the bathroom? I have a ton of beauty products in there. I tried to consolidate it all in my plastic shower caddy from the dorm, but ever since I started working with a model, it’s gotten a lot bigger, since Tiffany won’t stop giving me samples, and some of them are pretty awesome. Like anything from Kiehl’s, which I admit I never heard of until I moved here. But now I’m addicted to their lip balm.
But where would I put all that stuff, if not the bathroom? There’s only the one bathroom…and that’s the place where shower caddies go…
“Administrative work?” Mrs. de Villiers is asking.
“No,” I say. “I’m the receptionist. Do you want me to move my stuff out of the bathroom? Because I totally can. I’m sorry if it seems like my stuff is everywhere, I know there’s a lot, but I can really move it—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. de Villiers says. She’s finished her first glass of champagne and holds out her glass toward her husband for a refill. “When does Jean-Luc get home?”
Oh, God. This is awful. She’s already wondering when Luke’s going to get here. I’m wondering the same thing. Someone needs to save us from this awkward silence—oh, wait. Monsieur de Villiers is turning on the TV. Thank God. We can watch the news or something—
“Oh, Guillaume, turn that off,” his wife says. “We want to visit, not watch CNN.”
“I just want to see the weather,” Monsieur de Villiers insists.
“You can look outside to see the weather,” his wife scoffs. “It’s cold. It’s November. What do you expect?”
Oh, God. This is excruciating. I’m going to die, I just know it. I saw her disappointed expression when I said I’m just a receptionist at Chaz’s dad’s firm. Why did she wince like that? Because she can’t imagine her son dating a mere receptionist? It’s true his last girlfriend was an investment banker. But she was older than me! Well, by a couple of years. But whatever, she had a business degree! I was a liberal arts major. What does anybody expect?
Oh, God. There’s an awkward silence. Nooooo…Okay, think of something to say. Anything. These are bright, intellectual people. I should be able to chat with them about anything…anything at all…
Oh! I know…
“Mrs. de Villiers, I just love your Renoir,” I say. “The one hanging over your bed?”
“Oh.” Luke’s mother looks pleased. “That little thing? Thank you. Yes, she’s adorable, isn’t she?”
“I love her,” I say truthfully. “Where did you get her?”
“Oh.” Mrs. de Villiers looks toward the windows overlooking Fifth Avenue, a faraway gleam in her eyes. “She was a gift from someone. A very long time ago.”
I don’t have to be a mind reader to know that the “someone” Mrs. de Villiers was referring to had been a lover. It had to have been. How else to explain the dewy look that came over her face?
Could it, I couldn’t help wondering, have been the same man who keeps calling the apartment, asking for her?
“Um,” I say. Because I don’t know what else to say. Luke’s father seems oblivious, switching the channels from New York 1 to CNN. “Nice gift.”
The most expensive thing anybody has ever given me is an iPod. And that was from my parents.
“Yes,” Mrs. de Villiers says with a catlike smile as she sips her champagne. “Wasn’t it?”
“Look.” Monsieur de Villiers points at the television. “You see? It’s going to snow tomorrow.”
“Well, we don’t have to worry about it,” his wife says. “We don’t have to go anywhere. We’ll be nice and snug in here.”
Oh, God. It’s true. We’ll all be stuck inside the whole day, me cooking (with Luke’s help, hopefully), and his parents…God. I don’t even know. What are they going to do? Watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade? The football games? Somehow they didn’t strike me as parade or football people.
Which meant they were just going to be sitting here. All day. Slowly sucking out my soul with their well-meaning but ultimately barbed comments…You really should consider becoming a paralegal, Lizzie. You’d make a lot more money than a mere receptionist. What? Certified wedding-gown specialist? I’ve never heard of that as a career path. Well, it’s true you did do wonders with my wedding gown. But that’s hardly a career for a college-educated person. I mean, aren’t you a glorified seamstress? Don’t you worry that you’re wasting all the money your parents paid for your education?
No! Because my education was free! Because my dad works at the college I went to, and free tuition is one of his job benefits!
Oh, God. Why did we all get along so well in France, and yet we have nothing to say to one another here?
I know why. Because they thought I was just Luke’s summer fling. Now it’s clear I’m more than that, and they aren’t happy about it. I know it. I just know it.
“You guys must be starving after your long plane ride,” I say as I spring up, determined not to let myself sink into despair. “Let me fix you something to eat.”
“No, no,” Monsieur de Villiers says. “We are taking you and Jean-Luc out tonight. We have reservations. Don’t we, Bibi?”
“Right,” Mrs. de Villiers says. “At Nobu. You know how much Jean-Luc loves sushi. We figured it would be just the right pick-me-up for him, considering how hard he’s been studying.”
“Right,” I say, in desperation. Desperation because I’m longing to get out of the same room with them. “I, uh, just got back from the store. I bought some cheese. Let me just put it out for you both. You can snack on it until Luke gets home and we can leave for the restaurant—”
“Don’t go to any trouble on our account,” Monsieur de Villiers says, waving a hand dismissively. “We can get our own snacks!”
Oh, God. They won’t even let me act like a hostess. Which I guess is understandable, since this isn’t even my apartment anyway.
Still. They don’t have to rub it in so much.
The telephone rings, startling me from my sullen musings. Not my cell phone—the apartment phone, the one listed under Bibi de Villiers’s name. The one only a single person has ever called on, since I’d moved in.
The man who leaves the disappointed messages for Bibi! The messages I’ve never mentioned to Luke.
Or his mother.
“Um, that’s probably for you,” I say to her. “Luke and I don’t use your number. We have our cells.”
Mrs. de Villiers looks startled but pleased. “I wonder who that can be,” she asks, getting up and heading to the phone. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming to town. I wanted to be free to shop uninterrupted. You know how it is.”
Actually, I did. There’s nothing more irritating than friends who want to schedule lunch with you when you’ve blocked out the whole weekend for shopping.
“Hello?�
�� Mrs. de Villiers says, after lifting the receiver and removing the clip-on earring from her right ear.
And I thought my mom was the only woman left without pierced ears.
I know instantly that it’s the Guy Who’s Been Leaving All Those Messages. I can tell by the surprised but pleased expression on Mrs. de Villiers’s lovely face. Also the quick, wary look she darts at the back of her husband’s head as she breathes, “Oh, darling, how sweet of you to call. You have? Well, no, I haven’t been here. No, I’ve been in France and then back in Houston. Yes, of course with Guillaume, silly.”
Hmmm. So Guy Who’s Been Leaving All Those Messages knows she’s married.
What am I thinking? Of course he does. That’s why he only calls on her private line.
Wow. I can’t believe Luke’s mom is cheating on his dad. Or used to be, I guess. Which wasn’t necessarily cheating then, either, because they were separated, and in the act of divorcing. They only got back together a few months ago, over the summer…because of me.
The question is, now that summer’s over, and life’s gotten back to normal—if you can call a life where you have three homes, including a château in France, a mansion in Houston, and a Fifth Avenue apartment in Manhattan, normal—will their renewed love be able to survive?
“Friday? Oh, darling, I’d love to, but you know I’ve blocked that day out for shopping. Yes, the whole day. Well, I suppose I could. Oh, you’re so persistent. No, I do admire that in a man. Fine. Friday it is, then. Buh-bye.”
Yeah. Maybe not.
Mrs. de Villiers hangs up and puts her earring back on. She’s smiling in a pleased kind of way.
“Who was that, chérie?” Luke’s father asks.
“Oh, no one,” Mrs. de Villiers says casually. Too casually.
At that moment, I hear Luke’s key in the lock. And I nearly crumple with relief.
“You’re here!” he cries when he walks in and sees his parents. “You’re early!”
“Eh!” Monsieur de Villiers looks pleased. “There he is!”
“Jean-Luc!” His mother throws open her arms. “Come give your mother a kiss!”
Luke crosses the living room to hug his mother, then gives his dad a kiss on both cheeks as well. Then he comes over to me and, giving me a kiss (on the lips, not the cheeks), he whispers, “Sorry I’m so late. I got stuck on the subway. What’d I miss? Anything going on I need to know about?”
“Oh,” I say. “Not really.”
Because what else am I going to say? Your parents won’t let me make them any snacks, they don’t think I’m good enough for you, tomorrow’s dinner is going to be a disaster, and by the way, I think your mom’s having an affair?
I may have a big mouth—but I’m learning.
Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide
But what about your crowning glory?
Brides have many different options when it comes to headgear for their special day. While some brides opt to leave their head bare, others opt for a veil, floral wreath, or tiara—or sometimes all three!
There are as many different headdresses as there are brides. Some of my favorites include:
The Wreath: Nothing says “bride” like flowers…and a circlet of fresh white rosebuds and baby’s breath never goes out of style.
The Tiara: Not just for royalty anymore! Many brides are opting to top their veil with a diamond (or diamante) sparkler.
The Band: Anything from a slim headband to a wider, highly decorated comb to hold both hair and veil in place.
The Bun: This circular band is attached to the bride’s updo, from which the veil sweeps.
The Crown: Why cheat yourself? If a tiara works, why not go bigger and better?
The Snood: It worked for your grandmother. A snood is a decorative net fitted over the back of the head, generally holding back the hair in a net.
The Juliet Cap: Like Juliet wore in the famous play—a round skullcaplike hat that sits closely on top of the head, usually decorated in seed-pearls.
And, of course, the ever popular:
Cowgirl Hat: Western brides wouldn’t be caught dead without one!
Which one looks best on you? Well, trying them on to find out is half the fun!
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 15
The Puritan’s idea of hell is a place where everybody has to mind his own business.
—Wendell Phillips (1811–1884), American abolitionist
It’s an hour until the turkey will be ready, and I think I have things under control.
No, really.
For one thing, Mrs. Erickson turned me on to a little New York secret—precooked turkeys from the local meat market. All you have to do after it arrives is bang yours in the oven and baste it every once in a while…and it looks (and smells) like you slaved all day.
And it was completely easy to snow all the de Villiers—even Luke—that this is what I’d done. All I had to do was make sure I got up before any of them did—which was no problem, since they all sleep like the dead—and sneak down to Mrs. Erickson’s apartment. I’d had my turkey delivered to her place, where she’d promised to store it until I could pick it up.
Once I had it—and the little bag of giblets that came with it, for the gravy—I hightailed it back up to Mrs. de Villiers’s apartment, and threw out all the telltale packaging. Perfect.
Luke got up a little while later and started whipping up his contribution to the meal—garlic-roasted onions and Brussels sprouts-and Mrs. de Villiers insisted on contributing a sweet potato side dish (thankfully minus the marshmallow fluff. Which I love, but Chaz and Shari were already bringing three different kinds of pie, because I like pumpkin, Chaz likes strawberry-rhubarb, and Shari likes pecan, and that’s more than enough sweet stuff).
Monsieur de Villiers contributed by puttering around, assembling all his wines in the order in which he wants us to consume them.
So in all, everything is going pretty much according to plan. The guests are arriving. Tiffany—looking resplendent in the suede catsuit Roberta once sent her home for wearing to the office—has shown up with Raoul, who’s turned out to be a surprisingly pleasant, fairly normal thirty-year-old, with very good manners—he’s brought along a bottle of the Beaujolais that Monsieur de Villiers is so excited about. Apparently, he’s something of a wine connoisseur—albeit of the Argentinean variety—himself.
So the two of them immediately start talking grapes and soil, while Mrs. de Villiers sets the table, carefully folding each of her cloth napkins into an upright fan pattern, and using all three forks from her silver set, placing them with extra care beside one another…perhaps thanks to the Bloody Marys Luke insisted on preparing for his parents—and has kept filled—since they’ve woken up. (“How else,” he asked me, sotto voce, “are we all going to get along all day in such a small space?”)
Not that his parents seem to mind. Once I moved the sewing machine, Luke’s mother was all smiles. Although that might have something to do with the fact that Luke’s been careful not to leave us alone together again.
Which is fine. I actually have work tomorrow (partners may get the Friday after Thanksgiving as a holiday in busy law firms, but receptionists certainly don’t), so it will be up to Luke to keep his parents entertained. His mother, of course, has already made other plans (about which she’s informed no one). Luke and his father plan on going to the museums…
…where I’ll be joining them all day on Saturday, before we head off to the theater together for my first Broadway show—Mrs. de Villiers has four tickets to Spamalot. Thankfully they’ll be leaving on Sunday, by which time I think my tolerance for sharing a one-bedroom with my boyfriend’s parents will have been totally spent.
Tiffany, however, seems completely enthusiastic about the de Villiers…fascinated by them, actually. She keeps sidling up to me in the kitchen as I pretend to be sweating over my turkey and whispering, “So…that old guy? He’s really a prince?”
I rue the day I ever mentione
d the whole royalty thing to Tiffany. Seriously, I don’t know what I was thinking. Telling something in confidence to Tiffany is like telling it to a parrot. Only a fool would expect it not to be repeated.
“Um, yeah,” I say, basting. “But remember, I told you. France doesn’t recognize its former monarchs—or whatever—anymore. And, you know. There are like a thousand princes. Or I guess counts is what they really are.”
Tiffany, as is her custom, completely ignores my reply.
“So Luke is a prince, too.” She is observing Luke across the pass-through, as he arranges a tray of appetizers—shrimp cocktail and crudités—on the coffee table in front of the sofa on which his father and Raoul are having their animated wine discussion. “Man. Did you score in the boyfriend department.”
I’m annoyed now. Not just because it’s nearly five o’clock and I asked Chaz and Shari to be here at four and there is no sign of them. Which isn’t that unusual, especially since it’s snowing out, and even the slightest snowfall seems to paralyze New York City…but even more so when everyone is off work on a holiday.
Still, it isn’t like Shari not to call. Or leave me stranded like this with my future (hopefully) in-laws and no comic relief in the form of my best friend.
Although Tiffany appears to be trying. Unconsciously (the comic part, I mean).
“That’s not why I like him,” I whisper to Tiffany. “You know that.”
“Right,” Tiffany says tiredly. “I know, I know. It’s because of the doctor thing, he’s going to be saving the lives of little children. Yada yada yada.”
“Well,” I say. “That’s not totally why. But yeah, that’s part of it. That and the whole part where he’s like the best boyfriend who ever lived.”
“Yeah,” Tiffany says, reaching for a cheese stick from the basket of them I have on the counter, ready to go out to the table as soon as Chaz and Shari get here—whenever that is. “But, you know, doctors, they don’t make, like, any money anymore. Because of the HMOs. I mean, unless they go into plastic surgery.”
