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.”
“And I already told her,” Tiffany says, from between gritted teeth, “you don’t do original designs, just—”
“I know this girl keeps saying you only do restorations,” Ava says, flicking a scathing glance in Tiffany’s direction. “But I’m all, what’s the diff? I mean, if I bring in some heinous old dress and ask you to make it over, or if you just, like, make me a new one? Why can’t you just make me a new one? Okay? Because that’s what I want. I want a dress by someone who’s young and cool. Not some dried-up old-lady dress by someone with a freaking four-story shop on Madison Avenue. Ya know?”
Except it was kind of hard to tell what she was saying, between all the chewing sounds.
“Ms. Nichols?” Tiffany stands up. “Can I have a word with you in the back room?”
“God!” Ava cracks her gum. “What is the dealio? I have money. I’ll, like, pay you.”
“Um,” I say to Ava. I notice that the Chihuahua is getting ready to lift a leg against Madame Henri’s potted hydrangea. I dive to pick up the dog and place it gently back in a confused-looking Ava Geck’s arms. “Let me just consult with my, um, assistant here, to see what the schedule for this week looks like, and I’ll be right back.”
Ava looks relieved. At least if that’s what I’m to believe from the large pink bubble she blows.
“Whatever,” she says.
I allow Tiffany to drag me into the back room.
“You cannot design a dress for her,” Tiffany hisses as soon as I’ve drawn the black velvet curtain across. “She’s a skanky crack whore.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “You met her in Narcotics Anonymous.”
“No,” Tiffany says. “But she’s still a skanky crack whore. Seriously, Lizzie. Did you see her on Celebrity Pit Fight? She made Lil’ Kim cry. Lil’ Kim. You can’t. You just can’t.”
“She’s hugely famous,” I say. “She’s a bazillioniare. And she’s marrying a prince. Do you have any idea what kind of press that will bring in?”
“Yeah,” Tiffany says. “Skanky crack whore press. Believe me, that is not the kind of press you want.”
“Tiffany,” I say, fighting for patience. “You don’t understand. At this point in my career, any press is good press. I’m totally doing the dress.”
“But she’s disgusting,” Tiffany insists. “Did you see the way she treated that dog? And what is with those boots?”
“Tiffany, she’s obviously deeply troubled. She needs our help, not our scorn. She’s clearly had no one in her life to gently guide her on how to act like a decent human being. And she really needs that, now more than ever… she’s marrying a prince! It’s going to be a royal wedding!”
“In Greece,” Tiffany points out. “Hel-lo.”
“Tiffany! How can you say that? Greece is the cradle of Western
“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.”
“And I already told her,” Tiffany says, from between gritted teeth, “you don’t do original designs, just—”
“I know this girl keeps saying you only do restorations,” Ava says, flicking a scathing glance in Tiffany’s direction. “But I’m all, what’s the diff? I mean, if I bring in some heinous old dress and ask you to make it over, or if you just, like, make me a new one? Why can’t you just make me a new one? Okay? Because that’s what I want. I want a dress by someone who’s young and cool. Not some dried-up old-lady dress by someone with a freaking four-story shop on Madison Avenue. Ya know?”
Except it was kind of hard to tell what she was saying, between all the chewing sounds.
“Ms. Nichols?” Tiffany stands up. “Can I have a word with you in the back room?”
“God!” Ava cracks her gum. “What is the dealio? I have money. I’ll, like, pay you.”
“Um,” I say to Ava. I notice that the Chihuahua is getting ready to lift a leg against Madame Henri’s potted hydrangea. I dive to pick up the dog and place it gently back in a confused-looking Ava Geck’s arms. “Let me just consult with my, um, assistant here, to see what the schedule for this week looks like, and I’ll be right back.”
Ava looks relieved. At least if that’s what I’m to believe from the large pink bubble she blows.
“Whatever,” she says.
I allow Tiffany to drag me into the back room.
“You cannot design a dress for her,” Tiffany hisses as soon as I’ve drawn the black velvet curtain across. “She’s a skanky crack whore.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “You met her in Narcotics Anonymous.”
“No,” Tiffany says. “But she’s still a skanky crack whore. Seriously, Lizzie. Did you see her on Celebrity Pit Fight? She made Lil’ Kim cry. Lil’ Kim. You can’t. You just can’t.”
“She’s hugely famous,” I say. “She’s a bazillioniare. And she’s marrying a prince. Do you have any idea what kind of press that will bring in?”
“Yeah,” Tiffany says. “Skanky crack whore press. Believe me, that is not the kind of press you want.”
“Tiffany,” I say, fighting for patience. “You don’t understand. At this point in my career, any press is good press. I’m totally doing the dress.”
“But she’s disgusting,” Tiffany insists. “Did you see the way she treated that dog? And what is with those boots?”
“Tiffany, she’s obviously deeply troubled. She needs our help, not our scorn. She’s clearly had no one in her life to gently guide her on how to act like a decent human being. And she really needs that, now more than ever… she’s marrying a prince! It’s going to be a royal wedding!”
“In Greece,” Tiffany points out. “Hel-lo.”
“Tiffany! How can you say that? Greece is the cradle of Western
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