Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

I hang my head. “I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s been a bad day. Monsieur Henri had a heart attack and is having a quadruple bypass and is going to be out for a while and I was on Page Six this morning because of the Jill Higgins wedding and the phones are ringing off the hook and—”

“Oh, so that’s what Tiffany’s doing down there,” Shari says. “I wondered.”

I take a sip of my tea. It’s grown cold in front of me. “I should probably be getting back to work. There are a lot of brides who need wedding gowns restored, apparently.”

“And there are probably a lot of victims of domestic abuse who need help obtaining public support and orders of protection,” Shari says with a sigh.

I look at her from across the table. “How did we end up here?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Shari says with a shake of her head. “But I like where I am. Do you like where you are?”

“I think so,” I say, looking down at my ring. “It might take some getting used to. I think I might be better at helping other people with their weddings than I am at planning my own. Whenever I think about it, I sort of want to throw up.”

“Okay.” Shari points at me. “That is not a good sign. Remember what I said. It’s okay for you to change your mind.”

I give her a queasy smile. “I know. But… I really do love him.”

“Do you?” Shari asks as she stands to go. “Or do you love the idea of him?”

“God,” I say with a laugh. “What kind of question is that?”

“For you? I think it’s a pertinent question. You have a history of falling in love with guys it turns out you basically didn’t know at all.”

“Yeah, but, Shari, come on. Luke’s not going to turn out to be gay or a gambling addict.” I have made some unfortunate mistakes in the guy department. “I mean, I lived with Luke, for crying out loud. For six months. I think I know him pretty well by now.”

“Yes,” she says. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? Still, people can surprise you, can’t they? After all, I lived with Chaz for nearly as long as you lived with Luke, and I turned out to be a—”

“Don’t say it.” I fling up a hand to stop her before she can say the word “lesbian.” Not that I mind. It’s just that I try so hard not to remember that night at Kathy Pennebaker’s when we were both sixteen. I’d been lusting after Tim Daly from the television show Wings. Shari and Kathy, it turned out, had been lusting after… well, each other. God, I’d been so blind. Although I suppose it’s just as well they never told me. It would have been all over school in half a second. I’d have tried to keep it a secret, of course, if they’d asked me. But somehow I can never seem to keep my mouth shut, despite my best intentions. “I got it. Look. Don’t worry. At the rate we’re going, it’ll be a long engagement, anyway. Luke’s got school to finish, and his uncle wants him to come work for him in Paris this summer, and I’ve got about five thousand dresses to get through before I’ll ever be able to lift my head to breathe. I’m not rushing to get married any time soon.”

Shari gives me a hug. “That’s my girl,” she says.

It’s as she’s squeezing me that I notice it—this weird splotchy thing on the inside of my right elbow. It looks like a mosquito bite, only it’s flat, not raised. And besides, it’s January in Manhattan. How could I have been bitten by a mosquito?

I don’t think anything of it. Then.

It’s only later that I realize what it really is: Just the beginning of the ruination of the rest of my life. That’s all.

I n ancient times, brides were traditionally expected to set forth on pre—wedding day pilgrimages from their own village to that of their betrothed. Due to the likelihood of her being set upon by thieves hoping to make off with her dowry (or the bride herself), the bride made this trip accompanied by armed maidens to defend her and her bling against marauders.

Thus was born the bridesmaid—or to be more historically accurate, the WARRIORMAID.

Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

Today’s bridesmaids perform a much different function than their ancient predecessors, from helping to organize the engagement and bridal showers to shuttling guests—I’ve even heard of some babysitting and doing the bride’s laundry (ew).

Don’t forget your bridesmaids on your special day. A special gift—such as a silver necklace or bracelet—will go a long way toward showing them how much you appreciate all their help… although the basic human courtesy of not turning into a Bridezilla on them would also be nice.

LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS ™

Gum-Chewer is sitting in the shop when I get back downstairs. Even though my only previous conversation with her was over the phone, I know it’s her. I’d recognize that snap, crackle, and pop anywhere.

What shocks me is that I also recognize her instantly from Access Hollywood… and Inside Edition… and Entertainment Tonight… where she can frequently be seen wearing very little on the red carpets at the premieres of movies in which she is not starring, since she has no actual talent—none, at least, that’s been detected so far. Ava Geck’s only claim to fame, in fact, is that her family owns a chain of discount department stores (“Get It at Geck’s”), said to be worth more than a billion dollars. She herself is rumored to have a personal net worth of more than three hundred million dollars, thanks to some savvy fragrance deals and a few less fortunate reality-television appearances.

More impressive—to me, anyway—is that she also happens to be marrying a prince. Not a prince like Luke is a prince back in his father’s native France, where the aristocracy was abolished centuries ago, and no one kept track of who really was or was not a royal, and we really have only Luke’s father’s word for it, but in Greece, where, even if the royal family is no longer recognized as the head of state, they are nevertheless still allowed to hold and be addressed by their royal titles and are invited to state functions.

Somehow, someway, Greek Prince Aleksandros Nikolaos met—and apparently fell in love with and proposed to—Ava Geck.

It’s kind of surreal to see her without a television set framing her pointy face. Although the hulking bodyguard standing with his arms crossed beside her—not to mention the enormous rock on the ring finger of her left hand and the trembling Chihuahua on her lap—quickly makes me realize what I’m seeing is all too real.

“Oh, hey,” she says, with a quick glance at Tiffany when I walk in. “Is this her?”

Tiffany rolls her eyes. “I already told you, Ava. She won’t see you without an appointment.”

Tiffany and Ava have apparently already become acquainted. It appears to be an acquaintance of some long standing. And it is obviously not a very happy one.

“Um,” I say. “Hi. What’s going on?”

“Ms. Nichols.” Ava leaps to her precariously high stilettos—which are attached to purple suede thigh-high boots—upsetting the Chihuahua, who tumbles to the carpet with a yelp. This does not seem to concern its mistress in any way. “I’m so, like, sorry I’m here without an appointment. It’s just, like, I saw the story on Page Six about you, and the thing is, I live in Los Angeles and I’m in town for New Year’s—you know, I was doing a guest spot for Celebrity Pit Fight at Times Square for the ball drop? — and I have to get back, but I’m getting married this summer, and I, like, really, really, really want you to do my dress.”