Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

• Chapter 21 •

“Wedding gowns?” Ava echoes, her carefully plucked eyebrows raised. “At Geck’s?”

“Why not at Geck’s?” I’m perched beside her on a park bench next to the small dog run at Carl Schurz Park. The small dog run is actually a raised, fenced-in stage along the boardwalk by the East River, where pedestrians can stop and watch the tiny dogs as they skitter after tennis balls thrown by their owners. This seems a source of particular delight to toddlers, whose parents lift them to stand along the edge of the stage, and who shriek in delight every time a Pomeranian or miniature pinscher comes dancing in their general direction.

Ava, however, is holding an exhausted Snow White in her lap. The Chihuahua has apparently run after so many tennis balls that she is virtually unconscious on her mistress’s smooth, tanned thighs, a fact of which the reality television crew, filming Ava for the pilot she hopes gets picked up, Slaves of Ava, is taking pointed note. I can’t help staring at the cameras looming over me, even though Ava has told me not to pay any attention to them.

“You don’t even see them after a while,” she says, with a yawn that, I can’t help noticing, is made all the more elfin and charming by the fact that her bee-stung lips are perfectly glossed.

“Ava.” It’s even harder than usual to get her full attention due to the fact that DJ Tippycat is still inside the dog run with his French bulldog puppy, and Ava’s gaze keeps straying toward him every five seconds. “Listen to me. You said you wanted to do something with your life. Remember? After you broke things off with Prince Aleksandros. You have to have meant something more than just another tired old reality show. Well, this is your chance. Not only to prove to the world that you’re more than just an bubbleheaded heiress, but to help out millions of brides who want to have a beautiful gown but can’t afford it.”

Ava doesn’t look remotely interested. She’s gazing through the enormous black lenses of her sunglasses at a tugboat chugging down the river in front of us. I glance over my shoulder at Chaz, who is waiting for me out of camera range. He refused to sign the waivers the film crew demanded in order for me to speak to Ava while she was on camera, so he has to wait out of the shot until I’m done. He doesn’t look too unhappy. He’s found a hot dog vendor and is munching away, enjoying one with everything, along with a cold soda, in the shade.

“I don’t know,” Ava says. “What do I know about clothing design?”

“You don’t have to design the gowns,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’ll take care of that part. You just have to market the clothes. And Geck Industries have to provide the labor and materials. I’m not talking sweatshop labor or cheap materials, either. I’m talking quality craftsmanship, sewn here, in America. The gowns have to look gorgeous and feel nice against the skin. But nothing can retail for more than four hundred dollars. It all just has to be designed by me and marketed by you… the Lizzie Nichols—Ava Geck bridal line.”

She perks up at this. “Hey. I kind of like the sound of that.”

“I thought you might,” I say, eyeing the camera uncomfortably as they swoop around us.

“Lizzie and Ava,” she says. “Or Ava and Lizzie?”

“Whichever,” I say. I can’t quite believe she’s actually going for it. I’d been shocked she’d even taken my call, let alone agreed to meet with me. I hadn’t planned much beyond my initial pitch, not thinking I’d get further than that. “Either works, I think.”

“That’s so cute,” Ava gushes with so much enthusiasm that Snow White nearly tumbles from her lap. “Can we, like, do bridesmaid dresses too?”

“I don’t see why not,” I say. One of the cameras comes in for a close-up. I am acutely conscious of the fact I haven’t powdered my nose all day, and that I am sweating copiously. I pray to God this show won’t ever get picked up by a major network. Or Bravo.

On the other hand, if Ava accepts this deal, who even cares?

“And flower girls?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“What about clothes for dogs,” Ava says. “When DJ Tippycat’s divorce from that ho wife of his comes through, we want Snow White and Delilah to be in our wedding.”

I look down at Snow White, struggling to find purchase on Ava’s vinyl mini. One of the cameras zooms in on Ava’s crotch. I switch my prayer to a different one… that she’s wearing panties.

“Um,” I say. “Sure. We can do a line of wedding wear for dogs.”

“Okay,” Ava says. “That sounds like fun.” She eyes me a little uneasily. “But if we’re going to work together, Lizzie, I need to know we’re not gonna have that same… problem we had before… are we?”

I shake my head. “Ava, I swear on my grandmother’s grave, I will never blab something I’m not supposed to ever again.” And I know, as I say it, that this time I really mean it.

Really.

“Okay,” Ava says cheerfully. “Lemme call Daddy.” And she gets out her cell phone.

“Wait.” I stare at her. “You’re going to do it now?”

“Yeah,” she says, dialing. “Why not?”

“Um.” I glance over at Chaz. He beams at me and gives me a thumbs-up. “Nothing. Go ahead.”

A second later, Ava’s removed the gum from her mouth with a murmured Sorry in my direction, and is saying, “Daddy? It’s me. Yeah, hi. So, I want to start my own line of bridal wear at the store. What? The reality show? Oh, whatever, that’s so two thousand and seven. Anyway, I’m working with Lizzie, the girl who did my dress for my wedding to Alek? Uh-huh. Yeah, the one who outed me to the paps. But that, like, wasn’t her fault, really. Her sister did it, and she’s, like, a fat-armed cow. I know. Anyway, she wants to—well, here, I’ll let her tell you.” To my horror, Ava holds her pink Swarovski-encrusted phone out to me. “Tell him the thing about the beautiful gowns for girls at prices they can afford.”

I fumble for the phone, my mouth going instantly dry. “Um, h-hello? Mr. Geck?”

“Yes?” A voice, gravelly from too many years of cigar smoke, demands impatiently.

I repeat Luke’s line about beautiful gowns that brides can actually afford, and somehow the same spiel I’d given Ava just seconds ago about how Geck’s would be in charge of labor and materials—but they couldn’t be cheap! — and I’d be in charge of design while Ava would be in charge of marketing comes spilling from between my lips.

And in that moment, sitting in the sunshine by the river, with the Slaves of Ava camera crew on me, and Henry Geck on the phone, and Chaz a few dozen yards away, watching over me like a shaggy sheepdog, I’m pretty sure I have an actual out-of-body experience. It’s as if all the times I have ever blabbed a secret involuntarily or said something I didn’t mean to or revealed an intimacy probably best left unsaid, and was called upon to exercise my powers of charm in order to make amends come back to me with laserlike intensity and focus on a single point—the man on the other end of the phone. I am no longer Lizzie Nichols, almost-certified professional vintage wedding gown refurbisher, fiancé of Luke de Villiers, on whom (by the way) she is cheating with his best friend, currently probably a two on the Bad Girl Scale, about to lose her home, her business, and her life.

I am Elizabeth Nichols, cool and collected designer of wedding attire, with a single desire: to make beautiful bridal gowns—and bridesmaid and flower girl and dog clothes—available to the masses, at a reasonable price.

Suddenly I am on fire. I am invincible. The cameras swing entirely from Ava and onto me. Even though, as she gazes at me, her thighs swing apart, and it becomes apparent she’s going commando today. And she’s gone and gotten herself a Brazilian.

“Well,” Mr. Geck says when I’m through and have paused to take a breath. “Miss Nichols, I must say. That sounds like an interesting idea. I’d certainly like to hear more. Why don’t you and Ava come over for dinner tonight and we’ll talk about it some more? Put her back on the horn.”

I hand the phone back to Ava, feeling dazed.

“He wants to talk to you,” I say.

“Oh, goody,” Ava says. “Hi, Daddy. You like Lizzie’s idea? Yeah, I know, me too. Okay. Eight? Yeah, we’ll be there. Okay, buh-bye.” She hangs up and looks at me. “He wants you to bring some sketches. Do you have any?”

I look at her, feeling slightly nauseous.

But it’s a good nauseous. It’s a great nauseous, actually.

“By eight tonight,” I say a little hazily, “I will have.”

“You’re going to design a line of bridal gowns for Geck’s?” Chaz asks as we hurry down Seventy-eighth Street, back toward Chez Henri. “And Ava Geck is going to do… what, exactly?”

“Be my spokesmodel slash corporate representative,” I say.

“Does Geck’s even sell nice clothes?” Chaz wants to know.

“They will after they start selling mine,” I say. “Ava will make sure of that. They’re going to have her name on them too.”

“And you trust her?” Chaz sounds dubious. “Ava, I mean. No offense, Lizzie, but—”

“If the next words that come out of your mouth are ‘skanky crack whore,’ you’re never setting foot in my apartment again. For however little time left I have it.”

“I’m just saying, like another person whose name I won’t mention, Ava doesn’t exactly have a reputation for stick-to-it-tiveness. Except where pudding wrestling is concerned.”

“Maybe because no one has really given her a chance to prove herself,” I say defensively. “I mean, she’s an heiress. When has she ever had to stick to anything? But she seems really serious about this. The dog clothes were her idea.”

“Oh yeah,” Chaz says, with a chuckle, putting his arm around my shoulders. “She’s serious about this all right.”

“Chaz,” I say, leaning into him. I don’t care that I’m hot and sweaty (and so is he). Even when I’m annoyed with him, like now, I can’t stop myself from touching him. It just feels… right. “People love their pets. They really want them to be a part of their special day.”

“But doesn’t the idea of your enabling them to do so by designing mini doggie tuxedos for them make you the slightest bit queasy?”

“No,” I say firmly. “Not if it’s going to save the jobs of everyone at the shop.”

“And how is your designing doggie tuxedos for Geck’s going to do that?” Chaz wants to know.

“I haven’t figured that part out yet,” I say as we hurry along. “I’m just taking this one step at a time. First I’ve got to get these sketches done. Then get the deal in place. Then I’ll get to that part.”

“You’re incredible,” Chaz says. And there’s no hint of sarcasm in his tone now.

Still, I pull him to a stop and narrow my eyes as I peer up at him. “Are you mocking me?” I demand suspiciously.

“Absolutely not,” Chaz says, looking down at me with a perfectly serious expression on his face. He’s dropped his arm from my shoulders, but now he puts both his hands there instead. “I told you before—you’re a star, Lizzie Nichols. And I am humbled to be allowed to hitch my wagon to your star. Just tell me what you need me to do to help, and I’ll do it.”

I blink up at him and my eyes fill with sudden tears. It’s still astonishing to me how blindly stupid I’d been, refusing to see what was right there in front of my face for so long. That I could have been this happy six months ago, if I’d just been willing to admit to myself what I’d clearly known all along… that it wasn’t Luke I was in love with anymore after all.

But I don’t say any of this to Chaz. There’s no reason to. Not now. Because I’ve said it already.

Instead, I say, “Diet Coke.”

He tightens his grip on my shoulders. “You need Diet Coke? To get the drawings done?”

I nod.

“Done,” he says. “I’ll get you every six-pack in the city. I—”

Then his voice trails off, and I notice his gaze has as well. We’ve reached Chez Henri, where I’m startled to find, when I turn to look in the direction he’s gazing, Shari sitting on the front stoop.

She climbs to her feet when she sees me looking at her, her hemp tote bag dangling from limp fingers as she stares.

“Well,” Chaz says, dropping his hands from my shoulders. “This is awkward.”

“Hi, Shari,” I say unsmilingly, aware that Shari is close enough to have overheard every word we’ve just said to each other.

“Hi, Lizzie,” she says. Shading her eyes from the sun with one hand, she squints down at us from the stoop and says, “Hi, Chaz. I need to talk to Lizzie for a minute.”

“This is a really bad time,” I say. “I’m in kind of a time crunch. Can we talk later?”

“No,” Shari says and comes down from the stoop. “Look. I’m really sorry about what I said earlier. I was out of line.”

“You were really trying to fix us up the whole time?” Chaz wants to know.

“Please stay out of this,” Shari says to him. To me, she says, “Lizzie, you’re my best friend in the whole world. I would never do anything to hurt you. I should never have said that about the Carvel cake. That was in poor taste, and I owe you an apology.”

“What Carvel cake?” Chaz wants to know.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” I say to Shari, feeling suddenly remorseful over how I’ve treated her. “And I shouldn’t have run out of the café like that. I’m a dork. I’m sorry too. Do you forgive me?”

“Of course I do,” Shari says, and pulls me in for a hug. I inhale her Shari-like scent—grapefruit body lotion and Labrador retriever—and then let go of her.

“And now I’m sorry, but I really do have to go,” I say. “I have to design a line of bridal wear for Geck’s.”

“Geck’s?” Shari looks confused. “They sell bridal wear?”

“They do now,” Chaz explains. “Or they will after they see Lizzie’s drawings. Lizzie and Ava Geck are going into business together.”

“Is that really such a good idea?” Shari asks, looking dubious.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I demand. “Yes, it’s a good idea. Now, bye—I have to go get to work.”

I give them both kisses—Shari on the cheek, Chaz on the mouth—and hurry into the shop to find Monique reading the latest copy of Vogue.

“Lizzie,” she says, looking up when I come in. “There you are. God. Finally. Everyone and their brother has been looking for you, it seems.”

“Keep taking messages,” I say. “I’ve got some work to do upstairs. I’ll be gone for the rest of the day.”

“But, Lizzie,” Monique says, looking dismayed. “You do know that—”

“Yes, of course I know all about it,” I say. “I’m doing the best I can to save our skins. So hold all my calls, will you?”

“All right,” Monique says. “But—”

“Thanks!”

I pop out the side door and hurry upstairs to my apartment, crank up the A/C, peel off my sticky, sweaty sundress, grab the last Diet Coke in my fridge—Chaz better hurry with his delivery—and get to work.