Queen of Babble

“Oh, c’mon, Mum,” Alex says, gri

“Alex, this is Liz,” Mrs. M interrupts even more tartly. She doesn’t look as much like a rose now. Or I guess she does, just one whose thorns are showing. “Say hello to her properly, please.”

Alex, looking sheepish, sticks his right hand out. I shake it.

“Sorry,” he says. “Pleased to meet you. It’s just that Andy said-”

“Alex, please take this out to the table,” Mrs. M says, shoving a handful of knives and forks at her youngest son. “Breakfast will be ready soon.”

“Breakfast? It’s nearly time for lunch, isn’t it?”

“Well, Liz hasn’t had breakfast yet, so that’s what we’re having.”

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!”

Little is known about costume from the period of the second century until well into the 700s, thanks to barbarian invasions by the Goths, Visigoths, Ostrogoths, Huns, and Franks. We do know, thanks to these invasions, that few people had time to think about fashion, as they were busy fleeing for their lives.

It isn’t until Charlemagne came to rule in 800 that we have any sort of detailed description of wardrobe at the time, which included cross-gartered trousers that came to be known as braies, or breeches, that garment so well beloved by historical romance authors around the world.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS