Meg Cabot - Queen Of Babble: In The Big City

“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.

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!

LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™

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 mentioned 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.”