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Chapter 18
No one gossips about other people’s secret virtues.
— Bertrand Russell (1872–1970), British philosopher
The Monday after Thanksgiving, we got slammed at the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
A sentiment with which I could actually sympathize, having spent mine with the de Villierses… who are all very charming people, but not without their a
Another hot topic of conversation for Mrs. de Villiers is Blaine’s sister’s pregnancy. Vickie isn’t even due until the spring and doesn’t even know the baby’s sex yet, but Luke’s mother is already buying tiny onesies and booties and cooing over how much she can’t wait to have a grandchild of her own, making Luke look extremely uncom for table and putting back my woodland-creaturing of him weeks, possibly even months.
And Mr. de Villiers’s a
And yet somehow Luke’s father managed to destroy it… or at least the bobbin.
He apologized profusely and offered to pay for a new one. But I told him it was all right, that the machine was old and I’d been intending to get a new one anyway.
I swear I don’t know where some of the things that come out of my mouth even come from.
Anyway, they’re gone. They left Sunday afternoon, after much kissing and talk of all the fun they’re going to have at Château Mirac over Christmas and New Year’s. Of course, they pressured me to come along, but I could tell they didn’t really mean it. Well, Luke did, of course. And maybe his dad did.
But his mom? Not so much? The smile she gave me as she said, “Oh, do come, Lizzie, it will be such fun,” didn’t go all the way up to her eyes. They didn’t crinkle at the sides like they normally did when she smiles.
No. I know where I’m not wanted. And that’s at the de Villierses’ familial holiday celebration in France.
Which is fine. It is. It’s totally cool. I explained I only had the long weekend off anyway, which I’d be spending flying home to see my parents, before returning to work on Monday.
I don’t think it’s my imagination that Mrs. de Villiers looked kind of relieved about that. I mean, that she was getting her son all to herself.
Which you would think she’d realize makes the grandchild production thing kind of difficult. But maybe she has other candidates in mind… ones who aren’t working two jobs, one of them nonpaying, and the other hardly worth bragging to her girlfriends about. I mean, a receptionist? So not as glamorous, say, as an investment banker or market analyst…
Especially not the Monday after Thanksgiving, when everybody and their mother seems to want a divorce lawyer. Tiffany says the only busier time in the office is right after New Year’s, which is when a lot of proposals take place, so people want to come in for their prenups.
I’ve said, “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
“So Raoul says he can get your friend Shari in to see his internist,” Tiffany says, as she takes my chair. “You know, if she’s still sick. Is she still sick?”
“She’s not sick,” I say, opening my drawer and pulling out my Meyers handbag—which barely fits in there, thanks to the back issues of Vogue which Tiffany insists on saving. “She and Chaz broke up.”
“They did?” Tiffany swings her wide, blue-eyed gaze up at me. “Right before your party? God, no wonder he said she was sick. How totally embarrassing. So is one of them moving out? Which one? Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me?”
Because I’ve been trying really hard not to mention anything about it to anyone—especially people like Tiffany who could conceivably say something to Chaz’s father. Obviously Luke knows, but he’s the only person I’ve told. I’m really trying not to be such a gossip these days. Shari asked me not to say anything to anyone until she’d had a chance to speak to Chaz about it—which I hope to God she has, because I don’t know how much longer I can keep from saying anything to him when he calls the office to return his father’s phone calls. Between that and the thing about Luke’s mom, I am BURSTING with secrets.
And it’s driving me mental.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Look, let me just go spray my throat and I’ll be right back—”
Tiffany doesn’t get a chance to reply, though, because the phone chirps and she has to grab it. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
The ladies’ room of the law offices is actually situated outside the lobby, by the elevator doors. To get in, you have to punch in a code. This is not to keep random tourists from wandering in off the street to use the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
In any case, one of the duties of the receptionist at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
And yet some clients (and lawyers) have to be given the code two, even three times before they retain it. This can be a
The day I go in to spray my throat (and put on a little lipstick and fluff up my hair) is no exception. I’m alone in the very clean, very beige bathroom. I’m gazing at my reflection in the huge mirror hanging above the sinks, grateful that last night I finally got to sleep in my own (well, Luke’s mother’s own) bed, instead of on the pull-out couch, because the bags under my eyes from tossing and turning around so much are finally starting to fade. I swear, when I am a certified wedding-gown specialist with my own shop, and I finally have some money to spare, I am going to buy one of those Pottery Barn pull-out couches that don’t have the metal bar across the middle, that are actually comfortable.
Well, first I’m going to buy my own apartment so I actually have a place to keep my stuff where it won’t get tripped over and broken.
Then I’m buying the couch.
And I probably won’t even have to worry about ever sleeping on it again, because the next time Luke’s parents come to visit, they can just stay at Luke’s mother’s apartment, and not mine—
It’s as I’m enjoying this lovely fantasy that I hear something. At first I think it’s just the heel of my shoe on the tiles beneath me. But then I realize I’m not alone in the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly