Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

“Um,” I say. “Hi. What’s going on?”

“Ms. Nichols.” Ava leaps to her precariously high stilettos—which are attached to purple suede thigh-high boots—upsetting the Chihuahua, who tumbles to the carpet with a yelp. This does not seem to concern its mistress in any way. “I’m so, like, sorry I’m here without an appointment. It’s just, like, I saw the story on Page Six about you, and the thing is, I live in Los Angeles and I’m in town for New Year’s—you know, I was doing a guest spot for Celebrity Pit Fight at Times Square for the ball drop? — and I have to get back, but I’m getting married this summer, and I, like, really, really, really want you to do my dress.”

“And I already told her,” Tiffany says, from between gritted teeth, “you don’t do original designs, just—”

“I know this girl keeps saying you only do restorations,” Ava says, flicking a scathing glance in Tiffany’s direction. “But I’m all, what’s the diff? I mean, if I bring in some heinous old dress and ask you to make it over, or if you just, like, make me a new one? Why can’t you just make me a new one? Okay? Because that’s what I want. I want a dress by someone who’s young and cool. Not some dried-up old-lady dress by someone with a freaking four-story shop on Madison Avenue. Ya know?”

Except it was kind of hard to tell what she was saying, between all the chewing sounds.

“Ms. Nichols?” Tiffany stands up. “Can I have a word with you in the back room?”

“God!” Ava cracks her gum. “What is the dealio? I have money. I’ll, like, pay you.”

“Um,” I say to Ava. I notice that the Chihuahua is getting ready to lift a leg against Madame Henri’s potted hydrangea. I dive to pick up the dog and place it gently back in a confused-looking Ava Geck’s arms. “Let me just consult with my, um, assistant here, to see what the schedule for this week looks like, and I’ll be right back.”

Ava looks relieved. At least if that’s what I’m to believe from the large pink bubble she blows.

“Whatever,” she says.

I allow Tiffany to drag me into the back room.

“You cannot design a dress for her,” Tiffany hisses as soon as I’ve drawn the black velvet curtain across. “She’s a skanky crack whore.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “You met her in Narcotics Anonymous.”

“No,” Tiffany says. “But she’s still a skanky crack whore. Seriously, Lizzie. Did you see her on Celebrity Pit Fight? She made Lil’ Kim cry. Lil’ Kim. You can’t. You just can’t.”

“She’s hugely famous,” I say. “She’s a bazillioniare. And she’s marrying a prince. Do you have any idea what kind of press that will bring in?”

“Yeah,” Tiffany says. “Skanky crack whore press. Believe me, that is not the kind of press you want.”

“Tiffany,” I say, fighting for patience. “You don’t understand. At this point in my career, any press is good press. I’m totally doing the dress.”

“But she’s disgusting,” Tiffany insists. “Did you see the way she treated that dog? And what is with those boots?”

“Tiffany, she’s obviously deeply troubled. She needs our help, not our scorn. She’s clearly had no one in her life to gently guide her on how to act like a decent human being. And she really needs that, now more than ever… she’s marrying a prince! It’s going to be a royal wedding!”

“In Greece,” Tiffany points out. “Hel-lo.”

“Tiffany! How can you say that? Greece is the cradle of Western civilization, the birthplace of democracy, political science, Western literature and philosophy, the Olympic games—”

“Um, Lizzie, have you ever even tasted hummus?”

“Tiffany.” I glare at her. “I’m doing Ava’s dress. You’re either with me or you’re out.”

Tiffany rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Is this because of the prince thing? Because, like, you’re marrying a prince, and so you feel like you have this moral obligation to help her, because she’s marrying a prince?”

I ignore that. “Tiffany, we have a moral obligation to help this poor girl, because if we don’t, no one will, and she’ll just go on doing asinine things like pulling out Lil’ Kim’s hair extensions on Celebrity Pit Fight, and she’ll never discover her true inner potential.”

“And you think you can help her find it?” Tiffany sneers.

“Yes, Tiffany,” I say gravely. “Yes, I think I can.”

Except that the truth is, I don’t think I can. I know I can.

“Fine. If you want to play Dr. Dolittle to her Eliza Higgins,” Tiffany says, “it’s your funeral. I’ll just do what you’re paying me for: answer the phones.”

“It’s Professor Higgins,” I correct her, “and Eliza Doolittle. Professor Higgins is the guy who gives the Cockney flower girl the makeover. Dr. Dolittle is the guy who could talk to animals.”

“Fine,” Tiffany mutters. “I can tell this was a bad day to cut back on my Adderall.”

I throw back the black velvet curtain and find Ava Geck closely examining a dressmaker’s dummy wearing a House of Bianchi off-the-shoulder number I’ve retrofitted with sleeves for a bride who’s being married in a conservative synagogue.

“I like this one,” Ava says, straightening up when I come in. She’s still chomping on her gum. “Can you make me something like this?”

I’m surprised. Pleasantly so. For a girl who’s shown her panties so many times on television, it’s a surprisingly modest choice.

“I think we can come up with a gown you’ll like,” I say. “Something a little more Ava-like.”

Ava gasps, then claps her hands. The Chihuahua barks excitedly and spins around in circles. Even the bodyguard cracks a smile. A very small one, but a smile just the same.

“Oh, thank you!” Ava cries. “This is gonna be bitchin’!”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just a couple of ground rules, though. Rule number one… when you enter Chez Henri, you have to de-gum. When you leave, you may re-gum.” I hold out my hand expectantly.

Ava stares at me blankly. “What?”

“Your gum,” I say. “There is no gum allowed in Chez Henri. You’re welcome to go over to Vera Wang and chew gum, but not here. It’s uncivilized to stand around looking like a cow chewing her cud. So either spit it out or leave.”

Ava, looking stunned, spits her gum out into my hand. I drop the wad into a nearby trash can, which the Chihuahua quickly runs over to inspect.

“Rule number two,” I say, wiping my hand off with a tissue I pluck from the box on Tiffany’s desk. “You must show up on time for all fittings. If you’re not going to be able to make it for whatever reason, you must call at least an hour before your appointment to let us know. Failure to do this more than once, and your contract with us will be canceled. It’s not polite to stand people up. We have lots of clients and could reschedule someone else in your time slot if we know you won’t be able to make it in advance. Okay?”

Still looking dazed, Ava nods. The bodyguard, I notice, is still smiling, although now he looks slightly bemused.

“All right, Ava,” I say. “Why don’t you step into the dressing room over here so I can take your measurements?”

Ava hurries to oblige, tripping a little over her ridiculously high-heeled boots.

It’s going to be, it’s clear, a long morning.

A HISTORY of WEDDINGS

Bridesmaids in ancient Roman times were the first to wear identical gowns—identical not only to one another’s but to the bride’s as well. This was in an attempt to trick demons from taking the bride’s soul prior to her wedding night. Any woman who’d protected three brides from evil spirits was considered too impure to marry herself, having absorbed too much black magic. This is where the expression “three times a bridesmaid, never a bride” comes from.

So they weren’t making it up about the three times a bridesmaid thing! And you just thought they were talking about your aunt Judy.

Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

You love your friends because of their unique personalities. Well, their bodies are unique too. So don’t squeeze your bridesmaids into identical gowns. They’ll hate it, and if you’re really their friend, you should hate that they hate it. Choose a shade that will flatter all of them, and let them each choose a dress in that color that they like, one that they’ll really wear again.

So what if they won’t all look exactly the same? It’s them you love, not their look, right?

LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS^™

Luke has promised to come over and make me a nice dinner because of the day I’ve had—though Madame Henri calls just after five to let me know that her husband has gotten through his surgery with flying colors—but the truth is, all I want to do is take a hot bath, read a fashion magazine, and go to bed.

Only how can I tell this to Luke, who went to the market and picked up two sirloins and marinated them (his post-baccalaureate premed classes don’t start up again until after Martin Luther King Day), especially for me?

So when he calls just before six with an apologetic note in his voice and says, “Listen,” it’s all I can do to keep from clicking my heels together with joy. He’s canceling! Alleluia! And hello, this month’s Vogue.

“There’s a Michigan game on tonight,” he says. “And Chaz really wants me to watch it with him. You know how he is about the Wolverines. And the truth is… he seemed kind of depressed on the phone when he called to tell me about it.”

“Chaz is depressed?” This is news to me. He hadn’t seemed a bit depressed when he’d had his hand down my bra. Not that I add this last part out loud, of course.

“Well, I mean, it’s only natural he’d be a little down, you know,” Luke says. “We’re getting married, and his girlfriend left him… for another woman. I really thought he’d have someone else by now—I’ve never seen him go without a date for this long.”

“Shari only broke up with him at Thanksgiving,” I point out dryly. I notice there’s a new red splotch on the inside of my elbow where the old one, which has faded away, was. So it wasn’t a mosquito bite. What could they be? Maybe an allergy to the detergent I’m using? But I haven’t switched detergents lately.

“For Chaz, a month and a half is a real dry spell,” Luke says. “Now his best friend is marrying the cutest girl in the world… No wonder he’s depressed.”

“Then you should absolutely stay home and watch basketball with him,” I say. I’m already fantasizing about the Chinese food I’m going to order in. Moo shu chicken with hoisin sauce. Maybe I’ll even eat it in the bathtub.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Luke says. “The game’s only on satellite. We’ll be watching it at O’Riordan’s Sports Bar, which is around the corner from your place, on Lexington. So I thought, if you wanted to stop by later… ”

“Gosh, honey,” I say sweetly. “There’s nothing I can imagine wanting to do more than sit around with you and your depressed guy friend watching sports.”

“We’ll be ordering chicken wings,” Luke says in an effort to tempt me.

“That is so hard to resist… ”

“Come on,” Luke says in a more serious tone. “Chaz loves you, you know that. He wants to say congratulations in person. And seeing you will cheer him up. You know how much he likes teasing you about your weird outfits. Besides, if you don’t show up, I won’t see you all day.”

Except it isn’t my outfit I’m afraid of Chaz teasing me about.

Not that I’m about to mention this, either.

“Luke,” I say. “The whole point of our not living together is so that we can use this time of our engagement to explore who we are as individuals, so that when we come together as a married couple we’ll have a clearer idea of exactly what we want out of—”

“Lizzie,” Luke says. “I know all that. I was there when you made that little speech, remember? Can’t a guy just want to see his girlfriend?”

I sigh, visions of my fun evening of high-fashion photos and bubbles going down the drain. Literally. “I’ll be there around seven.”

The bar is crowded, but thankfully not smoky, since New York City banned all smoking indoors and actually enforces it. I find Luke and Chaz in a booth beneath one of the dozens of televisions hanging suspended from the ceiling and blaring college basketball games. Luke leaps up to kiss me hello. Chaz, I see, is wearing one of his ubiquitous (except when he’s in evening wear) University of Michigan baseball hats, pulled down low over his hair. He is unshaven and looking a little rough around the edges… rougher, even, than when I’d seen him last, after a night of too much champagne…