Meg Cabot - Queen Of Babble - In The Big City

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 reporters call the firm, requesting information about people on whom they are writing stories.

“Lizzie.” Roberta does not look amused. “This is very serious. If you are harassing or otherwise bothering Miss Higgins—”

“I’m not!” I cry, genuinely startled. “She came to me!”

“For what?” Roberta demands. “What other line of work are you in, Lizzie?”

“If I told you that,” I say, “you’ll know why she came to see me. And she hasn’t given me permission to tell anyone that. So I can’t say. I’m sorry, Roberta.”

I can’t believe that I’m doing this. I mean, actually NOT spilling a secret for a change. This is a real sign of my inner growth. I should totally be celebrating.

Too bad I feel so much like vomiting.

“You can fire me if you want to,” I go on. “But I promise you, I am not bothering Jill. If you don’t believe me, call and ask her. She’ll tell you.”

“She’s Jill to you now?” Roberta says with more than a little sarcasm in her tone.

“She told me I could call her that,” I say, wounded. “Yes.”

Roberta looks down at the picture. She seems to be at a loss. “This is highly irregular,” she says at last. “I honestly don’t know what to say about it.”

“It’s nothing illegal,” I say.

“Well, I should hope not!” Roberta cries. “Are you going to be meeting her again?”

“Yes,” I say firmly.

“Well.” Roberta shakes her head. “All I can say in that case is, try to be more careful not to get your picture in the Post. If one of the partners had seen this and recognized you—”

“I had no idea there was a photographer there,” I say. “But I’ll definitely be more careful in the future. Is that it? Can I go now?”

Roberta looks startled. “Well, you’re in an awfully big hurry to get out of here. Christmas shopping?”

“No,” I say. “I have to get to that business that I’m doing for Jill.”

Roberta’s shoulders slump. “Fine,” she says. “But fair warning, Lizzie. This firm prides itself on its sterling reputation. Any whiff of impropriety on your part and you’re gone. Understand?”

“Totally,” I say.

Roberta looks down, dismissing me…

… and I bolt from her office. Heading back to the reception desk to get my coat and purse, I ignore Daryl’s whispered“ Yo! What’d you do this time?” and Tiffany’s“ Oh my God, are you all right? You look like someone just told you that your Prada handbag is a fake.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Seriously,”Tiffany hisses, “call me and tell me what she said. I’m collecting Roberta stories to submit to the Smoking Gun.”

I wave at her and hurry out, my heart hammering so hard in my chest, I’m afraid it’s going to fly out and hit the wall. When the elevator doors open, I rush inside without even looking to see who else is in there before pounding the button for the lobby. It isn’t until a voice beside me says, “Well, hello there, stranger,” that I look up and see that Chaz is in the car with me.