Something Blue (22 page)

I lowered myself into the tan leather seat, catching Geoffrey glancing down at my ankles before he turned to walk around the car and slide in beside me. He started the engine and negotiated his way out of the tight parking spot as he said, “I feel just awful about tonight, Darcy. I am so sorry. That was incredibly unprofessional of me. I just assumed that you had told everyone. A terrible assumption indeed.”

“No worries, Mr. Moore,” I said, testing the waters. If he let the
Mr. Moore
stand, then he still saw me only as a patient he had wronged. And I would know that my ride was strictly a pity lift.

But instead he said, “Geoffrey. Please call me Geoffrey.” He looked at me with his almond-shaped brown eyes rimmed with thick, dark lashes.

“Geoffrey,” I said in a slightly flirtatious tone. “You are forgiven.”

He looked over at me, nodded, and grinned. Then, after he had driven the equivalent of three New York City blocks, he asked, “So how are you feeling about… everything?”

“I’m getting used to the idea. Maybe I’m even a tiny bit excited.”

“Well, I think little boys are positively marvelous,” he said earnestly. “I have one. He’s called Max.”

“Oh, really? How old is he?” I asked, wondering if Geoffrey also had a wife.

“He just turned four. They grow so quickly,” Geoffrey said. “One second you’re changing nappies. And the very next, you’re watching them go off to school, too proud to even hold your hand.” He laughed and then worked in somewhat awkwardly that he was “no longer with Max’s mum.”

I looked out my window, smiling to myself, knowing now that Geoffrey was
definitely
interested. And I couldn’t help feeling smug. I still had it—pregnant with twins and all.

When we arrived at Ethan’s flat, I asked Geoffrey if he’d like to come inside for a drink and talk some more.

He hesitated and said, “I would like that very much.”

So a few minutes later, after discovering that Ethan was not yet home, I struck a provocative pose on the couch and engaged Geoffrey in pleasant conversation. We talked about New York and London. My job search. His profession. Identical twins. Parenthood. Then we segued into more personal matters. We discussed Max’s mother and their amicable split. We covered Marcus. Even an abridged version of Darcy and Dex. Geoffrey was a bit stiff, but still easy to talk to. And very easy on the eyes.

Then, right around midnight, he asked if I wouldn’t mind enlisting his partner, Mr. Smith, as my new doctor. I smiled and said I had been thinking the very same thing.

“Well, then… now that we have cleared up that little conflict, might I kiss you?” he asked, leaning in closer to me.

I said that he could. So he did. And it was nice. His lips were soft. His breath sweet. His hands gentle. All the boxes were checked. His name might as well have been Alistair.

Yet right in the heat of the first real kiss I’d had in months, with Geoffrey, a British doctor, dallying about my newly acquired cleavage, my mind was elsewhere, fixed on Ethan and Sondrine. Was his face buried in her neck or some such spot? Was he falling for her? Was she equally overcome by his spicy, yet subtle, cologne?

twenty-five

Geoffrey called me before noon on the following day, proving that he was man enough not to subscribe to any silly waiting games. Or perhaps only American men make you wait. In any event, he told me that he enjoyed my company and would love to see me again. I found his candor immensely attractive, which in turn made me feel that I had matured.

I shared this observation with Ethan later that night as he stood at the stove making us fried eggs and bacon for dinner. We both loved breakfast foods any time of day. In fact, one of the few things that Ethan and I agreed on in high school was that going to IHOP after football games was a better choice than the infinitely more popular Taco Bell.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sounds like you might be ready for a real, healthy relationship.”

“As opposed to pursuing someone like Marcus?” I asked.

He nodded. “Marcus was all about rebellion.” He flipped one egg with a spatula and then probed gently at the yolk of the other. “You subconsciously knew that Dex was wrong for you, so you cheated on him to escape your engagement.”

I considered this statement, and told him I thought he was right. Then I said, “So what about you and Sondrine?”

Ethan had not returned home the night before, and I had spent a long, restless night checking the clock and wondering what was happening between them.

Ethan blushed while he kept his eyes on our eggs.

“So? How was last night?” I asked.

He turned down the gas flame with a flick of his wrist and said, “We had a nice time.”

I decided to cut to the chase. “Did you sleep with her?”

His cheeks turned a shade pinker. Clearly he had. “None of your business,” he said. “Now make the toast, please.”

I stood from the table and put two slices of wheat bread in his toaster. “It is
sort of my
business.”

He shook his head and asked, “How do you figure?”

“I’m your roommate… and your bedmate… I need to know if my status is in any way threatened,” I asked, treading carefully.

“Your status?”

“My spot in your bed?” I said, in my “no duh” tone.

“You can stay in my bed,” he said.

“I can? Why’s that?” I asked, perhaps a tad hopeful that Ethan had determined that Sondrine wasn’t the woman for him in the long term.

“Because I’m not going to throw a pregnant woman to the wolves… I’ll just stay at her place,” he said quickly, as if he had already given much thought to the issue.

Maybe he had even decided that it was no longer appropriate for us to sleep next to each other. At least I still had my bed for the short term, but what if Ethan and Sondrine became more serious and moved in together? What then? I felt anxious at the thought of it-— and maybe even a little sad. I liked how close Ethan and I were, and didn’t want that to change.

I decided that I had to prepare for the worst. If Ethan and Sondrine did become serious, I sure as hell wanted to be in a relationship too. From an emotional standpoint (I mean, who wants to be alone?), and as much as I hated to admit it, from a financial standpoint. I so wanted to add “be self-sufficient and independent” to my list, but in practical terms, how could I stay in London, jobless, with two children on the way?

So I threw myself into dating Geoffrey, catching myself fantasizing about a big wedding and the blissful life after with our three boys and a couple of Cavalier King Charles spaniels. I could hear myself saying, years later, every time I would tell the convoluted story of how we met: “See? Things happen for a reason. My life was hell and then it all fell neatly, magically into place.”

I told Charlotte and Meg of my hopes for the future as we strolled through Hyde Park with Natalie one afternoon. They both seemed thrilled with the idea of Geoffrey and me being together. They sang his praises, calling him a “wonderful father,” a “brilliant doctor,” and the “rare, highly evolved man who is not scared off by a pregnant woman.”

“And,” said Charlotte, as she maneuvered Natalie’s pram around a cluster of Japanese tourists snapping photos of the Peter Pan statue, “he’s gorgeous and rich to boot!”

I laughed. “Yeah. And you wanted to set me up with a damn ginger!”

Meg laughed. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of Geoffrey in the first place. I guess because we were thinking of him as your doctor.”

Charlotte agreed. “I know! But it’s so
obvious
now. Clearly you’re perfect together.”

Meg nodded. “He adores you… and you even
look
amazing together.”

I had a second of uneasiness. “You look amazing together” was the kind of thing people always said to Dex and me, and look how we turned out. But I pushed the comparison out of my head and said with a chuckle, “Yeah. Well. Now I just have to find out whether he’s good in bed. If so, this whole thing is a done deal!”

So a few nights later, I set about finding out. Our evening began at the Ivy, one of the most popular restaurants in London. The head chef was a friend of Geoffrey’s, so we had a tasting menu prepared especially for us, followed by a magnificent slice of flourless chocolate cake for dessert, and some very expensive port for Geoffrey.

While we waited for the bill, Elle MacPherson and her husband sauntered in for a late reservation. They sat one table over from us. I caught Geoffrey inspecting her, and then glancing back at me as if comparing us feature by feature. When I asked him what he was thinking, he said, “You truly are prettier than she. I much prefer your eyes.”

I smiled, and told him that he was more handsome than Elle’s husband too.
Handsome
was the right word for Geoffrey’s looks. He reached across the table and put his hand on mine. “What do you say we go back to my place?”

I leaned seductively across the table and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

We left the Ivy and returned to Geoffrey’s flat, my first visit to his place. I pictured him living in a traditional town house, like Meg’s, but instead it was a sleek, minimalist loft decorated with interesting sculptures, monochromatic paintings, and contemporary furniture. I thought of Marcus’s sloppy apartment, relishing the absence of video games, fish tanks, dirty sneakers, and beer cans.

“I love your flat. It’s
exactly
my taste,” I said.

He looked pleased with the compliment, but confessed that he had used a decorator. “She’s quite good. I don’t have the patience for it.”

I glanced around again, noticing a little red table and chairs covered with crayons, scraps of paper, and a half-assembled puzzle of a cartoon character I didn’t recognize. “Max’s play area?” I asked.

He nodded. “Although his stuff usually spreads from his bedroom to every corner of the flat.”

I smiled.

“Could I see a picture of him?”

He pointed to his mantel. On it was a photo of Max walking along a pebbled beach, squinting up in the sunlight. “He’s two and a half in that photo. It was taken at my cottage at St. Mawe’s.”

“What a beautiful little boy. He looks a bit like you,” I said, glancing from the photo back to Geoffrey.

“He actually looks more like his mum,” Geoffrey said. “But he got my nose. Poor chap.”

I laughed and told him that I loved his nose. “It has character,” I said, reminding myself of Rachel. She always talked of the character in someone’s face, saying that small, pretty noses on men turned her off. I sort of knew what she meant. I liked the strong statement that Geoffrey’s nose made.

He put his arms around me and kissed my nose. “And I love yours.”

The exchange was one of those very early precursors to I
love you
. You know—when a couple goes around saying that they love certain things about each other.
I love your eyes. I love spending time with you. I love the way you make me feel
. And then out of the blue—a straight-up
I love you
.

Geoffrey offered me a drink. “Juice? Water? Tea?”

“Nothing, thank you,” I said, shifting a Tic Tac from one side of my mouth to the other.

I watched him stride over to his wet bar and pour himself a glass of bourbon. Then he turned on his stereo. African music that reminded me of the background singers in Paul Simon’s
Graceland
filled his fiat. We sat on his modern leather couch, he draped his arm around my shoulder, and we talked. As I listened to his charming accent, punctuated by the atmospheric clinking of ice in his rock-cut tumbler, I tried to figure out who he reminded me of. I finally decided that he was a mature Hugh Grant, a straight Rupert Everett, and an English Dex Thaler. He was exactly what I would have ordered off a menu: an absolute gentleman—no part guy or boy.

And as always, he waited just long enough before he kissed me, not delving in too quickly. We were half-reclined, but every few minutes, Geoffrey would stop the tide, straighten up, sip his bourbon, and sort of silently gather himself. Then he’d kiss me again. The last such session concluded with him standing and issuing a formal invitation to his bedroom. I obliged, thinking how much I wanted to have sex. I missed it a lot. It had been my longest drought in at least a decade, maybe ever. More important, I wanted to take things to another level with Geoffrey. I wanted to infuse intensity and intimacy into our somewhat formal relationship.

Moments later I got my wish. Geoffrey and I were standing by his bed, undressing each other slowly. We faced each other, alternating pieces of clothing like a game of strip poker where you can’t decide if you want to be the one naked and vulnerable or the one in control. I wanted everything, all at once. But I was patient, letting the suspense build. Finally we were both naked. For the first time, I was with a guy and feeling self-conscious about my body, but Geoffrey quickly dispelled any lingering worry I had that my pregnancy would turn him off. He kneeled in front of me and kissed my navel. The sensual gesture made me feel lush and beautiful.

Then he took my hand and led me over to his bed. The transition was smooth, like a scene in a movie where everything flows just right.

After some quality foreplay, the somewhat awkward production of a condom, and Geoffrey’s reassurance that sex was perfectly safe during this stage of my pregnancy, he entered me from behind, which was practical given my stomach issues, but nonetheless quite nice. Geoffrey lasted a very long time. A very,
very
long time. In addition to his impressive staying power, he was definitely less reserved between the sheets. At some point I stopped observing and just let myself go.

Then, in the sweaty aftermath, while listening to an a cappella tribal chorus of
tu lu lus
, he curled his body around mine, kissed the nape of my neck, and said, “You’re amazing.”

I thanked him and returned the compliment. He
was
amazing.

We both fell asleep and repeated everything in the middle of the night and then again in the very early morning. After our third time together, I looked into his eyes and saw something. Saw a look I recognized. It took a moment to place it, but when I did, I was certain of what it was. It was addiction. Geoffrey was addicted to me. And this fact alone felt like a very significant triumph in a season of heavy losses.

A short time later, I met Geoffrey’s son, Max. Geoffrey went to pick him up at his mother’s house in Wimbledon while I waited in his flat, resisting the strong temptation to snoop through his drawers. In the past, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself, but in the past, I think I
wanted
to find some fodder for a fight. A photo of another woman, an old love letter, a condom that predated me. Something to rile me up, fuel my jealous instincts, get my competitive juices flowing. I wasn’t sure whether my pregnancy had matured me, mellowed me, or simply sapped my strength. But in any event, I was enjoying the ease of my new, tranquil relationship. I wasn’t interested in barriers, only smooth sailing and a happy ending.

When Geoffrey and Max returned, I stood to greet them, my face stretched out in a huge smile. Max was adorable—cute enough to be in a Gap ad in his little navy overalls and fire-engine-red turtleneck. I felt my first wave of excitement over having sons instead of daughters.

“Hi, Max,” I said. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said, avoiding eye contact as he got down on his knees and rolled his toy truck along the hardwood floor. I noticed that he had blue eyes, but lashes as dark as Geoffrey’s.

I tried again to engage Max, lowering myself to the floor, where I sat back on my heels. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

Geoffrey mouthed, “He’s shy,” before gently prompting Max, “Can you tell Darcy it’s nice to meet her too?”

“Nice to meet you, Darcy,” Max mumbled, giving me a suspicious glance.

I suddenly wished that I had more experience talking to children. I struggled for a second and then said, “That’s a great truck—lorry—you have there.” I lowered myself further, sitting cross-legged.

Max glanced at me again, slightly longer this time. He gripped the cab of his truck and pushed it a few inches toward me. “It has big tires. See?” he said, almost as if he were testing me.

“It sure does. Some really,
really
big tires.”

Max didn’t seem too impressed with my answer. I tried to dig up any scrap of information I had stored in my memory on trucks. “My brother, Jeremy, had a red lorry just like this one,” I finally said. “Only the steering wheel was on the other side!”

“On this side?” he asked, pointing to the passenger side.

“Exactly!” I said, resting my hands gently over his and trying to remember the throaty sounds that Jeremy used to annoy me with when he played with his trucks. I cleared my throat, hoping that I could get them right.

”
Vroom,“l
started, realizing that such a noise belonged more to a sports car. I tried again. “
Grrrrrrrr. Grrrrrrrrrrr
,” I growled, easing the front wheels over my right knee. I felt slightly foolish, like a man must feel when prompted by his daughter to play with a Ken doll.

Fortunately, Max seemed to approve of my sound effects. I saw the corners of his mouth twitch into the smallest of smiles. This gave me confidence. So I made more motor noises, followed by the sound of an engine idling.
“Buh. Buh. Buh. Buh.”
That had been one of Jeremy’s favorites.