“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.
He continued, “Thus you have this grand interior with all sorts of things going on, like this perspective illusion where these aligned arches get smaller in the distance, just as they do in the Scala Regia, at the Vatican Palace…because in Venturi’s words, ‘Less is a bore.’”
“Hmmm,” I said, nodding. “Less is a bore. I’d have to agree with Venturi on that point.”
Ethan adjusted his glasses and said, “So would Prince Charles. Upon seeing the initial design plans for a much more simple design by modernists, he made the comment that the wing would be ‘a monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved friend.’”
I laughed. “I don’t know what a carbuncle is, but it doesn’t sound pleasant. I wish one upon Rachel’s nose.”
Ethan ignored the remark and asked me what were my favorite paintings in the National Gallery.
“Oh, I couldn’t begin to choose just one.”
“Did you see The Supper at Emmaus?”
“Yes. Brilliant.”
“And how about Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait?”
“Oh, I loved that one too,” I said.
“Did you notice the inscription on the back wall in the painting?” he asked.
“Refresh my memory?”
“The inscription over the mirror…Its English translation is ‘Jan van Eyck was present’ and sure enough you can see his reflection in the mirror, along with the couple getting married and another guest. I’ve always wondered why Jan van Eyck wanted to include his own image in that painting. What do you suppose he was trying to say?”
I had the sudden feeling that I was back in college, being put on the spot by an art history professor. “Hmm. I dunno.”
“I don’t either…but it does make you think…And don’t you just love how huge that painting is? Just dominating the room?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “It’s huge, all right.”
Ethan shook his head and laughed. “You’re full of shit, Darce. That painting is tiny. You’ve never been to the National Gallery, have you?”
I tossed my hair off my face and smiled sheepishly. “Okay. No. You got me. You know I don’t like museums, Ethan! I’d rather live life than walk around some dark rooms with a bunch of dorky American tourists.” It sounded like a good excuse. Sort of like people who say they don’t read the newspaper because the news is too depressing. I had subscribed to that one in the past too.
“I’d agree that when you go to a new city, you shouldn’t spend every moment in a museum, but you’ll miss a lot if you blow off all museums…. In any event, I’d like to show you something of London. Something other than Harrods and Harvey Nichols. What do you say?”
I thought to myself that what I really wanted was to return to Joseph for a leather jacket I had resisted the day before. It was over four hundred pounds but classic enough to last forever, the kind of purchase you never regret. I was sure it would be gone if I didn’t get back there tomorrow. But I relished the idea of having daytime companionship, so if Ethan wanted London culture, I’d oblige.
The next day Ethan woke me up at eight, chirping excitedly about the full day he had planned for us. We showered and dressed quickly, and by nine, we
were making our way up to Kensington High Street. It was a frigid, gray day, and as I slid on my aubergine leather gloves trimmed with rabbit fur, I asked Ethan why London always felt so much colder than the actual temperature.
“It’s the dampness in the air,” he said. “Permeates every layer of clothing.”
“Yeah,” I said, shivering. “It’s downright bone-chilling. Glad I wore my boots.”
Ethan made an acknowledging sound as we walked at a faster clip to keep warm. Moments later we were at the entrance of Holland Park, both of us slightly out of breath.
“Of all the parks in London, this is my favorite,” Ethan said, beaming. “It has such an intimate, romantic aura.”
“Are you trying to tell me something, Ethan?” I joked, as I linked my arm around his.
He smiled, rolled his eyes, and shook me off. “Yeah. I’m about to propose. How’d you know?”
“I hope you have an emerald-cut diamond in your pocket. I’m so over brilliant cuts,” I told him as we walked along a wooded path that curved around a big, open field.
“Brilliant cuts are the round ones?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Damn. I bought you a fat, round diamond. Guess we’ll have to stay friends then.”
I giggled. “Guess so.”
“So anyway, this,” he said pointing to the field, “is called the Cricket Lawn.”
“People play cricket here?”
“Historically, yes. And I’ve seen the occasional cricket game here, but more often it’s football—soccer. And in the summer, it’s a giant lounging ground. People spread out everywhere on blankets. It only takes about sixty degrees before the Brits will be out here sunning…. My spot is right there,” he said, pointing to a shady area on the outskirts of the field. “I’ve had many delicious naps under that tree.”
I pictured Ethan with his various notebooks, trying to write, but succumbing to sleep. I thought how nice it would be to come here with him in the summer with my baby and a picnic lunch. As we circled the top of the field next to an outdoor theater, I thought about how contented I was to be hanging with Ethan. Then I thought of Rachel, and wished that she could see a snapshot of us together, strolling around a London park on Thanksgiving morning. I wondered what she and Dex were doing, whether they had gone back to Indianapolis for the holiday. Perhaps they were in Rachel’s kitchen now, sitting by her bay window with a cup of coffee and a view of my house.
I told myself not to corrupt my good mood and turned my attention back to Ethan, who was spouting off all kinds of facts, as he often does. He told me that the park comprised the former grounds of Holland House, which used to be a social and political hot spot in the city. He explained that it was bombed and damaged during World War II. He said that it currently provided shelter for several peacocks that we were bound to see.
“Oh, I love peacocks.”
He looked at me sideways and snickered. “You sort of remind me of one.”
I told him that I’d take that as a compliment.
“I figured you would,” he said, and then pointed out a restaurant called the Belvedere. He told me they had the most elegant brunch, and that if I were good, he might take me there.
Beyond the restaurant was a beautiful, formal garden, which Ethan told me was planted in 1790 by Lady Holland with the first English dahlias. I asked him how he could remember so many names and dates and facts, and if his mind didn’t ever feel cluttered with useless information.
He told me that history wasn’t clutter. “Clutter is knowing all of the things that you absorb through your fashion magazines. Clutter is knowing which celebrities broke up with whom and why.”
I started to explain that today’s celebrities would be tomorrow’s historical figures, but Ethan interrupted me. “Check it out. A peacock!”
Sure enough, a gorgeous bird in brilliant blues and greens was strutting around a fenced-in grassy area, his feathers splayed just like the NBC mascot. “Wow. So pretty,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind having a coat in those colors.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when I’m Christmas-shopping for you,” Ethan said. Although I knew he was joking, it made me happy to hear him reference Christmas. I hoped that I could extend my stay at least that long. If I could make it until then, I was home free until my baby arrived. He surely wouldn’t banish me as I approached my third trimester. “Okay. This is my favorite part of the park coming up. The Kyoto Garden, built during the Japan festival.”
We climbed a few steps and passed a placard on our way to the garden.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Ethan asked, pausing at the entrance of the garden.
I nodded. It was. The tiny garden was a tranquil enclave with a pond, bonsai-like trees, wooden walkways, and waterfalls. I told Ethan that the whole scene reminded me of Mr. Miyagi’s garden in Karate Kid. Ethan laughed as he led me across one footbridge. He stopped on the other side and sat on a wooden bench. Then he closed his eyes, propped his hands behind his head, and said, “This is the most peaceful spot in London. Nobody ever comes here. Even in warm weather, I always seem to have it all to myself.”
I sat down next to Ethan and looked at him as he inhaled deeply, his eyes still closed. His cheeks were pink and his hair was curled up around the edges of his navy wool hat, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt a flicker of attraction to him. It wasn’t the sort of physical attraction I had felt toward Marcus, nor was it the objective admiration I had felt for Dexter. It was more a welling of fondness for one of my only remaining friends in the world. Ethan was both a tie to my past and a bridge to my new life, and if gratitude can make you want to kiss a person, at that moment I had an unmistakable urge to plant one on him. Of course I resisted, telling myself to stop being crazy. Ethan wasn’t my type, and besides, the last thing I wanted to do was disrupt our living (and sleeping) arrangement.
A moment later, Ethan stood abruptly. “You hungry?”
I told him that I was, so we walked back to Kensington High Street, past his flat, and over to a tea shop on Wright’s Lane called the Muffin Man. The inside was shabby but cozy, filled with little tables and chairs and waitresses wearing floral aprons. We took a table by the window and ordered toasted sandwiches, tea, and scones. As we waited for our treats, we talked about my pregnancy. Ethan asked me about my last trip to the doctor. I told him it was right before I came to live with him and that I was due for another one soon.
Ethan caught my slip and raised his eyebrows. “To live with me?”
“I mean to visit,” I said, and then quickly changed the subject before he could inquire about my departure and discover that I had bought a one-way ticket. “So at my next appointment, I’ll find out the gender of the baby…. But I just know that it’s a girl.”
“Why’s that?” Ethan asked, as the waitress arrived with our treats.
“It’s just a very strong feeling. God, I hope it’s a girl. I’m not a big fan of men these days. Except for you, of course. And gay men.”
He laughed.
“You’re not gay, are you?” I asked. It seemed like as good a time as any to broach the subject.
“No.” He smiled and shook his head. “Did you think I was?”
“Well, you don’t have a girlfriend,” I said. And you’ve never hit on me, I thought.
He laughed. “I don’t have a boyfriend either.”
“Good point…I don’t know. You have good taste, you know so much about artsy things. I guess I thought maybe Brandi would have turned you off women.”
“She didn’t turn me off all women.”
I studied his face, but couldn’t read his expression. “Did I offend you?”
“Not at all,” Ethan said, as he buttered a scone.
“Oh, thank goodness,” I said. “I’d hate to offend my best friend in the world.”
I wanted him to be flattered, maybe even reciprocate by saying “Why, you’re my best friend too.” But he just smiled and took a bite of his scone. After our tea break, Ethan led us bac
k to Kensington High Street over to the tube stop.
“We’re taking the tube?” I asked. “Why not a cab?” I wasn’t a big fan of the subway in New York, always favoring cabs, and I had not changed the practice in London.
“Suck it up, Darce,” Ethan told me, as he handed me a pink ticket. “And don’t lose your ticket. You’ll need it to exit on the other side.”
I told him that I didn’t think that was a particularly good system. “Seems to me an awful lot of people would misplace their ticket during their journey and be stuck floundering on the other end.”
Ethan stuck his ticket in a slot, went through a turnstile and down some stairs. I followed him and found myself on the very cold, outdoor platform. “It’s freezing,” I said, rubbing my gloves together. “Why don’t they have enclosed platforms?”
“No more complaining, Darce.”
“I’m not complaining. I’m simply commenting that it’s a very chilly day.”
Ethan zipped his fleece jacket up around his chin and looked down the tracks. “Circle Line train coming now,” he said.
Moments later we were seated on the train, a woman’s voice announcing the next stop in a very civilized British accent.
“When are they going to say ‘mind the gap’?” I asked. “Or do they not really say that?”
Ethan smiled and explained that they only give that caution at certain stops where there is a substantial gap between the train and the platform.
I looked up at the tube map over us and asked him where exactly we were going.