It’s just that I don’t have the foggiest notion how I’m even going to begin.

“Hello, Chez Henri, can you hold?”

“Hello, Chez Henri, can you hold?”

“Hello, Chez Henri, can you—”

“Lizzie?” a familiar woman’s voice screams hoarsely in my ear, cutting me off. “Don’t you frigging put me on hold. It’s me, Tiffany.”

I pause just as my finger is about to hit the HOLD button.

“Tiffany Sawyer,” the hoarse voice continues impatiently. “From Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn? The office we both used to work in until you, like, got totally fired, remember? Which, by the way, was last week? God, what is the matter with you? Are you going to turn out to be one of those people who become famous and then, like, forget everybody they knew on the way up? Because if that’s the case, you totally suck.”

“Tiffany.” I glance at the Henris’ wall clock. It’s barely ten, which would account for the hoarseness in her voice. Tiffany, part-time model, part-time receptionist in Chaz’s father’s law offices, which is where I met her, rarely makes it up before noon, thanks to her hard-core partying with her married photographer boyfriend, Raoul. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Whatevs,” Tiffany says. “It’s, like, the day after New Year’s. The city was dead last night. But that’s not why I’m calling. Do you know—do you have any fucking idea—who made Page Six in the Post today?”

“Tiffany.” I can’t take my eyes off all the blinking hold lights. “I know this might seem hard to believe, but I’m actually working right now. My boss had a heart attack, and I’m the only one here, and I don’t have time for—”

“You. You did. There’s a huge story about you, and a photo of you and Jill Higgins at her wedding, and about how you’re the up-and-coming wedding gown designer to the stars, and how Anna Wintour—Anna fucking Wintour—said your gown for Jill Higgins was, and I quote, cunning. Do you have any idea what that means?”

The other line starts ringing. “I’m starting to get a pretty good idea,” I say.

“You are the shit,” Tiffany screams into the phone. “You have it fucking made!”

“You know,” I say. “It really doesn’t feel that way right now. Because right now, I can’t get a thing done because I don’t have anyone to ANSWER MY PHONES!”

“Jesus Christ, you don’t have to yell,” Tiffany says. “You need someone to answer your phones? I’ll answer your fucking phones.”

I blink, not certain I’ve heard her correctly. “What? No. Wait. I—”

“I’ll be right there. Where are you again? I can stay till only one because you know I’ve got Pendergast at two. God, I wish I could quit that place. But the benefits are so good. As soon as Raoul gets rid of that troll wife of his and I can get on his insurance, I’m giving Roberta my two weeks’ notice. God, I can’t wait to see her pruny, dried-up face when I do. But I can get someone to come in at one and help you out. I wonder what Monique is doing today. I know she got booted from Chanel for doing blow in the back room. But—”

“Tiffany.” I’m gripping the edge of my desk. “Really. It’s fine. I don’t need your help. Or Monique’s.” Whoever that is.

“—it’s cool,” Tiffany goes on, “’cause she’s in Narcotics Anonymous now. So am I. That’s how I met her. Coke is for whores.”

I realize there’s no point in telling Tiffany that the Anonymous part of Narcotics Anonymous means you actually aren’t supposed to tell people you—or other people you meet there—go to meetings. It will just go in one ear and out the other, like so much of what I tell Tiffany.

“Look, you said your boss had a heart attack, right?” Tiffany goes on. “We’ll just come in and help out until he’s back on his feet, or whatever. Don’t act like you don’t need us. I can hear the frigging phone ringing off the hook in the background.”

“Um, thanks. It’s just—” How can I explain that if I were stranded on a desert island and Tiffany pulled up in a rescue boat, I wouldn’t get in it. Love her like a sister? Yeah. Trust her? Not so much. “I don’t have the money to pay you. I mean, we’re not exactly making huge profits yet, and—”

“What are we talking about here?” Tiffany wants to know. “Twenty bucks an hour?”

“Twenty?” I gasp. “Who do you think we are, UPS? I was going to call Manpower and offer ten—”

“Ten!” Tiffany lets out a bark of laughter. “I haven’t made ten bucks an hour since I used to babysit my neighbor’s kid back in North Dakota. But,” she adds, more soberly, “I guess it’ll be worth it if I can get my hands on a Lizzie Nichols original. Those things are going to be next to impossible to get by the time Raoul’s green card comes in and he can finally ditch the troll, I know it. Just like I know Monique’s gonna want one, too. Her boyfriend, Latrell, just popped the question at Christmas. With a four-carat square-cut pink diamond from Harry Winston. Latrell’s in the music industry.” Her tone becomes reverential. “He knows Kanye.”

“Wait,” I say. This can’t be happening.

“Look, I’ll be there in twenty,” Tiffany says. “We can discuss it then. You want a muffin or something? I’m starving. I’ll pick up muffins on the way. Fuckin’ Page Six! Can you believe it? Oh my God, Lizzie, this is gonna be so righteous. You’re gonna be so much of a better boss than Roberta. God, I hate her. Ciao, baby.”

Tiffany slams down the phone. I stare at the receiver, not sure what just happened. Had I just solved the problem—or created a bigger one?

I’m taking messages from everyone on hold—with assurances that Ms. Nichols (I’m posing as her assistant, Stephanie. I’ve always wanted to be a Stephanie) will be calling them right back—when a floral delivery guy makes his way into the shop, barely able to see past the huge bouquet—two dozen yellow roses in a crystal vase—that he’s holding.

“Delivery for Lizzie Nichols,” he says.

“That’s me,” I cry, jumping up from Madame Henri’s desk and rushing over to take the flowers from him. They’re so heavy I have to stagger back to the desk with them before I can sign for them and tip him.

As soon as he’s gone, I tear open the tiny envelope that accompanies them, expecting to find a note from Luke, thanking me for agreeing to be his bride… or maybe from his parents, welcoming me to the de Villiers family.

I’m shocked when I read, instead, the following:

Sorry for my bad attitude the other day.

I never was a morning person.

I never was a morning person.

Of course I’m thrilled for you both. If you’re happy,

I’m happy.

Congratulations. You’ll make a beautiful bride.

Chaz

I’m so stunned, I have to sit down for a few minutes—and ignore the phones—in order to regain my composure. Can he really mean it? Can Chaz really be all right with Luke and me getting married?

And if he is, why do I still feel a little bit like throwing up every time I think about it? Not about Chaz being all right with it—I’m pretty sure—but about Luke and me actually going through with it?

Oh, I seem all right enough with the idea of being engaged. I don’t seem to mind flashing my ring around. I’d been fine on the phone yesterday—after our prolonged interlude in the bedroom—with our parents.

It’s when I actually try to picture the wedding itself—and even more oddly, the dress—that my mind seems to go blank, and the vomit rises up in the back of my throat.

That’s not a very good sign.

But pre-wedding jitters are normal, right? Everyone goes through them. Maybe not the day after they’ve gotten engaged. But I’m probably just getting mine over with sooner than other people do. I’ve always been precocious that way. My mom said I used to put together first-day-of-school outfits for all my stuffed animals. And that was before I even started preschool.

The bells over the front door tinkle, and Tiffany, wearing dark sunglasses (even though it’s overcast—and winter—outside) and a black catsuit beneath her new fox stole (“Which is totally faux, by the way,” she reminds me later. “Do you know what they do to the poor foxes to get their fur off? It’s disgusting”), walks in and says, “Whoa. Who went overboard with the roses?”

I quickly thrust Chaz’s card into the pocket of the Mollie Parnis silk dress I’m wearing.

“Luke,” I lie automatically.

“Luke?” Tiffany whips off her sunglasses and squints at the roses. “I thought you guys, like, broke up.”

“Not anymore.” I hold out my left hand. “We’re engaged.”

“No shit.” Tiffany grabs my hand. She doesn’t have to squint at all to see my diamond. “Holy crap, Nichols. That’s three carats, at least. Tiffany, right?”

“No,” I say. “He got it in Paris—”

“Cartier,” Tiffany says, clearly impressed. “Even better. Platinum band, emerald cut. This thing cost as much as a fucking house—well, in North Dakota. He may have acted like a dick,” she adds, in reference to the sewing machine Luke gave me for Christmas, which in a roundabout way became the catalyst for our realizing we wanted different things out of life, and led to our breaking up, “but you have to admit. The guy came through in the end. I’m not sure about the roses, though. Interesting color choice. Yellow means platonic friendship, you know.”

Platonic friendship? Well, that’s good. I mean, because they’re not actually from Luke. They’re from Chaz.

And that’s all I want from Chaz. His friendship, I mean. Platonic is good.

“Well, because Luke and I are friends, first and foremost,” I twitter. Oh my God, what am I even talking about?

Tiffany makes a face.

“If Raoul ever bought me yellow roses,” she says, “I’d stuff them up his butt. So where do I sit?”