Something Blue aod-2

by Emily Giffin

  "Excuse me, but are the sizes a bit off in Dries Van Noten?" I asked her.

  She gave me a melodious laugh. "American?"

  I nodded.

  "The sizes run different here, love. Are you a four at home?"

  "Yes," I said proudly. "I am normally. But lately I take a six at home."

  "That's a ten here typically."

  "Oh, what a relief!" I said.

  "Would you like me to get you some new sizes?"

  I nodded gratefully, handed her my stash, and asked her if she would add a skirt like hers to my pile. Then I waited, half naked, in the dressing room, studying the small bump protruding from my stomach. It had popped out seemingly overnight, but my body was otherwise still trim and well toned. I had fallen off my rigorous, prewedding workout schedule, but I reasoned that as long as I was careful with my diet, I could maintain my figure for at least a few more months.

  When the salesgirl finally returned, she squealed, "Oh, my, you're pregnant! How far along are you?"

  "Four months and change," I said, running my hand down along my bump.

  "You look smashing for four months," she purred in her chic accent.

  I thanked her as I moved aside to let her hang my size tens in the dressing room. An hour later, I was buying five amazing outfits that would have made Claire drool. As I forked over my Visa, I remembered that my spree added up to many more dollars than pounds, but I told myself not to bother with the conversion. I would just pretend to be spending dollars. And anyway, what was a few thousand dollars in the scheme of things? Nothing. Not when I thought of it as a kick start to my new life. It was an investment.

  And as long as I was investing in myself, I figured that I might as well throw in a couple pairs of Jimmy Choos, which after all had great practicality as I could wear them throughout my pregnancy, maybe even tapping home in them from the hospital with Alistair by my side.

  I left Harvey Nics and found my way back out to glorious Sloane Street, visiting my old friends-Christian Dior, Valentino, Hermes, Prada, and Gucci-discovering with delight that each store had slightly different inventory than what the New York stores carried. So I treated myself to a gorgeous Gucci tan leather hobo bag with the most satisfying brass hardware.

  After my final purchase, I hailed a cab and returned to Ethan's flat, exhausted but thrilled with my purchases, anxious to show him what I had discovered, conquered, and made my own. Ethan wasn't yet back at the flat so I helped myself to a cup of raspberry sherbet and turned on the television. I discovered that Ethan only had five channels, and I ended up watching a string of remarkably unfunny British sitcoms and a reality television show based in a hair salon. Ethan finally walked in the door just after ten o'clock.

  "Where have you been?" I asked, hands on my hips.

  He glanced at me as he tossed his bag on the floor. "Writing," he said.

  "This whole time?"

  Yes.

  "Are you sure? You smell like a bar," I said, burrowing my nose in his jacket. "Don't discount my ability to party just because I'm pregnant."

  He jerked his arm away, his blue eyes narrowing. "I wasn't partying, Darce. I work in cafes. Smoky cafes. I told you that."

  "If you say so… but I'll have you know I've been bored stiff here. And I'm famished. I only had some sherbet all night. I really shouldn't be skipping meals like this when I'm pregnant."

  "You could have eaten without me," he said. "I have stuff here-and there are plenty of places to eat up on the High Street. For future reference, there's a good Lebanese joint called Al Dar… They don't deliver but you can call ahead for takeout."

  I was a little annoyed that he wasn't being more nurturing, but I decided not to pout. Instead, I embarked on a mini fashion show, showing Ethan all my purchases, twirling and posing while he watched the news. I got a lot of cursory compliments, but mostly he seemed disinterested in my goods. During one clip on a suicide bomber in Jerusalem, he even shushed me, holding up the palm of his hand inches from my face. At that point, I let the dream of a bonding session die and retired to my room to blow up my air mattress. Sometime later, Ethan appeared in the doorway with a sheet, blanket, and small, flat pillow. "So you figured that thing out?" he asked, pointing down at my mattress.

  "Yeah," I said, sitting on the edge and bouncing slightly. "It had a little pump. Much easier than blowing."

  "Told you it was luxury."

  I smiled, yawned, and politely requested a good-night kiss. Ethan leaned down and planted one on my forehead. " 'Night, Darcy."

  "Good night, Ethan."

  After he closed the door, I turned off the light and struggled to get comfortable on my mattress, arranging and rearranging my pillow and blanket. But I couldn't fall asleep despite how tired and jet-lagged I was. After an hour of tossing, I took my blanket and pillow and shuffled into the living room, hoping that Ethan's couch would be more comfortable. It wasn't. It was too short by several inches, which gave me that desperate feeling of needing to straighten my knees. I tried to drape my feet over the edge of the couch, but the arms were slightly too high and after several minutes with elevated legs, I felt as if all my blood were rushing to my head. I sat up, whimpered, and stared into the still, dark room.

  Only one option remained. Still swaddled in my blanket, I tiptoed down the hall toward Ethan's room, pressing my ear against his door. I could hear his radio and realized that the quiet in my room might be part of the problem. I was used to the lulling sound of New York City traffic. I knocked softly, hoping he was still awake and willing to talk for a few minutes. Nothing. I knocked again, more loudly. Still nothing. So I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. I pushed the door open and whispered Ethan's name. No response. I walked over to the bed and peered down at him. His mouth was slightly open, his hands tucked under one cherubic cheek.

  I hesitated and then said in a normal tone, "Ethan?"

  When he still didn't stir, I walked around to the other side of the bed. There was plenty of room for me so I got in bed next to him, on top of the covers, still wrapped in my own blanket. Although I would have preferred a long conversation, I instantly felt less lonely just being close to a familiar friend from home. Just as I was drifting off, I sensed movement. When I opened my eyes, Ethan was squinting over at me.

  "What are you doing in my bed?"

  "Please let me stay," I said. "It's too lonely sleeping in that room with bars on the windows. And I think the air mattress is bad for my back. Take pity on a pregnant girl. Please?"

  He made an exasperated sound but didn't protest. So of course I pressed my luck. Quit while you're ahead is advice I've never been able to follow. "Can I get under the covers with you, please? I need a human touch. I'm dying inside."

  "Don't be so dramatic." Ethan grunted wearily, but then shifted slightly, lifting the covers for me.

  I shed my blanket and crawled in beside him, nestling against his slender, wiry frame.

  "No funny business," he mumbled.

  "No funny business," I said cheerfully, thinking how nice it was to have a good male friend. I felt grateful that we had never hooked up-so it didn't feel at all weird to be in the same bed together. In fact, unless you count elementary school, we had only had one close call over the years. We were at a party following our ten-year reunion. I was a little tipsy and something came over me-perhaps it was the realization that Ethan, although slightly nerdy in high school, had become the most popular guy in our class. Everyone was clamoring to talk to him. The adulation made me appreciate him on a whole new level. So I guess I got a little carried away for a few seconds and thought it might be fun to make out with him. The details are blurry, but I remember running my hands through his curly hair and suggesting that he give me a lift home. Luckily, Ethan showed superhuman restraint in the name of our friendship. Or maybe he really was gay. Either way, the lines of our friendship were clear now-which was a good thing.

  "I'm glad I'm here," I whispered happily.

  "Yeah. Me too," he said unconv
incingly. "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 amp; 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.