Read Online Queen of Babble in the Big City by Meg Cabot - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Meg Cabot
Tags: Fiction, General, Chick lit, Humorous, Romance, New York (N.Y.), Contemporary Women, Young Women
Ads: Link
urge to yell, If I’m so stupid, would I be living on Fifth Avenue? Because, of course, people who judge you by what avenue you live on are stupid. “Your gowns are so beautiful. I want to open a shop of my own someday. So it only makes sense that I’d want to learn from the best. And I have references. You can call the manager of the last shop I worked in—”
“Non,” Monsieur Henri says. “ Non, I am not interested.”
And he shoves my résumé back at me.
“Who’s stupid now?” his wife demands tartly.
But Monsieur Henri—perhaps because he’s seen the tears that have suddenly sprung up in my eyes…which, I know. Crying! At a job interview!—seems to soften.
“Mademoiselle,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “It is not that I don’t think you have talent. It is that we are a very small shop. And my sons, they are in college now. This is very expensive. I cannot afford to pay another person.”
And then I hear four words come trickling out of my mouth—like spit does, while I sleep—that I never in a million years would have guessed I’d ever say. And immediately after I’ve spoken, I want to shoot myself. But it’s too late. They’re already out there.
“I’ll work for free.”
God! No! What am I saying?
Except that it’s seemed to work. Monsieur Henri looks intrigued. And his wife is smiling as if she’s just won the lottery or something.
“An internship, you mean?” Monsieur Henri lowers his bifocals to look at me more closely.
“I…I…” Oh God. How am I going to get out of this one? Especially since I’m not even sure I want to. “I guess so. And then when you see how hard I work, maybe you could consider promoting me to a paid position.”
Okay. There, that sounds better. That’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll work like a dog for him, make myself indispensable. And then, when he can’t do without me, I’ll threaten to walk away unless he pays me.
I’m pretty sure this is not the most effective strategy for getting a job. But it’s the only one I’ve got at the moment.
“Done,” Monsieur Henri says. Then he whips off his bifocals and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Welcome.”
“Um.” I slip my hand in his, feeling all the calluses on his fingers and palm. “Thanks.”
About which Madame Henri observes in smug French, “Ha! She really is stupid after all!”
Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide
Know your…
Wedding-gown train lengths!
The three basic wedding-dress train lengths are:
The Sweep Length Barely touches the floor
The Chapel Length Trails on the floor about four feet out from the dress
The Cathedral Length Trails six feet out from the dress (or more…but only if you’re royalty!)
L IZZIE N ICHOLS D ESIGNS ™
Chapter 7
The best way to keep one’s word is not to give it.
—Napoleon I (1769–1821), French emperor
I ’m crying as I measure.
I can’t help it. I’m just so screwed.
And it’s not like I know anyone is home.
So when Chaz comes out of his bedroom, holding a tattered paperback and looking sleepy, and goes, “Holy Christ, what are you doing here?” I let out this little shriek and fall over, sending the measuring tape flying.
“Are you all right?” Chaz reaches for my arm, but it’s too late. I’m already flat on my butt on his living room floor.
I blame the sloping parquet. I really do.
“No,” I sob. “No, I’m not all right.”
“What’s wrong?” Chaz isn’t quite laughing. But there is a definite upward curl to the corners of his lips.
“It’s not funny,” I say. Life in Manhattan has completely robbed me of my sense of humor. Oh, sure, it’s all fine and good when Luke and I are in bed together, or curled up on his mom’s couch, watching Pants Off/Dance Off on her plasma screen (artfully hidden from view beneath a genuine sixteenth-century tapestry depicting a lovely pastoral scene when not in use).
But the minute he walks out the door to go to class—which is
“Non,” Monsieur Henri says. “ Non, I am not interested.”
And he shoves my résumé back at me.
“Who’s stupid now?” his wife demands tartly.
But Monsieur Henri—perhaps because he’s seen the tears that have suddenly sprung up in my eyes…which, I know. Crying! At a job interview!—seems to soften.
“Mademoiselle,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “It is not that I don’t think you have talent. It is that we are a very small shop. And my sons, they are in college now. This is very expensive. I cannot afford to pay another person.”
And then I hear four words come trickling out of my mouth—like spit does, while I sleep—that I never in a million years would have guessed I’d ever say. And immediately after I’ve spoken, I want to shoot myself. But it’s too late. They’re already out there.
“I’ll work for free.”
God! No! What am I saying?
Except that it’s seemed to work. Monsieur Henri looks intrigued. And his wife is smiling as if she’s just won the lottery or something.
“An internship, you mean?” Monsieur Henri lowers his bifocals to look at me more closely.
“I…I…” Oh God. How am I going to get out of this one? Especially since I’m not even sure I want to. “I guess so. And then when you see how hard I work, maybe you could consider promoting me to a paid position.”
Okay. There, that sounds better. That’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll work like a dog for him, make myself indispensable. And then, when he can’t do without me, I’ll threaten to walk away unless he pays me.
I’m pretty sure this is not the most effective strategy for getting a job. But it’s the only one I’ve got at the moment.
“Done,” Monsieur Henri says. Then he whips off his bifocals and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Welcome.”
“Um.” I slip my hand in his, feeling all the calluses on his fingers and palm. “Thanks.”
About which Madame Henri observes in smug French, “Ha! She really is stupid after all!”
Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide
Know your…
Wedding-gown train lengths!
The three basic wedding-dress train lengths are:
The Sweep Length Barely touches the floor
The Chapel Length Trails on the floor about four feet out from the dress
The Cathedral Length Trails six feet out from the dress (or more…but only if you’re royalty!)
L IZZIE N ICHOLS D ESIGNS ™
Chapter 7
The best way to keep one’s word is not to give it.
—Napoleon I (1769–1821), French emperor
I ’m crying as I measure.
I can’t help it. I’m just so screwed.
And it’s not like I know anyone is home.
So when Chaz comes out of his bedroom, holding a tattered paperback and looking sleepy, and goes, “Holy Christ, what are you doing here?” I let out this little shriek and fall over, sending the measuring tape flying.
“Are you all right?” Chaz reaches for my arm, but it’s too late. I’m already flat on my butt on his living room floor.
I blame the sloping parquet. I really do.
“No,” I sob. “No, I’m not all right.”
“What’s wrong?” Chaz isn’t quite laughing. But there is a definite upward curl to the corners of his lips.
“It’s not funny,” I say. Life in Manhattan has completely robbed me of my sense of humor. Oh, sure, it’s all fine and good when Luke and I are in bed together, or curled up on his mom’s couch, watching Pants Off/Dance Off on her plasma screen (artfully hidden from view beneath a genuine sixteenth-century tapestry depicting a lovely pastoral scene when not in use).
But the minute he walks out the door to go to class—which is
Similar Books
