by Meg Cabot
I roll my eyes. “He’s not in love with me,” I say. “He—”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Ava interrupts, licking the fingertips Snow White’s just licked. “Why don’t you just fuck him?”
“Who’s that?” Gran asks over the phone. “I like her.”
I have no choice but to set down my Diet Coke and say, “Ava, first of all: Monique is wrong. Chaz isn’t in love with me. We’re just friends. Second of all, you shouldn’t be driving anywhere, short or long distance, if you’re wasted. I want you to know that I Googled you after I got home last night, and I know all about your DUI. You need to be more careful. With all your money, why don’t you just hire a driver? And last, while I appreciate that, as feminists, we have every right to embrace whatever kind of language we choose, even words considered by previous generations to be ‘unladylike’ or ‘coarse,’ it really isn’t tasteful or imaginative to use vulgarities in everyday conversation. Sure, if you’re really upset about something. But the f-word, Ava, when you’re speaking about making love? I think you’re better than that. In fact, I know you are. Besides, what would Prince Aleksandros say?”
Ava looks at me with the same blank expression she’d worn when I’d held out my hand for her gum. “He says ‘fuck’ even more than I do,” she says.
I sigh. “Let’s just drop it,” I say to the room—and into the phone—in general. “Pretend I didn’t say anything. Especially to Mom. Okay, Gran?”
“Tell you what you should do,” Little Joey remarks, after taking a delicate sip of the Diet Peach Snapple he’s produced from one of his enormous pockets. “Get this guy alone, in a darkened room. Open up a bottle of Hennessey. Play a little Vandross. That’s how you have yourselves some closure.”
“Now,” Gran says approvingly, “someone is finally talking sense.”
I gape at my cell. “That’s…that’s preposterous,” I stammer. “I happen to be deeply—deeply—in love with my fiancé. I mean…come on, Tiffany.” I turn to her for help. “You’ve seen Luke and me together. You had Thanksgiving with us, remember?”
“Right,” Tiffany says, thoughtfully tapping on her perfectly aligned—also capped—front teeth. “But I think Little Joey might be onto something, Lizzie. I think you want us to say you should go talk to Chaz. I mean, why else would you have mentioned it?”
Monique nods too. “Right. You do seem to want us to tell you that you should go talk to Chaz about it.”
“I think you liked having his hand down your bra and are hoping he’ll do it again,” Tiffany adds.
I widen my eyes at her. “Boundaries,” I say, jerking my head urgently at Little Joey, who is now smirking into his Snapple bottle. “Ladies! Boundaries!”
“That’s what I said.” Ava, ignoring me, has turned her huge baby blues onto Tiffany. “She should just fuck him and get him out of her system. That’s what I did when I found myself with feelings for DJ Tippycat on Celebrity Pit Fight.”
I blink. Then I say firmly, “I am not going to make love to my fiancé’s best friend, Ava. That is a totally ridiculous suggestion. For one thing, I would never betray Luke’s trust like that. And I can tell you that if that’s how you deal with your fiancé’s friends—or…or DJ Tippycat—well, he isn’t going to stay your fiancé for long. And for another thing, I happen to be in love with my boyfriend. Besides which, Chaz happens to be my best friend’s ex-boyfriend—”
“Yeah, but it’s not like she wants him anymore,” Tiffany says in a bored voice. “Seeing as how she’s gay and sleeping with a woman now.”
Ava sucks in her breath. Little Joey looks as delighted as if he’s just won the lottery. Snow White yawns and curls herself into a little ball and goes to sleep. Gran says, “I think I’ll just TiVo today’s episode of Dr. Quinn…how the hell do you work this thing?”
“Chaz doesn’t even believe in marriage,” I inform them desperately. “He thinks it’s nothing but a slip of paper, and that marriage doesn’t actually mean anything—”
“Okay, now we get to the heart of the matter,” Little Joey says in a satisfied voice. “So this is why you aren’t busting a move on the guy.”
“Of course,” Monique says, wide-eyed. “It all makes sense now. What’s a woman who makes her living making women’s wedding dreams come true going to do with a man who doesn’t even believe in the institution of marriage? It’s absurd.”
“She can always make him change his mind,” Ava says, as if I’m not even in the room. “It’s hard. But it happens.”
Tiffany looks dubious. “I don’t know. This is a philosophy Ph.D. candidate we’re talking about. He studies, like, existentialism and shit. I think it’d be hard to get him to change his socks, let alone his mind.”
“Let’s just forget I brought it up, all right?” I ask in an unsteady voice. “Let’s talk about something else—”
“Nooooo!” Gran yells, so loudly that I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
“Let’s talk about your gown, Ava,” I say, ignoring Gran. “I think you’re right to go a little more conservative than usual. After all, this is your wedding, and you’re going to be marrying into a royal family. But since it’s going to be a summer ceremony, I was thinking capped sleeves—”
“This is boring me,” Gran threatens. “I’m hanging up.”
“You’re young and slender and can get away with them. And since it’s Greece, I was thinking an empire waist…going a little Grecian. Here, let me show you what I mean.”
The click echoes with startling finality in my ear. I ignore it, closing my cell phone and laying it aside. I’ll deal with Gran later. A load of coal into my steam engine?
With difficulty, I finally steer them away from the topic of my love life and onto the subject of my ideas for Ava’s gown—which she seems to like—until Tiffany bursts out, after a glance at the wall clock, “Crap! I have to go to work. I mean, my other work. Okay, you guys, don’t talk about anything good while I’m gone. And, Lizzie, don’t you dare make any decisions about Chaz without checking with me first. Obviously you can’t be trusted about any of this. Just, you know. Call me first if anything new comes up, and we’ll talk.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I say with a sniff. “As I’ve said before—repeatedly—I love my boyfriend—I mean, my fiancé—and nothing is going to happen between his best friend and myself, because there is nothing going on between us.”
“Right,” Tiffany says with a laugh, which is echoed by everyone else in the shop, with the exception of me.
After Tiffany leaves—announcing that there’re still paparazzi waiting on the corner and that Ava had better continue to lay low—I declare that I, too, have to go to work—on making some sketches for Ava’s dress; plus, there’s the Bianchi, which I’m determined to finish up; not to mention loads of other projects to get started, given the fact that my boss is going to be out for at least the next four to six weeks, according to his wife, who’d phoned to give me a progress report—and slink into the back.
But instead of sketching or tweaking the Bianchi, I find myself staring into space, wondering whether or not what the others had said—that Chaz was in love with me—could possibly be true.
“I’m manically depressed because the girl I’ve finally realized I’ve always been in love with, and who I was beginning to think just might love me back, turned around and got herself engaged to my best friend, who, frankly, doesn’t deserve her.”
Sure. He’d said that. But he’d only been teasing me. And I, like the simple Midwestern fool that I am, had fallen for it. Why did my heart go all jumpy when he said that? I am completely and one hundred percent committed to Luke.
Of course…Chaz had said he saw nothing but me in his future…and that I wasn’t even wearing Spanx.
Luke still doesn’t know that I wear Spanx, or even what they are. I’ve managed to keep them a well-guarded secret from him.
How I’ve kept the twenty or so pounds I’ve managed to gain back sin
ce moving to New York City a secret from him is much more complicated. It involves never turning my back on him while undressed, and always letting him be on top during our more, er, intimate moments, so he doesn’t notice my belly. Thank God for gravity.
How much longer I’ll be able to carry on this facade, I don’t know. It may end up to be easier to give up tandoori chicken sandwiches in exchange for salads or—God forbid—I could start working out.
But I do want to be a slender bride. Or at least less large than I am now.
But where will I find the time to work out, now that I’m running the shop single-handedly—well, not counting Tiffany and Monique—and will be doing so for at least another month and a half…maybe even longer, according to Madame Henri, who explained that bypass surgery recovery times can be hard to predict and depend on the individual? I don’t even have time to plan my own wedding, let alone get in shape for it.
Funny how just thinking the words “my wedding” makes me feel a little tight in the chest. Seriously, like I can’t breathe. And what is with that itchy red splotch on the inside of my elbow all of a sudden? What is that? Why does it keep appearing and then disappearing, only to reappear in a new spot, sometimes more than one?
Is that…oh my God, is that a hive? No. It can’t be. I haven’t had hives since I was in high school, when I was put in charge of the costumes for Jesus Christ Superstar, and the director wanted everyone in bell bottoms. This was before bell bottoms were back in style, and I realized I was going to have to slash—and insert brightly colored panels into—the pants legs of seventy-five cast members. In one weekend. I’d broken out into such bad hives that Dr. Dennis, Shari’s dad, had had to give me a shot of prednisone.
Oh my God. There’s another one on the inside of my other elbow.
Oh no, please. Don’t let me turn out to be the same way over this damn wedding with Luke as I was over the bell bottoms. Why? Why is this happening? Is it Mom, and her insistence that our backyard is just as nice a place to have a wedding as Château Mirac? It can’t be…you know, that other thing. What Monique said, about Chaz’s being in love with me. It can’t possibly be that.
No. It has to be the thing with Mom, and the whole idea of my family descending on Luke’s familial estate, and how they might act when they get there. Gran, with her drinking, and Rose and Sarah, with their bickering and their picking on me, and…
Oh yeah, see? Another hive. Right there on my wrist. I knew it. It’s because I keep seeing Rose’s husband, Angelo, in my mind’s eye, wandering around the château, wanting to know where he can get a Pabst Blue Ribbon…
And Gran. Gran, going up to Mrs. de Villiers and asking her what time Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman is going to be on…
Oh God. Two more.
Chaz stepping forward when the justice of the peace—or whoever marries people in France—asks if there is anybody who has any reason why this couple should not be wed, because he doesn’t believe in the institution of marriage, and it’s just a slip of paper…
Oh my God! Another one on my wrist!
Okay. That’s it. That is it. I am not going to think about Chaz—or my wedding—again. Whatever happened between Chaz and me, it’s done, over, finished. What would be the point, anyway? There’s no future for our relationship—even if we had one—since he doesn’t believe in marriage.
And I’m sorry, but—call me a simple-minded fool—I do! I really do!
No. This is it. I am not going to see or speak to Chaz ever again—it’s better this way, to avoid temptation—except when I have to, because he is my fiancé’s best friend and our best man, and it would look weird if I didn’t speak to the best man at my own wedding.
That’s it. I’m done with Chaz.
And done with thinking about my wedding. For now.
Okay. Exhale.
Now. Where was I? Oh, right. The Bianchi. Okay.
That’s right. I’ll just throw myself into my work. That’s all I need to do, and time will fly by so fast, I won’t even realize it. Before I know it, it will be June…time to get ready for my own wedding day.
And then nothing Chaz can say or do will be able to ruin it for me…By then everything will be perfect. Just perfect.
Exactly the way it’s supposed to be.
See? I feel better already.
And look at that. No new hives.
Phew. Great. Okay. So…work. WORK!
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
Everyone knows a bride needs to wear something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. But hardly anyone knows why. According to ancient superstition, the “something old” ensures the bride’s friends will be faithful when she needs them after she’s embarked on her new life with her husband and his family. The “something new” is supposed to promise success in that new life. The “something borrowed” symbolizes the love of her own family—that she may take it with her as she goes to live with the family of her new husband. And the “blue” symbolizes loyalty and constancy.
The full version of the rhyme goes on to add that the bride also needs “a sixpence in her shoe.”
This was for cab fare home if things worked out badly.
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
You know the old saying—What happens when you assume? You make an Ass of U and Me. Don’t assume everyone you’ve invited to your wedding knows their way to the church and reception hall. Include a well-drawn, legible map along with your invitation. Trust me, some of your guests will be so drunk—yes, even before the ceremony—they’ll need it.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 8 •
To keep your marriage brimming,
With love in the wedding cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.
Ogden Nash (1902–1971), American poet
June, Six Months Later
We have a new awning.”
That’s the first thing Monsieur Henri says when he walks into the shop.
“Well, of course we do,” I say with a laugh. “You know that. Your wife helped pick it out.”
“But”—Monsieur Henri glances over his shoulder at the awning stretched over the entrance to the shop—“it’s pink.”
Madame Henri gives her husband a sharp rap on the shoulder.
“Don’t be ignorant,” she advises him in French. “Of course it’s pink. I showed you the swatches. You agreed to the color yourself.”
“No.” Monsieur Henri shakes his head. “Not that pink.”
“Jean, you did,” Madame Henri insists. “Remember, you were in the garden, and I brought out the swatches, and you said you liked the salmon.”
“That’s not salmon,” Monsieur Henri insists. “That’s pink.” He looks down, then gasps. “My God. The carpet too?”
“It’s not pink,” I rush to inform him. “It’s blush. It’s practically beige.”
“If it’s the rug he’s going on about, tell him the customers like it,” Tiffany says defensively as she leans over her desk to gaze at the new wall-to-wall. “It’s very feminine.”
Monsieur Henri glances at her.
“What,” he asks in English, sounding horrified, “is wrong with your hair?”
Tiffany lifts up her hand to tug on her new, ultra-short bangs. “You like? They call it the Ava. After Ava Geck. Everybody’s getting it.” When she notices from his expression that he clearly doesn’t understand a word she’s saying, she adds, “It’s all Lizzie’s doing. She totally civilized her. Ava was like an animal before Lizzie got her hands on her. Seriously. She could barely formulate comprehensible sentences. And now she almost always remembers to put on underwear. Well, most days.”
“Take me back,” Monsieur Henri mutters. “Take me back to New Jersey,” he says to his wife.
“No, Jean, don’t be ridiculous,” Madame Henri says, taking her husband’s arm and leading him toward one of the newly upholstered chairs that sit by the fully stocked coffe
e bar. Monsieur Henri sinks onto the slick pink silk with a sigh. He has not snapped back as quickly—or as fully—as any of us hoped he would from his bypass surgery. His recovery has been fraught with complications, including a case of double pneumonia that had him bedridden for an extra few weeks, and he is only now, months later, making his first tenuous steps back to work.
But it’s clear his heart—to borrow a phrase—isn’t in it.
“Where did we get these chairs?” he whines, noticing the new material he’s sitting on. “And what’s that smell?”
“Those are the same old chairs you’ve always had,” I explain. “I had them recovered. They were stained and ugly. And that smell is Colombian roast. I got a cappuccino maker so the mothers can have something to drink during their daughters’ fittings—”
“How much is all of this costing me?” Monsieur Henri frets, looking around at the newly painted walls (also in blush), and the vintage dress pattern packets I’ve hung in elaborate gilt frames.
“It’s not costing you anything, you old goat,” Madame Henri chastises her husband, poking him in the shoulder. “I told you. Thanks to Lizzie, business is up almost a thousand percent since this time last year. That Jill Higgins—remember, from last year? All those society women are sending their daughters to have their gowns fitted by the same place that made hers such a standout. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you listen anymore? Did they forget to clean out your ears when they were cleaning out your arteries?”
Monsieur Henri hunches his shoulders. He’s lost so much weight since his surgery he looks almost like a different person. He resembles his twenty-something sons much more closely now, being long and lean, like them.
Unlike them, however, he’s gone entirely gray.
“I don’t understand anything anymore,” he says with a sigh. “Let me see the book. Lizzie…just give me the book.”
I seize the venerable appointment book from Tiffany—despite her insisting we switch over to a computerized mode of taking appointments, we’ve stayed with Monsieur Henri’s old appointment book.
