between us. Oh, hold on.” I press the hold button, then line 2. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call?”
I send the call to one of the junior partners, then hit the button to line 1 again.
“It makes sense,” I say to Shari. “I mean, we’ve been going out for six months. We’ve been living together for four. It’s not as if it would be completely out of left field if he proposed.”
“I don’t know, Lizzie.” Shari sounds like she’s shaking her head. “According to Chaz, Luke is the kind of person who, um… lacks follow-through.”
“Well, maybe because of my careful tutelage,” I say, recalling Chaz’s not very charitable warning of several months earlier—which was just Chaz, being jealous of the fact that Luke has a girlfriend who actually likes him, and not her female boss, “he’s changed.”
“Lizzie.” Shari sounds tired. “People don’t change. You know that.”
“They can change in small ways,” I say. “Look how when you first started going out with Chaz, he had that thing, remember, where he ate pork chops and Rice-A-Roni every night? You totally weaned him off that.”
“By telling him if we didn’t have something else once in a while, I was going to stop sleeping with him,” Shari says. “But when I’m not around, that’s still all he ever eats.”
“Ooooh,” Tiffany chimes in, beside me, from over the top of the bridal magazine she’s reading. Because I brought a bunch of them in to work, for inspiration. “When you and Luke do get married, you could totally have your company’s PR person send out a press release, you know, to like Vogue and Town & Country , and they’ll send reporters out to cover your wedding, and that will just get you more clients. And free publicity.”
I stare at her. For someone who is so ditzy that she has, upon occasion, forgotten to lock the office door after closing for the day, Tiffany can be pretty savvy.
“That’s good,” I say to her. “That’s very good.”
“Hello,” Shari says. “Are you talking to me? Or to Miss Hairspray for Brains over there?”
“Hey, now,” I say. “Come on.”
“Well, I’m trying,” Shari says. “But seriously, Lizzie. I know you love Luke and all. But do you really see yourself with him fifty years from now? Even five years from now?”
“Yes,” I say, taken aback by the question. “Of course. Why? What’s wrong with him?” The other line chirps. “Crud. Hold on.” I press line 2. “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call? Mr. Flynn? One moment please.”
A second later, I’m back with Shari. “Seriously. Why do you sound like you think Luke and I don’t have a future?”
“Well, honestly, Lizzie,” Shari says. “What do the two of you have in common? Except sex?”
“Lots of things,” I insist. “I mean, we both like New York. We both like Château Mirac. We both like… wine. And Renoir!”
“Lizzie,” Shari says. “Everybody likes that stuff.”
“And he wants to be a doctor,” I go on. “And help save people’s lives. And I want to be a certified wedding- gown specialist. And help make brides look good.We’re practically the same person. ”
“You’re making a joke out of it,” Shari says. “But I’m serious. One of the reasons I realized Chaz and I were wrong for each other, and Pat and I so right, is that intellectually Pat and I are compatible. And I don’t think the same could be said about you and Luke.”
I feel tears sting my eyes. “You think he’s intellectually superior to me, is that it? Just because he likes documentaries and I like Project Runway !”
“No,” Shari says, sounding exasperated. “What I mean is, he likes documentaries and you like Project Runway … and yet you guys only ever watch documentaries. Because you’re so busy trying to get him to like you, that you just do whatever he wants, instead of telling him whatyou really want to do. Or watch.”
“That is not true,” I cry. “We watch shows I like all the time!”
“Oh, yeah?” Shari lets out a bitter laugh. “I had no idea you were such a Nightline fan. I always thought you were more of a David Letterman type of girl. But hey, if Nightline is what floats your boat—”
“Nightline is a totally good show,” I say defensively. “Luke watches it so he can stay abreast of world issues, since he often misses the evening news, being busy at the library, studying—”
“Face it, Lizzie,” Shari says. “I know you think you’ve found your handsome prince—literally. But do you really think of yourself as the princess type? Because I sure don’t think of you that way. And I’m pretty sure Luke doesn’t, either.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I demand. “I’m totally the princess type! Just because I make my own clothes instead of waiting for a fairy godmother to come along and sprinkle me with fairy dust—”
“Elizabeth?” It’s only then that I notice that Roberta has approached the reception desk. And that she does not look happy.
“Uh,” I say to Shari. “Ihavetogobye.”
I hang up. “Hi, Roberta,” I say. Beside me, Tiffany has pulled her feet from the desk and is making herself look busy by pulling open a drawer and arranging bottles of her fingernail polish in rainbow order.
Expecting to receive a warning about making personal calls on the firm’s time, I’m surprised when Roberta says, “Tiffany, it’s nearly two. Would you mind taking over for Lizzie a few minutes early so I can have a word with her in private?”
“Sure,” Tiffany says with a furtive glance at me that screams,You are so busted! And causes my stomach to twist into an immediate knot.
I follow Roberta back to her office, conscious of Daryl’s—the fax and copier supervisor—pitying glance. He apparently thinks I’m busted, too.
Well, whatever! If Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn wants to fire me over one personal call, then they better fire everyone else at the firm, too! I’ve overheard Roberta on the phone with her husband plenty of times!
Oh, God. Please don’t let me get fired… please…
I think I’m going to throw up.
It’s only when I walk into Roberta’s office and see that the New York Post is open on her desk to a large picture in the center of the second page that I realize this might not be about my using the firm’s phone for personal calls. Because even though they’re upside down, I can make out the words, “Blubber’s New Mystery Pal.” And I can see that the photo is of me walking Jill to her Town Car after her fitting the night before.
The knot in my stomach turns into something that feels more like a fist.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Roberta says, holding the paper up. “But isn’t this you?”
I swallow. My sore throat, which had been miraculously cured by Luke’s “investment for your future” remark, comes back with a vengeance.
“Um,” I say. “No.”
Honestly, I don’t know where the lie comes from. But once it’s out, there’s nothing I can do to stuff it back in.
“Lizzie,” Roberta says. “It’s obviously you. That’s the same dress you wore to work yesterday. You can’t tell me there’s another one like that anywhere in Manhattan.”
“I’m sure there are loads,” I say. And I’m not lying this time, either. “Alfred Shaheen was a very prolific designer.”
“Lizzie.” Roberta sits down behind her desk. “This is very serious. I saw you talking to Jill Higgins in the ladies’ room yesterday. And then, apparently, you met her somewhere after work. You know the firm takes the confidentiality of its clients extremely seriously. So I’m going to ask you again. What were you doing yesterday with Jill Higgins—and, if this photo is to believed, her fiancé, John MacDowell?”
I swallow again. I wish I had a Sucrets. Also, that I didn’t need this job so badly.
“I can’t tell you,” I say.
Roberta raises a single eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“I can’t tell you,” I say. “But I can tell you that it has nothing whatsoever to do with the firm. Honestly. It has to do with a completely different business. But it’s a business that also has confidentiality clauses. That I really can’t violate.”
Roberta’s other eyebrow rises to join the first. “Lizzie. Are you telling me that this is you in the picture?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny it,” I say, parroting the phrase Roberta herself told me to say whenever
