by Emily Giffin
At one point, I e-mail her back and say that I have never heard so much conversation about eggs in my life, including Easter or Sunday brunch. As soon as I hit send, I worry that the joke was in bad taste or will offend her, but she shoots me back a good-natured “lol,” takes the not-so-subtle hint and shifts her attention to my birthday plans. I make it very clear to her (and my sisters) that I don’t want a party, surprise or otherwise. I tell her I’d just like a nice dinner out with a small group. I give her the usual names, minus Ben, plus Richard.
When Jess asks where I’d like to go, I tell her Babbo, even though it was one of my favorite spots with Ben. I am over worrying about where Ben and I went together. I want to reclaim my city. So Jess sends an e-mail out to Maura and Scott, Daphne and Tony, Annie and Ray, Richard and Michael (who, other than an elevator ride one morning, have yet to be together in my company). Everyone e-mails back that they can make it, except Ray. His excuse is that they can’t find a babysitter. I don’t believe him—there are plenty of babysitters in Manhattan—but am secretly happy that he won’t be in attendance. I’d rather have Annie as a solo friend. I do not want to make the awkward “couple friends” transition.
Meanwhile, Richard is planning our three-day getaway to an undisclosed location. I don’t even know whether we are going to a warm or cool climate as he has employed Jess to pack my suitcase for me. I press Jess to give me the scoop, but she holds firm in the same paternalistic way that she refuses to tell me whether a movie has a happy or sad ending. I like to be prepared when I watch a movie, in a proper frame of mind. I was so pissed after we watched Out of Africa together, a movie she had seen before.
“You should have told me he dies,” I told Jess.
“It would have ruined it!” she said.
“But if I want to know, it’s not ruining anything,” I retorted.
Jess didn’t see it my way. People who like surprises want you to like surprises, too.
So all Jess will tell me about the trip is that Richard is taking me “somewhere really good.”
“Have I been there?” I ask.
She says no. Then she says that if I had to give up Ben, at least I had replaced him with someone like Richard.
“Nobody’s replacing Ben,” I say.
Jess gives me a look that tells me she’s not so sure. “He sounds hot. I love his deep voice.” Then she tries to imitate him, saying, “And Jess, uhhh, please pack her vibrator!”
“Grow up,” I say.
“You,” she says, her favorite comeback since college.
Only one of us wants to be a mother, I think.
The night of our group dinner, Richard offers to pick Jess and me up. I tell him thanks, but we’ll just meet him there. He says fine and then takes my first drink order over the phone, which I think is a nice touch.
A few hours later, Jess and I are decked out in little black dresses. I am wearing my birthday shoes again. We take a cab downtown and are dropped off at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Waverly Place. It is a cool September night, and I regret not bringing a wrap as we walk the half block to Babbo.
“It’s colder than I thought,” I say, shivering.
“Are you nervous?” Jess asks in a teasing tone. She knows that I always get cold when I’m nervous. “About Richard meeting everyone?”
“Maybe a little,” I admit. “I want you, Maura, and Daphne to like him.”
As soon as I say it, I wonder why I really care whether they approve. Maybe it’s just a point of pride. And I don’t want anyone missing Ben too much.
“Well, I love his voice already. Besides, if you like him, I’ll like him,” Jess says.
I am thinking that the reverse is far from true, but refrain from bringing up the jackass. It’s been nearly a week since we’ve spoken of him, and I don’t want to jinx the new trend. As far as I know, he still has yet to call her.
“Thanks, Jess,” I say as another worry tugs at the corner of my mind, something I can’t quite pinpoint. Maybe I just feel unsettled because I imagined my thirty-fifth birthday differently. I imagined Ben and me being somewhere alone together, dinner for two. Or at the very least, I pictured Ben in the scene.
But as Jess and I make our way into the humming carriage house, and I see my family and friends gathered at the bar, in party clothes and high spirits, my angst dissipates and I think, Your loss, Ben.
“Hey, guys!” I say, kissing everyone hello.
I save Richard for last, kissing him on the mouth, which feels funny to do in front of Michael, who I catch smirking at me and shaking his head.
“I can’t believe you just kissed my boss,” he says to me under his breath. And then, “You better get me a raise.”
Richard hands me my vodka-tonic, which does not go unnoticed by my sisters and Annie.
I smile and say, “He called ahead.” It is the sort of chivalrous gesture that makes other women envious, especially women who are married to men like Scott, who is, not surprisingly, on his cell phone. I ask if everyone has met. They have; Michael handled the introductions. We all make small talk until our table on the second floor is ready.
We go upstairs, and I sit between Richard and Michael. Jess sits across from me and takes charge of the wine list and conversation, two things she’s very good at. After she’s run her selection by everyone, and we all approve, she says, “So, Richard, I like you.” Then she looks around the table and says, “What does everyone think of Claudia’s new boyfriend?”
Michael says, “He’s a helluva boss. Very fair.”
Everyone laughs.
Daphne and Maura flash Richard identical smiles that say, We don’t yet know whether we like you for our sister, but we certainly think you’re appealing. Maura, especially, seems on board with my new boyfriend. She likes her men slick, smart, and sexy—and Richard is all three. It occurs to me that Scott is all three, too, and that maybe slick, smart, and sexy don’t hold up as well in the matrimonial setting. But that’s a moot point. After all, I am only having fun. And the dinner is just that. Fun and festive. Everyone is in good spirits, and the conversation rolls along smoothly, lots of funny stories, good laughs, fine wine and food.
We discuss Annie’s upcoming project filming women in Afghanistan, and how hard it will be for her to be away from Raymond Jr. We chat about Maura’s kids, what they are up to. And Daphne tells anecdotes about her kids at school. She has a particularly amusing tale about a note she intercepted during math class. Of course she read it. Everyone knows that teachers always read notes, even when they claim not to—but this just confirms that hunch.
“The funny thing,” Daphne says, “is that this girl, Annabel, is the biggest teacher’s pet, Goody Two-shoes you can imagine and yet there she is in the note, talking dirty to this bad boy named Josh.”
Michael asks, “Fifth-grade dirty or straight-up, universal dirty?”
Richard laughs and says, “You’re dirty for wanting to know.”
Michael says, “C’mon. I wanna relive my youth here.”
Daphne says, “Well, first she talks about wanting him to give her a ‘titty twister’…and then she informs him that her AOL screen name is Bigghettobooty.”
We all crack up.
“Does she have a big booty?” Annie asks.
“No!” Daphne says. “That’s the most ludicrous part. She’s a little wisp of a girl. A blue-eyed, wholesome-looking thing.”
“But apparently, still bootylicious,” Michael says.
We all laugh again, and I find myself thinking how lucky I am to have such good friends and family to help fill the void that Ben left behind.
But then, sometime between dinner and dessert, we’re back to babies—again—when Jess announces that she is contemplating a visit to a Scandinavian sperm bank in midtown.
“A Scandinavian sperm bank?” Daphne says.
“Yeah. All the sperm come from Danish donors…Their slogan is, ‘Congratulations, it’s a Viking!’” Jess says, laughing. “They have this one ad that
features a baby who is boasting about his ancestors beating Columbus to North America. The caption reads, ‘You’d better build a strong crib.’ Isn’t that hilarious?”
Richard, Maura, and Michael look amused; Tony and Daphne appear intrigued but skeptical; and Annie looks downright disapproving. Incidentally, Scott has missed the whole conversation as he has stepped away from the table to take another call. I’m not sure how I feel about the topic other than slight annoyance at Jess for bringing it up at all.
Richard and Michael start amusing themselves with some one-liners about the Danes—stuff about herring and Hagar the Horrible and Hamlet.
I can tell Annie’s strident, women’s studies side is about to emerge when she says, “Jess, are you seriously considering this?”
Jess nods. “Sure. Why not? I mean, these Danish donors are gorgeous. They all have the classic Scandinavian look. Tall, athletic, small nose, blue eyes, fair skin…”
“So, what, you’re after some kind of designer baby?” Annie says.
“A designer baby!” Jess says, intentionally ignoring Annie’s derisive tone. “That’s so cute. Yeah. I guess that’s what I’m after.”
Annie continues, “Doesn’t this strike you as unethical?”
“Unethical? How do you figure?” Jess says. I can tell Annie is getting on her nerves, as she often did in college.
Annie says, “Because of the stereotype that blue eyes, light skin, and height are somehow more valued. I mean, it commercializes people.”
“Yeah! That’s bullshit,” Michael says, laughing. “Why aren’t you checking out black sperm banks?”
Annie ignores Michael’s joke and says to Jess, “I mean, you’re essentially supporting genetic engineering. Eugenics.”
“What’s eugenics?” Daphne says.
Annie says, “It’s a social philosophy that advocates selective breeding. Basically improving human traits through social intervention.”
“And what’s the problem with that?” Jess says.
“Yeah,” Richard says. “If it can create more intelligent people, I’m all for it. Dumb folks cause a lot of problems in the world…”
“I totally agree,” Michael says. “Idiots are always fucking things up for the rest of us.”
Annie refuses to be sidetracked by jokes. “Eugenics can lead to state-sponsored discrimination…Even genocide.”
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” Jess says. “Because I think a little Danish baby would be cute, you’re comparing me to the Nazis?”
“How much does it cost?” Daphne interjects. Tony looks at her, puzzled, as if to say, Ain’t nothing wrong with my seed, woman!
“I’m not sure…It’s probably pretty expensive.” Jess shrugs. Money is not her issue. Then she turns back to Annie and says, “Besides, what’s the difference between you picking Ray to be the father of your child and me picking Henrik the Dane to be the father of mine? It’s a personal choice. It mirrors natural selection.”
“Well, first of all, I didn’t pick Ray to be the father of my child,” Annie says. “I picked Ray to be my husband. We decided on children much later.”
Now I’m annoyed at Annie, too. Her response hits a little too close to home. I cross my arms and feel myself become tense.
“Well, some people are just blessed to find a husband they love and have babies the old-fashioned way,” Jess says.
“Yeah!” Daphne says. “I don’t see the problem in using science to have a baby.”
“I agree,” Maura says, and then shoots me a worried look as if to say, We must protect our sister here.
Annie says, “Well, I just think this Viking sperm stuff is creepy.”
I find myself wondering if Annie would also think interfamilial egg donation was creepy. I bet she would. Then again, I might have to agree. It is sort of creepy.
“Look. I’ll solve this problem once and for all,” Michael says just as things are really starting to break down.
Jess looks at him and says, “How?”
Michael raises his eyebrow suggestively. “C’mon. Wouldn’t you rather have a caramel baby with hazel eyes?” Then he looks at Annie and says, “And I know you’d approve of those melting-pot implications?”
Everyone laughs, including Annie, as I think, Good ol’ Michael. You gotta love a friend who can manufacture a quality come-on during an ethical debate on eugenics.
Maura says to Jess, “I think you should take him up on that one.”
Michael points at Maura and mouths, Thanks.
I look at Michael and say, “Thank you.”
I can tell Michael knows what I’m driving at—that I appreciate him changing the subject—because he winks and says, “No problem.”
Annie and Jess exchange conciliatory remarks as if to acknowledge that they can have a lively disagreement and still remain friends. Even Daphne’s sad expression fades as I watch Tony put his arm around her and whisper something in her ear. She smiles. So I smile. Then I feel myself relaxing again as we turn to topics other than sperm and eggs and the orchestrated meetings between the two.
Twenty-One
Later that night, after I’ve thanked everyone and told Richard I will see him in the morning, Jess calls me into her room and gleefully shows me the Viking baby Web site. I come very close to telling her how I wished she hadn’t brought up babies at my birthday dinner, but decide against it. I know she means no harm. She can’t help having an obsessive personality, a one-track mind.
She clicks on a link that brings up photos of various blond, blue-eyed donors. One of them is shown kicking a soccer ball and grinning. His name is Ian Janssen. I instantly remember that Tucker’s last name is Jansen, and as I home in on the second s in Ian’s Janssen, it hits me that I might have spelled Tucker’s name wrong during my initial Google search. I make a mental note to run another search with the extra s. Then I tell myself, You will do no such thing! Do not turn into a psycho!
I wonder what part of me will prevail in that battle—the well-adjusted, forward-looking me or the wistful, brooding, backward-looking me. Unfortunately, it’s too close to call.
The next morning, just as Richard arrives in a black Lincoln Town Car, Jess hands me my luggage—her own oversized, cherry-red Tod’s duffel that I love. She says, “Have fun. I know you will!”
On my way down in the elevator, I unzip the bag, peek inside, and see my passport. Now I am really excited. Although maybe the passport is just a decoy.
When I get in the car, Richard kisses me on the cheek. He looks happy.
I say, “Jess told me where we’re going.”
He says, “You expect me to fall for that?”
“Yes?” I say as I remove my sunglasses from their case and slide them on.
“No.”
“Fly-fishing in Colorado?”
He laughs. “You don’t strike me as an outdoorsy girl.”
“I’m not,” I say, thinking of all the times growing up that my mother told me to get my nose out of my book and go get some fresh air.
“Good,” Richard says. “Because I don’t like camping. The woods itch.” Then he changes expression and says, “So how annoyed were you last night? With all the baby talk?”
I consider playing it off but instead I say, “Pretty annoyed.”
“I don’t blame you,” he says.
I give him a grateful smile and then say, “So, c’mon, where are we going?”
“I can’t tell you that,” he says. “But I can tell you this—I’ve been there a couple of times before, and I’ve yet to see a single baby on the premises.”
I look at him and smile, thinking, That was the perfect thing to say.
An hour later we are at JFK, checking in at the first class American Airlines international counter.
“Milan?” I say, after we have our boarding passes. “I love Milan.”
“Good to know,” Richard says, “but we’re not going to Milan.”
Richard keeps his secret for the entire flight as we drink cha
mpagne, eat, watch a chick flick starring Kirsten Dunst, and sleep. Only after we have landed in Milan the following morning, cleared customs, and picked up our rental car, does Richard hand me a postcard of the Villa d’Este on Lake Como. I instantly recognize it, as it’s a place I’ve been wanting to go since I was about fifteen and saw a coffee-table book filled with Helmut Newton’s racy photographs taken on the villa’s premises.
And I can’t help but think of Ben, as Lake Como was the spot we had planned to go for our five-year anniversary. We had been “saving” it. It seemed too special for any random trip. I have revised my philosophy on saving things. There is no point. It’s like my great-grandmother putting plastic on her new couch—one she didn’t have a prayer of wearing out.
Of course Jess knew about these anniversary plans. So despite the fact that Richard has been to the Villa d’Este, I am highly suspicious that she had a hand in his choice. I only wonder if she was candid with Richard or manipulated him into the choice. She is fully capable of either. I decide it would be bad form to ask the question, so I just smile and say, “We’re going to the Villa d’Este?”
He nods, looking pleased with himself. Then he says, “Jess said you’ve never been to Lake Como.”
“I haven’t,” I say.
“I needed to fix that. It is heaven on earth. As Shelley put it, ‘This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty.’”
I am a sucker for men spouting off poetry, and I can feel myself blushing as I say, “This is way too generous.”
“Well, it’s not unselfish. After all, I am going with you,” he says. Then he points to a third-floor window facing the water and says, “And I intend to fuck you right in that room.”
