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Chapter 25
Gossip is the art of saying nothing in a way that leaves practically nothing unsaid.
— Walter Winchell (1897–1972), American news commentator
“A sewing machine?” Tiffany looks shocked. “No. No way.”
“It’s not the sewing machine,” I say to her. “I mean, that was the catalyst for the conversation in which I later realized he doesn’t feel about me the same way I feel about him.”
“But a sewing machine?”
It’s the Monday after Christmas, the first day back at work, and my second day back in New York. I’d spent what was left of Sunday scouring the want ads, trying to find an apartment that—unlike the empty one sitting over the shop, which Madame Henri wanted two thousand bucks a month for—I could afford.
But it was hopeless. The only places I saw for a thousand dollars or less a month were roommate shares. In Jersey City. And urged potential sharers to keep an open mind.
It was especially depressing to be sitting in Luke’s mother’s Fifth Avenue apartment, with the Mirós on the wall and the steps to the Metropolitan Museum of Art right outside the double-paned windows, looking at ad after ad that stated hombres de preferencia.
Hombres? I don’t want to live with a bunch of hombres. I just wanted one hombre…
And he still hasn’t called, much less left me a note. I came back to find the apartment exactly as I’d left it… clean, my sewing machine still in its box, sitting next to the now completely dried-out little Christmas tree. The box I put Luke’s present in is beside it, still wrapped. He hadn’t even bothered to see what I’d gotten him.
I wonder if I can take both gifts back and exchange them for cash. It’s not like I don’t need the money.
“So it’s not even like a present,” Tiffany points out. “Because his dad BROKE your sewing machine. So he got you something he actually OWED you. Not even something, like… new. Something you already have that he broke.”
“Right,” I mutter. “I know. Okay?”
“But I mean… what kind of present is THAT? If Raoul broke something of mine—or God forbid his DAD came to visit and broke something of mine—I would expect him to replace it, and not try to pass the replacement off as a CHRISTMAS PRESENT. Because he still owes you a PRESENT.”
“I know,” I say, and am relieved when the phone rings. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
“Lizzie.” I’m surprised to hear Roberta’s voice on the other end of the line. “Is Tiffany there yet?”
“Yes,” I say. Tiffany had come into work early, as usual, to ask how my Christmas had gone, and tell me all about hers, which had been spent at Raoul’s godmother’s estate in the Hamptons, where they’d made drunken love on a polar bear skin rug, and Raoul had gifted her with a canary diamond cocktail ring and a fox stole, which she is wearing inside because, as she says, “It’s part of my OUTFIT,” of snakeskin pants and a silk blouse.
“Good,” Roberta says. “Could you ask her to take over the desk while you come back here and see me please? And kindly bring your coat and purse with you.”
“Oh. Okay.” I hang up slowly, feeling all the blood in my body dropping to freezing temperature.
Tiffany must read from my expression that something is wrong, because she tears her attention away from her ring for a moment and goes, “What?”
“Roberta wants me to come back to her office,” I say. “Right now. And she wants me to bring my purse and coat.”
“Oh, shit,” Tiffany says. “Shit, shit, shit. That fucking bitch. The day after Christmas, too. Talk about a fucking Grinch.”
What did I do?I’m wondering, as I stand up and reach for my coat. I was so careful.No one saw Jill and me together after that one time. I’m sure of it.
“Listen,” Tiffany says, sliding into the chair I’ve just vacated. “Just because we won’t be working together anymore doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. I really like you. You invited me to Thanksgiving di
I nod dumbly and start for Roberta’s office. I can see that someone is in there with her already. As I get closer, I can see that the someone is Raphael, from the security desk downstairs. What is Raphael doing up here? I wonder.
“You wanted to see me, Roberta?” I say, stepping into her office.
“Yes,” Roberta says coldly. “Come inside and close the door, will you, Lizzie?”
I do as she asks, glancing nervously at Raphael, who is looking nervously back at me.
“Lizzie,” Roberta begins, not even bothering to invite me to sit down. “You recall a conversation we had a few weeks ago about your having been photographed by the press in the company of one of our clients, Jill Higgins, don’t you?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, because my throat has gone dry with terror. Why is Raphael here? Have I broken the law? Is he going to arrest me? But he isn’t even a real cop…
“You assured me at that time that your relationship with Miss Higgins had nothing whatsoever to do with this office,” Roberta goes on. “So kindly explain to me why I opened the Journal this morning to find this.”
Roberta hands me a copy of the New York Journal, open to the second page…
… on which there is splashed a huge black-and-white photo of Monsieur Henri and his wife, standing in front of the shop and gri
The first thing I feel is a bubble of outrage burst inside my chest. Designers! They aren’t the designers of Jill’s dress! That’s me! I am! How dare they try to pass themselves off—
But then as my gaze skims the article, I see that the Henris haven’t tried anything of the sort. They are extremely upfront about the fact that Elizabeth Nichols—“an exceptionally talented young woman,” according to Monsieur Henri—is the one who refurbished Miss Higgins’s wedding gown, after having met Miss Higgins “at the law offices of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
And then—grainy but still recognizable—is a picture of me, hurrying through the doors to the lobby of the very building in which I’m standing now.
And all I can think is,Gray Cords! It was Gray Cords! I knew he was trouble the first minute I saw him!
Also,Why, oh, why, did the Henris have to open their mouths about me and how Jill and I met? True, I never told them it was a secret—but why did I tell them anything about it at all? I should have just said she was a friend. Oh God. I’m such an idiot!
“You know how much we here at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Fly
I look up from the newspaper article, blinking rapidly. The reason I’m blinking so much is that my eyes have filled with tears.
“You’re firing me?” I cry.
“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” Roberta says. And she actually looks as if she means it. Which helps. Kind of. “But we talked about this. I’ll make sure your last check gets mailed out to you promptly. I’ll just need your office key. Then Raphael will escort you out.”
My cheeks burning, I dig around in my bag until I find my key chain. Then I remove the key to the office doors from it and hand it over. The whole time, my brain searches feverishly for some kind of response to the charges laid against me. But there’s really nothing I can say. She had warned me. And I didn’t listen.