Meg Cabot - Queen Of Babble: In The Big City

Jill narrows her eyes at me. “Wait. Did you just say ‘in-your-face’?”

I look at her guiltily over the second fingerful of Devil Dog filling I’ve just stuffed into my mouth. “Um,” I say around my finger. “Yeah. Why?”

“I haven’t heard anybody say that since eighth grade.”

I pop my finger out of my mouth. “I was always kind of a late bloomer.”

For the first time since coming out of the toilet stall, Jill smiles. “Me, too,” she says.

And the two of us stand there grinning idiotically at each other…

At least until the door to the ladies’ room swings open and Roberta comes in, freezing mid-step when she sees us.

“Oh, Lizzie,” she says, smiling at Jill. “There you are. Tiffany just asked me to check on you because you’d been gone from the desk for so long—”

“Oh, sorry,” I say, sweeping the remains of the junk food I’d looted from the kitchen into my arms. “We were just—”

“I was having a blood sugar issue,” Jill says, reaching out to grab another Coke and a Yodels from the pile in my arms, “and Lizzie was just helping me through it.”

“Oh,” Roberta says, smiling even harder. Well, what’s she going to do? Yell at me for sneaking the entire contents of the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn snack closet into the ladies’ room for one of their most high-profile clients? “Great. So long as you’re both all right.”

“We are,” I say cheerfully. “In fact, I was just heading back to the desk—”

“And I have a two o’clock with Mr. Pendergast,” Jill says.

“Okay, then,” Roberta says. Her smile is practically frozen onto her face. “Good!”

I hurry out to the lobby, where Tiffany’s eyes widen perceptibly when she sees who’s following me. Esther, Mr. Pendergast’s assistant, is waiting by the reception desk. She looks even more surprised than Tiffany to see Jill Higgins following behind me and Roberta.

“Oh, Miss Higgins,” she cries, her gaze going straight to the Yodel crumbs on Jill’s chest. “There you are. I was getting worried. The security desk called and said they’d sent you up some time ago—”

“Sorry,” Jill says smoothly. “I stopped for a snack.”

“I see,” Esther says, darting a quick look at me.

“She was hungry,” I say, indicating the snack cakes and sodas—and minicartons of milk—in my arms. “Want some?”

“Er, no, thank you,” Esther says. “Won’t you come with me, Miss Higgins?”

“Sure,” Jill says, and starts following Esther out—only to fling me an enigmatic look over her shoulder as she rounds the corner… a look I am in no shape to interpret, since I’m getting ready to be yelled at by my boss.

But Roberta doesn’t say anything except, “Well. That was, er, nice of you, to, er, help Miss Higgins.”

“Thanks,” I say. “She said she was feeling light-headed, so—”

“Quick thinking,” Roberta says. “Well. It’s past two, so—”

“Right.” I dump the stuff from the kitchen onto the reception desk—causing Tiffany to make a small noise of protest and give me a dirty look. “Sorry, Tiff,” I say. “But I gotta run. My shift’s up for the day—”

And then I bolt out of there like a bike messenger with a clear shot up Sixth Avenue…

A word on…

Shoes!

Of course you want to look your best on your wedding day, and higher heels can help emphasize a nice figure, and improve a less-than-perfect one. Keep in mind, however, that you will be spending a LOT of time on your feet on your wedding day. If you insist on heels, wear a pair at a height you are somewhat used to.

If your wedding heels are still less than comfortable by the time the big day rolls around, it’s always a good idea to bring a second pair of shoes to wear during your “downtime,” such as while you’re waiting for the photographer to set up, et cetera.

One word on beach weddings: few things are lovelier than being married at sunset on a tropical beach. Keep in mind, however, that heels and sand do not mix. If you are being married on a beach, skip the shoes altogether. Just be sure to put some bug repellent on your ankles to ward off sand fleas or you’ll be scratching throughout the ceremony.

LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™

At five of six that day, I give up hope that Jill Higgins is going to walk up and ring the bell to Monsieur Henri’s. I’ve been, I know, too presumptuous. Why would Jill Higgins, who is marrying one of the richest men in Manhattan, choose me—a woman she knows only as the receptionist at the law firm where she is getting her prenup negotiated—as her certified wedding-gown specialist?

Especially since I’m not even certified! Yet.

I haven’t mentioned to Monsieur and Madame Henri that I’ve given their name and address to one of the most famous brides-to-be in the city. I don’t want to get their hopes up. Business has not been good, and there’ve been conversations (in French, of course, so I won’t understand what they’re saying) about packing it up for good when Maurice finally opens his shop down the street and steals away the last of their customers. The Henris have mentioned decamping for the cottage in Provence.

There would be a significant loss of income if this were to take place, since they’ve taken out a second mortgage on the building in order to pay for the boys’ college tuition, and the home in which they live in New Jersey has depreciated considerably with the current housing sales slump. Plus there’s the small fact that the two boys, Jean-Paul and Jean-Pierre, adamantly refuse to move to France, or even transfer to colleges less expensive than New York University, to which they commute daily from home (when they aren’t sneaking overnight stays in the apartment upstairs).

Of course, I have no doubt that if the decision to give up the shop is ever made, the boys will end up doing precisely as their mother insists. Money, not discipline, is what is lacking in the Henri family—at least if the way Monsieur Henri piles the work on me at the shop is any indication. For someone who claims his business is going under, Monsieur Henri certainly seems to have enough sewing for me to do, day in and day out. He’s had me make so many lace ruffles—the same ones I’d admired in his shop window, months earlier, and swore to myself I’d learn to create on my own—that I can practically do them in my sleep. And I’ve completely mastered the art of the sewn-on diamond drop, for that all-over shimmer effect. And don’t even get me started on ruching.

Madame Henri is fussing at her husband for him to hurry and pack up so they can leave, because the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree lighting—scheduled to take place tonight—makes the traffic so impossible that it takes an hour, practically, just to navigate out of the city, when the bell to the front door of the shop rings, and I look up to see a pale face, framed by a curtain of blond hair, peering at me urgently.

“What is this?” Madame Henri wants to know. “We have no appointments today.”

“Oh,” I say quickly, getting up and going to the door. “This is a friend of mine.” I open the door to let Jill in…

… and only then notice that there is a chauffeured black Town Car with smoked windows parked with its motor running in front of the fire hydrant, and that behind Jill stands a tall, athletic man I immediately recognize as—

“Oh!” Madame Henri drops her purse and flings both her hands to her cheeks. She’s recognized Jill’s companion as well. Which, considering how often his face appears on the front page of the Post , isn’t any wonder.

“Um, hi,” Jill says. Her cheeks are very red from the cold outside. She’s carrying a garment bag. “You said to stop by. Is this a bad time?”

“This is a perfect time,” I say. “Come on in.”

The couple step in from the slight snow flurry that has started up, lightly coating their hair and shoulders with drops that sparkle more than any crystal I’ve ever sewn onto anything. They bring with them the smell of cold and good health and… something else.

“Sorry,” Jill says, wrinkling her nose. “That’s me. I came straight from work and I didn’t have time to change. We wanted to beat the tree traffic.”

“That intoxicating odor,” John MacDowell says, “that you’re smelling right now is seal excrement. Don’t worry, you get used to it.”

“This is my fiancé, John,” Jill says. “John, this is Lizzie—”

John sticks out a large hand, and I shake it.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, seeming to mean it. “When Jill told me about you—well, I really hope you can help us. My mother—I mean, I love her and everything, but—”

“Say no more,” I say. “We completely get it. And, believe me, we’ve probably seen worse. May I introduce you to my boss, Monsieur Henri? He owns this shop. And this is his wife, Madame Henri. Monsieur and Madame, this is Jill Higgins and her fiancé, John MacDowell.”

Monsieur Henri has been standing nearby staring at the three of us with a stunned expression on his face. When I say his name, he takes a quick step forward, his hand extended.“Enchanté,” he says. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” John MacDowell says politely. Madame Henri practically faints when he says the same thing to her. She hasn’t been able to utter a sound since the couple entered the shop.

“Shall we see what you have here?” I ask, taking the garment bag from Jill.

“I’m warning you,” John says. “It’s bad.”