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Although considering that this perfect stranger has an apartment on Fifth Avenue, this seemed unlikely. Having a Fifth Avenue address, I’m finding out, is like living in Beverly Hills or something. New Yorkers—even transplanted ones—are insane about real estate… maybe because there’s so little of it actually available, and what there is is prohibitively expensive.
So whenever I tell people where I live, their eyes bulge out a little. And without my even mentioning the Renoir.
Oh well. I’m doing a kind thing. It’s not like Tiffany has anyone else, not being particularly close to her ultraconservative parents, who don’t approve of her relationship with Raoul. And Lord knows Roberta isn’t likely to have her over for di
… a fact driven home harder than ever when the elevator doors open on the lobby level and I step out to see a familiar face at the security desk. Jill Higgins, on her way up to another appointment with Chaz’s dad. Today she’s wearing her usual ensemble of jeans, sweater, and Timberlands—even though the Post did a whole make-over spread about her this weekend, where they had a paper-doll cutout of Jill with all these different outfits to put on her, including her zoo uniform and a tacky bridal gown.
I hesitate. I’ve been thinking about Jill a lot—every day, practically. Well, it’s kind of hard not to, considering there always seems to be some story or other about “Blubber” in the local rags. It’s like New Yorkers can’t seem to believe that someone as rich as John MacDowell could fall in love with a woman who isn’t as stereotypically beautiful as… well, Tiffany.
And the fact that Jill’s a working girl—and works with seals, no less—seems to have made her an even bigger target for acid-tongued New York society. Apparently, she’ll be the first MacDowell wife ever to hold a job (aside from volunteer work for charity that is).
And the fact that Jill has said she intends to keep her job working with the seals even after she’s married has the matrons of Fifth Avenue (I know. My own street!) cringing.
All of which has me worried. Seriously. And okay, not as worried as I am about Shari and Chaz (naturally). But still. I can’t stop thinking about what Tiffany told me my first day of work—that John MacDowell’s family is making that poor girl wear some ancestral bridal gown that’s been in their family for a million years on her big day.
I’m willing to bet that ancestral gown’s a size two, at the largest.
And Jill’s a size fourteen or twelve, at the smallest.
How’s she going to fit into a dress like that? And she has to—she has to wear it. That whole thing about the dress… that is a clear challenge by her fiancé’s mother. It’s like Mrs. MacDowell is saying, “Do this… or you’ll never fit in with the rest of us.Literally.”
Jill has got to rise to the challenge, or she’ll never have any peace from her in-laws. And the press’ll certainly never stop calling her Blubber.
And okay. Maybe I’m projecting. But from what I’ve read—and what I know, from working at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
So what’s Jill going to do? She has to be taking that dress to someone for alterations… but who? Is it someone who understands the urgency of the situation? Is it someone who is going to tell her the truth—that there is no way you can squeeze a size-twelve body into a size-two gown without using a lot of hideous panels?
Oh God. Just the thought of panels is making me shudder.
And as I stand there, watching Jill show her driver’s license so that the security guard can make her a pass, I realize that I want her to come to me. I know it sounds crazy. But I don’t want anybody else working on Jill’s dress. Not because I’m afraid of her falling prey to a huckster like Maurice… although I am. But because I want her to look beautiful on her wedding day. I want John’s family to gasp as she comes down the aisle, because she looks so beautiful. I want that dress to be an in-your-face to her mother-in-law. I want the New York press to take back that “Blubber,” and substitute it with “Beautiful.”
And I know I can make that happen. I just know it. Doesn’t Je
There’s only one reason for that: my hard work.
I want to do the same for Jill. I mean, she threw out her backlifting a seal! A girl like that deserves the very best in certified wedding-gown specialists.
And okay, I don’t quite have my certification yet. But it’s really only a matter of time…
Only how? How can I let Jill know I’m here for her if she needs me? I can’t very well slip her my business card (oh yes. I’d had business cards made up, with Monsieur Henri’s address and my cell number on them), while also maintaining the level of “discretion and professionalism” Roberta told me Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
But not as much, I realize all at once, as Jill moves toward the security gate, and I spot the most hideous of all fashion faux pas—VPLs, or visible panty lines—below her waist. Oh God! VPLs! Someone must help her!
And, by God, that someone is going to be me. Which is more important anyway, my making rent or this poor, put-upon girl looking the best she possibly can on her wedding day? That’s a no-brainer. I’m just going to go up to her and offer my services. We’re not in the office now, I’m on my own time. And maybe she won’t even remember where she’s seen me before. No one ever remembers receptionists…
“Excuse me—”
Oh! Too late! She’s going through the security gate. Dammit! I’ve missed her.
Well, that’s okay. No, really, it’s fine. I’ll get her next time. If there is a next time…
There has to be a next time.
“So.” A lanky guy in gray cords that I’d noticed hanging around one of the magazine stands in the lobby is sidling up to me.
Great. This is all I need. To be hit on by yet another guy who thinks from my clothes that I’m some midwestern rube who is going to fall for his line about how he’s a photographer for a modeling agency, and do I want to go back to his studio with him so he can take some pictures of me? Because he wants to make me a star. Yawn.
“Sorry,” I say, turning around and heading toward the lobby doors. “Not interested.”
This, of course, is why New Yorkers have a reputation for rudeness. But it’s not our fault! It’s guys like this who make New Yorkers so suspicious of any stranger who tries to speak to them on the street!
“Wait.” Gray Cords is following me. Oh no! “Was that Jill Higgins you were waving to just then?”
I stop. I can’t help myself. The words “Jill Higgins” have this magic effect on me. That’s how much I want to get my hands on her wedding dress.
“Yes,” I say. Who is this guy? He certainly doesn’t look like a pervert… but then, how do I know what a pervert looks like?
“So, you’re a friend of hers?” Gray Cords wants to know.
“No,” I say. And suddenly—just like that—I know who he is. It’s amazing how hardened you can become after just a few months in Manhattan. “What paper are you with?”
“The New York Journal, ” he says matter-of-factly, taking a PDA from one of his pockets and turning it on. “Do you know what she’s doing here? Jill, I mean? There are a lot of law firms in this building. Was she headed up to one of them? Would you happen to know which one… and why?”
I can feel my face turning bright red. Not because I’m embarrassed for having said something indiscreet. Because for once I haven’t. My face is getting red because I’m angry.