Queen of Babble in the Big City by Meg Cabot
Authors: Meg Cabot
Tags: Fiction, General, Chick lit, Humorous, Romance, New York (N.Y.), Contemporary Women, Young Women
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L IZZIE N ICHOLS D ESIGNS ™
Chapter 6
Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
—Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790), American inventor
W edding 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 nearbyfalafel 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. Imean, 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
L IZZIE N ICHOLS D ESIGNS ™
Chapter 6
Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
—Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790), American inventor
W edding 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 nearbyfalafel 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. Imean, 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
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