Luke is laughing now. “How about a portion of it, then,” he says, as he watches me clean up my mess. “A thousand a month?”
“Deal,” I say, relieved. Although only slightly, since I have no idea how I’m even going to come up with a thousand dollars a month.
“Fine,” Luke says. “Now that we’ve got that settled—”
“We don’t,” I say. “Have it settled, I mean.”
“We don’t?” He doesn’t look alarmed, though. He looks more amused. “We’ve covered groceries, utilities, your need for space for your sewing machine, and rent. What more is there?”
“Well,” I say. “Us.”
“Us.” He isn’t running like a frightened woodland creature. Yet. He simply looks mildly curious. “What about us?”
“If I move in,” I say, summoning all my courage, “it would only be on a trial basis. To see how it works out. Because, you know, we’ve only known each other for two months. What if it turns out, I don’t know. In the winter I become a real crab or something?”
Both of Luke’s eyebrows go up again. “Do you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, I don’t think so. But there was this girl, Brianna, from our floor in McCracken Hall? And she used to turn into a total psychopath when it got cold outside. Not that she was particularly stable when it was warm out. But she got way worse when it was cold. So, you know. I think we should reserve the right to call off the whole living-together thing if one or the other of us feels like it isn’t working out. And since it’s your mother’s apartment, I’ll be the one who moves out. But you have to give me thirty days to find a new place before you change the locks. That’s only fair.”
Luke is still grinning. But now the grin is slightly whimsical.
“You’re very concerned,” he says, “about fairness, aren’t you?”
“Well,” I say, feeling slightly deflated that this is his only response to my long speech. “I guess I am. I mean, there’s so little justice in the world. Young mothers get killed by hit-and-run drivers, and people’s skeletons turn up in backyards, and—”
Now Luke’s frowning. And reaching for me.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, pulling me down onto his lap. Fortunately, I’ve put down my wineglass. “But I’m awfully glad we’ve had this little chat. Is it over?”
I quickly run through all the things I’d hoped to cover with him. Splitting the rent and utilities, making room for my sewing machine, and a Get Out of Jail Free card in case either of us (him more than me, since I didn’t plan on going anywhere) needed it. Yes. Done.
I nod. “It’s over.”
“Good,” Luke says, and bends me back against the couch. “Now how do you get this thing off?”
Pear-shaped girls, don’t despair! True, according to the band Queen, fat-bottomed girls make the rockin’ world go round. But often, we can’t find a thing to wear!
Pear-shaped girls are in luck when it comes to wedding gowns, however. The A-line cut flatters by drawing attention away from the lower half of the body, and up toward the bustline.
This can be emphasized even more by going with an off-the-shoulder or deeply V’ed neckline, but stay away from halter-neck gowns and full or pleated skirts, as these looks can add bulk to the hips. The bias or straight-cut look is deadly to any pear-shaped bride… they cling to exactly what you’re trying to draw attention away from!
LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™
Chapter 6
Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
—Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790), American inventor
Wedding Gown Restoration Specialists.
That’s what the sign on the door says.
Well, that’s certainly me. I mean, that’s what I do. Not just wedding gowns, of course. I can restore—or refurbish—just about any garment. But wedding gowns are where the real challenges lie. And where the money is, too, of course.
Only I’m trying not to obsess about money. Even though it’s really hard not to obsess about something that you seem to need so much of just to exist in this town. I mean, I have seen what some of the other tenants of Luke’s mom’s building are wearing when they come down the elevator. I never saw so much Gucci and Louis Vuitton in my life.
Not that you need Gucci and Louis to exist. But you need money—a lot of it—to lead anything like a normal life in Manhattan. If by normal you mean no splurges on cabs, movies, or lattes, and that you make your own breakfast, lunches, and dinners.
And okay, I can easily live without the latest monogram-canvas Louis Vuitton tote.
But it seems kind of harsh that I can’t even pop into the nearby falafel place for a quick bite. Not that I am eating carbs, thanks to the size of my butt, or that there is a falafel place anywhere near the vicinity of the Met, which there most definitely is not, residences on Fifth Avenue being almost literally MILES from any affordable eateries and/or grocery stores. In fact, Fifth Avenue is like a wasteland, nothing but million-dollar apartments, museums, and the park.
I actually envy Shari her walk-up with Chaz. Sure, there are no Renoirs in it, and the floors slope toward the windows, and there’s only a portable stand-up shower that leaks and the enamel on the claw-foot tub is so stained it looks as if someone might have been murdered in it.
But there’s a totally cheap sushi place right across the street! And a bar with dollar Bud Lights at happy hour like two steps from their stoop! And a grocery store half a block away that delivers… for FREE!
I know I shouldn’t complain. I mean, I have a doorman. AND a guy who runs the elevator. And a view of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and Luke’s mother’s windows are all double-paned, so you can’t even hear all the horns and sirens on Fifth Avenue.
And I’m only paying a thousand dollars a month for it. Plus utilities.
But I’d give it all up in a minute if I could just have a freaking caffè misto every now and then and not feel racked with guilt about it.
Which is what brings me to Monsieur Henri’s, not four blocks from Mrs. de Villiers’s pied-à-terre. It’s one of Manhattan’s premier wedding-gown restoration and preservation hot spots. Anybody who is anybody has Monsieur Henri restore, refurbish, and preserve her wedding gown. At least according to Mrs. Erickson from 5B, whom I met in the laundry room last night (the plumbing in Mrs. de Villiers’s building is too old to allow each apartment to have its own individual washer and dryer, and the cost of renovating would raise the maintenance fees even higher). Anyway, she told me that adding half a cup of vinegar to the rinse cycle saves you from having to spend extra money on fabric softener. And she should know. I mean, she had on a cocktail ring with a diamond about as big as a golf ball. She said she was only doing her own laundry because she’d had to fire her maid due to drunkenness, and the service hadn’t found her a new one yet.
So when I ring the bell to Monsieur Henri’s place, I am fairly confident that for once, I won’t be completely wasting my time. Mrs. Erickson had looked to me as if she’d know about wedding-gown restorers—the angle I am now pursuing, since the whole costume-restoration and vintage thing wasn’t working out. I have, in the past two weeks, been to every vintage clothing store in the five boroughs… none of which was hiring.
Or so the managers claimed. Several saw my college degree on my résumé, and said I was overqualified. Only one of them was interested in looking at my portfolio of refurbished vintage clothes, and when he was through, he said, “This might impress people back in Minnesota, but around here our customers are a little more sophisticated. Suzy Perette just doesn’t cut it.”
“Michigan,” I corrected him. “I’m from Michigan.”
“Whatever,” the manager said, rolling his eyes.
Seriously? I had no idea people could be so mean. Especially people in the vintage-clothing community. I mean, back home, thrifters are very supportive of and caring for one another, and it’s about quality and originality—not the label. Here, in the words of one of the store managers I met, “If it’s not Chanel, no one cares.”