Mystery Lover. For the first time in a long time I remembered the waking fantasies of my girlhood: misty moors and fog-shrouded castles, magical green forests and prancing white unicorns, dashing heroes and lovely princesses, places of intrigue and romance and danger, people of high dramatic aspirations.
Silly. Standard stuff. You’re not very unique, Anna, I told myself for about the millionth time. But you like it that way, remember?
I curled up on my side and tucked my feet into my nightgown. And I thought about the child growing inside me, a total stranger and yet the person I would know most intimately in all the world. What did I want for that child? Health and happiness, of course. Success in her chosen career.
But what about in love? Parents were supposed to want the best for their children. And what was the best? The painful and often fleeting joy of ecstatic love? Or the temperate reasonableness of what I had settled for with Ross, something safe and comfortable. Something perfectly respectable. Something stable.
I burrowed down farther under the covers. I’d made my choice. I was not marrying my soul mate, and I was glad for it. I didn’t want that kind of intensity. I didn’t want messy passion. I didn’t need it.
I didn’t.
45
Retail Backfire
The following morning I felt groggy and disoriented, probably the result of a night of interrupted sleep and the lack of caffeine. The headaches were gone, but the habit was still strong enough to make me crave that first cup.
A little shopping might lift your spirits, I told myself. And in an uncharacteristic move I decided to take the morning off. Hormones again? Or simply exhaustion?
In the Prudential Mall, I found a cream-colored silk scarf at Ann Taylor Loft and a lightweight, taupe knit sweater at J. Jill, which would work nicely with the scarf on a cool spring evening and was loose enough to hide the beginnings of a tummy; at the MAC counter in Saks, I picked up a tube of Russian Red lipstick. Although I’d never worn red lipstick—it didn’t really fit my personality and Ross thought it looked cheap—suddenly I wanted to know that it was in my makeup kit. Just in case.
Feeling far brighter than I had earlier that morning, I left the mall and emerged onto sunny Boylston Street. Why not, I thought, extend the spree? On Newbury Street, between the Nike Tower and Armani Exchange I came upon a high-end maternity shop called Mamma. I’d never noticed it before, but then again I hadn’t been looking. In the window were two mannequins dressed in bright, attractive prints. Well, I thought bravely, why not? Just do it, Anna. Just walk right into that shop and pretend you belong. Wait. You don’t have to pretend. You do belong. You’re an official member of the mommies-in-waiting club.
I pushed open the door to the shop and was greeted not by a bell or buzzer but a recording of the classic nursery song “Rock-a-Bye Baby.” There were no other customers and no salespeople in view.
The left wall of the shop was lined with shelves on which were stacked cotton tops in a variety of colors. I pulled a black one from the top of a pile; it was well-made and soft to the touch. And then I checked the price tag. Two hundred dollars for what was essentially a T-shirt? A T-shirt that would be useful for only a few short months?
“May I help you?”
I jumped. I hadn’t seen or heard the saleswoman approach. I noted her extra-wide, extra-white smile and found myself mimicking it. Pregnant women are happy women, I reminded myself. At least they should be.
But the shining saleswoman didn’t have to know I was pregnant, did she? I closed the smile.
“Yes, thanks,” I said, returning the black top to the pile. “My friend is pregnant. Not me. I just thought I’d look through the summer selection and maybe buy her a gift.”
The saleswoman’s extra-wide, extra-white smile now moved to her eyes. They were high beams below her forehead. “How nice. Feel free to browse, and please let me know if you have any questions.”
I did have a question. Do your teeth, I wanted to ask, glow in the dark?
The saleswoman disappeared as mysteriously as she’d arrived, and I began to flip through a rack of three hundred-dollar skirts. Thirty seconds, I figured. After thirty seconds I’d walk my lying, crazy self to the door.
“There you are!”
I jumped. The saleswoman was at my shoulder again, burning brightly.
“Now, isn’t this cute?” she said, thrusting an armload of pale pink fabric at me. I focused. It was a dress, not a tent, and it was dotted with teeny white kittens.
“You won’t even feel pregnant in this ensemble!” the saleslady bubbled.
But I will so look it, I thought unhappily. And why shouldn’t I look pregnant? Why would I try to hide my pregnancy? I’m not insane. I suddenly remembered reading that Jackie Kennedy attempted to hide her pregnancy while in the White House. And everybody liked her. Everybody thought she was perfectly sane.
“She won’t feel pregnant,” I corrected the ever-so-helpful saleswoman. “My friend. The pregnant one. Not me. I’m not the one who’s pregnant.”
The saleswoman directed a not-so-subtle glance at my midsection and with an air of practiced condescension said, “If you say so, dear. By the way, the nursing bras are in the back.”
I felt mortified. Was I showing already? Was my face exhibiting a telltale glow? Or was I just a lousy liar? The saleswoman walked off to accost a new customer.
The dress was exorbitantly expensive and completely hideous, but I bought it anyway. And then I scurried from the shop like the fraud I was.
46
Not So Secret Society
After the disastrous shopping experience in Mamma, I decided to treat myself to lunch at Stephanie’s. Maybe, I thought, food is what you need. Maybe you’re suffering from malnutrition. Malnutrition can trigger bizarre behavior and even hallucinations.
I ordered a nicoise salad. And the moment the waiter had gone off to place the order, I panicked. Should I have asked the chef to hold the tuna? Was all fish dangerous to pregnant women? Or was it only raw fish? Maybe it was shellfish that was deadly. And what about eggs? Should I be eating eggs? And why couldn’t I keep my information straight? Was the malnutrition that advanced?
My panicked thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of three twenty-something salon blondes at the table next to mine. While their facial features were each quite different, almost everything else about them was in concert. Clearly they all went to the same hair cutter and colorist; clearly they shared a favorite style, something solidly between Talbots and Gap. I wondered if their husbands were carbon copies of each other, too.
But more important than their clothing and hair, like me, the women were pregnant. We were all going to bring babies into the world at approximately the same time; well, my child would be a few months younger than their children, but a few months wasn’t much of a difference. Didn’t that make us somehow related?
Our babies would cut their first teeth at approximately the same time. They would utter their first words within months of each other. They would enter first grade the same September. They would graduate from high school in the same year. And they would legally become independent, self-directing adults who might choose to marry one another, their birth mates, and live happily ever after.
A lonely woman could dream. I hadn’t yet joined a Lamaze class. I didn’t know any other pregnant women. Maybe, I thought desperately, these women could be my friends.
I must have been staring.
“Can we help you?” the blonde on the left drawled. I couldn’t place the accent, but it was clear these women were from out of town.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I felt my cheeks redden. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Really. But I couldn’t help overhear a bit of your conversation. See, I’m pregnant, too.”
The blonde on the left cocked her head to get a look at my left hand.
“I’m engaged,” I said, unnecessarily. I had the distinct impression she did not approve of single motherhood.
“How nice
for you,” the blonde in the middle said, in a tone that belied the slightest bit of interest.
“I’m so sorry,” I said again, growing more flustered each moment under the smug stares of the three mommies-in-waiting.
“That’s all right,” the blonde on the right said, with a hint of an insincere smile.
The bulging shopping bag from Mamma squatted at my feet like a toad. I had a sudden, crazy urge to offer it to the three blondes.
But I was too late. The mommies-in-waiting were ostentatiously ignoring me now. Hurriedly, I ate my salad (except for the tuna), paid the check, and dashed out into the bustle of Newbury Street. I’m a crazy woman, I thought. I’m certifiable. First, I’m pretending not to be pregnant, then I’m telling total strangers about my interesting condition. Maybe it’s not malnutrition. Maybe it’s all the hormones. Hormones would explain the lunacy, right?
But there was no consolation in that. If I’m this crazy now, I thought, what am I going to be like at three months? At seven months?
As if possessed I strode to the corner and stuffed the shopping bag from Mamma into the stinking garbage can. Maybe, I thought, a drag queen will find the balloonlike dress and transform it into some slyly amusing costume for his stage couture collection. Certainly, only an over-the-top performer would be brave enough to wear it.
I gave the bag one last push and stepped away from the garbage can. I was breathing heavy; my sunglasses had slid down to the tip of my nose. I’m not sure, but I might have been muttering. A well-dressed, very normal-looking man was passing by only a few feet away. He gave me a funny look. The kind of look that said, “Okay, there’s a woman on the very edge of sanity. I think I’ll cross the street.” And he did.
At that very moment, watching that no doubt well-adjusted man weave his way through traffic, I vowed to start a new savings account. No more unnecessary fashion accessories like scarves and sweaters and lipstick. Therapy was expensive. And I was sure my poor child was going to need a lifetime of it.
47
Thou Shalt Not Covet
“Oh, Ross,” I said, “I’m really not in the mood for a party right now.”
“It’s not until Saturday.”
“By ‘right now,’” I explained, “I mean for the next eight months or so.”
“Oh, come on, Anna,” he said, “that’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not ridiculous,” I replied petulantly. I felt horrible. The day had started bad and gotten worse. The left heel of my favorite day pumps broke off. A client called to say she’d changed her mind about the theme of her fiftieth birthday party and asked if I’d mind starting the job from scratch. From a tropical paradise to an ice palace, in two weeks? I estimated another twenty or so billable hours, which was nice in one way and terrible in another. And the morning sickness had been particularly violent. I’d hardly been able to think about food since seven a.m., let alone eat it. I wondered if pregnant women could be fed intravenously for the duration.
“But you have to come with me, Anna,” Ross said with a hint of a whine. “It’s a very important party, and some very important people are going to be there. You just have to be there with me.”
“But Ross,” I began.
“You need to remember, Anna, that it looks good for me to be there with my wife. My soon-to-be wife. In my line of work, well, it’s like being a politician. A politician needs his spouse at his side, doing and saying the right thing. He needs to know he can trust her. He needs to know she’ll always support him and put on a good face even when things get rough. Do you understand?”
I understood. I understood that I was considered a piece of arm candy, an accoutrement, a tasteful accessory. What else did Ross consider me? His better half? The ball and chain? She Who Must Be Obeyed?
“Okay,” I said, defeated. “I’ll go.”
“Great,” he said. “Maybe you’ll even grab a new client.”
The last thing I needed at that moment was a new client. What I needed was another set of hands, a long nap, and a personal stylist to make me fit for public consumption.
Because although I wasn’t really showing I felt as if I were. And in spite of what InStyle and E! tell us—which is that pregnancy is chic—I wasn’t buying it. Sure, all the stars are having babies, and they all look fabulous doing it. But all the stars have huge clothing budgets and professional stylists to cover those nasty blemishes and broken capillaries, and to deal with those ever-changing curves in all the wrong places.
That Saturday night, in spite of having no personal Pilates coach or devoted makeup artist or live-in seamstress, I managed to pull together a decent outfit: a champagne-colored brocade evening coat (spring evenings in New England can still be quite chilly) over a simple pair of pearl gray silk pants and a matching tank.
The moment we arrived at the party Ross abandoned me to speak with one of the Important People he’d told me would be there. And there I was, vulnerable to the force who is Ginger Matthews, the suspiciously enthusiastic wife of one of Ross’s business associates. The Matthews have one child, a boy. At the time of the party he was almost a year old and properly at home with the live-in nanny while his mommy was charging right at me, a squealing missile seeking its target.
“What’s this I hear about you and Ross having a baby? Congratulations! Good work!”
“Thanks,” I said. As if getting pregnant is a big accomplishment. Which, I guess, for some people it is.
“So,” Ginger went on, poking me lightly in the arm, “I imagine you’ll take a leave of absence from the business, right? I’m sure your partner can handle things while you’re gone.”
“I don’t have a partner,” I said.
“Oh, well, then, a fabulous assistant, someone who can keep things afloat in the office while you’re home with the baby. Because, trust me, once you see that adorable little face you’ll never want to go back to work.”
I smiled and tittered, although what I really wanted to do was wipe the smug, mother-knows-best smile off Ginger’s face. So what if I didn’t have a business partner? So what if I chose to keep overhead low by not hiring a fabulous full-time assistant? Those were my choices. And I’d been doing just fine until ...
Until I got pregnant.
What if Ginger’s right? I wondered. What if I take one look at the baby and decide I don’t want to go back to work ever again?
Wait a minute, I thought. Ever again? That’s crazy! What happens when the baby goes off to college and I’ve got nothing to do but roam an empty house and make unnecessary care packages my child is only going to sell to her roommate or dump in the trash?
Calm down, Anna, I scolded. Take a deep breath. Maybe Ross’s idea of a sabbatical is a good one after all. Maybe I should put Anna’s Occasions on hiatus, just until the baby goes to school. Even if it means losing the clientele I’ve worked so hard to acquire.
“You know,” Ginger went on, oblivious to my troubled reverie, “I heard the most fabulous name the other day and really, it could work for a boy or a girl.”
“Oh?” I said blandly. If I had said, “I don’t want to hear it,” would she have walked away?
“MacNab. Isn’t that fabulous?”
“Isn’t that a last name?” I said, as if it mattered.
“It could be, I suppose, but isn’t it just too wonderful as a first name?”
It was too something all right.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I lied. “If you’ll excuse me I—”
“Have to pee?” Ginger winked. “No need for apologies, Anna. Pregnancy is all about peeing!”
I grimaced and backed away. This party, I thought, cannot get any worse. And then, of course, it did.
Alexandra appeared from the crowd. She looked wonderful, but her expression was slightly tentative. It was the first time I’d seen her since she’d told me about her Mystery Lover. I’d vowed not to let that new information interfere in our relationship; I’d vowed never to say a word about it.
“There you are
,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
“Of course not,” I told her. “And I wish you had found me ten minutes ago. I was stuck with that awful Ginger Matthews. What’s up?”
Alexandra nodded curtly toward the far end of the crowded loft space. “Honey, I hate to be the bearer of distressing news, but your so-called friend Michaela is flirting up a storm with your fiancé.”
“Oh, come on!” I protested, although actually I had no doubt Alexandra was telling the truth. Alexandra isn’t purposely cruel. And Michaela? Well, rumor had it she’d broken up a marriage or two in her time.
Alexandra gave me an appraising look, head to foot. “What?” I challenged.
“I’d get over there now if I were you.”
“I trust Ross,” I said. And I did, as far as I’d ever trusted a man with whom I’d been involved.
“There’s trust,” Alexandra replied, “and there’s stupidity. Ross is only human, Anna. And I’m pretty sure Michaela isn’t only human. But hey, if you’re confident he’s got the stuff to repel the advances of a gorgeous woman, that’s just fine.”
I considered. I was moody and bloated. Ross and I hadn’t had sex in weeks. And Michaela was wearing a pencil skirt that hugged every perfect curve and a pair of stiletto pumps that drew lots and lots of attention to her long, long legs.
“I’ll be back,” I muttered.
“Take your time,” Alexandra said as I stalked off. “And don’t damage the ring when you slap her across the face.”
The fury built as I made my way through the crowded room. I don’t know when I’d ever felt so angry. Easy, Anna, I told myself. If your blood pressure soars, the baby’s will, too.
Michaela saw me coming and slipped away into the crowd surrounding the bar. I followed her as best I could but lost her almost immediately. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn she’d perfected the art of evading angry wives and girlfriends.
Fine, I thought. If I can’t confront the temptress I’ll confront the temptee. I found Ross staring longingly at the Hathaway’s state-of-the-art home entertainment center. He looked like a worshipper at a shrine. I almost hated to bother him.
Babyland Page 17
