Meg Cabot - Queen Of Babble: In The Big City

“Really bad,” Jill adds.

“We are used to bad,” Monsieur Henri assures them. “That is how we came by our endorsement from the Association of Bridal Consultants.”

“It’s true,” I say gravely. “The National Bridal Service has given Monsieur Henri their highest recommendation.”

Monsieur Henri inclines his head modestly while at the same time moving behind Jill to help her out of her down parka. “Perhaps we can get you some tea? Or coffee?”

“I’m fine,” John says, handing over his own parka. “We’re… ”

His voice trails off. That’s because I’ve opened the garment bag. And now all five of us are staring at what I’ve revealed.

Monsieur Henri nearly drops the coats, but at the last second his wife darts forward to scoop them up.

“It’s… it’s hideous,” Monsieur Henri breathes—thankfully in French.

“Yes,” I say. “But it can be saved.”

“No.” Monsieur Henri shakes his head, like someone in a daze. “It cannot.”

I can see why he might feel that way. The gown isn’t promising, to say the least. Made of yards and yards of clearly valuable antique lace over cream-colored satin, it’s a princess cut, with an enormous full skirt, made even bigger by a hoop sewn into the hem. The neckline is a typical Queen Anne style, with enormous poufed sleeves that end in tartan bows at the wrists. Draped along the skirt is more tartan, held in place with gold toggles.

It looks, in other words, like something out of a high school drama club’s production of Brigadoon .

“It’s been in my family for generations,” John says apologetically. “All the MacDowell brides have worn it—with various degrees of alteration. My mother is the one who put in the hoop when she wore it. She’s from Georgia.”

“That explains a lot,” I say. “What size is it?”

“A six,” Jill says. “I’m a twelve.”

Monsieur Henri says in French, “Impossible. It is too small. There is nothing we can do.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” I say. “Obviously the bodice will have to go. But there’s enough material here—”

“You are going to chop up the ancestral gown of the richest family in the city?” Monsieur Henri demands, again in French. “You’ve lost your mind!”

“He said other brides have altered it,” I remind him. “I mean, come on. We can at least try.”

“You cannot fit a size-twelve woman into a size-six gown,” Monsieur Henri snaps. “You know it cannot be done!”

“We can’t fit her into this gown the way it is now,” I say. “But fortunately it’s too long on her.” I take the gown from the hanger it’s on and hold it up to Jill, who stands with her arms at her side, looking alarmed. “See? If it were too short, I’d say you were right. But like I was saying, if we unstitch the bodice—”

“My God, are you mad?” Monsieur Henri looks shocked. “Do you know what the mother-in-law will do to us? She could even take legal action—”

“Jean,” Madame Henri says, speaking for the first time.

Her husband glances at her. “What?”

“Do it,” she says in French.

Monsieur Henri shakes his head. “I am telling you, it cannot be done! Do you want me to lose my certification?”

“Do you want Maurice to steal away what little business we have left when he opens his shop down the street?” his wife demands.

“He won’t,” I assure them both. “Not if you let me do it. I can. I know I can.”

Madame Henri nods at me. “Listen to her, Jean,” she says.

The issue is no longer up for debate. Monsieur Henri may wield the needle, but his wife wears the pants in the family. Once she has ruled, there is no more argument. Madame Henri’s word is always final.

Monsieur Henri’s shoulders sag. Then he looks at Jill. Both she and her husband-to-be are staring at us, wide-eyed.

“When is the wedding?” Monsieur Henri asks weakly.

“New Year’s Eve,” Jill says.

Monsieur Henri groans. And even I have to swallow hard against the soreness that has suddenly crept back into my throat. New Year’s Eve!

Jill notices our reaction, and looks worried. “Does that… I mean, will you have enough time?”

“A month.” Monsieur Henri stares down at me. “We have a month . Not that it matters, since what you are saying cannot be done in any amount of time.”

“It can if we do it the way I’m thinking we should do it,” I say.“Trust me.”

Monsieur Henri takes a final look at the monstrosity on the hanger.

“Maurice,”his wife hisses. “Remember Maurice!”

Monsieur Henri sighs. “Fine. We will try.”

And I turn, beaming, toward Jill.

“What was that all about?” she asks nervously. “I couldn’t tell what you were saying. It was all in French.”

“Well,” I start to say…

Then realize what she’s just said.

I turn guiltily toward Monsieur and Madame Henri, who are both staring at me in horror. It’s hit them at the same time as it’s hit me: we’ve just had an entire conversation in their native language—which I’m not supposed to understand.

But hey. It’s not like they ever asked.

I give the Henris a shrug. Then, to Jill, I say, “We’ll do it.”

She stares at me. “Okay… but how?”

“I haven’t completely figured that out yet,” I admit. “But I have an idea. And you’re going to look great. I promise.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “No hoop skirt?”

“No hoop skirt,” I say. “But I’m going to need to take your measurements. So if you could just come with me back to the dressing room—”

“Okay,” she says. And follows me past Monsieur and Madame Henri, who continue to stand there, looking stunned. I can see that they are going over in their heads every conversation they have ever had within earshot of me.

And that’s a lot of conversations.

Behind the curtains that make up the walls of the dressing room, the smell of seal is stronger than ever.

“I’m really sorry,” Jill says. “I’ll totally change before I come the next time.”

“That’s okay,” I say, trying to take only shallow breaths. “At least you know that guy must really love you, if he’s willing to put up with that .”

“Yes,” Jill says, with a smile that makes her normally merely attractive face stunningly beautiful for a moment. “He does.”

And I feel a twinge. Not of jealousy, really, although there’s a little of that in it, I guess. But mostly it’s caused by the fact that I want what she has—not an engagement to the richest bachelor in Manhattan; not a future mother-in-law who is making it her single goal in life to ruin any chance at joy I might have on what is supposed to be the happiest day of my life.

But a guy who would go on loving me even if I smelled like seal poo. Not just go on loving me, but want to spend the rest of his life with me—although I’d settle at this point for coming to Ann Arbor for Christmas with me—and be willing to verbalize that desire in front of a room full of friends, family members, and sneaky members of the press who happened to worm their way into the church.

Because right now, that’s something I’m pretty sure I don’t have.

But hey. At least I’m working on it.

Time to ask the age-old question: White, ivory, or cream?

Believe it or not, there are many different shades of white. Don’t believe me? Check out the paint section of your local hardware store. You’ve never seen so many different names for what many people consider a single color—everything from Eggshell to Navajo to Blush.

The days of the traditional snow-white wedding gown are long gone, and many brides are opting to take advantage of this trend by picking out gowns in off-white, beige, pink, and even blues. To find the color that flatters your skin tone best, follow this easy guide:

Snow White—Dark of hair? Then traditional white really will look best on you. Whites with a blue or lavender tint will complement you as well.

Cream—Blond? Your light locks will best be set off by a cream-colored gown. The hint of gold will echo the tawny highlights in your crowning glory (your hair, not your tiara). Remember Princess Diana, on her special day…

Ivory—In between? Ivory looks good on nearly everyone. That’s why it’s used on so many walls.

LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™

“Where have you been?” Luke wants to know, when I finally stagger home later that evening, my arms loaded down with books.

“The library,” I say. “Sorry, did you call? You’re not allowed to have your ringer on there.”

Luke is laughing as he comes over to take the books from my arms.“Scottish Traditions,” he reads aloud from the covers. “Your Scottish Wedding. Tartans and Toasts. Lizzie, what’s going on? Are you planning a visit to the Emerald Isle soon?”

“That’s Ireland,” I say, unwinding my scarf. “I’m doing a Scottish bridal gown for a client. And you’re never going to believe who the client is.”

“You’re probably right,” he says. “Have you eaten? I’ve got some leftover turkey reheating in the oven—”

“I’m too excited to eat,” I say. “Come on. Guess. Guess who the client is.”

Luke shrugs. “I don’t know. Shari? She’s having some kind of lesbian wedding?”

I glare at him. “No. And I told you, don’t—”

“Label her, yes, yes, I know,” Luke says. “All right, I give up. Who’s your client?”

I flop down onto the couch—my sore throat really is bothering me a little. It feels great to sit down—and say triumphantly, “Jill Higgins.”