by Emily Giffin
“Hmm. Well. I’m so sorry, Dicey,” he said, without sounding the slightest bit apologetic.
“It’s Darcy,” I said.
“Yes. Well. I’m sorry, Darcy. We can’t have just anyone working with our residents. You must be qualified.” He handed me back my résumé.
Just anyone? Was he for real? I pictured my future sister-in-law wiping up old-person drool as she hummed “Oh, Susanna.” Her job hardly required much skill.
“I understand where you’re coming from, Mr. Dobbs…but what experience do you really need to relate well to others? I mean, you either have that or you don’t. And I have that in spades,” I gushed, noticing a woman with a horrifying case of osteoporosis, inching her way down the hallway toward us. She craned her neck sideways and looked at me. I smiled at her and uttered a high, cheery “Good morning” just to prove my point.
As I waited for her to smile back at me, I imagined that her name was Gert and that she and I would forge a beautiful friendship, like the one in Tuesdays with Morrie, one of Dexter’s favorite books, one of many that I had never found time to read. Gert would confide in me, tell me all about her childhood, her wartime remembrances, her husband, whom she had sadly outlived by several decades. Then, one night, she would pass quietly in the night, while I held her hand. Later, I would learn that she had bequeathed to me all of her worldly possessions, including her favorite emerald brooch worth tens of thousands of pounds. At her funeral, I would wear the pin over my heart and eulogize her to a small but intimate gathering. Gertrude was a special woman. I first met her one wintery day…
I smiled at Gert once more as she approached us. She muttered something back, her ill-fitting dentures wobbling slightly.
“Come again?” I asked her, to show Mr. Dobbs that not only was I kind and friendly, but that I also had a never-ending supply of patience.
“Go away and don’t come back,” she grumbled more clearly.
I smiled brightly, pretending not to understand her. Then I returned my gaze to Mr. Dobbs. “Well, then. As I was saying, I think you’ll see upon careful review that I’m really quite qualified for any position you might have for me.”
“I’m afraid I’m not interested,” Mr. Dobbs said.
As Gert passed us, her eyes danced triumphantly. I was tempted to tell her and Mr. Dobbs off. Something along the lines of “Get a life,” which I thought was particularly apropos for Gert, who appeared not to have many days left in her. Instead I politely thanked Mr. Dobbs for his time and turned to go.
Back outside, I embraced the cold day, clearing my nose of the sour nursing home stench. “Well. Back to the drawing board,” I said aloud to myself as I headed for the High Street to buy a newspaper. I would check the classifieds and regroup over breakfast at the Muffin Man. I wouldn’t let Mr. Dobbs or Gert get me down.
When I arrived at the tea house, I pushed open the door and said hello to the Polish waitress who had served Ethan and me on Thanksgiving. She gave me a perfunctory smile and told me I could sit anywhere. I chose a small table by the window, sitting on one chair and setting my purse, newspaper, and leather binder on the other. Then I consulted the sticky laminated menu and ordered herbal tea, scrambled eggs, and a scone.
As I waited for my food, I glanced around the flowery room decorated with Monet prints, my eyes resting on a petite girl sipping coffee at a table near mine. She had incredibly wide-set eyes, an auburn bob, and porcelain skin. She wore a wide-brimmed canary-yellow hat. She reminded me of Madeline, the character in the children’s books, which I used to read with Rachel twenty-five years ago. When the girl’s mobile phone rang, she answered it, speaking in a husky voice with a French accent. The French part fit the Madeline image, the husky part did not, as she seemed too diminutive to have such a deep voice. I strained to hear what she was saying—something about how she shouldn’t complain about the London weather because it is even colder and rainier in Paris. After a few more minutes of chatter about Paris, she said, “I’ll see you soon, mon petit chou.” Then she laughed affectionately, snapped her phone shut, and stared dreamily out the window in a way that made me think that she had just conversed with a new lover. I tried to remember what chou meant in French. Was it a puppy? No, I was pretty sure that dog was chien.
I glanced around the Muffin Man again, hoping to find my Alistair, my own chou. But there were no solo male diners, handsome or otherwise. Only Madeline and an American couple consulting a Fodor’s guidebook on Great Britain. The two were sporting matching, bulging purple fanny packs and bright white Reeboks. I couldn’t help wondering why so many Americans (other than New Yorkers) have such a distinct lack of fashion sense, but the new Darcy didn’t hold it against them.
After my waitress brought my breakfast, I studied the tea strainer and peered into the silver pot at the floating tea particles, trying to remember how Ethan had prepared it for us. To a coffee drinker, it all seemed pretty complicated. Then, right as I was wishing he were here with me to pour my cup of tea and listen to my Mr. Dobbs tale, in he strolled, looking adorable in a red cap and a brightly colored striped sweater. His cheeks were pink, as they always were in the cold—which made his eyes look even bluer.
“Ethan!” I spoke in a normal voice, but it registered loud in the small, quiet room. “Hey, there!”
I caught Madeline giving me a look, perhaps disapproving of my outburst. I fleetingly regretted being the loud American in the room.
“Hey, Darce,” Ethan said, as he approached my table. “How did it go at the nursing home?” He must have returned to the flat, because I had left him a note about my job-hunting mission.
“Not so well. But I bought a paper to check the classifieds. Have a seat,” I said, moving my purse and binder to clear a chair for him. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was just thinking about you. How do you work this little contraption again?” I asked, motioning toward the tea strainer. Without sitting down, he leaned over my table, efficiently placed the strainer over my cup with one hand, and poured from the silver pot with the other.
“Have a seat,” I said again.
He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Um…actually, I’m meeting a friend here.”
“Oh…who?” I asked, worried that Phoebe was on her way.
“She’s right over there.” Ethan gestured toward Madeline and then, as she looked up at him, he winked at her—not in the smooth, sleazy way that some guys wink—more the cute, friendly sort of wink. Like Santa Claus if he were thin and young.
Madeline gave Ethan a pinky wave as she sipped her cappuccino from a glass mug. She then flashed him a small, private smile. I combined her smile with her mon petit chou, digesting the implications…. Ethan has a girlfriend. And she’s not only attractive, but she’s French to boot!
Ethan smiled back at Madeline and then looked down at me. “You’re welcome to join us, Darce.”
But I could tell he didn’t mean it. “That’s okay. You go ahead,” I said quickly, feeling embarrassed for assuming he was ever-available for me.
“Are you sure?” He gave me a furtive, borderline sympathetic look.
“Yeah. Yeah. I have to run in a sec anyway. Check out the leads in my paper. You go on…really,” I said.
“All right, then. I’ll see you a little later, okay?”
“Yup. Sounds good,” I said breezily.
As I watched Ethan amble toward Madeline’s table, I felt strangely territorial. Almost jealous. The emotion caught me off guard. I mean, why should I care if Ethan had a girlfriend? I certainly wasn’t interested in him. Sure, I had thought about kissing him, but that didn’t mean I was in love with him or anything crazy like that. Perhaps seeing him with someone just made me long for a companion of my own. Perhaps I was worried about my standing in his flat. My rights to his comfortable bed.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Madeline stand and kiss her chou on one cheek and then the other. I know it is a European practice, but it still looked pretentious, and I vowed never to dole out th
e double kiss again. Ethan pulled off his cap, exposing his tousled curls. Then he sat and angled his chair toward her. Their knees touched.
I looked away and ate quickly, feeling queasy and hurt that Ethan hadn’t told me about his relationship. I wondered what exactly was going on between them. Was he always off meeting her under the guise of finishing his book? Were they making mad love back at her place as I waited for him to come home every night? Why had he not told me about her? As I stood to pay my bill, I debated whether to say good-bye on my way out. On the one hand, I was curious to meet this girl and glean some insight into their fledgling (or was it established?) relationship. At the same time, I felt awkward, like I’d rather just sidle out the door unnoticed. It wasn’t like me to be anything other than gregarious, and I wondered again why Ethan’s having a girlfriend could affect me in this way.
As I stood by the cash register, a few yards from the lovebirds’ table, I could hear Madeline’s throaty French accent followed by Ethan’s happy chortle. I presented my bill to the waitress along with a ten-pound note. She gave me my change, which I dropped into a little dish for tips. Then, just as I was heading out the door, I heard Ethan call out, “Hey, Darce. C’mere for a sec.”
I turned around, pretending to be momentarily disoriented, as if I had forgotten altogether that he was there with a woman. Then I smiled warmly and took the few steps over to their table.
“Hey, there,” I said casually.
“This is Sondrine,” Ethan said. “Sondrine, this is Darcy.”
Sondrine? What kind of name was that? I examined her closely. Her skin was poreless, and she had perfectly arched eyebrows. I hadn’t had my own brows done since I had left New York.
“Nice to meet you, Sondrine,” I said, catching myself in the pregnant-girl stance: knees locked, hands resting on my stomach. I dropped my arms to my sides, assuming a more attractive pose.
“And you,” Sondrine purred in a phone-sex voice.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then, just in case Ethan had downplayed my importance in his life—or failed to mention me altogether—I told him that I’d see him back home. I checked Sondrine’s face for a flash of surprise or insecurity, but saw neither. Just pleasant indifference. As I departed the Muffin Man and rounded the corner back to Ethan’s flat, I felt inexplicably wistful, almost sad. I felt my baby kick again, and I confided in her, whispering, “Ethan has a girlfriend. And I don’t know why that upsets me.”
I didn’t see Ethan until much later that night when he finally returned to the flat, sans Sondrine. I was sprawled on his couch, half-asleep, waiting for him with a pit in my stomach as I listened to a Norah Jones CD.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Tenish,” he said, standing over me. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes,” I said. “You?”
He nodded.
“Where’ve you been?” I asked, feeling like a suspicious wife who just found a smear of pink lipstick on her husband’s starched white shirt.
“Writing.”
“Sure you were,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant and playful.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, motioning for me to move over and clear a space for him.
I lifted my legs long enough for him to sit and then rested my feet on his thighs. “It means, were you really writing or were you hanging out with Sondrine?” I asked the question in the singsongy way that kids say, “Ethan and Sondrine sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
“I really was writing,” he said innocently. Then he tried to change the subject by asking what I did with my day.
“I looked for a job. Called some places. Surfed the Net.”
“And?”
“All to no avail,” I said. “Very frustrating…So what’s the deal with Son-drine?” I pronounced her name as un-Frenchy as possible, making the word sound clunky and unattractive.
“She’s cool. Fun to hang out with.”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Ethan.”
He gave me a quizzical look.
“Is she your girlfriend or what?”
He yawned and stretched. “No, she’s not my girlfriend.”
“But you’re her petit chou.” I grinned.
“What?”
“I heard her on the phone talking to you right before you showed up at the Muffin Man. She called you her petit chou.”
“You’re too much,” Ethan said, smiling.
“By the way, are you aware that a chou is a cabbage?” I asked, rolling my eyes. I had looked the word up on the Internet as soon as I had returned to the flat, and could not believe that she was using such a dumb pet name.
Ethan shrugged. “I had no idea. I took Spanish. Remember?”
“Too bad for you.”
“Why?”
“Because your girlfriend’s French, that’s why.”
“She’s not my girlfriend, Darce,” Ethan said unconvincingly. “We’ve just gone out a couple of times.”
“When was that?”
“Once last week…and then today.”
“Was last week a dinner date?” I asked, trying to remember which nights Ethan had stayed out late.
“No. We met for lunch.”
“Where?”
“At a bistro in Notting Hill.”
“Did you go dutch?”
“No. I paid…. Is your inquisition almost over?”
“I guess so. I just don’t get why you didn’t tell me about her.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know why I didn’t mention her. It’s really not a big deal,” he said, as he kneaded my left heel and then my right. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had given me a foot massage. It felt better than an orgasm. I told Ethan this. He gave me a proud smile that I translated as: “You’ve never had an orgasm with me.” An image of Ethan and Sondrine, naked and sweaty, popped into my head. I pictured them postcoitus, sharing a cigarette. She had to be a smoker with that raspy voice.
“So tell me about her,” I probed.
“There’s not much to tell…I met her at the Tate Gallery. We were both there to see this exhibit,” he said as he made a fist and rolled it along my arches.
“So what, did you meet in front of a painting?” I asked, thinking of my own trip to the National Gallery with Ethan and wondering why he hadn’t invited me to the Tate.
“No. We met in the café at the museum. She was behind me in line. I got the last free table. She asked if she could join me,” he said. I could hear the story being retold later, whenever anyone asked how they had met. I could see Sondrine linking her arm through his, concluding the tale with a coy, “He got the last Caesar salad and the last table!”
“What a sweet story,” I said.
He ignored my sarcasm. “And then we walked around the museum together afterward.”
The whole thing was a little too close to my Alistair fantasy for comfort. I swallowed, trying to identify the knotted feeling in my chest. It felt like envy and worry and loneliness all blended together.
I formulated a dozen more questions but decided against asking any of them. I had heard enough. Instead we just listened to Norah Jones. Ethan’s eyes were closed, his hands still on my feet when he finally spoke. “You looked really pregnant in the Muffin Man today,” he said.
“You mean fat?” I asked, thinking of Sondrine’s delicate bird wrists. I was downright sturdy next to her.
“Not fat. Pregnant.”
“Pregnant and fat,” I said.
He shook his head, opened his eyes, and gave me a funny look. “No. Pregnant and radiant.”
I felt all tingly and knew that I was beaming. I thanked him, feeling shy.
Ethan kept looking at me with concentration, the way you study someone when you’re trying to place them, remember their name. He finally said, “You really do have that glow.”
“Thank you,” I said again. Our eyes locked for a second, and then we both looked away at the same time.
There was no more co
nversation for a long time after that. Then Ethan suddenly turned to me and said, “Darce, I was wondering…why did you go to the nursing home today?”
“I told you—to get a job,” I said.
“I know. But why a nursing home when you have a public relations background?”
“Because I want to help people. Be more compassionate and stuff.”
Ethan chuckled and shook his head. “You’re such a little extremist, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean? You’re the one who said I needed to change. Be a less shallow person and all that,” I said, realizing how very much I wanted him to recognize the effort I was making.
“You don’t have to change everything about yourself, Darce. And you certainly don’t need to go working in a nursing home to be a good person.”
“Well, it’s a good thing. Because I didn’t get hired.” I smiled. “And to be perfectly honest, I don’t particularly want to work with old people.”
“Yeah. You don’t have to be a martyr. Just find an enjoyable job and make a little loot. If you can add some value to the world in the process, all the better. But you have to be yourself.”
“Be myself, huh?” I said with a smirk.
“Yeah,” he said, grinning as he stood and walked toward his bedroom. “It ain’t all bad.”
I stood to follow him and then hesitated. I knew nothing had changed overnight, but there was something about seeing Ethan with a girl that made sleeping in bed with him feel strange, somehow wrong. I reassured myself that despite an occasional, fleeting attraction on my part, we were strictly friends. And friends could share beds. I used to have sleepovers with Rachel all the time.
Still, just to be sure, I waited for Ethan to turn around and say, “Are you coming?” before bounding (as much as a pregnant girl can bound) down the hall after him.
I didn’t know how much longer I had before Sondrine would make her presence known in the flat, but I was going to savor every minute of it.
