is no way you can squeeze a size-twelve body into a size-two gown without using a lot of hideous panels?
Oh God. Just the thought of panels is making me shudder.
And as I stand there, watching Jill show her driver’s license so that the security guard can make her a pass, I realize that I want her to come to me. I know it sounds crazy. But I don’t want anybody else working on Jill’s dress. Not because I’m afraid of her falling prey to a huckster like Maurice… although I am. But because I want her to look beautiful on her wedding day. I want John’s family to gasp as she comes down the aisle, because she looks so beautiful. I want that dress to be an in-your-face to her mother-in-law. I want the New York press to take back that “Blubber,” and substitute it with “Beautiful.”
And I know I can make that happen. I just know it. Doesn’t Jennifer Harrislove what I—under Monsieur Henri’s watchful eye, of course—have done so far to her mother’s bridal gown? Even her mother grudgingly admitted during her daughter’s latest fitting that the gown looks “better” on Jennifer than it ever did on any of her other girls.
There’s only one reason for that: my hard work.
I want to do the same for Jill. I mean, she threw out her backlifting a seal ! A girl like that deserves the very best in certified wedding-gown specialists.
And okay, I don’t quite have my certification yet. But it’s really only a matter of time…
Only how? How can I let Jill know I’m here for her if she needs me? I can’t very well slip her my business card (oh yes. I’d had business cards made up, with Monsieur Henri’s address and my cell number on them), while also maintaining the level of “discretion and professionalism” Roberta told me Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn expects from its employees. I’m pretty sure something like that could get me fired… and I still need this job.
But not as much, I realize all at once, as Jill moves toward the security gate, and I spot the most hideous of all fashion faux pas—VPLs, or visible panty lines—below her waist. Oh God! VPLs! Someone must help her!
And, by God, that someone is going to be me. Which is more important anyway, my making rent or this poor, put-upon girl looking the best she possibly can on her wedding day? That’s a no-brainer. I’m just going to go up to her and offer my services. We’re not in the office now, I’m on my own time. And maybe she won’t even remember where she’s seen me before. No one ever remembers receptionists…
“Excuse me—”
Oh! Too late! She’s going through the security gate. Dammit! I’ve missed her.
Well, that’s okay. No, really, it’s fine. I’ll get her next time. If there is a next time…
There has to be a next time.
“So.” A lanky guy in gray cords that I’d noticed hanging around one of the magazine stands in the lobby is sidling up to me.
Great. This is all I need. To be hit on by yet another guy who thinks from my clothes that I’m some midwestern rube who is going to fall for his line about how he’s a photographer for a modeling agency, and do I want to go back to his studio with him so he can take some pictures of me? Because he wants to make me a star. Yawn.
“Sorry,” I say, turning around and heading toward the lobby doors. “Not interested.”
This, of course, is why New Yorkers have a reputation for rudeness. But it’s not our fault! It’s guys like this who make New Yorkers so suspicious of any stranger who tries to speak to them on the street!
“Wait.” Gray Cords is following me. Oh no! “Was that Jill Higgins you were waving to just then?”
I stop. I can’t help myself. The words “Jill Higgins” have this magic effect on me. That’s how much I want to get my hands on her wedding dress.
“Yes,” I say. Who is this guy? He certainly doesn’t look like a pervert… but then, how do I know what a pervert looks like?
“So, you’re a friend of hers?” Gray Cords wants to know.
“No,” I say. And suddenly—just like that—I know who he is. It’s amazing how hardened you can become after just a few months in Manhattan. “What paper are you with?”
“The New York Journal, ” he says matter-of-factly, taking a PDA from one of his pockets and turning it on. “Do you know what she’s doing here? Jill, I mean? There are a lot of law firms in this building. Was she headed up to one of them? Would you happen to know which one… and why?”
I can feel my face turning bright red. Not because I’m embarrassed for having said something indiscreet. Because for once I haven’t. My face is getting red because I’m angry.
“You people—” I want to hit him. I really do. “You should be ashamed of yourself! Following that poor girl around, calling her ‘Blubber’—what gives you the right to judge her? Huh? What makes you think you’re so much better than she is?”
“Relax,” Gray Cords says, looking bored. “Why do you feel so sorry for her, anyway? She’s gonna be richer than Trump in a couple of months—”
“Get away from me!” I shout. “And get out of this building, before I notify security!”
“Okay, okay.” Gray Cords slinks away, muttering the four-letter word for the female sex organ that I apparently remind him of.
But I don’t care.
And just to ensure he stays away from Jill when she comes out, I march up to the security desk, point Gray Cords out to Mike and Raphael, and inform them that he just exposed himself to me. The last I see of Gray Cords, he is being chased out of the building by two men wielding billy clubs.
There are times when having a big mouth and no great reservations about telling outright lies really comes in handy.
The last thing anyone wants on her wedding day is to end up on prime-time television—you know, with one of those moments where the bride slips and a domino-like effect causes everyone she comes into contact with to fall as well, until the last person lands with his face in the wedding cake, like something on America’s Funniest Home Videos (although there is really nothing funny about wasted cake).
So be sure to break in your wedding shoes before the big day… not just to save yourself from blisters, but to keep yourself from slipping, as well. Women’s shoes have notoriously slick soles. You can avoid having your feet slide out from under you at an inopportune moment by applying no-skid stickers to the bottom of your shoes (on the outside, not the inside, silly).
Forget to buy stickers? Never fear! By carefully (so as not to cut yourself) running a knife blade across the sole of your shoe in a hatch-mark pattern, you can also prevent slipping on just about any surface (save ice. But if you’re getting married on ice, you have a completely different set of problems).
LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™
Chapter 13
Gossip is dying out because fewer and fewer people care to talk about anything besides themselves.
—Mason Cooley (1927–2002), American aphorist
By the time I finally get to Monsieur Henri’s shop later that afternoon, I’m no longer freaking out about having invited Tiffany and her boyfriend to dinner. It was the right thing to do. Thanksgiving is about family, and Tiffany is certainly part of mine.
Well, my work family, anyway. Sure, she can be annoying—she’s still only cleared one drawer in the reception desk for me, and she leaves sticky, half-gnawed Twizzlers everywhere . Plus, she’s repeatedly erased my wedding-gown site bookmarks on our shared computer.
But she’s been pretty nice to me, as well. I mean, she leaves all her fashion magazines behind for me to read (since I can’t exactly afford to buy my own), and almost always has some little beauty tip to give me—like that Vaseline works just as well for dry skin as expensive moisturizers, or that putting deodorant on your bikini line
