“No,” Jennifer’s mother says bluntly.
“This dress was probably very flattering on you, Mrs.—” I pause and look questioningly at Jennifer’s mom, who says, “Harris.”
“Right,” I say. “Mrs. Harris. Because you’re a statuesque woman, with excellent carriage. But look at Jennifer. She’s very petite. A dress with this much material will overwhelm her.”
Jennifer narrows her eyes and scissors a glance in her mother’s direction. “See?” she hisses. “I told you.”
“Er, uh,” Monsieur Henri blusters uncomfortably, still looking as if he wants to kill me. “In point of fact, Mademoiselle Elizabeth is not, er, technically speaking, an employee of—”
“But this gown could easily be altered to flatter someone of Jennifer’s proportions,” I say, pointing to the high neckline, “merely by opening up this area here, giving it more of a sweetheart neckline, and maybe getting rid of the sleeves—”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Harris says. “It’s a Catholic ceremony.”
“Then tightening the sleeves,” I go on smoothly, “so that they don’t bell. A girl with a figure as good as Jennifer’s shouldn’t hide it. Especially on a day when she wants to look her best.”
Jennifer has been listening to all of this intently. I can tell because she’s stopped fiddling with her hair.
“Yeah,” she says. “See, Mom? That’s what I told you.”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Harris murmurs, chewing her lower lip. “Your sisters—”
“Are you the youngest?” I asked Jennifer, who nodded. “Yeah, I thought so. Me, too. It’s hard being the youngest, always getting your big sisters’ hand-me-downs. You get to a point where you’d just die to have something—anything—new, something all your own.”
“Exactly!”Jennifer explodes.
“But in the case of your mother’s wedding gown, you can have that,” I say, “and still observe family tradition by wearing it… you just have to give it a few tweaks to make it uniquely your own. And we can easily do that here—”
“I want that,” Jennifer says, turning to her mother. “What she said. That’s what I want.”
Mrs. Harris looks from the gown to her daughter and then back again. Then she lets out a little laugh and says, “Fine! Whatever you want! If it’s cheaper than a new gown—”
“Oh,” Madame Henri steps forward to say, “it will be, of course. If the young lady would like to come with me to change, we can begin measuring for the alterations right away… ”
Jennifer flicks her blowout back and, without another word, follows Madame Henri to the dressing room.
“Oh,” Mrs. Harris cries, after glancing at her watch. “I have to go put money in the meter if we’re staying. Excuse me—”
She hurries out of the shop. As soon as the door eases shut behind her, Monsieur Henri turns to me and, indicating the yellowed dress he’s still holding, says hesitantly, “You are quite adept with the, er, customer.”
“Oh,” I say modestly. “Well, that one was easy. I know exactly how she felt. I have older sisters myself.”
“I see.” Monsieur Henri’s gaze is shrewd as he looks down at me. “Well, I will be interested to see if you can work a needle as well as you work your mouth.”
“Watch me,” I say, plucking the gown from his hands. “Just watch.”
If you are top-heavy, or have an hourglass figure, I have one word for you: strapless!
I know what you are thinking… strapless, at a wedding? But strapless is no longer considered immodest in most churches!
And with the right support in the bodice, this look can be extremely flattering on a top-heavy bride, especially when paired with an A-line skirt. V-necklines are also terrific on large-on-the-top women, as are off- the-shoulder and scoop-neck designs.
Just remember that the higher the neckline, the bigger the boobs look!
LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™
Chapter 9
Nothing travels faster than light, with the possible exception of bad news, which follows its own rules.
—Douglas Adams (1952–2001), British author and radio dramatist
“A receptionist?”
That’s what Luke says when I tell him the news. For once, he’s gotten home before I have, and is making dinner—coq au vin. One of the many advantages of having a boyfriend who is half French is that his culinary repertoire extends beyond mac and cheese. Plus, there’s the kissing.
“Right,” I say. I’m sitting on a velvet-cushioned stool in front of the granite-topped bar beneath the pass- through between the kitchen and dining/living room.
“But.” Luke is pouring us each a glass of cabernet sauvignon, then hands me mine through the pass- through. “Aren’t you… I don’t know. A little overqualified to be a receptionist?”
“Sure,” I say. “But this way I’ll be able to pay the bills and still do what I love—for part of the day, anyway. Since I haven’t had any luck finding a paying fashion gig.”
“It’s only been a month,” Luke says. “Maybe you just need to give your job search a little more time.”
“Um.” How can I explain this to him without revealing the fact that I am flat busted broke? “Well, I am. If something better comes along, of course I can always quit.”
Except I don’t want to. Quit Monsieur Henri’s, anyway. Because I’m starting to like it there. Especially now that I know who Maurice is: a rival “certified wedding-gown specialist” who owns not one but four shops throughout the city, and who has been stealing away Monsieur Henri’s clientele with his promise of a new chemical treatment to combat cake and wine stains (no such treatment exists), and who overcharges his customers for even the simplest alterations, and underpays his vendors and employees (although I don’t see how he could underpay them more than Monsieur Henri is underpaying me).
Worse, Maurice has been bad-mouthing Monsieur Henri, telling every bride in town that Jean Henri is retiring to Provence and could pick up and leave at any time, due to his business falling off—which is apparently true, judging from the Henris’ private conversations, which they aren’t aware I completely understand. Well, almost completely.
As if all of that were not bad enough, the Henris have heard a rumor that Maurice is planning on opening up another one of his shops… DOWN THE STREET FROM THEIRS! With his glitzy red awning and matching signature red carpet (yes!) outside the front door, the Henris don’t have a chance of competing… not with their subtle yet tasteful front window display and modest brownstone.
No, even if the Costume Institute calls tomorrow, I plan on sticking around at Monsieur Henri’s. I’m in too deep to get out now.
“Well,” Luke says, sounding dubious, “if it makes you happy… ”
“It does,” I say. Then I clear my throat. “You know, Luke, not everyone is cut out for the traditional nine-to- five thing. There’s nothing wrong with taking on a job you’re maybe overqualified for if it pays the bills and allows you to do the thing you really love in your spare time. As long as you really do the thing you love, and don’t spend all your free time watching television.”
“Good point,” Luke says. “Taste this and tell me what you think.” He holds out a spoon containing some of the juice from the coq au vin. I lean over the bar to taste it.
“Delicious,” I say, thinking my heart just might bubble over with joy. I have a boyfriend who loves me… and is a terrific cook. I have a job I love. And I have a way to pay the rent on the kick-ass apartment I’m living in.
