Страница 27 из 58
“You people—” I want to hit him. I really do. “You should be ashamed of yourself! Following that poor girl around, calling her ‘Blubber’—what gives you the right to judge her? Huh? What makes you think you’re so much better than she is?”
“Relax,” Gray Cords says, looking bored. “Why do you feel so sorry for her, anyway? She’s go
“Get away from me!” I shout. “And get out of this building, before I notify security!”
“Okay, okay.” Gray Cords slinks away, muttering the four-letter word for the female sex organ that I apparently remind him of.
But I don’t care.
And just to ensure he stays away from Jill when she comes out, I march up to the security desk, point Gray Cords out to Mike and Raphael, and inform them that he just exposed himself to me. The last I see of Gray Cords, he is being chased out of the building by two men wielding billy clubs.
There are times when having a big mouth and no great reservations about telling outright lies really comes in handy.
The last thing anyone wants on her wedding day is to end up on prime-time television—you know, with one of those moments where the bride slips and a domino-like effect causes everyone she comes into contact with to fall as well, until the last person lands with his face in the wedding cake, like something on America’s Fu
So be sure to break in your wedding shoes before the big day… not just to save yourself from blisters, but to keep yourself from slipping, as well. Women’s shoes have notoriously slick soles. You can avoid having your feet slide out from under you at an inopportune moment by applying no-skid stickers to the bottom of your shoes (on the outside, not the inside, silly).
Forget to buy stickers? Never fear! By carefully (so as not to cut yourself) ru
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 13
Gossip is dying out because fewer and fewer people care to talk about anything besides themselves.
— Mason Cooley (1927–2002), American aphorist
By the time I finally get to Monsieur Henri’s shop later that afternoon, I’m no longer freaking out about having invited Tiffany and her boyfriend to di
Well, my work family, anyway. Sure, she can be a
But she’s been pretty nice to me, as well. I mean, she leaves all her fashion magazines behind for me to read (since I can’t exactly afford to buy my own), and almost always has some little beauty tip to give me—like that Vaseline works just as well for dry skin as expensive moisturizers, or that putting deodorant on your bikini line after shaving prevents ingrown hairs.
Which is more than I can say for Madame Henri. Not about the deodorant (not that I’ve ever gone up to her and taken a big whiff) but about being nice to me. Oh, sure, she tolerates me.
But only because I take on a significant portion of her husband’s workload, leaving him free to spend more time at home… a fact about which I’m not entirely sure he’s that happy.
When I walk through the door that afternoon, in fact, Monsieur Henri and his wife are having a violent argument—only in French, of course, so that Je
“We’ve got to do it,” Madame Henri is saying viciously. “I don’t see how we’re going to manage otherwise. Maurice has sucked away every last bit of our business with those newspaper ads of his. And when he opens up that new shop of his down the street—well, I don’t need to tell you, that will be the nail in our coffin!”
“Let’s wait,” her husband says. “Things might pick up.”
Then, noticing me, he says in English, “Ah, Mademoiselle Elizabeth! Well, what do you think?”
As if he has to ask. I’m standing there staring at Je
Well, like an angel.
“I love it,” Je
And anyone could see why. The gown—now with an open, Queen A
But it’s Je
Of course, she’s glowing because I did a kick-ass job on her dress.
But that’s beside the point.
“Are you wearing the shoes you’re going to have on for the ceremony?” I ask, Monsieur and Madame Henri’s latest tiff forgotten as I hurry forward to fuss with her skirt. I’ve added a lace drape—to match the sleeves—at the waist, giving her more of a Renaissance-style look. Which, with her long neck and stick-straight hair, really works.
“Of course,” Je
The hem is the perfect length—just sweeping the floor. She looks like a princess. No, like a fairy princess.
“Her sisters are going to kill me when they see her,” Mrs. Harris says—but not unpleasantly. “Because she looks so much better than any of them ever did.”
“Mom!” Je
But the fact that she can’t take her gaze off her own reflection illustrates that she knows itis true.
Pleased with the results of my labor—and Monsieur Henri’s, as well. He did, after all, provide the lace—I help Je
I’ve given Je
Her mother, however, is more circumspect, stopping beside me after paying Monsieur Henri to squeeze my hand and say, while looking into my eyes, “Lizzie. Thank you.”
“Oh, no problem, Mrs. Harris.” I’m a little embarrassed. It’s weird to be thanked for doing something you love and would have done in any case, whether or not anyone was paying you (which, in this case, no one was).
But when Mrs. Harris takes her hand away from mine, I see that I’m wrong. Because she’s surreptitiously pressed a bill into my hand.
Reminded immediately of Grandma and her emergency sawbuck (which I still have in my handbag), I look down and am surprised to see two zeroes after the number one on the bill Mrs. Harris has given me.
“Oh, I can’t accept this,” I start to say.
But Mrs. Harris has already swept out the door, with a promise that she’s going to tell all her friends with daughters of marriageable age about Monsieur Henri. “And I’ll make sure they stay away from that horrible Maurice!” is her parting cry.
The second she’s gone, Madame Henri starts in again on her husband.
“And as if things were not bad enough, those boys of yours stayed in the apartment again last night!”