Meg Cabot - Queen Of Babble: In The Big City

LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™

I’m marinating the steaks when the phone rings. Not my cell, but the apartment phone—Luke’s mother’s phone.

I don’t answer it because I know it’s not for me. Besides, I’m busy. It’s no joke trying to prepare a semigourmet meal in a New York–style galley kitchen, which is basically about as big as the inside of the cab I took to get back uptown this afternoon. Luke’s mom’s apartment is really nice, as one-bedroom Manhattan apartments go. It’s still got its original prewar crown molding and gold fixtures and parquet floors, and all.

But the kitchen seems to have been built more for unpacking take-out than preparing eat-in.

Mrs. de Villiers’s answering machine kicks on after about five rings. I hear her voice—her Southern accent exaggerated for dramatic effect—drawl, “Hello, you’ve reached Bibi de Villiers. I’m either on the other line or nappin’ at the moment. Please leave a message, and I’ll get right back to y’all.”

I giggle. Napping.Vogue should do a spread on Bibi. Talk about professional hostesses. Plus, she’s married to a prince. Well, a pseudo prince. And she’s got great—if slightly conservative—taste in clothes. I’ve never seen her in anything but Chanel or Ralph Lauren.

“Bibi.” A man’s voice fills the apartment… which is also filled with the smell of freshly chopped garlic, which I’m using in the marinade, along with soy sauce, honey, and olive oil, all of which I picked up at Eli’s over on Third Avenue… which is quite a hike from Fifth. “I haven’t heard from you in quite a while. Where have you been?”

Clearly, this friend of Bibi’s does not know she reconciled with her husband during her niece’s wedding in the South of France, and that the two of them—Luke’s parents—were still in Dordogne, tripping the light fantastique … as the French would say. Or not, actually.

“I will be waiting for you in the usual place,” the man goes on, “this weekend. I only hope I do not wait in vain.”

Wait a minute. The usual place? Waiting for her? Who the heck is this guy? And how come, if he and Bibi are so close, he doesn’t even know which country she’s in?

“Good-bye for now,chérie ,” the man says. And then he hangs up.

Chérie? Was this guy for real? Who goes around leaving messages on people’s machines, calling them chérie ? Except maybe gigolos.

Oh God. Did Luke’s mother employ a gigolo?

No, of course not. She wouldn’t have to. She’s a vital, beautiful woman—and obviously loaded, as one can tell merely by glancing at the art on the walls of her Manhattan pied-à-terre. The Renoir is the crown jewel of her collection, of course. But she has no shortage of Mirós and Chagalls and even a tiny Picasso sketch that hangs in the bathroom.

And I’m not even going to mention her shoe collection, which crowds the entire top shelf of the bedroom closet… box after box marked Jimmy Choo, Christian Louboutin, and Manolo Blahnik.

What would a woman like that be doing with a gigolo?

Unless… unless he’s not a gigolo, but a lover! It would make sense for Bibi de Villiers to have taken a lover. She was, after all, in divorce proceedings with Luke’s father… until I came along, that is. Why wouldn’t a sophisticated woman of the world like Luke’s mom have a boyfriend… a boyfriend she’s forgotten all about since getting back together with Luke’s dad?

At least, I assume she’s forgotten about him. Obviously she has, if he doesn’t even know where she is…

Oh God. This is so… awkward. Why did he have to call now, tonight, when Luke and I have to have our Moving in Together talk? I can’t say to Luke, “Hey, this random guy left a message for your mom, calling her chérie … and we need to figure out how I can move in with you without losing my identity as an individual.”

Maybe if I check the caller ID I can figure out where this guy called from. That, at least, might give me a clue as to—

Oh. Oh, great. I erased the message. At least if that flashing Delete sign is any indication.

Okay. Well, that solves that.

Besides, it’s probably better this way. It’s not like the guy left his name. I can’t be all, “Um, hi, Mrs. de Villiers? Yeah, a random dude with a French accent who isn’t your husband called and asked if you’re going to meet him at the usual place, at which he will be waiting.” Because that could embarrass her.

And I’m all about trying not to embarrass my future in-laws.

Dang. I just did it again, didn’t I? I have to get marriage off my brain. I think I’ll go set the dining table. With the beautiful silver that one day might be mine if—

Ack! Okay, maybe I need to turn on the TV. The news should be on. That will distract me.

“Police made a gruesome discovery in the backyard of a house the media is now calling the Harlem House of Horror. Human remains—six complete skeletons so far, with more expected to be uncovered—”

Oh my God, what kind of place is this? A backyard filled with human skeletons? No. Just no. Changing the channel.

“—seventh hit-and-run at that corner in the past month alone. This time it was a young mother killed as she was attempting to walk her small children to school—”

Good Lord! Maybe I’ll try reading the want ads instead. Oooh, Page Six, the gossip section! I’ll just take a quick look before I get to the job listings—

—New York high society is all abuzz about the impending nuptials of John MacDowell, sole heir to the MacDowell real estate fortune. The bride, Jill Higgins, is an employee at the Central Park Zoo. The couple met at the Roosevelt Hospital emergency room, where Miss Higgins was being treated for a back injury she received while lifting a seal that had escaped its enclosure, and where John MacDowell was having an ankle wrapped after twisting it during a polo match—

Oh! How romantic! And what a fun job, working with seals! If only I could—

Luke’s key is turning in the lock! He’s home!

Thank God I peeled off my Spanx two hours ago. The red marks must have faded by now.

And I’m not wearing them anymore. Luke is going to have to love me for me—the real me—or it’s over.

Except… look how adorable he is, in those faded jeans and that nice button-down shirt I picked out for him to wear! Maybe it’s all right to wear my Spanx just a little longer… until I’ve lost those fifteen extra pounds I brought home from France. Which I’m sure to do soon, given all the walking you have to do in this town. Plus, I completely ignored the baguettes at Eli’s…

“Hey,” he says. There’s a big smile on his face. “How’s it going?”

Hey, how’s it going. This is what my boyfriend says to me, ten hours after asking me to move in with him. It’s clear he hasn’t exactly been agonizing over my answer.

Or maybe he has and is trying to play it casual.

“What’s that smell?” he asks.

“Garlic,” I say. “I’m marinating a couple of steaks.”

“Great,” he says, putting down his keys on the little marble-topped console table by the door. “I’m starved. How was your day?”

Wow. How was your day? This is what it’s like to live with someone. I mean, a guy. It’s a lot like living with a girl, really.

Except that instead of waiting around for my answer, the way Shari used to when we were roommates, Luke comes over, puts his arms around my waist, and gives me a kiss.

Okay. Not so much like living with a girl. At all.

“So,” Luke says, grinning down at me. “When are you going to break the news to your parents?”

Oh, okay. The reason he hasn’t been agonizing over my answer to his question is that he already knew what my answer was going to be.

I drop my arms from around his neck, stunned.

“How did you know?”

“Are you kidding me?” He’s laughing now. “The Lizzie Broadcasting System has been hard at work all day.”

I glare at him. “That’s impossible. I haven’t told anyone! Anyone except—” I break off, flushing.

“Right,” Luke says, playfully flicking the tip of my nose with one long index finger. “Shari told Chaz, who called to demand my intentions.”

“Your—” Now I’m not just flushing. I’m blushing. “He had no right to do that!”

But Luke is still laughing. “He thinks he does. Oh, don’t look so mad. Chaz thinks of you as the little sister he never had. I think it’s sweet.”

I didn’t. In fact, I was going to give Chaz a very unsisterly piece of my mind next time I saw him.

“What did you say?” I can’t help asking, curiosity overcoming my anger.

“About what?” Luke’s found the bottle of wine I’d bought and opened to let breathe, and is pouring us each a glass.

“Your, um, intentions.”

I’m trying to keep it casual. And light. Guys don’t like it when you get too heavy, I’ve noticed. They especially don’t like it when you try to talk too much about the future. They’re like little woodland animals. Everything’s well and good when you’re just doling out the nuts and everything’s cool.

But the minute you bring out the net to try to catch them—even if it’s for their own good, like to help them escape a forest fire—all hell breaks loose. No WAY was I bringing up the C word with Luke. Two months into a relationship might be early enough to consider moving in together. But it was WAY too early to start bandying about the word “commitment.”

Even if one of us did have wedding dresses permanently on the brain.

“I told him not to worry,” Luke says, handing one of the wine-glasses to me. “That I would do everything in my power not to sully your reputation.” Luke clinks the edge of his glass to mine. “Also that he should be thanking me,” he adds with a wink.