Something Blue

  Ethan returned home just as I was heading out the door.

  He whistled as he rested his open palm on my stomach and then patted. “You look great. Where are you off to?”

  I reminded him that I had been invited to a dinner party. “Remember? The girls I met at the coffee shop last week?”

  “Oh, yeah. The English girls,” he said. “I’m impressed that you got the invite. Most Americans don’t get invited into a Brit’s home until their going-away party.” It wasn’t his first comment on the closed nature of British society, one of the few things he did not like about the country.

  “I am very excited about it,” I said. “I hope it feels like a night out with Bridget Jones.”

  “You mean a bunch of neurotic women chain-smoking, talking about losing weight and shagging their bosses?”

  “Something like that,” I said, laughing. “So what are you up to tonight?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?…I’m going to dinner with Sondrine.” I felt a stab of envy as he gave me a sheepish look. He knew full well that he hadn’t mentioned his date with her. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned her at all since the day I met her at the Muffin Man.

  “No. You didn’t tell me.” I nodded toward the plastic bag he was holding from Oddbins, a wine shop near us. “And apparently you have plans for after dinner too?”

  He said maybe, he’d see how dinner went.

  “Well, have fun. I’m off,” I said, telling myself not to dwell on his relationship.

  As I headed out the door, Ethan asked if I planned on taking a cab.

  “No. The tube,” I said, holding up my tube pass. “I’m very frugal these days—in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “It’s too late for you to take the tube alone.”

  “I thought you said the tube was safe at night?” I asked.

  “It is. But…I don’t know. You’re pregnant. Here you go.” He opened his wallet, pulled out a few bills, and tried to hand them to me.

  “Ethan, I don’t need your money. I’m operating perfectly well within the confines of my budget,” I said, even though one of my credit cards had been declined at Marks & Spencer that morning when I tried to buy a new bra to support my burgeoning, pregnant-girl D cups.

  He slipped the money back in his wallet and said, “Okay…but please take a cab.”

  “I will,” I said, feeling touched that he was being so protective. “You be careful too.” I winked.

  He gave me a puzzled look.

  “Wear a condom.”

  He rolled his eyes and gave me a dismissive wave, which I translated to mean: “Don’t be crazy. I’m not sleeping with her anytime soon.” Then he kissed me good-bye on the cheek and I caught a whiff of his cologne. The scent was nice, and it made me feel strangely melancholy. I reminded myself that Simon the Ginger was waiting for me at an English dinner party in Mayfair.

  But as I sat in the back of the cab on my way to Meg’s flat, psyching myself up for the evening ahead, I couldn’t get rid of the pit in my stomach. It wasn’t just my seeming jealousy over Sondrine and Ethan’s date, or my overarching worry about mothering twins. I was also just plain nervous for the party. Anxiety was not an emotion I could ever remember feeling when I went out in New York, and I wondered why tonight felt so different. Maybe it was because I no longer had a boyfriend or fiancé. I suddenly recognized that there was a safety in having someone, as well as a lack of pressure to shine. Ironically, this had cultivated a certain free-spiritedness that had, in turn, allowed me to be the life of the party and hoard the affection of additional men.

  But I was no longer attached to someone and no longer in my comfort zone of Manhattan and the Hamptons, where I knew exactly what to expect at any bar, club, party, or gathering. Where I knew that no matter what the venue, I could have a few drinks and I would not only be the most beautiful woman in the room (except for the one time that I happened to be at Lotus when Gisele Bundchen walked in), but usually the most scintillating too.

  But that had all changed. I didn’t have a boyfriend, a perfect figure, or alcohol-induced outrageousness to fall back on. So I was more than a little apprehensive as we pulled up to Meg’s town house. I got out of the cab and paid the driver through the front window (a practice I preferred to the New York way of passing bills over the seat). Then I took a deep breath, walked up to the door, and rang the buzzer.

  “Hello, darling! So nice to see you again,” Meg said as she answered the door. She gave me a kiss on the cheek as I noticed with minor relief that she was also wearing a black dress. At the very least, I had dressed appropriately.

  “Great to see you too! Thanks so much for having me,” I said, feeling myself relax.

  Meg smiled and introduced me to her husband, Yossi, a rail-thin, dark-skinned guy with an unusual accent (I later learned he was Israeli but went to school in Paris). He took my coat and offered me a drink. “A glass of champagne perhaps?”

  I rested my hand on my stomach and politely declined.

  “How about a Perrier?” he asked.

  “That would be lovely,” I said, as Meg led me into her living room which looked like a spread in a magazine. The ceilings were higher than any I had seen in a private residence—they must have been at least sixteen feet high. The walls were painted a dark, romantic red. A fire was flickering in the fireplace, casting a soft light on the jewel-toned Oriental rug and dark, antique furniture. Faded hardcover books filled the shelves that lined one entire floor-to-ceiling wall of the room. There was something about all of those books that intimidated me, as if I might be quizzed on literature later.

  The guests, too, were somehow intimidating. They did not resemble my homogenous New York crowd. Instead, the dozen or so people in the room seemed so culturally and racially diverse that they looked like a Benetton ad. As Yossi returned with my sparkling water in a crystal goblet, Meg asked if I had had any luck in finding a job.

  “No luck so far,” I said. “But I did make it to the doctor.”

  “Did you find out the gender?” she asked eagerly.

  “Yes,” I said, realizing that I had forgotten to prepare for the question.

  “A girl?”

  “No. A boy,” I said, making the split-second decision not to tell her about the twins just yet. Being single and expecting one baby seemed acceptable, maybe even au courant, but there was something about being single and having twins that seemed sort of embarrassing, almost low-rent, and certainly not the kind of news you want to broadcast at an elegant dinner party.

  “Oh! A boy! How delightful!” Meg said. “Congratulations!”

  I smiled, feeling vaguely guilty for not telling Meg the full story. But by then, she was leading me around the room, introducing me to the other guests. There was Henrik, a Swede, and Cecilia, his French wife, both cellists. Tumi, a jewelry designer from Cameroon. Beata, a handsome woman who was born in Prague, raised in Scotland, and now spent much of her time working in Africa with AIDS patients. Uli, a strapping German who worked with Yossi in banking. An older Arab man whose name was so full of odd consonants that I didn’t catch it even after he repeated it twice. A handful of Brits, including Charlotte and her husband, John. And Simon the Ginger, who had a zillion freckles to go with the shockingly red hair. To my relief, he ignored me in favor of Beata, who, incidentally, was also a redhead (which always raises the interesting question of whether redheads pursue other redheads in a narcissistic way, or simply because they have no other choice, as nonredheads aren’t interested).

  In any event, I was the odd woman out. The only person at the mini UN convention who had nothing to contribute to the geopolitical conversation. I had no clue whether Asia was a market bubble or still a buy. No opinion on how the threat of terrorism and various elections were going to cause stock prices to tumble. Or whether the slump in luxury travel was nearly over. I knew nothing about the conflict in the Sudan that had caused a hundred thousand refugees to cross the border into Chad. Or the conversion of the pound to the euro. Or Fran
ce’s chances at the next World Cup. Ditto for rugby (something about the Five Nations?) and Breakfast with Frost (whatever that is). Nor did I realize that Tony Blair’s “shameless love affair with America” was so offensive to the rest of the world.

  I kept waiting for someone to bring up the royal family, the one topic that I knew a thing or two about. But when the royals were finally raised, it wasn’t to comment on Fergie’s yo-yo dieting, the conspiracy theory surrounding Di’s death, William’s latest love interest, or Charles and Camilla. Instead, they chatted about whether England should continue to have a monarchy at all. Which I didn’t even know was up for debate.

  After at least two hours of cocktails for everyone but me, we were all seated to a Moroccan feast, where people continued to drink heavily. In fact, the sheer amount of alcohol consumed was the only real similarity between my old world and this one. But unlike New York, where the more you drank, the more stupid you became, these people just got smarter. Not even Dex and Rachel talked about this heavy stuff when they were drunk. I found my mind drifting, wondering what Ethan was doing with Sondrine.

  Then, toward the end of dinner, a very late guest arrived. I was sitting with my back to the dining room entryway when Meg looked up and said, “Why, hello there, Geoffrey, darling. Fashionably late again, are we?” At which point I heard Geoffrey apologize, explaining that he had been paged for an emergency C-section. That’s when I turned around and found my one and only Mr. Moore looking incredibly handsome in a tweed sport coat, a cashmere turtleneck, and gray twill pants.

  I watched as my doctor greeted his friends, shaking hands with the men and bending down to kiss the women. Then, his eyes rested on me. He gave me a funny look, and after a few beats, he smiled with recognition. “Darcy, right?”

  Charlotte and Meg exchanged a look, as if remembering the connection.

  “Oh, right! I forgot you two would have met,” Meg said. “Darcy told us the fantastic, exciting news!” She was, of course, referring to my one boy.

  Mr. Moore looked at me, as I realized with horror what was about to transpire. I tried to preempt it by saying, “Yes, he told me I was having a boy,” but before I could, Mr. Moore blurted out, “Yes. Twins! Marvelous, isn’t it?”

  For the first time all evening, a hush fell over the room. Everyone looked at me. For someone who had spent three decades basking in attention, I should have been savoring the moment, but instead I was mortified as I confessed, “Um…I’m actually pregnant with twins.”

  “Twins!” came the collective roar at the table.

  “Oh, my,” Geoffrey said, looking horrified as he took the empty seat next to me. “Meg said ‘fantastic news.’ I just assumed…I’m truly sorry.”

  “No problem,” I said quietly, but wanted to melt away as Meg stood and made a toast: “To our new American friend and her two babies! Congratulations, Darcy!”

  So I was not only the dumb American, but an unwed, lying mother of two. I gave the group a large, fake smile and then mumbled with all the grace and dignity that I could muster, “Mr. Moore—Geoffrey—did give me a bit of a jolt last week when he told me I’m having two boys…I suppose I haven’t fully digested it yet…”

  Then I waited for the group to turn to other matters—which took a surprisingly long time considering their interest in much loftier topics. But when they finally did, my discomfort did not subside. I said very little. Just focused on eating my foreign, too flavorful food. Geoffrey, too, seemed just as uncomfortable and spent most of the evening avoiding me. When he did address me, it was in a formal and awkward manner, to ask things such as, “Are you enjoying your lamb shank tagine and apricot couscous?”

  So I was very surprised when, at the end of the evening, as everyone was thanking Meg and Yossi and putting on their coats to leave, Geoffrey offered to drive me home. I accepted, assuming that he was trying to make amends. Clearly this was his way of apologizing for outing me. But the way he rested his hand gently on my back on our walk to his car suggested the possibility of something more. And despite the awkward fact that he had had his fingers in my vagina, I couldn’t help feeling a flutter of excitement as he opened the door to his hunter-green Jaguar. After all, he was the most eligible man I had met in London. I told myself that I could always find a new doctor.

  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 Rachel 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.