Meg Cabot - Queen Of Babble: In The Big City

The second she’s gone, Madame Henri starts in again on her husband.

“And as if things were not bad enough, those boys of yours stayed in the apartment again last night!”

“They’re your sons, too,” Monsieur Henri points out.

“No,” Madame Henri corrects him. “Not anymore. If all they are going to do is come into the city to go to the clubs, then dirty up my perfectly clean apartment—which they know they are not supposed to stay in—they are your boys. Because you will not discipline them.”

“What do you want me to do?” he demands. “I want them to have the advantages I did not have growing up!”

“They have had enough advantages,” says Madame Henri emphatically. “Now is the time to let them fend for themselves. Let them see what it is like in real life, to have to earn a paycheck.”

“You know it’s not that easy,” Monsieur Henri says.

Has he got that right. I look down at the hundred-dollar bill in my hand. It’s the first “found” money I’ve had since moving to this city. Everything here is so expensive! It seems like no sooner do I get a paycheck than it’s gone again, first to rent, then to Con Ed, then to food, then to cable (because I can’t live without the Style channel), and then, if there’s anything left over, to my cell phone bill.

“Well,” Madame Henri says with a sniff. “I am having the apartment locks changed. And I am keeping the key here in the shop. Hidden.”

And what about FICA taxes? FICA—Federal Insurance Contri butions Act (or as Tiffany insists the letters really stand for, Fucking Idiots taking my Cash Assets)—seems to eat up more of my paychecks than anything.

“How much is that going to cost me?” Monsieur Henri wants to know.

“However much it is, it will be worth it,” Madame Henri declares. “If it means those pigs will be kept out of the place. You should see what I found in the bedroom wastebasket. A condom! Used!”

It’s impossible to pretend I don’t understand French when I hear this. I can’t help making a face… especially when Madame Henri brandishes a plastic trash bag that apparently holds the evidence of her claim.

“Ew!” I cry.

When both Henris look at me curiously, I quickly wrinkle my nose and say, “That garbage smells.” Because, truthfully, it totally does. “Do you want me to take it out for you?”

“Er, yes, thank you,” Madame Henri says after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s the garbage from our flat upstairs.”

I take the bag between two fingers. “You own the apartments upstairs?” This is news to me. I didn’t know they owned the entire brownstone the shop is in. And I thought they lived in New Jersey. They certainly seemed to complain enough about the commute.

Monsieur Henri nods. “Yes. The second floor we use for storage. The top floor is a little flat. I sleep there sometimes when I have to work late on a gown—” Which hasn’t happened, as far as I can tell, in a long, long time. Business hasn’t been good enough for any of us to pull any all-nighters. “Otherwise, it sits empty. Our sons use it from time to time—”

“Without permission!” Madame Henri cries in English. “I would like to rent it out, help with some of the costs of the business—and to keep my pigs of sons from thinking they can sleep there whenever they miss the train home after a night of debauchery. But this oaf here does not like the idea!”

“I don’t know,” Monsieur Henri says, not looking as if his sons’ alleged debauchery bothers him that much. “I don’t want the responsibility of being a landlord. And supposing we get one of those crazy tenants, eh? Like we read about in the papers? The ones with all the cats, who won’t move out? I don’t want that.”

Madame Henri responds by shaking a balled-up fist at her husband. I smile and slip outside to deposit the trash bag in the can by the stoop. With everyone in New York seemingly scrambling to find a better place to live, it’s weird to hear about a place sitting empty… well, except for when it’s used as an occasional flophouse by a couple of party boys.

“Mademoiselle Elizabeth,” Madame Henri says when I come back inside. “Do you know, perhaps, of someone looking to rent a small efficiency?”

“No,” I say. “But if I hear of someone, I’ll let you know.”

“It can’t be just anyone,” Monsieur Henri insists. “They must have references—”

“And be willing to pay two thousand dollars a month,” Madame Henri adds.

“Two thousand?” Monsieur Henri cries in French. “That is robbery, woman! Are you mad?”

“Two thousand dollars a month for a beautiful one-bedroom is perfectly reasonable!” she fires back, also in French. “Do you know how much they are charging for studio apartments? Twice that!”

“In buildings that have a swimming pool on the roof!” Monsieur Henri scoffs. “Which ours most decidedly does not have!”

And the two of them are off and running, arguing back and forth. But I’m not alarmed. I’ve spent enough time with them by now to know that this is how they are. I mean, they argue all day long…

… but I’ve seen Madame Henri fuss over her husband’s hair in an extremely loving way, while at the same time accusing him of purposely practicing unhealthy dietary habits in order to expire sooner and be rid of her.

And Monsieur Henri regularly ogles his wife’s legs, while simultaneously telling her how much her nagging drives him crazy.

Once I caught them kissing in the back room.

Couples. They’re all a little nuts, in their own way, I think.

I hope that when Luke and I are as old as Monsieur and Madame Henri, we can be just like them.

Minus the failing business and degenerate sons, I mean.

It’s in the bag!

Ever wonder what a bride should carry on her wedding day? Well, I’m here to let you in on the mystery:

—Lipstick, pressed powder (to control shine), and concealer (in case of blemishes)—

Even if you have your makeup done by a professional, carry these items with you in a small pouch or clutch. You will need them—especially between toasts at the reception (brides, be subtle with makeup fixes at the table… excuse yourself for anything more than a quick check in the compact mirror).

—Breath mints—

Trust me, you’re going to need them.

—Medications—

If you are prone to migraines, count on getting one on your wedding day. Migraines are often brought on by stress, and what’s more stressful than committing yourself for all eternity to your lover in front of hundreds of friends and family members? Make sure you have your prescription migraine medication with you on your special day, or any other medications that might help you through the day, including aspirin, muscle relaxants (go easy on these), beta-blockers, and homeopathics like aromatherapy oils.

—Deodorant—

If you perspire more than average, especially when stressed or overheated, have a mini-tube of this in your bag for emergencies. You won’t regret it.

—Feminine hygiene products—

It happens. Some of us will be having our period on our big day. If you’re due for yours, wear protection just in case, and carry some extra for even more security.

And, of course,

—Tissues—

You know you’re going to cry—or someone close to you will, anyway. So come prepared.

LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™

I completely regret agreeing to let Luke’s parents stay with us over the Thanksgiving weekend.

And okay, I know it’s his mom’s apartment. And I know it’s super nice of her to allow us to live in it, rent free (well, in Luke’s case).

And I know we all got along great when we were staying at Château Mirac, the de Villiers ancestral home in France, over the summer.

But it is one thing to share a château with your boyfriend’s parents.

It is quite another to share a one-bedroom apartment with them… while also having promised to prepare a traditional Thanksgiving dinner when, truth be told, you’ve really never cooked all that much before.

The gravity of the situation didn’t really hit me until Carlos, the doorman, buzzed up to say Luke’s parents had arrived. An hour before we were expecting them, and while I was in the middle of sorting through several bouquets of freesia and irises, to which I’d treated myself—as well as Mrs. Erickson from 5B—from the flower section at Eli’s, and purchased with part of Mrs. Harris’s hundred dollars. There’s nothing more welcome than having a vase of fresh cut flowers sitting out when people come to visit—and there’s no nicer gift for someone who has helped you, as Mrs. Erickson had by recommending Monsieur Henri’s to me, either.

But when the flowers are purchased in bunches from a florist, and still have to be arranged, and are lying in messy piles on top of the stove while you look for vases, it’s sort of hard to feel the welcoming effect. Especially when you’re still in your sweats from doing the grocery shopping—which is still sitting in bags on the kitchen floor—and your boyfriend isn’t home from school yet, and the doorman buzzes to inform you that your “guests” are here…

“Send them up,” I tell Carlos through the intercom. What else could I say?

Then I run around like a crazy person, trying to clean up. The place isn’t that bad—I’m something of a neat freak—but all of the lovely touches I’d been hoping to have when Luke’s parents walked in—a tray of freshly mixed cocktails (kir royales, their favorite), party nuts in bowls, assorted cheeses on a platter—have to be abandoned as I cram the dirty laundry in a hamper, run a quick brush through my hair, slap on a bit of lip gloss, then fling open the door.