Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

• Chapter 10 •

I’m having a hard time picturing The Office’s Jim Halpert dining at the Spotted Pig, which he allegedly did once on a date with Karen. I know it’s just a TV show and fictional and all, but this place is super-trendy, and part of what makes that show so endearing is that everyone on it is so tragically unhip.

But there are people here with the kind of glasses they wear only in Scandinavian countries and tattoos all up and down their arms and I heard a guy at the bar telling another guy that he just got late admission to Harvard Law School, and saw a girl lifting up her skirt to show her friends her new thong. Plus everybody standing outside smoking in their camouflage cargo pants with their carefully messed up—but really loaded down with product—hair is also checking their e-mail on their BlackBerries.

“Why are we here again?” Chaz keeps asking. We got a table only because someone Luke knows from one of his classes—a girl, Sophie—knows the guy who is seating people tonight.

“It’s supposed to be good,” Luke says cheerfully. “Oh, look. Sweetbreads.”

“That’s guts,” Chaz says. “I had to stand for an hour outside to sit at a bench at a tiny table at a place that’s going to serve me guts. We could have gone to the Polish place in my neighborhood and gotten guts for five dollars and no waiting. And I could be sitting in a chair and not on a bench.”

“But then you wouldn’t have seen that girl’s thong,” Valencia points out cheerfully.

“True,” Chaz agrees.

I shoot Valencia a dirty look. It’s not her fault, of course, that she’s so perfect—tall and tan and thin with perfect straight dark hair that she’s caught up in a classy single silver barrette—a lovely complement to her ruby red sleeveless sheath dress. She can’t help that she’s witty and charming and intelligent too. Even her pedicure is perfect.

I want to reach across the velvet banquette we’re sitting on and grab her by that perfect hair and pull until her face hits the tabletop and then keep pulling until I’ve dragged her across the restaurant and then maybe when we’ve reached the bachelorette party at the table next to ours (when did the city become so full of bachelorette parties that you couldn’t seem to go out without encountering one?) I’ll turn her loose and say to the bachelorettes, “Have at her, girls—oh, and by the way, she’s a tenure-track professor at a major private university.” Then maybe, when they’re done with her, I’ll give her back to Chaz—if he still wants her.

Oh, wait—did I think that?

No, I didn’t. Because I’m way too busy exchanging text messages with Ava Geck to think things like that.

Ava: LIZZIE, WHERE R U?

Me: I’m at the Spotted Pig in the West Village. Why?

Ava: I’M COMING.

Me: What? Ava—Why aren’t you in Greece?

No response. Calls to her cell phone go immediately to voice mail. I’m not sure her “I’M COMING” actually meant that she was coming to the restaurant. Knowing Ava, it could just as easily have meant she was coming… literally, in the throes of passion, and also happened to be texting me.

It’s not something I’d put past her.

“So I’ve been meaning to ask you guys something,” Chaz says as the waitress brings the dozen oysters Luke has ordered. I’m not eating oysters tonight. Not because I don’t like them, but because it’s June and I can’t risk a bout of food sickness. I’ve got twenty gowns to get to twenty nervous brides, or my name will be mud in this town.

I mean, Chez Henri’s name.

“Hit me,” Luke says. He’s in a good mood because his classes are over. He’s not sure he exactly aced his exams—he thinks he might have tanked his bio final, actually—but that doesn’t seem to be bothering him too much. He’s just relieved they’re over, and that he’s going to be getting on a plane for Paris in a couple of days.

If I weren’t feeling so guilty over the fact that I’ve barely had two minutes to spend with him all month anyway—and won’t for the next two days he’s in town, either—I’d be a little miffed over just how excited he is to be leaving me for the summer.

“So, are you guys ever actually going to set a date, or is this just going to be the longest engagement in the history of mankind?” Chaz wants to know.

I choke on the sip of white wine I’ve just taken. I can’t believe he asked that. I mean, it’s refreshing, on the one hand, that someone is actually asking Luke and me—instead of just me—about the engagement for a change. Luke’s the one who always seems to escape this kind of questioning—and who also seems so perfectly content with how things are going, him living in his mother’s doorman building on Fifth Avenue and me living in my hovel on East Seventy-eighth, where I have to answer the door with a lighter and a can of hair spray just in case it’s a rapist and not the UPS man after all.

And okay, true, I still can’t even think about my own wedding without telltale hives showing up—oh God! There’s one on the inside of my elbow now!

But still. Why is it that when it comes to the wedding planning, people always ask the bride how it’s going and never the groom? My family’s been hounding me for months. I haven’t heard a peep out of the de Villierses about it. Are any of them throwing me showers or engagement parties? Um, no. At least my family’s offered. Even though I’ve turned them all down, since I’m too busy with work even to think about that kind of thing.

And I seem to break into hives at the mere mention of the word “engagement.”

“Charles,” Valencia says.

That’s the other thing about Valencia. She calls Chaz Charles. No one calls Chaz Charles. Except his parents.

Chaz can’t stand his parents.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Luke says, after slurping down one of the Caraquets. “Of course we’re going to set a date. We were thinking September, right, Lizzie?”

I stare at him in total astonishment. This is—literally—the first I’ve heard of this. “We were?”

“Well, that’s when there’s an opening in the rental schedule at Mirac,” Luke says. “And it won’t be too hot then. And that’s when most of my parents’ friends will be back from their summer places. We want to make sure they can come, because they’re the ones who are going to pony up with the best gifts.” He winks at me.

I continue to stare at him. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I mean, I do, but I can’t believe he’s saying it. Out loud.

“And that should give you plenty of time to start planning things,” he goes on. “Three months is enough time, right?”

I look down. It’s amazing. But there’s another hive popping up inside my other elbow.

“I… ” I can’t stop staring at the angry red welts in the romantic restaurant lighting. The walls are red. Just like Valencia’s dress. Just like my hives. “I don’t know. I guess. But… don’t you have to be back for school?”

“I can miss the first couple weeks of classes,” Luke says with a shrug. “It’s no big deal.”

Something in his tone causes me to look up from my hives—there are two new ones—and into his face.

“Wait,” I say. “You are going back to school in the fall. Aren’t you, Luke?”

“Of course.” Luke grins at me, that handsome, easy smile that so enchanted me from that first moment I met him on the train to Sarlat. “Lizzie… you look like something just went down the wrong way. Is everything all right?”

“She’s been working too hard,” Chaz says, speaking for the first time since popping his most unwelcome question. “Look at her. She’s got those dark circles under her eyes.”

I fling my hands to my face, horrified. “I do not!”

“Charles,” Valencia says again, grinning. Her teeth are perfectly white and even. I wonder how she has time for tenure-tracking between flossing.

“Does she even sleep anymore?” Chaz wants to know.

“She’s like a machine,” Luke says. “I’ve never seen anybody work so hard.”

“Of course I’m working hard,” I say, flinging open my handbag and digging through it for my compact mirror. “It’s June! What do you think happens in June? That’s when people get married. Normal people, I mean, who actually talk about when they’re going to get married, instead of avoiding the subject like it’s a ticking bomb that has to be defused the way we do, Luke. I’ve been working on twenty gowns, all at the same time. I’m trying to start a name for myself, you know. Single-handedly, I might add, since my boss has been out sick for the past half a year. And having you guys tell me I have circles under my eyes and that I work too hard totally doesn’t help!”

“Lizzie,” Chaz says. I can see him staring at me from behind the compact, which I hold up to check on the circles. “I’m totally teasing you. You look beautiful. As always.”

“Really, Lizzie,” Luke says. He picks up another oyster and swallows it without chewing. “What happened to your sense of humor?”

“She’s terribly solipsistic, isn’t she?” I hear Valencia murmur, though I know she hadn’t meant me to. I’ll have to look up the word “solipsistic” later.

I feel tears prick the corners of my eyes. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But I do know I want to kill everyone at the table. I really do.

Starting with Valencia.

“And the only reason I don’t talk about the wedding,” Luke goes on, “is that you always seem to stress out about it so much whenever I bring it up. I know your family wants to have it at their house. I also know you’d rather die… but you can’t seem to figure out how to tell them that. So I thought it would be better for me to leave it alone until you figure it all out for yourself. That’s it. It’s not that I don’t want to marry you anymore, or anything like that, you knucklehead.”

Luke reaches over, drags me toward him, and kisses me on top of my head. I keep my gaze on the tabletop. I’m afraid that if I look up, everyone will see the tears—and shame—in my eyes.

I can’t believe I wanted to kill him.

Also that I still sort of want to.

I don’t even know why. Or what’s wrong with me. Oh God.

What’s wrong with me?

“Aw,” Chaz says about the kiss. “That is just so sweet.”

“Shut up, Chaz,” I say, still not meeting anyone’s gaze.

“Yeah, shut up, Chaz,” Luke says. He’s grinning again and helping himself to another oyster.

“So, September,” Valencia says. “That’s quite soon, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know about September,” I say, digging through my purse again. I’m looking for my lip gloss. “I have a couple of gowns due in September. I don’t know if I’ll have them ready in time… let alone my own gown.” The words “my own gown” cause my stomach to give a lurch. If there’d been anything but wine in it, I’m pretty sure it would have come up.

“Lizzie,” Luke says in a warning voice.

“Well, what do you want me to do, Luke?” I ask, knowing I sound petulant, but not caring. “I’m just saying, things are going really well at the shop and if it keeps up like this, September should be a busy time for me as well—”

“When isn’t a busy time for you?” Luke wants to know. “I feel like I hardly ever see you anymore.”

“Well, you’re not exactly Mr. Availability yourself, taking a job in Paris for the summer,” I snap.

“Hey now, kids,” Chaz says. “Can’t we all just get along?”

“I took that job for us,” Luke says. “To pay for our wedding.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “A wedding we’re having at your house, apparently. Which is a vineyard. The booze and venue are already paid for. How much can it cost? Stop using the cost of the wedding as an excuse for why you’re leaving.”

Luke stares at me. “Hey,” he says, looking hurt. “Where’d that come from?”

The truth is, I have no idea. I really don’t. I just know the words are out there, floating around, already said.

And there’s nothing I can do to stuff them back into my mouth.

And I don’t really feel like apologizing for them this time.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” I demand instead, “that I might rather have a smaller wedding, one that doesn’t require my fiancé having to be gone for the whole summer, working in France, to pay for it?”

“Is that really what you want, Lizzie?” Luke asks, a bit of acid in his tone. “Because I think that can be arranged. I think your mother already said we could get married in your family’s backyard, with your sisters fighting over who can make the tackiest Jell-O mold, or whatever it is, and your grandmother passed out on the lawn for the entertainment.”

For a second, it’s as if all activity in the restaurant freezes. I suck in my breath.

Then Chaz groans, dropping his face into his hands, “Tell me you didn’t just go there, man.”

But Luke only glares at me across the table, his expression defiant. He’s not backing down.

I am, though.

Because suddenly, I know what’s going on with me. I know exactly what’s going on with me.

And what’s going on with me is that I’m done. I can’t take it anymore.

I snatch up my bag, scoot out from behind the table, and say, “You don’t even know my family. Because in all this time, you’ve still never even bothered to come home with me to meet them.”

Luke’s expression has lost some of its defiance.

“Lizzie,” he says. “Look—”

“No.” I thrust a heavily callused finger in his face. I may not have a pretty manicure like Valencia, but I bet my fingers have created way more lace ruching than hers ever have. I’ve worked my ass off for these calluses. And I’m damned proud of them. “No one disses my grandmother. Especially if they’ve never even met her.”

“Lizzie,” he says, his expression contrite. “I’m—”

“No,” I interrupt him. I can barely see him, my vision is so cloudy with tears. But I’m hoping he isn’t noticing that part. “If that’s how you feel about my family, Luke, why don’t you just go marry yourself? Since that’s who you’re obviously so in love with anyway.”

Okay, not the wittiest of comebacks. But it’s all I can think of in the heat of the moment, what with the tears and all.

I do see Chaz raise his eyebrows, as stunned as I am by my outburst. Valencia can’t seem to raise her gaze from her wineglass, she’s so embarrassed to be seen with me. But I can’t back down now. I don’t want to back down. Instead, I turn on my heel and stalk out of the room, ignoring Luke as he stands up and says, “Lizzie. Lizzie, come on.”

Fortunately a waitress bearing a huge tray of Cosmopolitans swoops past me, blocking his path, and I hurry downstairs and outside, toward Perry Street… where a black stretch limo is pulling up just as I step off the curb to look for a cab to flag down. As I peer past the limo, hoping to see a cab with the TAXI sign lit up, meaning it’s available, one of the limo’s rear smoked windows rolls down and a familiar voice calls, “Lizzie? Oh my God.”

And Ava Geck, wearing a spangled pink tube top beneath a pair of what appear to be white rubber lederhosen, leans out the window and says, “Get in, quick, before anyone sees me.”

“Ava, what are you doing here?” I am not unconscious of the fact that everyone has already seen her. Everyone gathered in front of the Spotted Pig has looked up from his or her BlackBerry and is whispering, Oh my God! It’s Ava Geck! You know, Get it at Geck’s!

“Why,” I ask, thoroughly confused, “aren’t you in Greece, Ava?”

“I’ll tell you in the car,” Ava says. “Please. Just get in.”

“Ava.” I rub at the tears still sliding around in the corners of my eyes. “What happened? You’re supposed to be getting married tomorrow.”

“I know,” Ava says. “Just get in, and I’ll explain.”

“Lizzie!”

I throw a frantic glance over my shoulder and see Luke coming out the door of the Spotted Pig, his napkin still in one hand.

I’m surprised—I really hadn’t thought he’d follow me—but I don’t hesitate a second longer. I fling open the closest door to Ava’s limo and dive in.

“Go,” I yell to the driver. “Please, just go!”

“Hey,” Ava says as I scramble over her in my haste to grab a seat. “Is that your boyfriend? He’s cute.”

“Yes,” I say. “Please, can we go? I have to get out of here.”

“Lizzie.” Luke hurries up to the limo’s still-wide-open window. “Where are you going?”

“Please go,” I beg Ava’s driver, who surprises me by doing just that.

And soon Luke, the Spotted Pig, and all the hipsters standing outside it, busily texting with their BlackBerries, are just tiny specks in the distance.