marshmallow fluff. Which I love, but Chaz and Shari were already bringing three different kinds of pie, because I like pumpkin, Chaz likes strawberry-rhubarb, and Shari likes pecan, and that’s more than enough sweet stuff).
Monsieur de Villiers contributed by puttering around, assembling all his wines in the order in which he wants us to consume them.
So in all, everything is going pretty much according to plan. The guests are arriving. Tiffany—looking resplendent in the suede catsuit Roberta once sent her home for wearing to the office—has shown up with Raoul, who’s turned out to be a surprisingly pleasant, fairly normal thirty-year-old, with very good manners—he’s brought along a bottle of the Beaujolais that Monsieur de Villiers is so excited about. Apparently, he’s something of a wine connoisseur—albeit of the Argentinean variety—himself.
So the two of them immediately start talking grapes and soil, while Mrs. de Villiers sets the table, carefully folding each of her cloth napkins into an upright fan pattern, and using all three forks from her silver set, placing them with extra care beside one another… perhaps thanks to the Bloody Marys Luke insisted on preparing for his parents—and has kept filled—since they’ve woken up. (“How else,” he asked me, sotto voce, “are we all going to get along all day in such a small space?”)
Not that his parents seem to mind. Once I moved the sewing machine, Luke’s mother was all smiles. Although that might have something to do with the fact that Luke’s been careful not to leave us alone together again.
Which is fine. I actually have work tomorrow (partners may get the Friday after Thanksgiving as a holiday in busy law firms, but receptionists certainly don’t), so it will be up to Luke to keep his parents entertained. His mother, of course, has already made other plans (about which she’s informed no one). Luke and his father plan on going to the museums…
… where I’ll be joining them all day on Saturday, before we head off to the theater together for my first Broadway show—Mrs. de Villiers has four tickets to Spamalot. Thankfully they’ll be leaving on Sunday, by which time I think my tolerance for sharing a one-bedroom with my boyfriend’s parents will have been totally spent.
Tiffany, however, seems completely enthusiastic about the de Villiers… fascinated by them, actually. She keeps sidling up to me in the kitchen as I pretend to be sweating over my turkey and whispering, “So… that old guy? He’s really a prince?”
I rue the day I ever mentioned the whole royalty thing to Tiffany. Seriously, I don’t know what I was thinking. Telling something in confidence to Tiffany is like telling it to a parrot. Only a fool would expect it not to be repeated.
“Um, yeah,” I say, basting. “But remember, I told you. France doesn’t recognize its former monarchs—or whatever—anymore. And, you know. There are like a thousand princes. Or I guess counts is what they really are.”
Tiffany, as is her custom, completely ignores my reply.
“So Luke is a prince, too.” She is observing Luke across the pass-through, as he arranges a tray of appetizers—shrimp cocktail and crudités—on the coffee table in front of the sofa on which his father and Raoul are having their animated wine discussion. “Man. Did you score in the boyfriend department.”
I’m annoyed now. Not just because it’s nearly five o’clock and I asked Chaz and Shari to be here at four and there is no sign of them. Which isn’t that unusual, especially since it’s snowing out, and even the slightest snowfall seems to paralyze New York City… but even more so when everyone is off work on a holiday.
Still, it isn’t like Shari not to call. Or leave me stranded like this with my future (hopefully) in-laws and no comic relief in the form of my best friend.
Although Tiffany appears to be trying. Unconsciously (the comic part, I mean).
“That’s not why I like him,” I whisper to Tiffany. “You know that.”
“Right,” Tiffany says tiredly. “I know, I know. It’s because of the doctor thing, he’s going to be saving the lives of little children. Yada yada yada.”
“Well,” I say. “That’s not totally why. But yeah, that’s part of it. That and the whole part where he’s like the best boyfriend who ever lived.”
“Yeah,” Tiffany says, reaching for a cheese stick from the basket of them I have on the counter, ready to go out to the table as soon as Chaz and Shari get here—whenever that is. “But, you know, doctors, they don’t make, like, any money anymore. Because of the HMOs. I mean, unless they go into plastic surgery.”
“Yeah,” I say, slightly annoyed by this. “But Luke’s not doing it to make money. He used to be an investment banker. But he gave it up because he realized saving lives is more important than making money.”
Tiffany chews noisily on the cheese stick. “That depends on whose life it is,” she says. “I mean, like, some lives are worth more than others. I’m just saying.”
“Well.” I don’t know how to reply to this. “It doesn’t matter whether or not he makes money, anyway. Because I plan on making enough money for both of us,” I say.
Tiffany actually looks interested when I say this. “Rilly? Doing what?”
“Bridal-gown design,” I say. “You know.” It would help if she actually paid attention from time to time. “Or, I should say, refurbishment. And restoration.”
Tiffany stares at me. “You mean like Vera Wang?”
“Something like that,” I say. It doesn’t seem worth it to try to explain.
“I didn’t know you went to design school,” Tiffany says.
“I didn’t,” I say. “But I majored in fashion history at the University of Michigan.”
Tiffany snorts. “Oh, well. That explains a lot.”
I glare at her. I only invited her to be nice. I don’t need to be insulted in my own home. Or my boyfriend’s mother’s own home.
Before I can say anything, however, we’re interrupted… and sadly, not by the arrival of Chaz and Shari.
“We are moving on from Bloody Marys,” Monsieur de Villiers appears in the pass-through to announce. He is holding one of the bottles of red wine Raoul brought with him. “This is a bottle of the first Beaujolais of the season. You simply have to try a glass. I am sorry your friends are not here yet, but this is an emergency! A wine emergency! Everyone must have some!”
“Oh, that sounds great, Monsieur de Villiers,” I say, and accept the glass he’s just poured for me. “Thanks.”
Tiffany takes a glass as well, then says with a laugh, as Luke’s father moves away, “He’s sweet.”
“Yes,” I say, looking after the older man, in his navy-blue sportscoat and spotted ascot. “Isn’t he?” How can Bibi de Villiers be cheating on him? It just seems so… cold.
And completely unlike her in a way. Oh, she’s very stylish, and seems to enjoy making people think that the only thing she’s got on her mind is the latest Fendi bag and Marc Jacobs couture.
But I saw how her face melted a little when I mentioned the Renoir. She loves that painting—not just the person who gave it to her, but the painting itself. You have to be a little less than shallow to love a painting that much. At least in my opinion.
So what is a woman like that doing, agreeing to meet her lover (if that’s what Phone Guy is) behind the back of the husband with whom she’s been newly reunited?
Not that I’m about to say anything about it, though. When Luke got home the first night his parents arrived and his mother asked, after she’d kissed him hello, “Darling, did I get any messages here in the apartment? A friend said he’d left several… ”
Luke had just shrugged and said, “I never got any messages for you. Lizzie? Did you ever come home to find any messages for my mom?”
I’d nearly swallowed my tongue, I’d been so embarrassed.
“Messages? You mean on the answering machine?” I’d been stalling for time, but all I ended up doing was making myself look like a bigger idiot than Luke’s mother already thinks me.
“That is generally where people leave messages,” she’d said, not altogether unkindly.
Great. Now she thinks I’m an even bigger idiot.
“Um,” I’d said, still stalling for time. “Uh.” Great. Because stammering always helped.
Then, as always, my tendency to babble kicked in… for once to my advantage.
“Well, you know,” I’d said, “a few times I came home and the light was blinking, but when I pressed play
