Something Blue (19 page)

“Simon?” Charlotte posited to Meg.

Meg made a face.

“You don’t like Simon?” Charlotte asked her.

“I like Si well enough…” Meg said with a shrug.

I resisted the temptation to inquire about Simon’s looks, but Meg seemed to read my mind because she giggled and said, “I doubt that Darcy is attracted to gingers!”

“Meg!” Charlotte said, reminding me of Rachel. Rachel must have said “Darcy!” in that same tone close to a million times. “Besides, I’d say Si is more of a strawberry blonde.”

“He’s a ginger and you know it!” Meg said, sipping her tea.

“What’s a ginger?” I asked.

“You know, orange hair? I think you call it a ‘redhead’?” Meg said.

I laughed. “Oh. Right.”

“So? Do you like gingers?” Charlotte asked.

“Probably not my favorite,” I said diplomatically, rationalizing that chemistry is beyond one’s control. And for a relationship to work, the chemistry has to be there.

“I suppose gingers aren’t sought after on either side of the pond,” Meg opined.

Charlotte looked disappointed, so I said, “But there are exceptions. Look at cute little Prince Harry. I like his devilish little smile. It depends entirely on personality.”

I couldn’t help thinking of Marcus. It had been a misguided (to use Ethan’s word) decision to start a relationship with him, a decision based largely on intrigue, lust, and competition with Rachel. But at least I wasn’t driven by appearances. Marcus was far from perfect looking. So I knew I had it in me to look beyond the mere physical.

Charlotte smiled at me. “Precisely,” she said, nodding. Then she turned to Meg. “Why don’t you invite Darcy to your party? Isn’t Si coming?”

“What a fab idea! You must come, Darcy. I’m having a few friends over this Saturday night. Won’t you join us?” Meg asked.

“I’d love to,” I said, thinking how satisfying it would be to tell Ethan I had been invited to a party
by women.
I took a mental inventory of my list. In just one short day, I had ticked off several items already. I had helped Ethan (by cleaning his apartment), I was being healthy (by not ordering a caffeinated beverage), and I had made a couple of new friends. I still needed to find a job and a doctor, so after a few more minutes of polite conversation, I asked Meg and Charlotte for a recommendation on both fronts.

“Oh, I have the perfect chap for you. Mr. Moore is his name,” Charlotte said, consulting her address book and jotting down his number on the back of one of her own calling cards. “Here you go. Give him a ring. He’s really lovely.”

“How come he goes by ‘mister’ and not ‘doctor’?” I asked, feeling a bit skeptical about the British health care system.

Meg explained that in England only nonoperating physicians are called doctors—something that goes back to medieval times, when all surgeons were butchers and therefore mere misters.

“As for the job,” Charlotte said, “what is it that you did in New York?”

“I worked in public relations… But I’m looking for something different here. Something that would help the poor, old, or sick,” I said earnestly.

“That is
so
nice,” Charlotte and Meg said in unison.

I smiled.

Meg told me that there was a nursing home right around the corner. She jotted down some directions on a napkin, and then wrote her own address and phone number on the other side. “Do stop by on Saturday,” she said. “We’d love to see you. And so would Si.” She winked.

I smiled, took my last sip of coffee, and said good-bye to my new friends.

That evening, when Ethan returned home, I was waiting for him with a homemade Greek salad, a glass of red wine, and softly playing classical music.

“Welcome home!” I said, smiling nervously as I handed him his glass.

He took it from me tentatively, sipped, and then looked around his apartment. “It looks great in here. Smells good too. Did you clean?”

I nodded. “Uh-huh. I scoured the place. I even cleaned your room,” I said, and then couldn’t resist adding, “Still think I’m a lousy friend?”

He took another sip and sat on his couch. “I didn’t say that exactly.”

I sat next to him. “Yes you did.”

He gave me a half-smile. “You can be a good friend when you try, Darce. You tried today. Thank you.”

The old me would have held out for an over-the-top apology coupled with a complete retraction and a small gift. But somehow Ethan’s simple “thank you” was enough for me. I just wanted to make up and move on.

“So guess what happened this morning?” I said, bursting to share my news with him. Before he could guess, I blurted out, “I felt my baby kick!”

“Wow,” Ethan said. “That was the first time you felt it?”

“Yeah. But I haven’t felt her since. Should I be worried?”

Ethan shook his head. “No. I remember when Brandi was pregnant… she would feel a kick one day and then nothing for several days. The doctor told her that when you’re active, the baby is less likely to move around, because you’re essentially lulling it to sleep,” he said with a somewhat pained expression, as if it still hurt to think of Brandi’s betrayal.

“Does it make you sad to think about her?” I asked.

He kicked off his wet Pumas, peeled off his socks, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “I’m not sad about Brandi, but sometimes I am sad when I think about Milo.”

“Milo? Was that the guy Brandi cheated on you with?”

“No. Milo’s the baby.”

“Oh,” I said sheepishly, knowing that I should have remembered that detail. I looked at Ethan, wondering what empathetic words Rachel would offer. She always had a way of saying the right thing, making someone feel better. I couldn’t think of anything good so I just waited for Ethan to continue.

“For nine months, I thought I was going to be a father. I went to every doctor’s appointment and fell in love with those ultrasound pictures… I even picked the name Milo.” He shook his head. “Then we had the baby, and I realized he wasn’t mine.”

“When did you know for sure that he wasn’t yours?”

“As soon as he was born. I mean, he was dark-skinned with black eyes and all this crazy black hair sticking up everywhere. I kept thinking of my own baby pictures. Bald and pink. Brandi’s a blue-eyed blonde too. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.”

“So what did you do?”

“For the first few days, I think I was in shock. I pretended that it wasn’t true, that it was just a fluke genetic thing… All the while, in the back of my mind, I remembered that ‘big b, little b’ chart from high-school biology… Two blue-eyed parents just couldn’t make a Milo.”

I touched his arm lightly. “That must have been so hard.”

“It was awful. I mean, I loved that little boy. Enough so that I almost stayed with her. In the end… well… you know the rest.” His voice cracked. “I left. It felt as though someone had died.”

I remembered Rachel telling me about Ethan’s divorce and the baby that wasn’t his. At the time, I think I had been preoccupied with some crisis of my own and hadn’t been particularly empathetic to his pain.

“You did the right thing,” I said now, taking his hand in mine.

He didn’t pull away. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“Do you think I did the right thing? Keeping my baby?”

“Absolutely.”

“Even though you think I’m being a bad mother so far?” I asked, resisting the urge to tell him about my list. I wanted to make more progress before confiding in him.

“You’ll get it together,” Ethan said, squeezing my hand. “I have faith in you.”

I looked at him, and felt the same way I did on Thanksgiving, sitting on our bench in Holland Park. I wanted to kiss him. But of course I didn’t. I wondered why I resisted, when in the past I had always followed my impulses with not much thought of the consequences. Maybe because it didn’t feel like a game with Ethan, the way it had with Marcus and so many guys before him. Maybe because I had more to lose. Blurring the line between friendship and attraction was a surefire way to lose a friend. And losing one good friend was enough this year.

Later that night, after Ethan and I watched the news, he turned to me and said, “C’mon, Darce. Let’s hit the hay.”

“The hay in your room?” I asked hopefully.

Ethan laughed. “Yeah. In my room.”

“So you missed me last night?” I asked.

He laughed again. “I wouldn’t go
that
far.”

But I could tell by his expression that he
had
missed me. I could also tell that he was a little bit sorry for our fight, even though much of what he had said about me was true. Ethan liked me in spite of my flaws, and as I fell asleep next to him, I thought of how much more he was going to like the new and improved Darcy.

twenty-two

The next morning, prodded by another series of kicks from my baby, I decided that I would go apply for a job at the nursing home Meg and Charlotte had told me about. Ethan had already left for the day, so I used his computer to type up my resume and a quick cover letter, which articulately explained that my success in the world of public relations had everything to do with my outgoing personality, and that certainly this quality would translate well in the group bingo setting. After I spellchecked the letter, opting for the British spelling of the words
colourful
and
organised,
I showered, dressed, and headed out into the London chill.

When I arrived at the nursing home, I was blasted with the distinct and depressing odor of old people and institutional food, and felt my first wave of morning sickness since my first trimester had ended. I found a mint in my purse and drew a deep breath through my mouth as I studied two little old ladies in matching floral smocks parked in wheelchairs in the lobby. Watching them laugh and chat together made me think of Rachel and how we used to say that when we were old and widowed we wanted to be put in a nursing home together. I remembered her saying that I would still be a guy magnet well into my nineties and could help her get dates with the cutest old men in the home. I guess she decided to play that one out sixty years early, I thought, as a gnomelike man, whom I’d assumed was a resident, came to the door and introduced himself as the manager.

“I’m Darcy Rhone,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Bernard Dobbs,” he said. “How may I help you?”

“The question is, Mr. Dobbs, how can I help
you?
You see, I have come today to find a position at this fine institution,” I said, redecorating the shabby, poorly lit lobby in my mind.

“What sort of experience do you have?” he asked.

“I have a background in public relations,” I said, handing him my resume. “Which is a very interactive, people-driven business.” Then I paraphrased my cover letter, concluding with, “Most importantly, I just want to help spread cheer to the elderly folk in your fine country.”

Mr. Dobbs looked at me skeptically and asked if I had a work permit.

“Um… no,” I said. “But I’m sure ‘wink, wink, nudge, nudge’ we could deal with that problem, couldn’t we?”

He gave me a blank stare and then asked if I had ever worked in a nursing home. I considered lying. After all, I seriously doubted that he would place an international call to check my references. But I made a split-second determination that lying was not in keeping with the new Darcy, and that deceit wasn’t necessary to get a job. So I told him no, I hadn’t, and then added, “But believe me, Mr. Dobbs, I can handle anything here. My job in
Manhattan
was quite challenging. I worked long hours and was very successful.”

“Hmm. Well. I’m so sorry, Dicey,” he said, without sounding the slightest bit apologetic.

“It’s Darcy,” I said.

“Yes. Well. I’m sorry, Darcy. We can’t have just
anyone
working with our residents. You must be qualified.” He handed me back my resume.

Just anyone?
Was he for real? I pictured my future sister-in-law wiping up old-person drool as she hummed “Oh, Susanna.” Her job hardly required much skill.

“I understand where you’re coming from, Mr. Dobbs… but what experience do you really need to relate well to others? I mean, you either have that or you don’t. And I have that in spades,” I gushed, noticing a woman with a horrifying case of osteoporosis, inching her way down the hallway toward us. She craned her neck sideways and looked at me. I smiled at her and uttered a high, cheery “Good morning” just to prove my point.

As I waited for her to smile back at me, I imagined that her name was Gert and that she and I would forge a beautiful friendship, like the one in
Tuesdays with Morrie,
one of Dexter’s favorite books, one of many that I had never found time to read. Gert would confide in me, tell me all about her childhood, her wartime remembrances, her husband, whom she had sadly outlived by several decades. Then, one night, she would pass quietly in the night, while I held her hand. Later, I would learn that she had bequeathed to me all of her worldly possessions, including her favorite emerald brooch worth tens of thousands of pounds. At her funeral, I would wear the pin over my heart and eulogize her to a small but intimate gathering.
Gertrude was a special woman. I first met her one wintery day…

I smiled at Gert once more as she approached us. She muttered something back, her ill-fitting dentures wobbling slightly.

“Come again?” I asked her, to show Mr. Dobbs that not only was I kind and friendly, but that I also had a never-ending supply of patience.

“Go away and don’t come back,” she grumbled more clearly.

I smiled brightly, pretending not to understand her. Then I returned my gaze to Mr. Dobbs. “Well, then. As I was saying, I think you’ll see upon careful review that I’m really quite qualified for any position you might have for me.”

“I’m afraid I’m not interested,” Mr. Dobbs said.

As Gert passed us, her eyes danced triumphantly. I was tempted to tell her and Mr. Dobbs off. Something along the lines of “Get a life,” which I thought was particularly apropos for Gert, who appeared not to have many days left in her. Instead I politely thanked Mr. Dobbs for his time and turned to go.

Back outside, I embraced the cold day, clearing my nose of the sour nursing home stench. “Well. Back to the drawing board,” I said aloud to myself as I headed for the High Street to buy a newspaper. I would check the classifieds and regroup over breakfast at the Muffin Man. I wouldn’t let Mr. Dobbs or Gert get me down.

When I arrived at the tea house, I pushed open the door and said hello to the Polish waitress who had served Ethan and me on Thanksgiving. She gave me a perfunctory smile and told me I could sit anywhere. I chose a small table by the window, sitting on one chair and setting my purse, newspaper, and leather binder on the other. Then I consulted the sticky laminated menu and ordered herbal tea, scrambled eggs, and a scone.

As I waited for my food, I glanced around the flowery room decorated with Monet prints, my eyes resting on a petite girl sipping coffee at a table near mine. She had incredibly wide-set eyes, an auburn bob, and porcelain skin. She wore a wide-brimmed canary-yellow hat. She reminded me of Madeline, the character in the children’s books, which I used to read with Rachel twenty-five years ago. When the girl’s mobile phone rang, she answered it, speaking in a husky voice with a French accent. The French part fit the Madeline image, the husky part did not, as she seemed too diminutive to have such a deep voice. I strained to hear what she was saying—something about how she shouldn’t complain about the London weather because it is even colder and rainier in Paris. After a few more minutes of chatter about Paris, she said, “I’ll see you soon,
mon petit chou.”
Then she laughed affectionately, snapped her phone shut, and stared dreamily out the window in a way that made me think that she had just conversed with a new lover. I tried to remember what
chou
meant in French. Was it a puppy? No, I was pretty sure that dog was
chien.

I glanced around the Muffin Man again, hoping to find my Alistair, my own
chou.
But there were no solo male diners, handsome or otherwise. Only Madeline and an American couple consulting a Fodor’s guidebook on Great Britain. The two were sporting matching, bulging purple fanny packs and bright white Reeboks. I couldn’t help wondering why so many Americans (other than New Yorkers) have such a distinct lack of fashion sense, but the new Darcy didn’t hold it against them.

After my waitress brought my breakfast, I studied the tea strainer and peered into the silver pot at the floating tea particles, trying to remember how Ethan had prepared it for us. To a coffee drinker, it all seemed pretty complicated. Then, right as I was wishing he were here with me to pour my cup of tea and listen to my Mr. Dobbs tale, in he strolled, looking adorable in a red cap and a brightly colored striped sweater. His cheeks were pink, as they always were in the cold—which made his eyes look even bluer.

“Ethan!” I spoke in a normal voice, but it registered loud in the small, quiet room. “Hey, there!”

I caught Madeline giving me a look, perhaps disapproving of my outburst. I fleetingly regretted being the loud American in the room.

“Hey, Darce,” Ethan said, as he approached my table. “How did it go at the nursing home?” He must have returned to the flat, because I had left him a note about my job-hunting mission.

“Not so well. But I bought a paper to check the classifieds. Have a seat,” I said, moving my purse and binder to clear a chair for him. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was just thinking about you. How do you work this little contraption again?” I asked, motioning toward the tea strainer. Without sitting down, he leaned over my table, efficiently placed the strainer over my cup with one hand, and poured from the silver pot with the other.

“Have a seat,” I said again.

He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Um… actually, I’m meeting a friend here.”

“Oh… who?” I asked, worried that Phoebe was on her way.

“She’s right over there.” Ethan gestured toward Madeline and then, as she looked up at him, he winked at her—not in the smooth, sleazy way that some guys wink—more the cute, friendly sort of wink. Like Santa Claus if he were thin and young.

Madeline gave Ethan a pinky wave as she sipped her cappuccino from a glass mug. She then flashed him a small, private smile. I combined her smile with her
mon petit chou,
digesting the implications…
Ethan has a girlfriend. And she’s not only attractive, but she’s French to boot!

Ethan smiled back at Madeline and then looked down at me. “You’re welcome to join us, Darce.”

But I could tell he didn’t mean it. “That’s okay. You go ahead,” I said quickly, feeling embarrassed for assuming he was ever-available for me.

“Are you sure?” He gave me a furtive, borderline sympathetic look.

“Yeah. Yeah. I have to run in a sec anyway. Check out the leads in my paper. You go on… really,” I said.

“All right, then. I’ll see you a little later, okay?”

“Yup. Sounds good,” I said breezily.

As I watched Ethan amble toward Madeline’s table, I felt strangely territorial. Almost jealous. The emotion caught me off guard. I mean, why should I care if Ethan had a girlfriend? I certainly wasn’t interested in him. Sure, I had thought about kissing him, but that didn’t mean I was in love with him or anything crazy like that. Perhaps seeing him with someone just made me long for a companion of my own. Perhaps I was worried about my standing in his flat. My rights to his comfortable bed.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Madeline stand and kiss her
chou
on one cheek and then the other. I know it is a European practice, but it still looked pretentious, and I vowed never to dole out the double kiss again. Ethan pulled off his cap, exposing his tousled curls. Then he sat and angled his chair toward her. Their knees touched.

I looked away and ate quickly, feeling queasy and hurt that Ethan hadn’t told me about his relationship. I wondered what exactly was going on between them. Was he always off meeting her under the guise of finishing his book? Were they making mad love back at her place as I waited for him to come home every night? Why had he not told me about her? As I stood to pay my bill, I debated whether to say good-bye on my way out. On the one hand, I was curious to meet this girl and glean some insight into their fledgling (or was it established?) relationship. At the same time, I felt awkward, like I’d rather just sidle out the door unnoticed. It wasn’t like me to be anything other than gregarious, and I wondered again why Ethan’s having a girlfriend could affect me in this way.

As I stood by the cash register, a few yards from the lovebirds’ table, I could hear Madeline’s throaty French accent followed by Ethan’s happy chortle. I presented my bill to the waitress along with a ten-pound note. She gave me my change, which I dropped into a little dish for tips. Then, just as I was heading out the door, I heard Ethan call out, “Hey, Darce. C’mere for a sec.”

I turned around, pretending to be momentarily disoriented, as if I had forgotten altogether that he was there with a woman. Then I smiled warmly and took the few steps over to their table.

“Hey, there,” I said casually.

“This is Sondrine,” Ethan said. “Sondrine, this is Darcy.”

Sondrine?
What kind of name was that? I examined her closely. Her skin was poreless, and she had perfectly arched eyebrows. I hadn’t had my own brows done since I had left New York.

“Nice to meet you, Sondrine,” I said, catching myself in the pregnant-girl stance: knees locked, hands resting on my stomach. I dropped my arms to my sides, assuming a more attractive pose.

“And you,” Sondrine purred in a phone-sex voice.

We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then, just in case Ethan had downplayed my importance in his life—or failed to mention me altogether—I told him that I’d see him back home. I checked Sondrine’s face for a flash of surprise or insecurity, but saw neither. Just pleasant indifference. As I departed the Muffin Man and rounded the corner back to Ethan’s flat, I felt inexplicably wistful, almost sad. I felt my baby kick again, and I confided in her, whispering, “Ethan has a girlfriend. And I don’t know why that upsets me.”

I didn’t see Ethan until much later that night when he finally returned to the flat, sans Sondrine. I was sprawled on his couch, half-asleep, waiting for him with a pit in my stomach as I listened to a Norah Jones CD.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Tenish,” he said, standing over me. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes,” I said. “You?”

He nodded.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked, feeling like a suspicious wife who just found a smear of pink lipstick on her husband’s starched white shirt.

“Writing.”