Something Blue (24 page)

Ethan asked me if I wanted a massage.

“Are your back massages as good as your foot massages?”

“Better,” he said.

“Hell yeah, then,” I said, as I rolled onto my side.

Ethan rubbed his hands together. Then he slid my nightgown up, exposing my bare back and apple-green thong. I felt my heart race with the realization that Ethan was seeing me essentially naked for the first time. I held my breath as he pressed his warm palms against the middle of my back and slowly worked upward between my shoulder blades. Then he firmly massaged my shoulders. “Is this too hard?” he asked softly.

“Nooo. It’s awesome,” I moaned, feeling all the tightness and tension drain from my body. As he kept massaging, I couldn’t stop imagining sex with Ethan. I tried to dismiss the thought, remind myself that it would ruin our friendship, to say nothing of what it would do to our respective relationships—relationships that were actually working. No matter what, I didn’t want to be a cheater ever again. I wondered if any such thoughts were crossing Ethan’s mind as his hands drifted down my back, his thumbs kneading my muscles along the way. He spent a lot of time in the small of my back and then went even lower to the top edge of my thong, just over my tailbone. His touch became gentler as his hands swept out over my hips. He lingered there and then stilled, signaling the end of the massage.

“There,” he said, patting my hips twice.

I turned around to face him, feeling oddly breathless. “Thanks. That was awesome.”

He didn’t respond, just looked at me with those clear, blue eyes. He was feeling something too. I was almost sure of it. I think I even saw his chest rising and falling under his T-shirt, as if he, too, were short of breath.

Then, after a long, strange moment, just as I thought he was poised to utter something meaningful, maybe even kiss me, he took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and said, “Well, what do you say we hit the kitchen?”

Ethan and I spent most of the day in our pajamas, preparing our Christmas dinner. I played the role of sous-chef, diligently taking his instructions. I chopped and peeled vegetables while Ethan focused on the turkey and fancier trimmings. Other than burning my finger in the goose fat when I removed the parsnips from the oven, everything went remarkably smoothly. Almost like a cooking show, Ethan bragged at one point.

Then, just as it was getting dark outside, I took a shower. Under the hot water, I allowed myself to revisit his massage that morning, marveling that Ethan could make me feel the way he had. I found myself speculating about what he had been thinking. When I got out of the shower, I even craned to check out my back in the mirror, feeling relieved to see that my ass was still rather small and—knock on wood—stretch-mark and cellulite-free. I felt a wave of guilt and confusion. Was I grateful to have a nice ass for Geoffrey’s sake, Ethan’s, or my own? As I changed into a fresh pair of sweats, I told myself that I was being crazy, likely even imagining the erotic component of the whole massage.

When I returned to the living room, I discovered that Ethan had moved the kitchen table in front of the tree, and set it with his best dishes and an ivory damask tablecloth.

“How pretty,” I said, kissing his cheek and feeling relief that I felt nothing more than affection for a good friend.

He smiled, adjusted the volume on his classical music, and pulled out my chair for me. “Let’s feast.”

And what a feast it was. Restaurant-worthy, for sure. We had a smoked-salmon salad with mustard and dill dressing as a starter, followed by our main course: a roast turkey seasoned with pink peppercorns, sage, and lemon. Our side dishes were roasted potatoes, pan-fried brussels sprouts with chestnuts, orange-glazed carrots, spiced red cabbage with apples, and parsnips seasoned with sea salt. And for dessert we had a delightful strawberry macaroon tart that Ethan had picked up from Maison Blanc, a bakery on Kensington Church Street.

We ate and ate until we literally couldn’t take another bite, applauding our efforts along the way. Afterward, we rolled our way over to the couch, where we cozied up under a blanket in our standard head-to-feet position and watched the candles burn down to their nubs. Just as we were nodding off to sleep, the phone rang and jarred us awake. I silently hoped that it wasn’t Sondrine—or Geoffrey for that matter. They had both already called earlier in the day, and I saw no reason why further conversation was necessary.

“You wanna get that?” I asked Ethan.

“Not really,” he mumbled, but he picked up the phone and said hello.

He shot me a furtive glance and then said, with a strained expression, “Hi, there, Rachel.”

I sat numbly next to him as I listened to him wish her a merry Christmas. He gave me another concerned look. I smiled to indicate that I was just fine. Then I went back to his bedroom and curled up under the covers. I tried to put Rachel out of my mind, but clearly that was impossible. I wondered if she was calling from Indiana. Whether Dex had come home with her. Seconds later Ethan appeared in the doorway. His face was solemn.

“Is it Rachel?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you off?”

“No, not yet… I just wanted to check on you…”

“I’m fine,” I said, reburying my face in the covers.

“Okay… I also wanted to ask you… can I tell her about your twins? She’s asking about you…”

“It’s none of her business,” I snapped. “I don’t want her to know anything about my new life.”

Ethan nodded. “I respect that. I won’t tell her anything.”

I thought for a beat and then peered up at him. “Oh, go ahead. It makes no difference to me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Ethan nodded, closed the door, and then returned to the living room. I suddenly felt overcome with grief and had to fight back tears. Why was I so upset? Hadn’t I moved beyond Rachel’s betrayal? I had a new boyfriend, new girlfriends, a new best friend in Ethan, and two babies on the way. And I was sure that I would find a job in the new year. I was doing fine. So why was I sad? I thought for a few minutes, dug down to a very deep place, and came up with an answer that I didn’t like. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I knew that it had something to do with missing Rachel.

Against my better judgment, I got out of bed, opened the door, and strained to hear Ethan’s end of the conversation. He was talking in a low voice, but I heard some snippets. “Twins… Boys. Identical boys. Amazing… Believe it or not, yes… Really great… She’s really changed… Like a different person… Yeah. Her doctor [laughter]. Yeah, she switched doctors, of course… Uh-huh, good for her, you know?… So what about you and Dex?… Sure, yeah. That makes sense…” Then came a long silence. And finally, a bone-chilling word:
Congratulations.

I could only think of one thing he could be congratulating her on.

Holy shit! Dex and Rachel got engaged! How
could they have gotten engaged so quickly? I wanted to hear more, but I forced myself to close the door and crawl back under the covers. Then I repeated over and over: I
don’t care about Rachel and Dex. I’ve moved on.
By the time Ethan returned to his bedroom, I half-believed my pep talk and, miraculously, was able to resist asking any questions about his conversation. I could tell Ethan was amazed by my restraint. He rewarded me with a kiss on my forehead and a gentle gaze. Then he told me to stay in bed. “I’ll clean up. You stay here and rest.”

I nodded, feeling drained and weary. “Thanks, Ethan.”

“Thank
you
, Darcy.”

“For what?” I asked.

He thought for a second and then said, “For a very memorable Christmas.”

I gave him a brave smile and waited for him to leave before weeping silently into my pillow.

twenty-seven

Ethan, Sondrine, Geoffrey, and I did the whole double-dating thing for the first time on New Year’s Eve. Geoffrey made reservations for us at Gordon Ramsey, the posh, Michelin-starred restaurant at Sloane Square, which was the perfect venue for a special occasion. Throughout the meal, we all praised the New French cuisine. Geoffrey called it “sublime” and Sondrine referred to it as a “symphony of flavors.” I thought they both sounded a bit pretentious, although it was a fair description of my pot-roasted belly of West Country pork with aubergine caviar, and of Ethan’s roast Scottish gray-legged partridge with braised red cabbage—which I tasted more than once.

Unfortunately, the interpersonal dynamic did not live up to the food. I think the measure of success of any double date is how well the women get along, and Sondrine and I just did not jell. On the sur-

face, everything was pleasant enough. She was extremely nice to me and very easy to talk to, but she came across as condescending. It was almost as if she thought I needed reassurance on every front. She must have said four times, “You hardly look pregnant at all,” which was no longer the case. I actually looked quite pregnant, and was comfortable with my new shape. And every time her career as a curator came up, she’d turn to me and purr, “I’m sure something will turn up for you very, very soon!”

I also had the distinct sense that Ethan had told her what a sybarite I had been in my old life, as she incessantly questioned me on my favorite clubs, designers, wines, and hotels. Of course, I still enjoyed those topics, but I would have appreciated at least a passing mention of my unborn sons.

Ethan and Geoffrey’s interaction, too, seemed strained beneath a friendly exterior. If I had to bet on it, I would have said that Ethan thought Geoffrey was overly reserved and colorless, and I think Geoffrey was just generally annoyed by my relationship with Ethan, and specifically our unconventional sleeping arrangement. It had been the root of our first argument the night before. Somehow it had come up that I had slept in Ethan’s bed over the holidays, and Geoffrey had grown quiet, almost sullen. After I coaxed it out of him, he told me that he thought it was “more than a bit odd” to sleep in a bed with a male friend. I reassured him that my relationship with Ethan was 100 percent platonic, feeling relieved that I could say so honestly. But I could tell he still felt somewhat threatened. This was evident at dinner whenever I tasted Ethan’s food. After my third bite, Geoffrey aggressively offered me a taste of his entree, and when I declined, he seemed a bit miffed. As if it were my fault that I didn’t like the sound of filet of monkfish wrapped in Parma ham.

But the four of us made it through dinner, and then to Annabel’s, an exclusive club on Berkeley Square, where we were joined by a dozen or so of Geoffrey’s upper-crust pals. Sondrine was in her element amid the elegant crowd, and she made a point to talk to an array of strangers, mostly men. I knew what she was doing, because I had done it myself many times; she was showing Ethan that she was desired by other men. At one point, when she was engrossed in conversation with a tuxedoed gentleman who looked like a young Frank Sinatra, I asked Ethan if he was at all bothered. He gave me a confused look and then said, “Why? Because she’s talking to that guy?”

I nodded.

He glanced at Sondrine, his face a mask of indifference. “Nah. Not at all,” he said with a shrug.

I couldn’t help feeling pleased with his answer. I wanted him to be happy, just not head over heels in love, and it seemed clear that that wasn’t the case.

Geoffrey, on the other hand,
did
seem smitten. He introduced me proudly to all of his friends. He repeatedly pulled me aside to ask how I was feeling and if he could get me anything. And just before midnight, with the crowd counting down the seconds to the new year, he gave me a passionate kiss, whirled me around a full turn, and shouted above the din, “Happy New Year,
darling!”

“Happy New Year, Geoffrey!” I said, feeling flushed and happy to be ushering in a monumental year with my dapper English beau. But I couldn’t help feeling distracted, wondering what Ethan and Sondrine were up to. I glanced around the room and spotted them lounging on a sofa, holding hands, while he ordered more drinks from a waiter. As I watched them together, I silently willed him to look over at me. When he finally did, I discreetly blew him a friendly kiss. He grinned and blew one back, and I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to be next to him, to exchange our first words of the new year. I wanted to thank him for everything, for being such a good friend when I needed one the most.

At that very second, Geoffrey whispered in my ear, “I’m falling in love with you, Darcy.”

I felt goose bumps rise all over my arms. Geoffrey’s words were the answer to all of my wishes. But as I tried to say the words back—that I was falling in love too—I caught another glimpse of Ethan, and I couldn’t get them out of my throat.

Much later that night, after we had said good-bye to Ethan and Son-drine, I was in Geoffrey’s bed making love to him. I sensed that he wasn’t entirely in the moment.

“Are you worried about the babies?” I finally asked. “Are you sure this is still safe?”

“Yes. Perfectly safe,” he breathed. “I just worry anyway.”

Proving that this was the case, he told me he would rather just cuddle anyway. “If that’s okay with you?”

I told him it was fine with me, but I was a bit worried too. Then after a long, silent stretch, he said the words outright. “I love you, Darcy.” His breath was warm in my ear, and I could feel the little hairs on my neck standing at attention. This time, I whispered that I loved him too. Then, I silently listed all of the reasons: I loved him for his gentleness. I loved him for being an amazing catch yet still vulnerable enough to be insecure. But most of all, I loved him for loving me.

As the winter in London dragged on and my due date neared, Geoffrey doted on me more and more. It was as if he had consulted every article ever written on how to treat a pregnant woman. He took me to the most fabulous restaurants: Mirabelle, Assagi, and Petrus. He bought me lavish gifts—Jo Malone bath oils, a Valentino clutch, lingerie from Agent Provocateur—which he’d leave for me on his bed, pretending to be just as surprised as I when I’d emerge from the bathroom to discover them. He reassured me that I was only becoming more beautiful with every passing day, insisting that he could not see the zits (or “spots” as he called them) that were frequenting my nose and chin. All the while, he would talk of our future. He promised to take me to see the exotic places he had traveled: Botswana, Budapest, Bora Bora. He promised me a wonderful life and made me feel like a lucky woman. A saved woman.

Yet as I lay next to him every night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. That no matter how perfect my life was becoming, something was missing. I suspected that it had something to do with my dire financial situation. I had never had such money worries in my life. Even in college, and my early days in New York, before I found my bartending job, all I’d had to do was phone my father and he’d help me out, wire me a few hundred dollars or send me a fresh credit card. Obviously, calling my dad was out of the question this time, so I finally swallowed my pride and confessed my situation to Geoffrey. My voice cracked with shame as I told him how I had blown my savings on a new wardrobe.

“Don’t worry about money, darling,” he said. “I can take care of you.”

“I don’t want you to have to do that,” I said, unable to make eye contact.

“But I
want
to.”

“That is so nice. Thank you,” I said, my face growing hot. I knew I had to accept his help, but it wasn’t easy. I told him I missed having a job, feeling completely independent.

He reassured me that I’d find a wonderful career after the babies were born. “You’re bright, talented, beautiful. When the babies are six months old, you can begin your search again. I can put you in touch with so many people… And in the meantime, I’m here for you.”

I smiled and thanked him again. I told myself that I wasn’t using Geoffrey. I loved him, and if you love someone, you can’t use them. Not really. Besides, I knew I would pay him back someday, somehow.

I went to sleep that night feeling tremendously relieved to have had the difficult conversation, relieved that I had a safety net when my last pound was spent. My peace of mind was short-lived, however, and the pit in my stomach returned full force just days later.

This time, I confessed my misgivings to Charlotte and Meg over tea at Charlotte’s flat. We were sitting at her small kitchen table, watching Natalie ignore her vast array of toys in favor of pots and pans that she had scattered all over the kitchen. I kept picturing how much more chaos
two
Natalies could inflict. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. Something’s just
plaguing
me.”

Charlotte nodded. “You’re just feeling general anxiety over childbirth and motherhood. The whole scary journey ahead. And it can’t help watching this!” She pointed at Natalie, rolled her eyes, and laughed.

“That has to be it,” Meg agreed. She had just recently announced the wonderful news that she, too, was pregnant. But she was still in her very early weeks, with her own set of worries about miscarrying. “There’s always something to fret about,” she said.

“Hmm,” Charlotte agreed. “The responsibility that is barreling toward you is bound to make you feel a bit insecure.”

“Maybe you guys are right,” I said, telling them about my crazy nightmares about losing or misplacing one, sometimes both, of my babies. I also dreamed about SIDS, kidnappings,
Sophie’s Choice,
deadly fires, cleft palates, and missing thumbs, but the losing-a-baby motif was the most common. In one dream, I actually shrugged and said to Ethan, “Oh, well. Still got one left. And this one looks just like the lost one anyway.”

“It’s totally normal to have those dreams,” Charlotte said. “I know I did. They’ll go away… Just throw yourself into preparing for motherhood. You’ll feel more confident that way.”

I took her advice over the next few weeks, calling her and Annalise often to ask for advice. I also read articles and books on parenting philosophies, breast-feeding, and scheduling. And I signed up for a birthing class, where I learned everything from how to breathe during labor to how to bathe my babies.

But despite all of the assurances given to me and all of my preparation for motherhood, I
still
felt unsettled. I honestly had no idea what it was, but my mind kept drifting to Ethan. I barely saw him at all anymore. Every time I went to his flat to pick up clothing, he was gone, either out working or at Sondrine’s. Or worse, I’d hear her husky laughter emanating from his bedroom. I wasn’t jealous, because I was very happy in my own relationship. It was more just a pang of missing the way things used to be. I suppose that’s the way you always feel when a close friend develops a romantic relationship that threatens to impact your friendship—or at least the everyday nature of it. I vaguely remembered feeling the same way when Rachel spent all of her time with her law school boyfriend, Nate. I reassured myself that although things would change in the upcoming year, Ethan and I would always remain close. Much closer than we’d ever been before my move to London. We just had to make the effort to see each other. So after a week of not connecting, I phoned his mobile and arranged a dinner alone.

“You seem down,” Ethan said over our Thai takeaway back at his flat.

“Maybe a little,” I said. “I think it’s all the changes on the horizon. Meg and Charlotte said it’s normal to feel apprehensive.”

He nodded as he transferred our dinner from Styrofoam containers onto plates. “Yeah. Your life
is
about to change dramatically.” Then he thought for a second and said, “Maybe it’s also your unresolved conflict with your mother?”

“No,” I said, blowing on my Pad Thai. “And I don’t think it’s Rachel, either, in case that’s what you’re thinking.” I looked at him, expecting him to say something more about her. He still had not told me—nor had I asked—about their conversation on Christmas Day. Which was fine by me. I didn’t want the confirmation of her engagement to upset the delicate balance in my life. I looked up at him and said, “I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on exactly what I’m feeling. Something just isn’t quite right.”

He suggested that perhaps I needed to nest. “You’re prepared mentally… but now you have to get there physically.” He took a sip of beer. “I think we need to get the nursery set up. I was thinking that I’d paint this weekend.”

I smiled, thrilled that he still wanted us, but then hesitated and said, “What about Geoffrey?”

“What about him?”

“Well, I think he might want me to move in with him,” I said. “He’s been talking about finding a bigger flat,” I said nervously, as if I were somehow betraying Ethan by moving out. We had come a long way since my frantic phone calls from New York when I had to practically beg to stay with him for a few weeks.

Ethan jabbed at a green pepper with one chopstick. “Is that what you want? To live with Geoffrey?” he asked in a judgmental tone.

“Why do you say it like that?”

“I’m not… I mean… I just didn’t know you two were
that
serious,” Ethan said. “It seems like it’s really happening fast.”

I felt myself getting defensive as I told him yes, we were getting quite serious and that Geoffrey was everything I was looking for.

“As long as you’re happy,” Ethan said. “That’s all I want for you.”

“I
am
happy.”

Ethan looked pensive as he took a bite of brown rice. He chewed, swallowed, sipped his beer, and then said, “Well, I still think we should go ahead and paint your room… just in case.”

“Just in case Geoffrey and I break up?”

“No. I didn’t mean that. I just meant… well… just in case it takes longer than expected for you and Geoffrey to feel ready to live together. In any event, I want the boys to have a room here too.”