Queen Of Babble: In The Big City

Chapter 22

It didn’t take long for the press to figure out where Jill Higgins was meeting her new mystery pal—though I managed to keep my own picture out of the tabloids by not walking her to her car anymore.

In no time word was out all over town that Jill Higgins, the bride of the wedding of the century, was using Monsieur Henri as her personal certified wedding-gown specialist. The next thing anybody knew, we were beating off the hordes of brides descending on the little shop demanding that we work on their gowns, as well. Jean-Paul and Jean-Pierre had to be employed as doormen/bouncers to keep the paparazzi out, and the brides coming in.

Any residual resentment the Henris might have felt toward me for not letting on that I knew French fell by the wayside when they realized they were booking so many appointments with desperate brides, they had to buy a two-year calendar.

Not that either Henri had laid so much as a finger on Jill’s dress since she’d brought it in. Monsieur Henri had tried after I told him my plan, telling me that it could never be done and that I was going to get sued by John MacDowell’s mother.

His wife, however, calmly lifted the gown from his fingers and handed it back to me, with a gentle, “Jean. Let her get to work.”

Which I appreciated. Especially considering the “stupid” remark. She had evidently changed her mind, and now the dress—Jill’s dress—hung on a special hook in the back of the workroom, where every day I flung back the sheet that covered it, took in what I’d done the day before, and what I needed to get done in the next few hours, freaked out, then got to work.

They say it’s always darkest until right before the dawn. I’ve worked on enough projects to know how true this saying really is. A week before Christmas—I’d promised to have Jill’s dress done by the day before Christmas Eve, so there’d be time for any last-minute alterations before the ceremony on New Year’s Eve—I was sure the dress would never get done on time… or worse, that it would get done but look awful. It’s no joke making a size twelve out of a size six. Monsieur Henri had been right to say such an undertaking was impossible.

Except it wasn’t. Impossible, I mean. It was just really, really hard. It required hours of backbreaking seam snipping, even more of sewing, and the consumption of many, many, many diet Cokes. I was in the shop from two-thirty in the afternoon—as soon as I could make it there after my shift at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, still my only paying gig—until midnight, sometimes even one in the morning, at which point I would stagger home, fall into bed, and wake at six-thirty the next day to shower and dress and go back to the law firm. I rarely if ever saw my boyfriend, let alone anyone else. But that was all right, because Luke was just as busy studying for his finals. If he hoped to finish his postbac program in a year, he had to cram as many classes as he could into each semester, which meant he had four finals to worry about—basically the academic equivalent of making a size-six dress into a size twelve.

But even though I haven’t seen much of my boyfriend in the past few weeks, I’ve seen plenty of the box he placed under the tiny Christmas tree he bought on the street—complete with a miniature stand—and put in front of the windows, so the twinkling lights he wrapped around it could shine down on Fifth Avenue. I saw it (the box, I mean) the minute I stepped through the door one night after a long, painful battle with the tartan on Jill’s dress. It was kind of hard to miss—again, I’m talking about the box.

Because it’s huge.

Seriously, the box is the size of a miniature pony. Or at least a cocker spaniel. It’s almost bigger than the tree itself. It is definitely NOT a ring box.

But, as Tiffany said, when I mentioned this to her, “Oh, maybe he’s one of those.”

“One of what?” I asked.

“You know, one of those guys who don’t like it when their girlfriend guesses what they’re giving to her, so they put it in like a million different boxes inside of boxes, so she won’t be able to shake it and guess.”

This makes brilliant sense, of course. Luke knows perfectly well I can’t keep a secret (though I’ve been doing pretty well since moving to New York. Really, I think I’m maturing). It’s a short step from not being able to keep a secret to not being able to keep from snooping in one’s Christmas presents. It’s true I already accidentally snagged the silver foil wrapping paper on the box just a little by vacuuming too close to it the other night. But I stopped myself from peeling the foil back.

I know Tiffany’s right, and that Luke is doing the box-within-the-box thing. That’s just so like him.

Which is why I did the same for the sleek leather wallet I got him from Coach. The box I used to disguise the much smaller box the wallet actually comes in is a box Mrs. Erickson gave me that used to contain multiple bottles of dishwashing liquid that she bought two years ago during a trip to Sam’s Club in New Jersey. It’s taken her this long to get through enough bottles to throw out the box.

I just hope Luke doesn’t take a big sniff of his gift. Because if he does he’ll get a snootful of liquid Dawn.

And then, before I know it, it’s the day before Christmas Eve, and I’m as nervous as a kid about to visit the Santa in the mall. Not about Luke’s gift to me—although that has me plenty jittery—or about the fact that the two of us are about to spend over a week apart in totally different parts of the world, but about what Jill’s going to think of her dress. Because—as these things do—it had finally come together a few days before, and now… well, even Madame Henri had looked at it, then at me, and said gravely, “Good. Very good.”

Which, from her, is high praise indeed. But even more meaningful was her husband’s critique, which included several scratchings of the chin… much pacing… two or three pointed questions about tartan ribbon… and finally a nod and a“Parfait.”

Not the ice cream, but “perfect.”

But he isn’t the critic of whose opinion I’m most afraid. We still need to make sure Jill likes it.

She finally shows an hour after we’ve shut down the shop—shooed out the last appointment for the day, pulled down the blinds, and finally, switched off the lights in the front room, to make it look as if everyone had gone home. This is, of course, to throw off the paparazzi.

Then, when the doorbell rings at precisely seven o’clock, Madame Henri hurries to unlock the door, still not flicking on any lights. Two shadowy forms slip inside. At first I think Jill has brought her fiancé and I feel a burst of irritation with her—everyone knows it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bridal gown before the wedding.

But then I remember how Jill had come to each fitting alone, looking so hounded, not just by the press, but by her own social isolation, seeing as how her family lives so far away, and her friends know no more about wedding gowns than she does.

And I’m glad she’s brought John with her, because he’s really done everything he could to make things easier for her—even recently intervening in the prenup negotiations, and demanding that Jill be given a fair agreement or his parents will be stricken from the guest list for the reception, a bold move that succeeded perfectly, and made Mr. Pendergast so giddy that he ordered an extra round of champagne for everyone at the firm’s Christmas party at Montrachet (from which I’d had to duck out early to get back to work on Jill’s dress, thus missing the highlight of the evening: Roberta getting so drunk, she was found making out with Daryl, the fax and copy supervisor, in the cloakroom—unfortunately by Tiffany, who took snaps of the event with her camera phone, and e-mailed them to all of us).

So that’s why, when Madame Henri finally judges it safe to switch on the lights, I’m shocked to see that the person Jill has brought with her is not loyal, lovable John at all, but an older woman—almost an exact replica of her, as a matter of fact—whom she introduces as her mother.

My surprise is followed quickly by a rush of relief.Yes. Jill has an ally at last—one besides me and her husband-to-be, I mean.

“Lizzie, hello,” Mrs. Higgins says, pumping my hand with the same heartiness her daughter habitually employs in her handshakes, as if she’s unaware of her own strength, which in Jill’s case is considerable, given the fact that she routinely lifts hundred-pound seals. “I’m so glad to meet you. Jill’s told me so much about you. She says you practically saved her life… and that you’re very generous with—what were they again, honey? Yoodles?”

“Yodels,” Jill says, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, I had to tell her about that time we met, in the bathroom—”

“Oh, sure,” I say with a laugh. “We have more in the back if you want some—” Given all the work I’ve been doing, the low-carb diet has completely fallen by the wayside. I have no idea how much weight I’ve gained recently, but it’s not inconsiderable. And yet I find it really hard to care, I’m so excited about Jill’s dress.

“No, that’s okay,” Jill says, laughing. “I’m good. So. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready if you are,” I say. “Let’s go.”

And I take her into the back, while Monsieur and Madame Henri offer Mrs. Higgins a chair and some champagne.

My fingers are shaking as I lower the rich ivory folds over Jill’s head, but I try to hide my nervousness by explaining, “All right, Jill, this cut is what we call an empire waist. It means the waistline falls just beneath the breasts, which on you is the narrowest part of your body. What this will do is allow the skirt to fall straight down your body, kind of flowing around it, which is what someone with your body type wants. The empire waist was made popular by Josephine, the wife of Napoleon Bonaparte, who adapted it from Roman togas she saw depicted on ancient art. Now, as you can see, we’ve gone off the shoulder, because you have such nice shoulders, we wanted you to show them off. And then this right here—this is the original tartan that was hanging off the old dress—and we’re using it as a sash beneath the breastline, see? It emphasizes your tiny waist. And finally, here are some gloves—I was thinking above the elbow, so that they almost reach the dangling straps there… Well.” I’ve steered her in front of a full-length mirror. “What do you think? I was thinking hair up, with maybe some curly tendrils hanging down, to sort of complete the Grecian urn look… ”

Jill is staring at her reflection. It takes me a minute to realize that her silence isn’t disapproval. Her eyes are as wide as quarters and just as shiny. She’s holding back tears.

“Oh, Lizzie” is all she seems able to say.

“Is it terrible?” I ask nervously. “It’s all the original dress. I just took out the seams… well, pretty much all the seams. It was hard, but I really think this style suits you. You have sort of classic proportions, and there’s nothing more classic than Grecian urns—”

“I want to show Mom,” Jill says in a choked voice.

“Okay,” I say, hurrying behind her to lift the four-foot train I’ve attached to the back of the gown. “This hooks up, you know, into a sort of drapy bustle off the back for when you’re dancing. I didn’t want it to get in your way. But I wanted you to have some presence, you know, because St. Patrick’s Cathedral is so huge—”

But she’s already tearing out of the back room and into the front of the shop, where her mother and the Henris are waiting.

“Mom!” Jill cries when she bursts through the curtain separating the shop from the back room. “Look!”

Mrs. Higgins chokes on the champagne she is in the act of swallowing. Madame Henri wallops her on the back a few times and the woman is finally able to recover enough to say, her eyes glistening as much as her daughter’s, “Oh, honey. You look gorgeous.”

“I do,” Jill says, sounding shocked. “I do, don’t I?”

“You really do,” Mrs. Higgins says, hurrying over to get a closer look. “That’s the dress she gave you? The old battle-axe—I mean, John’s mother?”

“This is the dress,” I say. I feel funny inside. I can’t really explain it. But it’s like a combination of excitement and joy at the same time. Really, the only appropriate way to describe it would be to say it feels like someone’s opened up a bottle of champagne—insideme. Or, as Tiffany would say, up my cootchy. “Obviously, I modified it a bit.”

“A bit!” Jill echoes with a giggle. Yes! A giggle! From Blubber! This is big.Really big.

“It’s just so lovely,” Mrs. Higgins coos. “She looks like… well, like a princess!”

“Speaking of which, we need to talk headpieces,” I say. “I was telling her she should wear her hair up, with just a few curly tendrils hanging down in back. So maybe a tiara isn’t a bad idea. I think it would look really pretty against her hair—”

But it’s clear no one is listening to me. The two Higgins ladies are staring at Jill’s reflection in the shop mirror, murmuring softly to each other, and giggling. To look at them, it would be hard to imagine that just weeks ago the bride had been weeping in a ladies’ room and often showed up for her fittings smelling of seal poo.

“Well,” Madame Henri says to me, when I walk over to join the couple, since it’s clear neither client nor her mother is listening to me. “You did it.”

“I did,” I say, still feeling a little bit dazed.

Then Madame Henri does something that surprises me. She reaches down and clasps my hand in hers. “For you,” she says with a smile.

Then Madame Henri slips something into my hand. I look down and see a check. With a lot of zeroes on it.

A thousand dollars!

When I look up again, I see that Monsieur Henri is looking embarrassed but pleased.

“Consider it your Christmas bonus,” he says in French.

Touched, I rush over to hug him—and his wife—spontaneously. “Thank you!” I cry. “You’re both just—fantastique!”

“So, you’re coming, right?” Jill asks me later as I’m carefully helping her out of the dress. “To the wedding, right? And the reception? You know you’re invited. You and a guest. You can bring that boyfriend of yours I’ve heard so much about.”

“Oh, Jill,” I say, smiling. “That is so sweet of you. I’d love to come. Only Luke won’t be able to make it. He’s going to France for the holidays.”

Jill looks confused. “Without you?”

I make sure my smile stays in place. “Sure. To visit his parents. But don’t worry. I wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world.”

“Great,” Jill says. “So I know I’ll have at least one friend. Besides my family and the guys from the zoo, I mean.”

“I think you’ll be finding out soon that you have a lot more friends than you know,” I say, meaning it.

Walking home that night, I feel as if I’m floating on a cloud. The thousand-dollar check and wedding invitation are the least of it. The fact that she’d liked it—really liked it!—is all I can think about.

And she’d looked so good! Just like I’d known she would. Mrs. MacDowell was going to DIE when she saw Jill coming down the aisle. Just die. She had given her future daughter-in-law that dress to humiliate her, because she didn’t approve of her son’s choice.

Well, who was going to be humiliated now, when “Blubber” turned out to be the most beautiful bride of the season?

And I was going to be there to watch it all take place! Honestly, I have the best job in the entire world. Even, you know, if it doesn’t pay what you’d call a regular salary.

I’m still floating as I head into our building and up the elevator to our apartment. I’m still floating when I unlock the door and find Luke inside, with the Christmas tree’s lights lit, holding a bottle of wine and going, “There you are! Finally!”

“Oh, Luke!” I cry. “You won’t believe it. But she loved it. Absolutely loved it. And Monsieur and Madame Henri gave me a Christmas bonus, and Jill invited me to her wedding—too bad you’re going to miss it. But the important thing is, she really, really loved the dress. And she looked great in it, too. No one will be calling her ‘Blubber’ ever again.”

“That’s great, Lizzie!” Luke has poured us each a glass of wine. It’s only then that I realize the lights are off—all except the Christmas-tree lights and a few candles. He’s set up a cheese board and some bowls of snacks he knows I like—spicy nuts and candied orange peel. It’s so festive—and romantic.

Then he says, as he hands me one of the glasses of wine he’s poured, “I couldn’t have picked a more perfect gift for you then. Do you want to open it now?”

Couldn’t have picked a more perfect gift for me? Because everything else is going so perfectly and proposing to me will just make my evening that much better? That’s the only thing I can think of that he could mean.

“Of course I want to open it now,” I cry. “You know I’ve been dying to ever since you put it there!”

“Well, have at it,” Luke says. Which is a strange thing to say to someone you’re about to propose to under a Christmas tree. But whatever.

Taking my wineglass with me, I go to sit on the parquet beside my gift and wait until he’s seated by his.

“Do you want to go first?” I ask, thinking that my gift to him is really going to be a letdown after the tears of joy that are going to follow his to me. But he says, “No, you first. I’m so excited to see what you think,” so I shrug and dig in.

When I peel off the wrapping paper to find beneath it a giant box that says “Quantum-Futura CE-200” on it, I begin to lose my happy, floaty feeling. But when I see that the picture on the box is of a sewing machine, the floating feeling goes away entirely.

And when I look up questioningly and see Luke beaming at me from across his wineglass, not looking at all like he’s about to propose, I actually start feeling… well. Pretty bad.

“It’s a sewing machine!” he cries. “To replace the one my dad broke. But this one is way better than the one he kicked. The lady at the store said it’s the top of the line. You can do all sorts of embroidery and stuff with it. It comes with a minicomputer inside!”

I blink down at the gigantic box. An investment for my future. That’s what he’d said.

And that’s what he’d given me, all right.

And before I know what’s happening, I’m crying.