Queen of Babble Gets Hitched by Meg Cabot Page A

civilization, the birthplace of democracy, political science, Western literature and philosophy, the Olympic games—”
    “Um, Lizzie, have you ever even tasted hummus?”
    “Tiffany.” I glare at her. “I’m doing Ava’s dress. You’re either with me or you’re out.”
    Tiffany rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Is this because of the prince thing? Because, like, you’re marrying a prince, and so you feel like you have this moral obligation to help her, because she’s marrying a prince?”
    I ignore that. “Tiffany, we have a moral obligation to help this poor girl, because if we don’t, no one will, and she’ll just go on doing asinine things like pulling out Lil’ Kim’s hair extensions on Celebrity Pit Fight, and she’ll never discover her true inner potential.”
    “And you think you can help her find it?” Tiffany sneers.
    “Yes, Tiffany,” I say gravely. “Yes, I think I can.”
    Except that the truth is, I don’t think I can. I know I can.
    “Fine. If you want to play Dr. Dolittle to her Eliza Higgins,” Tiffany says, “it’s your funeral. I’ll just do what you’re paying me for: answer the phones.”
    “It’s Professor Higgins,” I correct her, “and Eliza Doolittle. Professor Higgins is the guy who gives the Cockney flower girl the makeover. Dr. Dolittle is the guy who could talk to animals.”
    “Fine,” Tiffany mutters. “I can tell this was a bad day to cut back on my Adderall.”
    I throw back the black velvet curtain and find Ava Geck closely examining a dressmaker’s dummy wearing a House of Bianchi off-the-shoulder number I’ve retrofitted with sleeves for a bride who’s being married in a conservative synagogue.
    “I like this one,” Ava says, straightening up when I come in. She’s still chomping on her gum. “Can you make me something like this?”
    I’m surprised. Pleasantly so. For a girl who’s shown her panties so many times on television, it’s a surprisingly modest choice.
    “I think we can come up with a gown you’ll like,” I say. “Something a little more Ava-like.”
    Ava gasps, then claps her hands. The Chihuahua barks excitedly and spins around in circles. Even the bodyguard cracks a smile. A very small one, but a smile just the same.
    “Oh, thank you!” Ava cries. “This is gonna be bitchin’!”
    “Yeah,” I say. “Just a couple of ground rules, though. Rule number one… when you enter Chez Henri, you have to de-gum. When you leave, you may re-gum.” I hold out my hand expectantly.
    Ava stares at me blankly. “What?”
    “Your gum,” I say. “There is no gum allowed in Chez Henri. You’re welcome to go over to Vera Wang and chew gum, but not here. It’s uncivilized to stand around looking like a cow chewing her cud. So either spit it out or leave.”
    Ava, looking stunned, spits her gum out into my hand. I drop the wad into a nearby trash can, which the Chihuahua quickly runs over to inspect.
    “Rule number two,” I say, wiping my hand off with a tissue I pluck from the box on Tiffany’s desk. “You must show up on time for all fittings. If you’re not going to be able to make it for whatever reason, you must call at least an hour before your appointment to let us know. Failure to do this more than once, and your contract with us will be canceled. It’s not polite to stand people up. We have lots of clients and could reschedule someone else in your time slot if we know you won’t be able to make it in advance. Okay?”
    Still looking dazed, Ava nods. The bodyguard, I notice, is still smiling, although now he looks slightly bemused.
    “All right, Ava,” I say. “Why don’t you step into the dressing room over here so I can take your measurements?”
    Ava hurries to oblige, tripping a little over her ridiculously high-heeled boots.
    It’s going to be, it’s clear, a long morning.

A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
    Bridesmaids in ancient Roman times were the first to wear identical gowns—identical not only to one another’s