Something Blue (14 page)

I worked up a stirring preemptive strike. “Ethan, I can’t take it if you’re going to shoot me down. I just can’t take it. You gotta help me out. I know you’re better friends with Rachel—I know you’re on her side…” I hesitated, waiting for him to say he wasn’t on anyone’s side. When he didn’t, I kept going. “But I’m begging you, Ethan. I have to get away from here. I’m pregnant. My boyfriend dumped me. I took a leave of absence from work. I can’t go home, Ethan. It would be way too humiliating. Way.” I said it all, knowing the risk—that he would call Rachel and tell her what a loser I was. But it was a chance I had to take. I said one final
please
and then waited.

“Darce, it has nothing to do with Rachel. It’s just that I like living alone. I don’t want a roommate.”

“Ethan, please. Just for a few weeks. Just for a visit. I have nowhere else to go.”

“What about Indy? You could stay with your folks.”

“You know I can’t do that. Could you have crawled back to Indy after you divorced Brandi?”

He sighed, but I could tell that I had hit an empathetic chord. “A few weeks? Like how many?”

“Three? Four? Six tops?” I said and held my breath, waiting.

“All right, Darce,” he finally said. “You can stay here. But only temporarily. My place is really small… and as I said, I really relish solitude.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you!” I said, feeling like my old victorious self. I just knew that my problems were solved and that his saying yes was the equivalent of bestowing me with a chance to fix my life, infuse it with European glamour. “You won’t be sorry, Ethan. I’ll be the perfect guest,” I said.

“Just remember—a
short
visit.”

“A short visit,” I echoed. “I got it.”

I hung up and envisioned my new life…

Strolling around cobblestone streets in Notting Hill, through the mist and fog, my basketball of a stomach peeking out between a cropped, cowl-neck sweater and chic, low-slung pants. A plaid Burberry cap is perched on my head, cocked slightly to the side. Beautifully tousled hair with chestnut highlights, compliments of the finest London salon, spills down around my shoulders. I stop by a charming patisserie, where I carefully select a pumpkin mousse tart. As I pay at the counter, I spot my future beau. As he glances up at me from his paper, his face lights up in a sexy smile. He is outlandishly handsome, with Dexter’s strong features and Lair’s light eyes and cute body. (His father is from Northern Italy
—
hence the blue eyes; his mother, British
—
hence the impeccable grooming, fine manners, and Oxford education.) His name is Alistair, and he is wickedly smart and sophisticated and ultra-wealthy. He might even be a duke or earl. He will top Dex in all categories. And he’ll be sexier than Marcus. Of course, he’ll fall madly in love with me at first sight. My pregnancy won’t deter him in the slightest. In fact, it will turn him on
—
as I have heard is the case with some highly evolved men. Within weeks of our first meeting, Alistair will ask for my hand in marriage. L will move out of Ethan’s charming flat into Alistair’s enormous and perfectly appointed home, complete with a maid, cook, butler, the works.

And then, one night in late April, when spring has come to London, as we sleep naked in his canopied, carved-wood bed handed down through four generations, on his eleven-hundred-thread-count sheets, I will feel the first gentle stirrings of labor. “I think it’s time,” I will whisper, gently jostling Alistair. He will bolt out of bed, help me dress in my cashmere pajamas, run a silver brush through my hair, and summon his driver before we whisk off into the London night. Then he will hover by my hospital bed, stroking my brow and planting tiny kisses along my hairline, while murmuring, “Push, dahling. Push, my treasure.”

It will be love at first sight all over again when he sees my daughter, who will look exactly like me. The daughter he will want to adopt. “Our daughter,” he will tell people. By the time her first tooth appears, we will have both forgotten that a boorish American is the biological father. And by that time, I surely will have forgotten all about Rachel and Dex. I will be too caught up in my happily-ever-after to give them even a cursory thought.

eighteen

For the next two weeks, I was all about preparation and action, single-minded in my quest to shut down my New York affairs and get myself to London. I placed a classified ad and found a young couple to sublet my apartment. Then I sold my tainted engagement ring in the diamond district and my wedding gown on eBay. When I combined the proceeds with the balance in my checking account, I calculated that I had enough money to get through my pregnancy in London without a day’s work.

Finally, I was all ready, my bags packed full of my finest belongings, on the way to JFK for my red-eye flight to London. As I boarded the plane, I felt a sense of absolute satisfaction, knowing that I was leaving the city without a word to the people who had betrayed me. I hunkered down in my business class seat, slipped on a pair of cashmere slippers, and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Seven hours later, I awoke as the plane hovered over green meadows and a winding ribbon of blue that had to be the Thames. My heart galloped with the realization that my new life had begun. I only grew more excited as I made my way through passport control (fibbing about the length of my stay just as I had to Ethan), withdrew British money from an ATM machine, and took a black cab from Heathrow to Ethan’s apartment.

I was invigorated on our drive into London, feeling more worldly already. I sat up straighter, speaking properly to my cabbie, and injecting plenty of niceties into our chitchat, instead of barking my usual yellow-cab orders. This was a civilized land, and in it I was going to find the good life. A more cultured existence. People like Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow, who could live anywhere in the world, chose to live in London, instead of tired old New York City and Los Angeles. I had some significant things in common with these women. Style. Beauty. A certain je ne sais quoi. Maybe I’d even befriend Madge and Gwynnie. Along with Kate Moss, Hugh Grant, and Ralph Fiennes.

Forty minutes of polite conversation later, I arrived on Ethan’s street. My cabbie got out of the car, came around to the passenger side, and helped me with my bags, lining my Louis Vuitton luggage up on the curb. I handed him two purple twenties and a pretty green five—all oversized, colorful bills adorned with a young Queen Elizabeth. Even the money was more interesting and lovely in England. “Here you go, sir. Please keep the change. Thank you kindly for your help,” I said, curtsying ever so slightly. It seemed a very British thing to do.

My cabbie smiled and winked at me.

I was off to a good start. I took a deep breath and exhaled, watching my breath fog up in the chilly November morning. Then I marched up the six weathered marble steps to Ethan’s building, located his flat number, and pushed the bronze button next to it. I heard an anemic buzzer followed by a “Yes?” over the intercom.

“Ethan! I’m here! Hurry! I’m freezing!”

Seconds later Ethan grinned at me through the beveled pane in the front door. He swung the door open and gave me a big hug. “Darcy! How are you?”

“Wonderful!” I said, doling out a double Euro-kiss, planting one on each of his pink cheeks. I ran my hand through his honey-colored hair. It was longer than usual, his curls loopy like a lion’s mane. “Love the ‘do, Ethan.”

He thanked me, said he hadn’t had time for a cut. Then he smiled and said in what seemed to be a sincere tone, “It’s good to see you, Darce.”

“It’s
great
to see you, Ethan.”

“How do you feel?” His hand moved in a comforting circle on my back.

I told him I’d be fine as soon as I got in out of the cold and cleaned my pores. “You know how flights wreak havoc on your skin. All of that nasty, recirculated air,” I said. “But at least I wasn’t stuck back in the cattle car. It’s disgusting back there with the common folk.”

“You’re far from a common folk,” he said, his smile fading as he looked beyond me and spotted my bags on the curb. “You gotta be kidding me. All of that for a few weeks?”

I had yet to tell him that my plan far exceeded a few weeks, and that I was thinking more along the lines of a few months, perhaps a permanent change. I’d ease him into that, though. By the time I told him the truth, our friendship would have supplanted his bond with Rachel. Besides, I’d be finding my Alistair in no time.

Ethan rolled his eyes. Then he heaved my two largest suitcases up his front steps. “Damn, Darce. You have a body in this bag?”

“Yes. Rachel is in this one,” I said proudly, pointing to one bag. “And Dex is in that one.”

He shook his head and gave me a look of warning, as if to tell me that he wasn’t going to bash his precious Rachel. “Seriously. What is all of this crap?”

“Just clothes, shoes. A lot of toiletries, perfumes, that sort of thing,” I said, scooping up my lighter bags, explaining that pregnant women shouldn’t lift anything heavier than twenty pounds.

“Gotcha,” Ethan said, struggling his way through the front door. Four trips later, he had all of my bags inside the building. I followed him into the dark, mothball-smelling lobby complete with seventies-green carpeting. I must have made a face, because Ethan asked me if something was wrong.

“Mothballs,” I said, wrinkling my nose.

“Better than moths,” Ethan said. “Wouldn’t want them to ruin your expensive jumpers.”

“Jumpers?”

“Sweaters.”

“My jumpers. Right,” I said, feeling excited to adopt British slang for everything. Maybe even pick up an English accent.

Ethan led me to the back of the dark, cold hall and then, to my disappointment, down a flight of stairs. I couldn’t stand basement apartments. They made me claustrophobic. They also translated to inadequate light and no terrace or view. Maybe the inside would compensate, I thought, as Ethan pushed open his door. “So this is it. Home sweet home,” he said.

I looked around, trying to mask my disappointment.

“I told you it was small,” he said, giving me a nonchalant tour. Everything was clean and neat and well decorated, but nothing struck me as particularly European except for some decent crown molding around fairly high ceilings. The kitchen was nondescript and the bathroom downright grim—with wall-to-wall carpeting (bizarre in a bathroom, but not uncommon according to Ethan) and an absolutely miniature toilet.

“Cute flat,” I said with false cheer. “Where’s my room?”

“Patience, my dear. I was getting to that,” Ethan said, leading me to a room off the kitchen. It was smaller than a maid’s room in a New York apartment, and its sole window was too narrow to squeeze through, yet it was still covered with a row of corroded iron bars. There was one white dresser in the corner that somehow clashed with the white walls, each making the other look sickly gray. Against the adjacent wall was a small bookshelf, also painted white, but peeling, exposing a mint-green underbelly. Its shelves were empty save for a few paperbacks and a huge pink conch shell. There is something about seashells displaced from the beach that has always depressed me. I hate the hollow, lonely sound they make when you press them to your ear, although I am always compelled to listen. Sure enough, when I picked up the shell and heard the dull echo, I felt a wave of sadness. I put it back on the shelf, then walked over to the window, peering up to the street level. Nothing about my view indicated that I was in London. I could just as easily have been in Cleveland.

Ethan must have read my reaction because he said, “Look, Darce. If you don’t like your room, there are plenty of hotels…”

“What?” I asked innocently. “I didn’t say a word!”

“I know you.”

“Well, then you should know that I’m endlessly grateful and thrilled beyond belief to be here. I love my cozy little cell.” I laughed. “I mean, room.”

Ethan raised his eyebrows and shot me a look over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses.

“It was a joke! It’s not a cell,” I said, thinking that John Hinckley Jr. probably had better accommodations.

He shook his head, turned, and dragged my bags into the room. By the time he was finished, there was barely room left to stand, let alone sleep.

“Where will I sleep?” I asked him, horrified.

Ethan opened a closet door and pointed to an air mattress. “I bought this for you yesterday. Luxury blowup. For a luxury girl.”

I smiled. At least my reputation was intact.

“Get organized. Shower if you want.”

“Of course I want. I’m
soo
gross.”

“Okay. Shower up and then we’ll get a bite to eat.”

“Perfect!” I said, thinking that perhaps his flat wasn’t what I hoped it would be, but everything else would surpass my expectations. The London scene would more than make up for the mothball odor and my cramped quarters.

I took a shower, disapproving of the water pressure and the way a draft in the bathroom blew the plastic curtain against my legs. At least Ethan had a nice array of unisex bath products. Plenty of Kiehl’s goodies, including a pineapple facial scrub that I have always enjoyed. I used it, careful to replace it on the tub exactly as it was so as not to give myself away. Nobody likes a houseguest who saps their best toiletries.

“Is there something wrong with your water?” I asked Ethan as I emerged from the bathroom in my finest pink silk robe, finger-combing my wet hair. “My hair feels gross. Stripped.”

“The water here is very hard. You’ll get used to it… Only annoying thing is that it leaves stains on your clothes.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, thinking that I’d have to dry-clean everything if that was the case. “Can’t you get a water softener?”

“Never looked into it. But you’re welcome to undertake the project.”

I sighed. “And I assume you don’t have a hair dryer?”

“Good assumption,” he said.

“Well. Guess I’ll have to go with the natural look. We’re not hanging out with other people today, are we? I want to look my best when you introduce me to your crowd.”

Ethan busied himself with a stack of bills on his dining room table, his back to me. “I don’t really have a crowd. Just a few friends. And I haven’t planned anything.”

”
Phew
. I want to make a good first impression. You know what they say—first impressions are last impressions!”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I’ll pick up a hair dryer at Harrods today,” I said.

“I wouldn’t go to Harrods for a hair dryer. There’s a drugstore up on the corner. Boots.”

“Boots! How sweet!”

“Just your standard drugstore.”

“Well, I better go dress then.”

“Okay,” Ethan said without looking up.

After I had changed into my warmest sweater and my hair had dried somewhat, Ethan took me to lunch at a pub near his house. It was charming on the outside: a small, ancient-looking brick building covered with ivy. Copper pots filled with tiny red flowers framed the doorway. But like Ethan’s flat, the inside was a different story. The place was dingy and reeked of smoke, and it was filled with undesirable workman types with grungy boots and even grungier fingernails. This observation was especially noteworthy because I had read a sign on the front door that said: CLEAN WORKING CLOTHES REQUIRED. I also noticed a small placard near the bar that read: PLEASE REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS BAGS OR PACKAGES TO THE PROPRIETOR.

“What’s up with that?” I asked Ethan, pointing to the sign.

“The IRA,” Ethan said.

“The who?”

“Irish Republican Army?” Ethan said. “Ring a bell?”

“Oh, that,” I said, vaguely recalling some incidents of terrorism in years past. “Sure.”

As we sat down, Ethan suggested that I order fish and chips.

“I’m feeling sort of queasy. Either from being pregnant or from the trip. I think I need something more bland. A grilled cheese, perhaps?”

“You’re in luck,” he said. “They have great croque monsieurs.”

“Croque misters?” I said. “What’s that?”

“Fancy French name for ham and cheese.”

“Sounds like a delight,” I said, thinking that I should brush up on my high school French. It would come in handy when Alistair and I took our weekend jaunts to Paris.

Ethan ordered our food at the bar, which he said was standard practice at English pubs, while I perused a newspaper someone had left on our table. Victoria and David Beckham, or, as the Brits called them, “Posh and Becks,” were plastered across the front page. I knew David Beckham was a big deal in England, but I just didn’t get it. He wasn’t that cute. Sunken cheeks, stringy hair. And I hated the earrings in both ears. I made my observations to Ethan, who pinched his lips, as if David were a personal friend of his.

“Have you ever seen him play soccer?” Ethan asked me.

“No. Who watches soccer?”

“The whole world watches soccer. It happens to be the biggest sport in every country but America.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned this David guy,” I said, tapping his picture, “is no George Clooney. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Ethan rolled his eyes just as an ill-kempt waitress brought our food to the table and handed us each a set of cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin. She briefly chatted with Ethan about his writing. Obviously he ate here often. I noticed that she had dreadful, crooked, yellow teeth. As she walked away, I couldn’t refrain from commenting. “So it’s true what they say about the dental work over here?”

Ethan salted his fish and chips and a pile of green mashed potatoes. “Kiley is really nice,” he said.

“Didn’t say she wasn’t. Just said that her teeth are bad.
Sheesh”
I said, wondering if he was going to be so touchy about everything. “And what’s with the green mashed potatoes?”

“They’re peas. Mushy peas, they’re called.”

“Gross.”

Ethan didn’t respond. I took a tiny bite of my croque monsieur. As I chewed, I found myself bursting to say Rachel’s name, get the full scoop from Ethan, find out everything he knew about her relationship with Dex. But I knew I had to tread carefully. If I launched into a tirade, Ethan would shut down. So after a few minutes of silent strategizing, I brought her up under the pretense of a shared high school memory, one that involved the three of us going to a Cubs game the summer after we graduated from high school. Then I cocked my head and said, very nonchalantly, “How is Rachel anyway?”