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Unless of course you’re in the Village, like I am, where Lexington suddenly turns into something called Fourth Avenue, then Lafayette, and finally Centre Street.
Again, not something I’m going to worry about right now. I’m just going to head west from Second Avenue, hoping to find Lexington in one of its many forms, and a subway stop home, somewhere around here…
Home. Wow. I’m already calling it home.
Well, isn’t that what any place is? Any place that you share with someone you love, I mean?
Maybe that’s why Kathy left New York. Not the rude people or the incomprehensible street layout or the whole boyfriend-stealing thing, but because there just wasn’t anybody here that she loved.
Who loved her back, anyway.
Poor Kathy. Chewed up by the big city, then spat out again.
Well, that’s not going to be me. I’m not going to be the next Kathy Pe
Oooh, a cab! And it’s vacant!
And okay, cabs are expensive. But maybe just this once. Because I’m so tired, and it’s so far to the subway, and I want to get back in time to start making Luke di
“Eighty-first and Fifth, please.”
— oh, look, there’s the Astor Place subway stop right there. If I had just walked one more block, I could have saved myself fifteen bucks…
Well, that’s okay. No more cabs this week. And this is so nice, sitting in this clean air-conditioned cab, instead of fighting my way down the stairs to the smelly platform to wait for a super-crowded train where I won’t even be able to get a seat. And then there are the panhandlers in every car, asking for money. I can never seem to say no. I don’t want to turn into one of those hardened, jaded New Yorkers, like Multiple Facial Piercings, who seemed to find my Gigi Young dress so amusing. When you can’t empathize with another’s hardship—or realize how hard it is to even FIND a Gigi Young dress in wearable condition—what’s the point of even being alive?
So I end up getting off the subway five dollars poorer every time I ride it, not even counting the fare. It’s practically cheaper to take a cab. Sort of.
Oh God. Shari’s right. I have to get a job—and a life.
And fast.
If you are on the petite side, why not try an A-line gown? Full skirts can make a short bride look as if she is being swallowed up by material—unless she opts for a ballgown or fishtail cut… but this does not flatter every petite bride universally, so tread with caution when trying on “princess” or “mermaid” gowns!
Off-the-shoulder and scoop necklines—even thin straps—are recommended for the petite bride. Column or sheath skirts are not. Remember, you are getting married, not working behind the counter at A
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 5
Show me someone who never gossips, and I’ll show you someone who isn’t interested in people.
— Barbara Walters (b. 1929), American television journalist
I’m marinating the steaks when the phone rings. Not my cell, but the apartment phone—Luke’s mother’s phone.
I don’t answer it because I know it’s not for me. Besides, I’m busy. It’s no joke trying to prepare a semigourmet meal in a New York—style galley kitchen, which is basically about as big as the inside of the cab I took to get back uptown this afternoon. Luke’s mom’s apartment is really nice, as one-bedroom Manhattan apartments go. It’s still got its original prewar crown molding and gold fixtures and parquet floors, and all.
But the kitchen seems to have been built more for unpacking take-out than preparing eat-in.
Mrs. de Villiers’s answering machine kicks on after about five rings. I hear her voice—her Southern accent exaggerated for dramatic effect—drawl, “Hello, you’ve reached Bibi de Villiers. I’m either on the other line or nappin’ at the moment. Please leave a message, and I’ll get right back to y’all.”
I giggle. Napping.Vogue should do a spread on Bibi. Talk about professional hostesses. Plus, she’s married to a prince. Well, a pseudo prince. And she’s got great—if slightly conservative—taste in clothes. I’ve never seen her in anything but Chanel or Ralph Lauren.
“Bibi.” A man’s voice fills the apartment… which is also filled with the smell of freshly chopped garlic, which I’m using in the marinade, along with soy sauce, honey, and olive oil, all of which I picked up at Eli’s over on Third Avenue… which is quite a hike from Fifth. “I haven’t heard from you in quite a while. Where have you been?”
Clearly, this friend of Bibi’s does not know she reconciled with her husband during her niece’s wedding in the South of France, and that the two of them—Luke’s parents—were still in Dordogne, tripping the light fantastique … as the French would say. Or not, actually.
“I will be waiting for you in the usual place,” the man goes on, “this weekend. I only hope I do not wait in vain.”
Wait a minute. The usual place? Waiting for her? Who the heck is this guy? And how come, if he and Bibi are so close, he doesn’t even know which country she’s in?
“Good-bye for now,chérie,” the man says. And then he hangs up.
Chérie? Was this guy for real? Who goes around leaving messages on people’s machines, calling them chérie? Except maybe gigolos.
Oh God. Did Luke’s mother employ a gigolo?
No, of course not. She wouldn’t have to. She’s a vital, beautiful woman—and obviously loaded, as one can tell merely by glancing at the art on the walls of her Manhattan pied-à-terre. The Renoir is the crown jewel of her collection, of course. But she has no shortage of Mirós and Chagalls and even a tiny Picasso sketch that hangs in the bathroom.
And I’m not even going to mention her shoe collection, which crowds the entire top shelf of the bedroom closet… box after box marked Jimmy Choo, Christian Louboutin, and Manolo Blahnik.
What would a woman like that be doing with a gigolo?
Unless… unless he’s not a gigolo, but a lover! It would make sense for Bibi de Villiers to have taken a lover. She was, after all, in divorce proceedings with Luke’s father… until I came along, that is. Why wouldn’t a sophisticated woman of the world like Luke’s mom have a boyfriend… a boyfriend she’s forgotten all about since getting back together with Luke’s dad?
At least, I assume she’s forgotten about him. Obviously she has, if he doesn’t even know where she is…
Oh God. This is so… awkward. Why did he have to call now, tonight, when Luke and I have to have our Moving in Together talk? I can’t say to Luke, “Hey, this random guy left a message for your mom, calling her chérie … and we need to figure out how I can move in with you without losing my identity as an individual.”
Maybe if I check the caller ID I can figure out where this guy called from. That, at least, might give me a clue as to—
Oh. Oh, great. I erased the message. At least if that flashing Delete sign is any indication.
Okay. Well, that solves that.
Besides, it’s probably better this way. It’s not like the guy left his name. I can’t be all, “Um, hi, Mrs. de Villiers? Yeah, a random dude with a French accent who isn’t your husband called and asked if you’re going to meet him at the usual place, at which he will be waiting.” Because that could embarrass her.
And I’m all about trying not to embarrass my future in-laws.
Dang. I just did it again, didn’t I? I have to get marriage off my brain. I think I’ll go set the dining table. With the beautiful silver that one day might be mine if—
Ack! Okay, maybe I need to turn on the TV. The news should be on. That will distract me.