Read Online Queen of Babble in the Big City by Meg Cabot - Free Book Online

the cyclotron.
    “You took out the rust stains,” Monsieur Henri says, “without chemicals?”
    “Just cream of tartar,” I say. “I soaked it overnight.”
    Monsieur Henri says, somewhat proudly, “Here we too do not use chemicals. That is how we received our endorsement from the Association of Bridal Consultants and became Certified Wedding-Gown Specialists.”
    I don’t know how to reply to that. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as certified wedding-gown specialists. So I just say, “Sweet.”
    Madame Henri elbows her husband.
    “Tell her,” she says in French. “Tell her the other thing.”
    Monsieur Henri peers down at me through the lenses of his eyeglasses. “The National Bridal Service gave us their highest recommendation.”
    “That is more than they have ever given that cochon Maurice!” Madame Henri cries.
    I think calling this poor Maurice guy—whoever he is—a pig might be a bit much.
    Especially since I’ve never heard of the National Bridal Service, either.
    But again I manage, for once in my life, to keep my mouth shut. There are two wedding gowns on dressmaker’s dummies in the window of the tiny shop. They’re restoration refurbishments, according to the placard in front of them…and they’re exquisite. One is covered in seed pearls that dangle like raindrops, glistening in the sun. And the other is a complicated confection of lacy ruffles that my fingers itch to touch, in order to figure out how they were created.
    Mrs. Erickson was right. Monsieur Henri knows his stuff. I couldlearn a lot from him—not just about sewing, either, but about running a successful business.
    Too bad Madame Henri is such a—
    “This is a very stressful job,” Monsieur Henri goes on. “The women who come to us…to them, this is the most important day of their lives. Their gown must be absolutely perfect, and yet delivered on time.”
    “I’m a total perfectionist myself,” I say. “I’ve stayed up all night to finish gowns when I didn’t even have to.”
    Monsieur Henri doesn’t even appear to be listening. “Our clients can be very demanding. One day they want one thing. The next day, something else—”
    “I’m completely flexible,” I say. “And I’m also very good with people. You might even say I’m a people person.” Oh, God. Did I just say that? “But I would never let a client pick something that isn’t flattering.”
    “This is a family-run business,” Monsieur Henri says with sudden—and alarming—finality, closing my portfolio with a loud snap. “I am not looking to hire outsiders.”
    “But—” No. He is not turning me away. I have to know how he made those ruffles. “I know I’m not family. But I’m good. And what I don’t know—I’m a very quick learner.”
    “Non,” Monsieur Henri says. “It is no use. I built this business for my sons—”
    “Who want nothing to do with it,” his wife says bitterly in French. “You know that, Jean. All those lazy pigs want to do is go to the discotheque.”
    Hmmm. Her own sons are pigs, too? Also…discotheque?
    “—and I do all my own work,” Monsieur Henri continues loftily.
    “Right,” Madame Henri snorts. “That’s why you have no time for me anymore. Or your sons. They run so wild because you are always here at the shop. And what about your heart? The doctor said you’ve got to reduce your stress levels, or you’ll have a stroke. You keep saying you want to work less, leave the shop to someone else torun sometimes, so we can spend more time in Provence. But do you do anything about this? Of course not.”
    “I live right around the corner,” I say, trying not to let them catch on that I understand every word they’re saying. “I can be here whenever you want me. If, you know, you want to spend more time with your family.”
    Madame Henri’s gaze locks onto mine. “Perhaps,” she murmurs, in her native tongue, “she is not so stupid after all.”
    “Please,” I say, fighting down an