Something Blue (15 page)

Ethan didn’t take the bait. He looked up from his mushy peas and said, “She’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Darcy,” he said, not fooled at all by my look of wide-eyed innocence. It was hard to pull one over on Ethan.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m not going to do this with you,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Discuss Rachel.”

“Why not? I don’t get it,” I said, dropping my sandwich onto the plate.

“Rachel is my friend.”

“You’re friends with me, too, you know.”

He poured some vinegar on his fish and said, “I know that.”

“Annalise is friends with both of us, and she’ll talk to me about… what happened,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Why won’t you tell me what you think? I won’t be offended. I mean, clearly you’re on her side.” Reverse psychology was always worth a try, even with someone as smart as Ethan.

“Look, Darcy, I just don’t feel comfortable with this whole topic. Don’t you have anything else to talk about besides Rachel?”

“Trust me. Plenty,” I said, as if my world were as chock full of glamorous intrigue as it had always been before tough times had befallen me.

“Well, then… stop trying to get me to bash her.”

“I’m doing no such thing. I just wanted to talk to you, my childhood friend, about our other childhood friend and… the current state of affairs. Is that so wrong?”

He gave me a long look, and then finished his lunch in silence. When he was finished, he lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled in my general direction.

“Hey! Watch it! I’m with child!” I squawked.

“Sorry,” he said, turning his chair and exhaling in the other direction. “You’re going to have a rough time in this country, though. Everybody smokes.”

“I can see that,” I said, looking around. “It stinks in here.”

He shrugged.

“So. Can I just ask a few questions?”

“Not if they’re about Rachel.”

“C’mon, Ethan, they are perfectly harmless questions. Please?”

He didn’t respond so I asked my first question. “Have you talked to her recently?”

“Fairly recently,”

“Does she know I’m here?”

He nodded.

“And she’s okay with that?” I asked, hoping that she was decidedly
not
okay with it. I wanted her to be jealous that I was here in London with her precious Ethan. I wanted her to feel territorial stabs. I couldn’t wait for Ethan to send her postcards from our trips together—jaunts to Vienna, Amsterdam, Barcelona. Perhaps I’d scratch out a haphazard PS on the occasional card. “Wish you were here,” I’d write. To show her that I was
so
over the whole Dex thing. That I had moved on big time.

“She’s fine with it. Yes.”

I made a snorting sound to indicate that I highly doubted that that was the case.

Ethan shrugged.

“So what’s new with her?”

“Not much.”

“Is she still with Dex?”

“Darcy. No more. I mean it.”

“What? Just tell me! I don’t care if they’re together. I’m just curious, is all…”

“I
really
mean it,” he said. “No Dex questions.”

“Fine. Fine. I think it’s bullshit that we—two friends—can’t talk frankly. But whatever. Your issues.”

“Right. My issues,” Ethan said, looking drained.

After lunch I unpacked while Ethan retreated to his bedroom to write. I made several trips to his room to request more hangers, and every time I’d pop in, he would glance up from his laptop with an annoyed expression, as if one little hanger request somehow threw him off his whole train of thought.

By midafternoon, my room was as organized as it could be considering the lack of space. I had stuffed my closet full of clothes, lined my favorite shoes in two rows along the bottom, and had set up all of my makeup, toiletries, and lingerie on the bookcase. It wasn’t pretty, but it was functional enough. Just as I was in the mood to call it quits for the day and round up Ethan for some fun, I caught him in the living room stuffing papers and a pack of cigarettes into a messenger bag.

“Are you going somewhere?” I asked him.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Out. To write.”

“What exactly are you writing again?”

“A chapter in a book on London architecture. And I recently started writing a novel. And I have a ton of freelance articles due. You know, stuff to pay the rent.”

“What’s your novel about?” I asked, thinking that my life would make for an excellent read. I was sure I could provide him with some good material.

“It’s about a guy who loses his whole family in a carbon monoxide accident and goes to live in the woods alone to heal.”

“Sounds cheery.”

“It’s ultimately uplifting.”

“If you say so… But do you have to work on my first day?”

“Yes. I do,” he said unapologetically.

I frowned, asked him why he couldn’t stay at home and write. I told him I’d be extra quiet. “Like a church mouse,” I whispered.

He smiled. “You? A church mouse?”

“C’mon, Ethan. Please,” I said. “I’ll be lonely here.”

He shook his head. “I can’t think here.”

No wonder. It’s a cramped little shit hole, I thought to myself. Instead I just threw up my hands and said, “Fine. Fine. But just so you know… glasses and caps don’t go together. Pick one or the other. It’s like… overaccessorizing or something. Edit your look.”

He shook his head as I followed him to the door.

“Where do I find you if I need you?” I asked.

“You don’t,” he said.

“Seriously, Ethan! Where will you be?”

“I don’t know. I just wander around until I find a cafe with a good vibe. Nothing too quiet. Nothing too clamorous. Just a nice dull din. I left my mobile number on that pad,” he said, pointing to a tablet on the hall table. “Call only if absolutely necessary.”

“Can’t I come with you?”

“No.”

I sighed. “What am I supposed to do for the rest of the day without you? I didn’t think I’d be all alone on my first day here.”

He shifted his bag to the opposite shoulder and looked at me, poised to lecture.

“Okay. Okay. Sorry… I’ll make do.”

He handed me a set of keys and a spiral book with a map on the front. “The small key works the front door. The brass one goes in the top lock. Skull key for the bottom. All turn to the left. And take this
A to Zed.
Your bible to the London streets.”

“I hate maps,” I said, flipping through the book. “And this one looks impossible. There are too many pages.”

”
You’re
impossible,” Ethan said.

“Just tell me where I should go to shop,” I said.

“There’s an index in the back of the
A to Zed
. Look up Knightsbridge. You have plenty of shopping in that general area. Harrods. And Harvey Nichols, which is more your bag.”

“How so?” I asked, anticipating a compliment.

“More fashionably elite.”

I smiled. I was nothing if not fashionably elite. “How far away is Knightsbridge?”

“A long walk. Or short cab ride. I’ll explain the tube another day. No time now.”

“Thanks, Ethan,” I said, kissing his cheek. “I’ll see you tonight. And in the meantime, I’m going to find some cute clothes!”

“Sounds like a swell plan,” he said with a supportive smile. It was as if Ethan understood that if I were going to start a new life, I needed a whole new wardrobe too.

nineteen

As
it turned out, Ethan was right.

Harvey Nichols was
exactly
my bag. I started out at Harrods, but it was too large and packed with touristy riffraff in much the same way Macy’s is at home. Harvey Nics, as I overheard one British girl call it right outside the Sloane Street entrance, was more upscale and boutiquey, reminding me of Henri Bendel or Barneys in New York. I was in heaven, going from rack to rack, gathering various gems by Stella McCartney, Dolce & Gabbana, Alexander McQueen, Jean Paul Gaultier, and Marc Jacobs. Then I threw some new names into the mix, finding splendid, wintery garments from designers I had never heard of.

My only bad moment of the afternoon came when I discovered that I could no longer squeeze into a size six. I was seventeen weeks pregnant, and my initial few pounds of pregnancy weight had already propelled me up from my usual size four, but when even the sixes didn’t fit, I panicked. I examined my ass and thighs in the dressing room mirror, and then simulated the old pencil test, where you stand with your feet together, place a pencil between your legs, and see if it stays put between your thighs or drops to the ground. I was relieved to see that there was still adequate space—a pencil would definitely fall to the ground. So how could it be that my size had changed so significantly, seemingly overnight? I poked my head out of the dressing room and summoned a striking salesgirl wearing a funky leather skirt and orange vinyl boots.

“Excuse me, but are the sizes a bit off in Dries Van Noten?” I asked her.

She gave me a melodious laugh. “American?”

I nodded.

“The sizes run different here, love. Are you a four at home?”

“Yes,” I said proudly. “I am normally. But lately I take a six at home.”

“That’s a ten here typically.”

“Oh, what a relief!” I said.

“Would you like me to get you some new sizes?”

I nodded gratefully, handed her my stash, and asked her if she would add a skirt like hers to my pile. Then I waited, half naked, in the dressing room, studying the small bump protruding from my stomach. It had popped out seemingly overnight, but my body was otherwise still trim and well toned. I had fallen off my rigorous, prewedding workout schedule, but I reasoned that as long as I was careful with my diet, I could maintain my figure for at least a few more months.

When the salesgirl finally returned, she squealed, “Oh, my, you’re pregnant! How far along are you?”

“Four months and change,” I said, running my hand down along my bump.

“You look
smashing
for four months,” she purred in her chic accent.

I thanked her as I moved aside to let her hang my size tens in the dressing room. An hour later, I was buying five amazing outfits that would have made Claire drool. As I forked over my Visa, I remembered that my spree added up to many more dollars than pounds, but I told myself not to bother with the conversion. I would just pretend to be spending dollars. And anyway, what was a few thousand dollars in the scheme of things? Nothing. Not when I thought of it as a kick start to my new life. It was an investment.

And as long as I was investing in myself, I figured that I might as well throw in a couple pairs of Jimmy Choos, which after all had great practicality as I could wear them throughout my pregnancy, maybe even tapping home in them from the hospital with Alistair by my side.

I left Harvey Nics and found my way back out to glorious Sloane Street, visiting my old friends—Christian Dior, Valentino, Hermes, Prada, and Gucci—discovering with delight that each store had slightly different inventory than what the New York stores carried. So I treated myself to a gorgeous Gucci tan leather hobo bag with the most satisfying brass hardware.

After my final purchase, I hailed a cab and returned to Ethan’s flat, exhausted but thrilled with my purchases, anxious to show him what I had discovered, conquered, and made my own. Ethan wasn’t yet back at the flat so I helped myself to a cup of raspberry sherbet and turned on the television. I discovered that Ethan only had five channels, and I ended up watching a string of remarkably unfunny British sitcoms and a reality television show based in a hair salon. Ethan finally walked in the door just after ten o’clock.

“Where have you been?” I asked, hands on my hips.

He glanced at me as he tossed his bag on the floor. “Writing,” he said.

“This whole time?”

Yes.

“Are you sure? You smell like a bar,” I said, burrowing my nose in his jacket. “Don’t discount my ability to party just because I’m pregnant.”

He jerked his arm away, his blue eyes narrowing. “I wasn’t partying, Darce. I work in cafes. Smoky cafes. I told you that.”

“If you say so… but I’ll have you know I’ve been bored stiff here. And I’m famished. I only had some sherbet all night. I really shouldn’t be skipping meals like this when I’m pregnant.”

“You could have eaten without me,” he said. “I have stuff here—and there are plenty of places to eat up on the High Street. For future reference, there’s a good Lebanese joint called Al Dar… They don’t deliver but you can call ahead for takeout.”

I was a little annoyed that he wasn’t being more nurturing, but I decided not to pout. Instead, I embarked on a mini fashion show, showing Ethan all my purchases, twirling and posing while he watched the news. I got a lot of cursory compliments, but mostly he seemed disinterested in my goods. During one clip on a suicide bomber in Jerusalem, he even shushed me, holding up the palm of his hand inches from my face. At that point, I let the dream of a bonding session die and retired to my room to blow up my air mattress. Sometime later, Ethan appeared in the doorway with a sheet, blanket, and small, flat pillow. “So you figured that thing out?” he asked, pointing down at my mattress.

“Yeah,” I said, sitting on the edge and bouncing slightly. “It had a little pump. Much easier than blowing.”

“Told you it was luxury.”

I smiled, yawned, and politely requested a good-night kiss. Ethan leaned down and planted one on my forehead. ” ‘Night, Darcy.”

“Good night, Ethan.”

After he closed the door, I turned off the light and struggled to get comfortable on my mattress, arranging and rearranging my pillow and blanket. But I couldn’t fall asleep despite how tired and jet-lagged I was. After an hour of tossing, I took my blanket and pillow and shuffled into the living room, hoping that Ethan’s couch would be more comfortable. It wasn’t. It was too short by several inches, which gave me that desperate feeling of needing to straighten my knees. I tried to drape my feet over the edge of the couch, but the arms were slightly too high and after several minutes with elevated legs, I felt as if all my blood were rushing to my head. I sat up, whimpered, and stared into the still, dark room.

Only one option remained. Still swaddled in my blanket, I tiptoed down the hall toward Ethan’s room, pressing my ear against his door. I could hear his radio and realized that the quiet in my room might be part of the problem. I was used to the lulling sound of New York City traffic. I knocked softly, hoping he was still awake and willing to talk for a few minutes. Nothing. I knocked again, more loudly. Still nothing. So I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. I pushed the door open and whispered Ethan’s name. No response. I walked over to the bed and peered down at him. His mouth was slightly open, his hands tucked under one cherubic cheek.

I hesitated and then said in a normal tone, “Ethan?”

When he still didn’t stir, I walked around to the other side of the bed. There was plenty of room for me so I got in bed next to him, on top of the covers, still wrapped in my own blanket. Although I would have preferred a long conversation, I instantly felt less lonely just being close to a familiar friend from home. Just as I was drifting off, I sensed movement. When I opened my eyes, Ethan was squinting over at me.

“What are you doing in my bed?”

“Please let me stay,” I said. “It’s too lonely sleeping in that room with bars on the windows. And I think the air mattress is bad for my back. Take pity on a pregnant girl. Please?”

He made an exasperated sound but didn’t protest. So of course I pressed my luck.
Quit while you’re ahead is
advice I’ve never been able to follow. “Can I get under the covers with you, please? I need a human touch. I’m dying inside.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Ethan grunted wearily, but then shifted slightly, lifting the covers for me.

I shed my blanket and crawled in beside him, nestling against his slender, wiry frame.

“No funny business,” he mumbled.

“No funny business,” I said cheerfully, thinking how nice it was to have a good male friend. I felt grateful that we had never hooked up—so it didn’t feel at all weird to be in the same bed together. In fact, unless you count elementary school, we had only had one close call over the years. We were at a party following our ten-year reunion. I was a little tipsy and something came over me—perhaps it was the realization that Ethan, although slightly nerdy in high school, had become the most popular guy in our class. Everyone was clamoring to talk to him. The adulation made me appreciate him on a whole new level. So I guess I got a little carried away for a few seconds and thought it might be fun to make out with him. The details are blurry, but I remember running my hands through his curly hair and suggesting that he give me a lift home. Luckily, Ethan showed superhuman restraint in the name of our friendship. Or maybe he really
was
gay. Either way, the lines of our friendship were clear now—which was a good thing.

“I’m glad I’m here,” I whispered happily.

“Yeah. Me too,” he said unconvincingly. “Now go to sleep.”

I was quiet for a few minutes but then realized that I had to pee. I tried to ignore it, but then kept myself up debating whether to get up. So I finally got up, and tripped over a pile of books next to Ethan’s bed.

“Darcy!”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help it that I
have
to pee. I’m pregnant. Remember?”

“You might be pregnant, but I have insomnia,” he said. “And I better be able to fall back asleep after all your shenanigans. I have a
lot
to do tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be quiet when I get back,” I said. Then I scurried down the hall to the bathroom, peed, and returned to his bed. Ethan lifted the covers again for me, his eyes still shut. “Now be quiet. Or it’s back to your cell. I mean it.”

“Okay. I’ll be quiet,” I said, cuddling next to him again. “Thanks, Ethan. I needed this. I really needed this.”

For the next couple of weeks, my routine stayed the same. I shopped all day, discovering a wide array of fashion boutiques: Amanda Wakeley and Betty Jackson on Fulham Road, Browns on South Molton Street, Caroline Charles on Beauchamp Place, Joseph on Old Bond Street, and Nicole Farhi on New Bond Street. I bought fabulous designer pieces: playful scarves, beautiful jumpers, chic skirts, unusual handbags, and sexy shoes. Then I sought out the bargain spots on Oxford Street—Next, River Island, Top Shop, Selfridges, and Marks & Spencer—because I’ve always maintained that it is totally effective to work such low-end pieces into an otherwise couture wardrobe. Even overt knockoffs, if paired with high-end pieces and worn with confidence, can look positively fabulous.

Every night I would return home with my purchases, and wait for Ethan to finish his day of work. Then we would eat takeaway together, or he would whip us up a meal, followed by a little bit of television and conversation. When it was time for bed, I always retired to my room first, pretending to give my air mattress a good-faith try before transferring to his bed. Ethan would act exasperated, but I could tell he secretly enjoyed my company.

On my third Wednesday in town, after much nagging on my part, Ethan finally promised to take the following day off and hang out with me.

“Awesome! What’s the special occasion?” I asked.

“Um. Thanksgiving? Remember that holiday? Or have you been in England too long?”

“Omigod. I totally forgot about Thanksgiving,” I said, realizing that it had been days since I had consulted a calendar or talked to anyone from home. I had yet to call my parents or brother and notify them that I had left New York, and I felt satisfied knowing that I would be a topic of conversation at the dinner table the following day.

“What would you like to do?” Ethan asked me.

“Well, the stores will all be open, right?” I asked. “Since it’s not a holiday here?”

He made a face. “You want to shop more?”

“We could shop for you,” I said, trying to entice him. “I love men’s clothing.” I thought of all the times I had shopped for Dex—how gorgeous he had looked in the outfits I had assembled. Now with only Rachel to help him, I was sure he was sporting Banana Republic clothing. His wardrobe was definitely going to take a hit without me.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a nice, long walk along the Thames. Or a stroll around Regent’s Park. Have you been there yet?”

“No,” I said. “But it’s freezing out there. You really want to spend the day outside?”

“Okay. Then how about a museum? Have you been to the National Gallery?”

“Yes,” I fibbed, in part because I didn’t want to be dragged there. Museums make me weary, and the dim lighting depresses me. But I also lied because I didn’t want any attitude about the number of days I had spent in stores in lieu of museums. If he called me out on it, I had a rationale ready—the museums and cathedrals weren’t going anywhere, whereas fashion was changing by the second.

“Oh, really? You didn’t mention you’d been there,” he said, with a hint of suspicion. “What did you think of the Sainsbury Wing?”

“Oh. I
loved
it. Why? What do you think of it?” Deflection is always a good technique when you’re in mid-fib.

“I love it… I wrote an article about it.”

I struck a thoughtful pose. “What was the article about?”

“Oh, I wrote about how the modernists criticize it because they prefer a streamlined simplicity in architecture. You know, ‘less is more’… whereas the postmodernists, including Robert Venturi, the American who designed it, believe that a structure should be in sync with its surroundings… so the rooms in that wing reflect the cultural context of the Renaissance works housed within it.” Ethan spoke excitedly despite the dull topic.