Queen of Babble in the Big City (Queen of Babble #2) Read online

  “Fine,” I say. I understand that Shari’s new job is the most important thing in the world to her right now. Which is as it should be. I mean, she is, after all, saving women’s lives. “How about tomorrow night, then?”

  “This week is really bad for me, Lizzie,” Shari says. “I’m going to be working late just about every night.”

  “What about Saturday?” I inquire patiently. “You aren’t working on Saturday night, are you?”

  There’s a pause. For a second or two, I think Shari’s going to say that she does, indeed, plan on working through Saturday night.

  But then she says, “No, of course not. Saturday it is.”

  “Great,” I say. “We’ll hit Chinatown. And then Honey’s. On Saturday night the serious karaoke players come out. And, Shari?”

  “What, Lizzie? I really have to go, Pat’s waiting—”

  “I know.” There’s always someone waiting for Shari these days. “But I wanted to ask you—are things okay between you and Chaz? Because he asked me about you.”

  I have her full attention again. “He asked you what about me?” Shari demands, somewhat sharply.

  “Just if I thought you were all right,” I say. “I said I thought you were. I guess he misses you as much as I do.” I think about this as I wait for the light to change before crossing the street. “Actually, he probably misses you more…”

  “I can’t help it,” Shari snaps, “if I’m too busy helping victims of domestic violence find safe places to live to worry about my boyfriend. This is part of the problem, you know. I mean, men think the entire world revolves around them. And so when the woman in his life finds herself thriving—excelling, even—in the workplace, a man naturally feels threatened, and eventually leaves her for someone who has more time to give to him.”

  I am, to put it bluntly, stunned by this speech. So stunned I actually stop walking for a second, and am bumped from behind by an irritated-looking businessman. “Excuse you,” the businessman mutters before hurrying along.

  “Shari,” I say into the phone. “Chaz does not feel threatened by your new career. He loves that you love your job. He just wants to know when he’s ever going to see you again. He isn’t leaving you.”

  “I know,” Shari says, after a pause. “I just—sorry. I didn’t mean to lay all that on you. I’m just having a bad day. Forget I said anything.”

  “Shari.” I shake my head. “This sounds like something more serious than just a bad day. Are you and Chaz—”

  “I really have to go, Lizzie,” Shari says. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

  And then she hangs up.

  Wow. What was that about? I wonder. Chaz and Shari have always had something of a stormy relationship, full of bickering and even some fights (the most serious of which was the one stemming from Shari’s decision to kill and dissect her lab rat, Mr. Jingles, even after Chaz had found an identical replacement rat at PetSmart for whom none of us had developed the kind of affection we all felt for Mr. Jingles).

  But they’d always made up quickly (except for the two weeks after Mr. Jingles’s death that Chaz wouldn’t speak to Shari). In fact, the fantastic makeup sex was one of the reasons Shari cited for picking so many fights with Chaz in the first place.

  So is that what’s going on now? Just an elaborate ploy on Shari’s part to inject a little more excitement into their relationship?

  Because, as I’m discovering myself, it’s not easy to keep the flame alive when you’re living together. Mundane everyday things can totally get in the way of blissful cohabitation. Like whose turn is it to do the dishes, and who gets control of the remote, and who unplugged whose cell phone charger to plug in the hair dryer instead then forgot to plug the cell phone charger back in.

  Those kinds of things are real romance killers.

  Not that I don’t love every minute of living with Luke. I mean, from the moment I wake up to see the Renoir girl’s smiling face above my head, to the moment I fall asleep, listening to Luke’s gentle breathing beside me (he always falls asleep before I do. I don’t know how he does it. The minute his head touches the pillow, he’s out like a light. Maybe it’s all that boring reading for his Principles of Biology and General Chemistry that he does before bed in order to keep up with his homework), I thank my lucky stars that I made the decision to leave England and go to France. Because otherwise I would never have met him, and I wouldn’t be as happy as I am now (worries about finances aside).

  Still, I guess I can understand it if Shari is trying to get a rise out of Chaz just to shake things up a little. Because I’ve watched television with Chaz before, and the way he flips up and down the channels instead of just leaving it on one semiinteresting program and then going to the onscreen guide to see what else is on can be almost as annoying as the way Luke, it turns out, considers really upsetting documentaries about things like the Holocaust suitable viewing for a fun Friday night at home.

  But I don’t have time to worry about Shari and Chaz—or even Luke’s aversion to romantic comedies—because when I get to Monsieur Henri’s that afternoon and ring the bell to be let in (he hasn’t given me a key, and probably won’t, I fear, until I’ve proved myself capable of doing something other than a cross-stitch), I find bedlam.

  An older woman with big hair and the kind of brightly colored clothing that I’ve already learned pegs her as “bridge and tunnel” (someone who lives outside Manhattan, and has to take a bridge or tunnel to get to it) is holding this enormous white box and shouting, “Look! Just look!” while a girl who could only be her daughter (even though she’s more stylishly attired in black and a blowout) stands nearby, looking sullen, and not a little rebellious.

  Monsieur Henri, in the meantime, is saying, “Madame, I know. This is not the first time. I see this often.”

  I try to keep out of the way, and sidle up to Madame Henri, who is watching the drama unfold from the curtained doorway to the workroom at the back of the shop.

  “What’s happening?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head. “They went to Maurice” is all she says in way of reply.

  Which of course tells me nothing. I still don’t have the slightest idea who Maurice is.

  But then Monsieur Henri reaches into the box, and carefully pulls out a long-sleeved, virginal, fragile-as-gossamer-looking white gown.

  At least, it used to be white. The lace has turned a sickening shade of yellow.

  “He promised!” the woman is saying. “He promised the preservation box would keep it from yellowing!”

  “Of course he did,” Monsieur Henri says, in a dry tone. “And when you took it back to show him, he told you that the reason it turned this color was because you broke the preservation seal.”

  “Yes!” The woman’s chin is trembling, she’s so upset. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said! He said it was my fault, for allowing air inside the box!”

  I let out an involuntary sound of protest. Monsieur Henri glances in my direction. I immediately blush, and take a quick step backward.

  But Monsieur Henri has fastened his blue-eyed gaze at me and isn’t looking away.

  “Mademoiselle?” he asks. “There is something you wish to say?”

  “No,” I say quickly, aware that Madame Henri is staring daggers at me. “I mean, not really.”

  “I think there is.” Monsieur Henri’s eyes are very bright. He can’t see anything close up without his glasses. But his farsightedness is uncanny. “Go on. What is it that you wish to say?”

  “Only,” I begin reluctantly, fearing I might be saying something he won’t like, “that storing textiles in a sealed container can actually harm them, especially if moisture gets in. It can cause the material to mildew.”

  Monsieur Henri, I see, looks pleased. This gives me the courage to continue. “Not one of the historic costumes at the Met is stored in an airtight room,” I go on. “And they’re doing just fine. It’s important to keep old fabric out of direct sunlight—but there’s no way breaking the seal on a preservation box caused the yellowing on that dress. That was caused by improper cleaning before storage…most likely the result of the gown not having been cleaned at all, and stains from champagne or perspiration being left untreated.”

  The smile Monsieur Henri bequeaths me upon my concluding this recitation is dazzling enough to cause his wife to suck in her breath…

  …and throw me a look of surprise. It’s clear she’s reassessing her “stupid” remark from earlier in the week.

  “But how can that be?” the woman asks, her brow furrowed. “If the gown was cleaned before it was put in storage—”

  “God, Mom,” the girl interrupts, sounding disgusted. “Don’t you get it? That Maurice guy didn’t clean it. He just stuck it in there, put the lid on, and gave it back, saying he’d cleaned it.”

  “And told you never to open the box,” Monsieur Henri adds. “That breaking the seal would cause the material to yellow—and void your money-back guarantee.” Making a tsk-tsking noise, Monsieur Henri looks down at the dress he’s holding. Which, I have to say, is not the nicest gown I’ve ever seen. I mean, it’s okay.

  But if the reason the older woman broke the seal on the box in which the gown had been preserved was so that her daughter could wear it to her wedding, well, she was in for a surprise. Because I couldn’t see Miss Blowout putting on that high-necked, Victorian-looking thing for all the Suzy Perettes in the world.

  “I have seen this a thousand times,” Monsieur Henri says sadly. “It is such a shame.”

  The older woman looks alarmed. “Is it ruined?” she wants to know. “Can it be saved?”

  “I don’t know,” Monsieur Henri says dubiously. I can see that he’s playing them. All the dress needs is a nice white-vinegar soak and maybe a cold-wat
er wash with some OxiClean.

  “Gee, that’s too bad,” Blowout says, before Monsieur Henri can say anything more. “I guess we’ll just have to get a new dress.”

  “We are not getting you a new dress, Jennifer,” Big Hair snaps. “This dress was good enough for me, and good enough for each of your sisters. It’s good enough for you!”

  Jennifer looks mutinous. Monsieur Henri doesn’t need to put on his glasses to see this. He hesitates, and it’s clear he’s not certain how to proceed. Madame Henri clears her throat.

  But I jump in, before she can say a word, with, “The stains can be removed. But that’s not the real problem, is it?”

  Jennifer is looking at me suspiciously. So, actually, is everyone in the shop.

  “Elizabeth,” Monsieur Henri says, using my first name for the first time in our acquaintance—and in a sugary-sweet voice I know is completely fake, too. He clearly wants to kill me. “There is no problem.”

  “Yes, there is,” I say, in a voice just as fakey as his. “I mean, look at that dress, and then look at Jennifer here.” Everyone in the shop glances at the dress, then at Jennifer, who preens a little, sweeping back the stick-straight ends of her blowout. “Do you see the problem now?”

  “No,” Jennifer’s mother says bluntly.

  “This dress was probably very flattering on you, Mrs.—” I pause and look questioningly at Jennifer’s mom, who says, “Harris.”

  “Right,” I say. “Mrs. Harris. Because you’re a statuesque woman, with excellent carriage. But look at Jennifer. She’s very petite. A dress with this much material will overwhelm her.”

  Jennifer narrows her eyes and scissors a glance in her mother’s direction. “See?” she hisses. “I told you.”

  “Er, uh,” Monsieur Henri blusters uncomfortably, still looking as if he wants to kill me. “In point of fact, Mademoiselle Elizabeth is not, er, technically speaking, an employee of—”

  “But this gown could easily be altered to flatter someone of Jennifer’s proportions,” I say, pointing to the high neckline, “merely by opening up this area here, giving it more of a sweetheart neckline, and maybe getting rid of the sleeves—”

  “Absolutely not,” Mrs. Harris says. “It’s a Catholic ceremony.”

  “Then tightening the sleeves,” I go on smoothly, “so that they don’t bell. A girl with a figure as good as Jennifer’s shouldn’t hide it. Especially on a day when she wants to look her best.”

  Jennifer has been listening to all of this intently. I can tell because she’s stopped fiddling with her hair.

  “Yeah,” she says. “See, Mom? That’s what I told you.”

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Harris murmurs, chewing her lower lip. “Your sisters—”

  “Are you the youngest?” I asked Jennifer, who nodded. “Yeah, I thought so. Me, too. It’s hard being the youngest, always getting your big sisters’ hand-me-downs. You get to a point where you’d just die to have something—anything—new, something all your own.”

  “Exactly!” Jennifer explodes.

  “But in the case of your mother’s wedding gown, you can have that,” I say, “and still observe family tradition by wearing it…you just have to give it a few tweaks to make it uniquely your own. And we can easily do that here—”

  “I want that,” Jennifer says, turning to her mother. “What she said. That’s what I want.”

  Mrs. Harris looks from the gown to her daughter and then back again. Then she lets out a little laugh and says, “Fine! Whatever you want! If it’s cheaper than a new gown—”

  “Oh,” Madame Henri steps forward to say, “it will be, of course. If the young lady would like to come with me to change, we can begin measuring for the alterations right away…”

  Jennifer flicks her blowout back and, without another word, follows Madame Henri to the dressing room.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Harris cries, after glancing at her watch. “I have to go put money in the meter if we’re staying. Excuse me—”

  She hurries out of the shop. As soon as the door eases shut behind her, Monsieur Henri turns to me and, indicating the yellowed dress he’s still holding, says hesitantly, “You are quite adept with the, er, customer.”

  “Oh,” I say modestly. “Well, that one was easy. I know exactly how she felt. I have older sisters myself.”

  “I see.” Monsieur Henri’s gaze is shrewd as he looks down at me. “Well, I will be interested to see if you can work a needle as well as you work your mouth.”

  “Watch me,” I say, plucking the gown from his hands. “Just watch.”

  Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide

  If you are top-heavy, or have an hourglass figure, I have one word for you: strapless!

  I know what you are thinking…strapless, at a wedding? But strapless is no longer considered immodest in most churches!

  And with the right support in the bodice, this look can be extremely flattering on a top-heavy bride, especially when paired with an A-line skirt. V-necklines are also terrific on large-on-the-top women, as are off-the-shoulder and scoop-neck designs.

  Just remember that the higher the neckline, the bigger the boobs look!

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  Chapter 9

  Nothing travels faster than light, with the possible exception of bad news, which follows its own rules.

  —Douglas Adams (1952–2001), British author and radio dramatist

  A receptionist?”

  That’s what Luke says when I tell him the news. For once, he’s gotten home before I have, and is making dinner—coq au vin. One of the many advantages of having a boyfriend who is half French is that his culinary repertoire extends beyond mac and cheese. Plus, there’s the kissing.

  “Right,” I say. I’m sitting on a velvet-cushioned stool in front of the granite-topped bar beneath the pass-through between the kitchen and dining/living room.

  “But.” Luke is pouring us each a glass of cabernet sauvignon, then hands me mine through the pass-through. “Aren’t you…I don’t know. A little overqualified to be a receptionist?”

  “Sure,” I say. “But this way I’ll be able to pay the bills and still do what I love—for part of the day, anyway. Since I haven’t had any luck finding a paying fashion gig.”

  “It’s only been a month,” Luke says. “Maybe you just need to give your job search a little more time.”

  “Um.” How can I explain this to him without revealing the fact that I am flat busted broke? “Well, I am. If something better comes along, of course I can always quit.”

  Except I don’t want to. Quit Monsieur Henri’s, anyway. Because I’m starting to like it there. Especially now that I know who Maurice is: a rival “certified wedding-gown specialist” who owns not one but four shops throughout the city, and who has been stealing away Monsieur Henri’s clientele with his promise of a new chemical treatment to combat cake and wine stains (no such treatment exists), and who overcharges his customers for even the simplest alterations, and underpays his vendors and employees (although I don’t see how he could underpay them more than Monsieur Henri is underpaying me).

  Worse, Maurice has been bad-mouthing Monsieur Henri, telling every bride in town that Jean Henri is retiring to Provence and could pick up and leave at any time, due to his business falling off—which is apparently true, judging from the Henris’ private conversations, which they aren’t aware I completely understand. Well, almost completely.

  As if all of that were not bad enough, the Henris have heard a rumor that Maurice is planning on opening up another one of his shops…DOWN THE STREET FROM THEIRS! With his glitzy red awning and matching signature red carpet (yes!) outside the front door, the Henris don’t have a chance of competing…not with their subtle yet tasteful front window display and modest brownstone.

  No, even if the Costume Institute calls tomorrow, I plan on sticking around at Monsieur Henri’s. I’m in too deep to get out now.

  “Well,” Luke says, sounding dubious, “if it makes you happy…”

  “It does,” I say. Then I clear my throat. “You know, Luke, not everyone is cut out for the traditional nine-to-five thing. There’s nothing wrong with taking on a job you’re maybe overqualified for if it pays the bills and allows you to do the thing you really love in your spare time. As long as you really do the thing you love, and don’t spend all your free time watching television.”