Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble

Alex takes the silverware from his mother and goes out into the dining room. Geronimo, which is what they named their collie-isn’t that the cutest?-who had been pressing against the side of my legs the whole time I’d been sitting down, trails after him, apparently in hopes of coming across a stray piece of food.

“Do you have any brothers, Liz?” Mrs. M asks me, all prickliness gone now that her son has left the room.

“No,” I say. “Just two older sisters.”

“Your mother was very fortunate,” Mrs. M says. “Boys are quite a handful.” Then she turns off the oven and calls, “Alex, tell your dad breakfast is ready. Give a shout to Alistair as well.”

Andrew, Alistair, and Alexander. I love the names Andrew’s parents picked out for their three boys! How cute to give them all A names…just like Paul Anka did, only he had daughters-Alexandra, Amanda, Alicia, Anthea, and Amelia.

And how cute that they all call me Liz and not Lizzie. Nobody ever calls me Liz. Nobody except Andrew, of course. Not that I ever told him to. He just…does.

“Well,” Mrs. Marshall says, smiling at me. “Why don’t you have a seat, Liz? Then we can eat.”

“Let me help you bring things to the table,” I say, sliding down from my stool.

But Mrs. Marshall shoos me out of the kitchen, saying she doesn’t need any help. I go into the dining room-which is really just part of an L off the living room, where the family’s dining table is. Geronimo is already sitting next to the chair at the head of the table, alert for any scraps that might fall his way.

“Where should I sit?” I ask Alex, who, in typical teen fashion-I guess it’s universal-shrugs.

Just then Mr. Marshall walks in and pulls out a chair for me with gallant flair. I thank him and sit in it, trying to remember when my own father ever pulled out a chair for me, and failing.

“Here we are,” Mrs. Marshall says, emerging from the kitchen with several platters that are steaming. “In honor of Andy’s friend Liz’s first visit to this country, a genuine English country breakfast!”

I sit up a bit straighter in my seat to show how excited and flattered I am. “Thank you so much,” I say. “You really didn’t have to go to so much-”

Then I see what’s on the platters.

“Tomato ratatouille,” Mrs. Marshall says proudly. “Your favorite! And our own very English interpretation of the same dish, stewed tomatoes. Also stuffed tomatoes, and an egg and tomato omelet. Andy told me how much you love tomatoes, Liz. I hope this meal will make you feel right at home!”

Oh. My. God.

“Liz?” Mrs. Marshall, I realize, is looking down at me with concern on her rosy face. “Are you all right, dear? You look a little…peaked.”

“I’m fine,” I say. And take a big gulp of my milky tea. “It looks great, Mrs. Marshall. Thanks so much for going to all this trouble. You didn’t have to.”

“It was my pleasure,” Mrs. Marshall says, beaming as she takes a seat in a chair across the table from mine. “And please, call me Tanya.”

“Right. Tanya,” I say, hoping my eyes don’t look as wet as they feel. How can he have made such a mistake? Did he not even READ my e-mails? Was he not even listening that night of the fire?

“Who’s missing?” Mrs. Marshall asks, looking at the empty chair across from Andrew.

“Alistair,” Alex says, reaching for a piece of toast. Toast! I can eat toast. No, wait, I can’t. Not if I want to stay a junior size nine. Oh God. I’m going to have to eat something. The egg and tomato omelet. Maybe the egg will drown out the taste of the tomato.

“ALISTAIR!” Mr. Marshall bellows.

From somewhere deep in the house, a male voice calls, “Oy! I’m coming!”

I take a bite of the omelet. It’s good. You can barely taste the-

Oh no. Yes you can, actually.

The thing is, it was an honest mistake. About the tomatoes, I mean. Anyone could get something like that mixed up. Even a soul mate.

And, I mean, at least he remembered I’d mentioned tomatoes. He may not have remembered what I actually said about them. But he obviously knows I said something.

And it’s not like he’s not busy, teaching the children to read and all.

And waitering, apparently.

Seeing that no one is looking at me, I knock some of the omelet on my plate and down onto the napkin on my lap. Then I look over at Geronimo, who has left Mr. Marshall’s side, apparently sensing he’s not going to be scoring any scraps over there.

The collie meets my gaze.

Next thing I know, I have dog nose in my crotch.

“What’s this now?” A boy who must be Andrew’s second-youngest brother, Alistair, appears in the doorway. Unlike his mom and two brothers, Alistair’s hair is bright, coppery red-probably the same color his dad’s had been, before he lost it all…judging from his eyebrows, anyway.

“Oh, hullo, Ali,” Mrs. Marshall says. “Take your seat. We’re having a traditional English breakfast to welcome Andrew’s friend Liz from America.”

“Hi,” I say, looking up at the redhead, who appears to be just a year or two younger than me. He is dressed from head to toe in Adidas apparel…Adidas warm-up pants, jacket, T-shirt, and shoes. Perhaps they’ve asked for his personal endorsement. “I’m Lizzie. Nice to meet you.”

Alistair stares at me for a minute. Then he bursts out laughing.

“Right!” he says. “Come off it, Mum. What kind of joke is this supposed to be, anyway?”

“It’s not a joke at all, Alistair,” Mr. Marshall says in a cold voice.

“But,” Alistair bleats, “she can’t be Liz! Andy said Liz is a fatty!”

It takes five rings before Shari answers. For a minute I’m worried she won’t pick up at all. What if she’s asleep? I know it’s only nine o’clock after all, Europe time, but what if she hasn’t adjusted to the time difference as well as I have? Even though she’s been over here longer. She was supposed to have gotten to Paris two days ago, stayed one night in a hotel there, then traveled down to the chateau the next day.

But then again, she’s Shari-great at school stuff, not so good at everyday life stuff. She’s dropped her cell phone in the toilet more times than I can count. Who knows if I’ll even get through to her?

Then, to my relief, she finally picks up. And it’s clear I haven’t wakened her-because there is music blaring in the background. A song in which the refrain, Vamos a la playa, plays over and over, to a Latin beat.

“Liz-ZIE!” Shari yells into the phone. “Is that YOOOOOU?”

Oh yes. She’s drunk.

“How are yooooouuuuu?” she wants to know. “How’s London? How’s hot, hot, hot Andrew? How’s his aaaaaaaasssssssssss?”

“Shari,” I say in a low voice. I don’t want the Marshalls to hear me, so I’m running the water in the bathtub. I’m not wasting it. I really do plan to take a bath. In a minute. “Things are weird here. Really weird. I need to talk to someone normal for a minute.”

“Wait, let me see if I can find Chaz,” Shari says. Then she cackles. “Just kidding! Oh my God, Lizzie, you should see this place. You’d die. It’s like Under the Tuscan Sun and Valmont combined. Luke’s house is HUGE. HUGE. It has a name-Mirac. It has its own VINEYARD. Lizzie, they make their own champagne. THEY MAKE IT THEMSELVES.”

“That’s great,” I say. “Shari, I think Andrew told his brothers I was fat.”

Shari is silent for a moment. I am urged once again to Vamos a la playa. Then Shari explodes.

“He fucking said that? He fucking said you were fat? Stay where you are. Stay right where you fucking are. I’m getting on the Chunnel train thingie and I’m coming over there and I’m going to cut his balls off-”

“Shari,” I say. She is yelling so loudly I’m worried the Marshalls might hear her. Through the closed door. Over the TV and the running water. “Shari, wait, that isn’t what I meant. I mean, I don’t know what he said. Things are just really weird. I got here, and the very first thing, Andrew took off for work. Which was okay. I mean it was fine. Because the truth is”-I can feel the tears coming. Oh, great-“Andrew isn’t working with children. He’s a waiter. He works from eleven in the morning until eleven at night. I didn’t even know that was legal. Plus, he doesn’t even have his own place. We’re staying with his parents. And his little brothers. Who he told I was fat. Also, he told his mom that I like tomatoes.”

“I take it back,” Shari says, “I’m not going there. You’re coming here. Buy a train ticket and get over here. Be sure to ask for a youth pass. You’ll have to change trains in Paris. Buy a ticket there for Souillac. And then just call me. We’ll pick you up at the station.”