Something Borrowed (39 page)

"Yeah, right. She always knows what she's doing."

"I guess so. Maybe. But it really wasn't significant."

That explains why she thought Ethan was gay. Turning her

down it must be the only explanation. "Guess her fifth-grade

charms wore thin on you."

He laughs. "Yeah. We did go out once upon a time." He makes

little quotes in the air as he says "go out."

"See. You picked her over me too."

He flashes his dimple. "What the hell are you talking about now?"

"On the note. The check-the-box note."

"What?"

I sigh. "The note that she sent you. The 'Do you want to go out

with me or Rachel?' note."

"That's not what the note said. It didn't say anything about you.

Why would it say anything about you?"

"Because I liked you!" Somehow I am embarrassed admitting it,

even after all these years. "You knew that."

He shakes his head firmly. "Nope. Did not."

"You must have forgotten."

"I don't forget shit like that. I have a bomb-ass memory.

Your

name was not in the note. See. I'd know because I liked you back

then." He peers at me from behind his glasses and then lights

another cigarette.

"Bullshit." I feel myself blush. It's only Ethan, I tell myself. We are

adults now.

"Okay." He shrugs and inverts the cover of his matchbook. Now

he looks embarrassed too. "Don't believe me."

"You did?"

"Big time. I remember always helping you out in four square so

that you'd get to be king. I'd always pound the king when you were

in the queen position. Tell me you didn't notice that."

"I didn't notice that," I say.

"As it turns out, you're markedly less perceptive than I once

thought

Yeah, I liked you. I liked you all through junior high and high

school. And then you dated Beamer. Broke my heart."

This is big news, but I still can't get past the fact that my name

wasn't in that note. "I swear I thought Annalise saw it."

"Annalise is a sweet girl but such a lemming. Darcy probably told

her to say that your name was in the note. Or somehow tricked

her into thinking it. How is Annalise, anyway? Did she have her

kid yet?"

"No. But any minute now."

"Is she going to the wedding?"

"If she's not in labor," I say. "Everybody is but you."

"And you. Terrible thing about your spleen."

"Yeah. Tragic." I smile. "So you're sure my name really wasn't in

the note?"

I am focusing on evidence from twenty years ago. It is absurd, but

I ascribe all kinds of meaning to it.

"Positive," he says. "Pos-i-tive."

"Damn," I say. "What a bitch."

He laughs. "I had no clue that I was the man. Thought it was all

about Doug Jackson."

"You were not the man. It was all about Doug Jackson," I say.

"That's the point I was the only one who liked you. She copied

me." Again, I notice how juvenile I sound whenever I describe my

feelings about Darcy.

"Well, you didn't miss much. Going out with me consisted of

sharing a few Hostess cupcakes. Wasn't very exciting.

And I still

hooked you up in four square."

"So maybe Dex will hook me up the next time we all play four

square," I say. "That would be really" I can't think of the right

word. I can feel myself getting drunk.

"Nifty? Brilliant? Smashing?" Ethan offers.

I nod. "All of those. Yes."

"Feeling better?" he asks.

He is trying so hard. Between his efforts and the beer I feel

somewhat healed, at least temporarily. I consider that I am

thousands of miles away from Dex. Dexter who did have my

name as an option when he chose, instead, to check the box next

to Darcy's name. "Yes. A little better. Yes."

"Well, let's recap. We determined that I never picked Darcy over

you. And that she didn't get into Notre Dame."

"But she did get Dex."

"Forget him. He's not worth it," Ethan says, and then glances up

at the menu scrawled on a blackboard behind us. "Now.

Let's get

you some fish and chips."

We eat lunch fish, French fries, and mushy peas that remind me

of baby food. Comfort food. And we have a couple more pints.

Then I suggest that we go for a walk, see something England-y. So

he takes me into Kensington Gardens and shows me Kensington

Palace, where Princess Diana lived.

"See this gate? That's where they piled all the flowers and letters

when she died. Remember those photos?"

"Oh yeah. That was here?"

I was with Dex and Darcy when I found out that Diana had died.

We were at the Talkhouse and some guy walked up to us at the bar

and said, "Did you hear that Diana died in a car crash?"

And even

though he could only have been talking about one Diana, Darcy

and I both asked, Diana who? The guy said Princess Diana. Then

he told us that she died in a high-speed crash while the paparazzi

chased her through a tunnel in Paris. Darcy started bawling right

on the spot. But for once it wasn't the give-me-attention tears.

They were genuine. She was truly devastated. We both were.

Several days later we watched her funeral together, waking at four

a.m. to see all of the coverage, just as we had done with her

wedding to Prince Charles sixteen years earlier.

Ethan and I meander through Kensington Gardens in a drizzle,

without an umbrella. I don't mind getting wet. Don't care that my

hair will frizz. We pass the palace and circle a small, round pond.

"What's this pond called?"

"Round Pond," Ethan says. "Descriptive, huh?"

We walk past a bandstand and then over to the Albert Memorial, a

huge bronze statue of Prince Albert perched on a throne. "You

like?"

"It's pretty," I say.

"A grieving Queen Victoria had this thing built when Albert died

from typhoid fever."

"When?"

"Eighteen sixty- or seventy-something Nice, huh?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Apparently she and Al were pretty tight."

Queen Victoria must have been sadder than I am now, I suppose.

I then have a fleeting thought that I'd prefer losing Dex to illness

than to Darcy. So maybe it's not true love if I'd rather see him

die Okay, I wouldn't rather see him die.

The rain starts to come down harder. Other than a few Japanese

tourists who are snapping pictures on the steps of the memorial,

we are alone.

"You ready to head back?" Ethan points in the opposite direction.

"We can explore Hyde Park and the Serpentine another day."

"Sure, we can go back now," I say.

"Your spleen acting up in this weather?"

"Ethan! I have to go to the wedding."

"Just blow it off."

"I'm the maid of honor."

"Oh, right] I keep forgetting that," he says, wiping his glasses on

his sleeve.

As we walk back to his flat, Ethan chuckles to himself.

"What?"

"Darcy," he says, shaking his head.

"What about her?"

"I was just thinking about the time she wrote to Michael Jordan

and asked him to our prom."

I laugh. "She actually thought he was going to come!

Remember

how she was worried about how she would break the news to

Blaine?"

"And then Jordan wrote back to her. Or his people did, anyway.

That's the part that I found unreal. I never thought she'd get a

response." He laughs. No matter what he says, I know he has a

soft spot for her, in spite of himself. Just as I do.

"Yeah. Well, she did. She still has the letter."

"You've seen it?"

"Yeah. Don't you remember how she taped it up in our locker?"

"And yet," he says, "you never saw the letter from Notre Dame."

"Okay. Okay. You might be right. But where were you twelve years

ago with that insight?"

"As I said, I thought we were on the same page there.

The whole

thing was pretty transparent You know, for a smart woman you

can be pretty dim."

"Why, thank you."

He tips an imaginary hat. "Don't mention it."

We return to Ethan's flat, where I succumb to my jet lag. When I

wake up, Ethan offers me a cup of Earl Grey tea and a crumpet.

Lunch at a pub, a walk past Diana's old pad, an afternoon nap

where I don't dream once about Dex, and tea and crumpets with

my good friend. The trip is off to a good start. If anything can

really be good with a broken heart.

That evening we meet up with

Ethan's friends Martin and Phoebe, whom he met during his stint

writing for Time Out. I have heard much about both of them: I

know that Martin is very proper, went to Oxford, and comes from

a ton of money, and that Phoebe hails from East London, once got

fired for telling her boss to "piss off," and has slept with a lot of

men.

They are exactly as I imagined. Martin is well dressed and

attractive in an unsexy way. He sits with his legs crossed at the

knee, nods and frowns a lot, and makes a "hmm" sound whenever

anyone else speaks, showing rapt attention. Phoebe is Amazontall

with untamed, tomato-red hair. I can't decide whether her

orange lipstick clashes with her hair or complements it.

I also

can't decide whether she is very pretty or just plain weird-looking.

Her body is definitely not ideal, but she doesn't try to hide it. One

roll of her big white stomach shows between her shirt and jeans.

Nobody in Manhattan would expose her stomach unless it was as

hard as bedrock. Ethan told me once that British women are much

less obsessed with appearances and being thin than American

women. Phoebe is evidence of this, and it is refreshing.

All night

she talks about this bloke whom she wants to shag, and that bloke

whom she has already shagged. She makes all the statements

matter-of-factly, as you would tell someone that work has been

very busy or that you are tired of all of the rain. I like her candor,

but Martin rolls his eyes a lot and makes dry comments about her

being uncouth.

After Phoebe has carried on for a while about this guy Roger, who

"deserves to have kerosene poured on his balls," she turns to me

and asks, "So, Rachel, how do you find the men in New York? Are

they as bloody dreadful as English men?"

"Why, thank you, darling," Martin deadpans.

I smile at Martin and then turn back to Phoebe. "It depends

widely varies," I say. I have never thought in terms of

"American

men." They are all I know.

"Are you involved with anyone now?" she asks me, and then blows

smoke up toward the ceiling.

"Um. Not exactly. No. I'm unattached."

Ethan and I exchange a look. Phoebe is all over it.

"What? There is

a story here. I know there is."

Martin unfolds his arms, waves smoke out of his face, and waits.

Phoebe makes a hand motion, as if to say, come on, out with it.

"It's nothing," I say. "Not worth discussing, really."

"Tell them," Ethan says.

So now I have no choice in the matter because Ethan has

established that there is, indeed, something to tell.

I don't want to annoy everyone with a long session of

"it's

nothing," "tell," "really nothing," "c'mon, tell," and Phoebe does

not seem the type to tolerate that evasive charade. She is Hillarylike

in this regard Hillary is fond of saying, "Well then, why'd you

bring it up?" Only in this instance, Ethan brought it up.

In any

case I am stuck, so I say, "I've been seeing this guy all summer

who is getting married in less than two weeks. I thought he

might call the wedding off. But he didn't. So here I am.

Single

once again." I tell my story without emotion, a fact that makes me

proud. I am making progress.

Phoebe says, "Usually they wait until they're married to cheat.

This bloke has a head start, eh? What's his wife-to-be like? Do

you know her?"

"Yeah. You could say that."

"A real bitch, is she?" Phoebe asks solicitously.

Martin clears his throat and waves away her smoke again. "Maybe

Rachel doesn't wish to discuss it. Have we considered that?"

"No, we haven't" she says to him, and then to me, "Do you mind

discussing it?"

"No. I don't mind," I say. Which I think is the truth.

"So? The girl he's marrying how do you know her?"

"Well" I say. "We've known each other a long time."

Ethan cuts to the chase. "In a nutshell, Rachel is the maid of

honor." He pats me on the back and then rests his hand on my

shoulder in a congratulatory way. He is clearly pleased to have

offered his mates this nugget of transatlantic gossip.

Phoebe isn't fazed. I'm sure she's seen worse trouble.

"Bloody

mess," she says sympathetically.

"But it's over now," I say. "I made my feelings known.

I told him

to call the wedding off. And he picked her. So that's that." I try to

mask the fact that I am a rejected mess; I think I am doing a good

job of it.

"She's moving on marvelously," Ethan says.

"Yes. You don't look a bit ruffled,' Phoebe says. "Never would have

guessed.'

"Should she be crying in her Carling?" Martin asks Phoebe.

"I would be. Remember Oscar?"

Ethan groans, and Martin winces. Clearly they remember Oscar.