Queen Of Babble: In The Big City

“Look,” I say. “I know you’re going through a rotten time right now, and it must seem like everybody and his brother wants a piece of you or whatever. But I swear that’s not why I’m telling you this. Vintage clothing—it’s my life. I mean, you can see what I have on, right?” I point at the dress I’m wearing. “This is a rare long-sleeved, kimono-style dress from the 1960s by the designer Alfred Shaheen, who was better known for his authentic South Seas designs—basically Hawaiian shirts—but who also made some hand-screened Asian prints as well. This dress is a fantastic example of his work—see the wide, obi-style belt? Which is actually a good look for me, because I have more of a pear shape, you know, so I want to emphasize my waistline and not my hips so much? Anyway, this dress was in pretty bad shape when I found it in the bottom of the dollar bin at the place where I used to work back in A

I do a little pivot for her, the way Tiffany had taught me to.

“And now I’ve got what you see here. What I’m trying to say”—I pivot over to where she’s standing, gaping at me—“is that I know how to take someone else’s trash and turn it into treasure. And that if you want me to, I can do it for you. Because what would stick it to your future mother-in-law more than you walking down the aisle in the dress she’s forced onto you, looking way, way better in it than she ever did?”

Jill shakes her head. “You don’t understand,” she says.

“Try me.”

“That—that thing she wants me to wear. It’s… hideous.”

“So was this,” I say, indicating the Alfred Shaheen. “Grape jelly. Floor length. Bullet boobs.”

“No. This is worse. Way worse. It’s got like—” Words seem to defy Jill. So she uses her arms to make a circle. “This hoop skirt thing. And there’s… stuff.Hanging. It’s got this plaid thing—”

“The MacDowell clan tartan,” I say gravely. “Yes. Yes, of course it would have that.”

“And it’s like a million years old,” Jill says. “And it smells. And it doesn’t fit.”

“Too big or too small?” I ask.

“Too small. Way too small. There’s no way anybody could make it fit. I already decided.” She tosses her head, her blue eyes glittering. “I’m not wearing it. I mean, she already hates me. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“True,” I say. “Do you have something else in mind?”

She looks at me blankly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you have another dress in mind? Have you shopped for another gown?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, right. When would I have time to do that? In between manicures? What do you think? No, of course not. What do I know about any of this stuff? I mean, John, he keeps telling me just to go to Vera Wang or whatever, but it’s like every time I even think about going into one of those places—you know, those designers—I get all short of breath, and… well, it’s not like I’ve got girlfriends, or whatever, who are into that stuff. Everyone I know, they’ve got like monkey shit all over their shoes.Literally. What do they know from bridal gowns? Really, I was just thinking maybe I’d fly home and pick something up back at the mall in Des Moines. Because at least there I know what I’m getting myself into—”

Something cold and hard grips my heart. I recognize immediately what it is, of course. Fear.

“Jill.” I reach for another Devil Dog. I need it. For sustenance. “Can I call you Jill?”

She nods. “Yeah, whatever.”

“I’m Lizzie,” I say. “And please, don’t ever say that word around me again.”

She looks at me blankly. “What word?”

“Mall.” I shove a fingerful of delicious filling into my mouth and let it melt. Ahhhh. Better. “No. Just no, okay?”

“I know,” she says, her eyes suddenly bright with tears again. “But seriously. What else am I go

“Well, for starters,” I say, “you’re going to bring the MacDowell clan bridal gown, tartan and all, to me, here.” I pass her one of my business cards from my purse. “Can you come this afternoon?”

Jill squints down at the card. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” I say. “Before we make any drastic decisions involving the mall, let’s just see what we have to work with, okay? Because you never know. You may have something salvageable. And then you won’t have to deal with the mallor the high-fashion boutiques. And it would be a really nice in-your-face to your mother-in-law if we could make it work.”

Jill narrows her eyes at me. “Wait. Did you just say ‘in-your-face’?”

I look at her guiltily over the second fingerful of Devil Dog filling I’ve just stuffed into my mouth. “Um,” I say around my finger. “Yeah. Why?”

“I haven’t heard anybody say that since eighth grade.”

I pop my finger out of my mouth. “I was always kind of a late bloomer.”

For the first time since coming out of the toilet stall, Jill smiles. “Me, too,” she says.

And the two of us stand there gri

At least until the door to the ladies’ room swings open and Roberta comes in, freezing mid-step when she sees us.

“Oh, Lizzie,” she says, smiling at Jill. “There you are. Tiffany just asked me to check on you because you’d been gone from the desk for so long—”

“Oh, sorry,” I say, sweeping the remains of the junk food I’d looted from the kitchen into my arms. “We were just—”

“I was having a blood sugar issue,” Jill says, reaching out to grab another Coke and a Yodels from the pile in my arms, “and Lizzie was just helping me through it.”

“Oh,” Roberta says, smiling even harder. Well, what’s she going to do? Yell at me for sneaking the entire contents of the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly

“We are,” I say cheerfully. “In fact, I was just heading back to the desk—”

“And I have a two o’clock with Mr. Pendergast,” Jill says.

“Okay, then,” Roberta says. Her smile is practically frozen onto her face. “Good!”

I hurry out to the lobby, where Tiffany’s eyes widen perceptibly when she sees who’s following me. Esther, Mr. Pendergast’s assistant, is waiting by the reception desk. She looks even more surprised than Tiffany to see Jill Higgins following behind me and Roberta.

“Oh, Miss Higgins,” she cries, her gaze going straight to the Yodel crumbs on Jill’s chest. “There you are. I was getting worried. The security desk called and said they’d sent you up some time ago—”

“Sorry,” Jill says smoothly. “I stopped for a snack.”

“I see,” Esther says, darting a quick look at me.

“She was hungry,” I say, indicating the snack cakes and sodas—and minicartons of milk—in my arms. “Want some?”

“Er, no, thank you,” Esther says. “Won’t you come with me, Miss Higgins?”

“Sure,” Jill says, and starts following Esther out—only to fling me an enigmatic look over her shoulder as she rounds the corner… a look I am in no shape to interpret, since I’m getting ready to be yelled at by my boss.

But Roberta doesn’t say anything except, “Well. That was, er, nice of you, to, er, help Miss Higgins.”

“Thanks,” I say. “She said she was feeling light-headed, so—”

“Quick thinking,” Roberta says. “Well. It’s past two, so—”

“Right.” I dump the stuff from the kitchen onto the reception desk—causing Tiffany to make a small noise of protest and give me a dirty look. “Sorry, Tiff,” I say. “But I gotta run. My shift’s up for the day—”

And then I bolt out of there like a bike messenger with a clear shot up Sixth Avenue…