Something Blue

by Emily Giffin

  I also had the distinct sense that Ethan had told her what a sybarite I had been in my old life, as she incessantly questioned me on my favorite clubs, designers, wines, and hotels. Of course, I still enjoyed those topics, but I would have appreciated at least a passing mention of my unborn sons.

  Ethan and Geoffrey’s interaction, too, seemed strained beneath a friendly exterior. If I had to bet on it, I would have said that Ethan thought Geoffrey was overly reserved and colorless, and I think Geoffrey was just generally annoyed by my relationship with Ethan, and specifically our unconventional sleeping arrangement. It had been the root of our first argument the night before. Somehow it had come up that I had slept in Ethan’s bed over the holidays, and Geoffrey had grown quiet, almost sullen. After I coaxed it out of him, he told me that he thought it was “more than a bit odd” to sleep in a bed with a male friend. I reassured him that my relationship with Ethan was 100 percent platonic, feeling relieved that I could say so honestly. But I could tell he still felt somewhat threatened. This was evident at dinner whenever I tasted Ethan’s food. After my third bite, Geoffrey aggressively offered me a taste of his entrée, and when I declined, he seemed a bit miffed. As if it were my fault that I didn’t like the sound of filet of monkfish wrapped in Parma ham.

  But the four of us made it through dinner, and then to Annabel’s, an exclusive club on Berkeley Square, where we were joined by a dozen or so of Geoffrey’s upper-crust pals. Sondrine was in her element amid the elegant crowd, and she made a point to talk to an array of strangers, mostly men. I knew what she was doing, because I had done it myself many times; she was showing Ethan that she was desired by other men. At one point, when she was engrossed in conversation with a tuxedoed gentleman who looked like a young Frank Sinatra, I asked Ethan if he was at all bothered. He gave me a confused look and then said, “Why? Because she’s talking to that guy?”

  I nodded.

  He glanced at Sondrine, his face a mask of indifference. “Nah. Not at all,” he said with a shrug.

  I couldn’t help feeling pleased with his answer. I wanted him to be happy, just not head over heels in love, and it seemed clear that that wasn’t the case.

  Geoffrey, on the other hand, did seem smitten. He introduced me proudly to all of his friends. He repeatedly pulled me aside to ask how I was feeling and if he could get me anything. And just before midnight, with the crowd counting down the seconds to the new year, he gave me a passionate kiss, whirled me around a full turn, and shouted above the din, “Happy New Year, darling!”

  “Happy New Year, Geoffrey!” I said, feeling flushed and happy to be ushering in a monumental year with my dapper English beau. But I couldn’t help feeling distracted, wondering what Ethan and Sondrine were up to. I glanced around the room and spotted them lounging on a sofa, holding hands, while he ordered more drinks from a waiter. As I watched them together, I silently willed him to look over at me. When he finally did, I discreetly blew him a friendly kiss. He grinned and blew one back, and I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to be next to him, to exchange our first words of the new year. I wanted to thank him for everything, for being such a good friend when I needed one the most.

  At that very second, Geoffrey whispered in my ear, “I’m falling in love with you, Darcy.”

  I felt goose bumps rise all over my arms. Geoffrey’s words were the answer to all of my wishes. But as I tried to say the words back—that I was falling in love too—I caught another glimpse of Ethan, and I couldn’t get them out of my throat.

  Much later that night, after we had said good-bye to Ethan and Sondrine, I was in Geoffrey’s bed making love to him. I sensed that he wasn’t entirely in the moment.

  “Are you worried about the babies?” I finally asked. “Are you sure this is still safe?”

  “Yes. Perfectly safe,” he breathed. “I just worry anyway.”

  Proving that this was the case, he told me he would rather just cuddle anyway. “If that’s okay with you?”

  I told him it was fine with me, but I was a bit worried too. Then after a long, silent stretch, he said the words outright. “I love you, Darcy.” His breath was warm in my ear, and I could feel the little hairs on my neck standing at attention. This time, I whispered that I loved him too. Then, I silently listed all of the reasons: I loved him for his gentleness. I loved him for being an amazing catch yet still vulnerable enough to be insecure. But most of all, I loved him for loving me.

  As the winter in London dragged on and my due date neared, Geoffrey doted on me more and more. It was as if he had consulted every article ever written on how to treat a pregnant woman. He took me to the most fabulous restaurants: Mirabelle, Assagi, and Petrus. He bought me lavish gifts—Jo Malone bath oils, a Valentino clutch, lingerie from Agent Provocateur—which he’d leave for me on his bed, pretending to be just as surprised as I when I’d emerge from the bathroom to discover them. He reassured me that I was only becoming more beautiful with every passing day, insisting that he could not see the zits (or “spots” as he called them) that were frequenting my nose and chin. All the while, he would talk of our future. He promised to take me to see the exotic places he had traveled: Botswana, Budapest, Bora Bora. He promised me a wonderful life and made me feel like a lucky woman. A saved woman.

  Yet as I lay next to him every night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. That no matter how perfect my life was becoming, something was missing. I suspected that it had something to do with my dire financial situation. I had never had such money worries in my life. Even in college, and my early days in New York, before I found my bartending job, all I’d had to do was phone my father and he’d help me out, wire me a few hundred dollars or send me a fresh credit card. Obviously, calling my dad was out of the question this time, so I finally swallowed my pride and confessed my situation to Geoffrey. My voice cracked with shame as I told him how I had blown my savings on a new wardrobe.

  “Don’t worry about money, darling,” he said. “I can take care of you.”

  “I don’t want you to have to do that,” I said, unable to make eye contact.

  “But I want to.”

  “That is so nice. Thank you,” I said, my face growing hot. I knew I had to accept his help, but it wasn’t easy. I told him I missed having a job, feeling completely independent.

  He reassured me that I’d find a wonderful career after the babies were born. “You’re bright, talented, beautiful. When the babies are six months old, you can begin your search again. I can put you in touch with so many people…And in the meantime, I’m here for you.”

  I smiled and thanked him again. I told myself that I wasn’t using Geoffrey. I loved him, and if you love someone, you can’t use them. Not really. Besides, I knew I would pay him back someday, somehow.

  I went to sleep that night feeling tremendously relieved to have had the difficult conversation, relieved that I had a safety net when my last pound was spent. My peace of mind was short-lived, however, and the pit in my stomach returned full force just days later.

  This time, I confessed my misgivings to Charlotte and Meg over tea at Charlotte’s flat. We were sitting at her small kitchen table, watching Natalie ignore her vast array of toys in favor of pots and pans that she had scattered all over the kitchen. I kept picturing how much more chaos two Natalies could inflict. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. Something’s just plaguing me.”

  Charlotte nodded. “You’re just feeling general anxiety over childbirth and motherhood. The whole scary journey ahead. And it can’t help watching this!” She pointed at Natalie, rolled her eyes, and laughed.

  “That has to be it,” Meg agreed. She had just recently announced the wonderful news that she, too, was pregnant. But she was still in her very early weeks, with her own set of worries about miscarrying. “There’s always something to fret about,” she said.

  “Hmm,” Charlotte agreed. “The responsibility that is barreling toward you is bound to make you feel a bit insecure.”
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br />   “Maybe you guys are right,” I said, telling them about my crazy nightmares about losing or misplacing one, sometimes both, of my babies. I also dreamed about SIDS, kidnappings, Sophie’s Choice, deadly fires, cleft palates, and missing thumbs, but the losing-a-baby motif was the most common. In one dream, I actually shrugged and said to Ethan, “Oh, well. Still got one left. And this one looks just like the lost one anyway.”

  “It’s totally normal to have those dreams,” Charlotte said. “I know I did. They’ll go away…Just throw yourself into preparing for motherhood. You’ll feel more confident that way.”

  I took her advice over the next few weeks, calling her and Annalise often to ask for advice. I also read articles and books on parenting philosophies, breast-feeding, and scheduling. And I signed up for a birthing class, where I learned everything from how to breathe during labor to how to bathe my babies.

  But despite all of the assurances given to me and all of my preparation for motherhood, I still felt unsettled. I honestly had no idea what it was, but my mind kept drifting to Ethan. I barely saw him at all anymore. Every time I went to his flat to pick up clothing, he was gone, either out working or at Sondrine’s. Or worse, I’d hear her husky laughter emanating from his bedroom. I wasn’t jealous, because I was very happy in my own relationship. It was more just a pang of missing the way things used to be. I suppose that’s the way you always feel when a close friend develops a romantic relationship that threatens to impact your friendship—or at least the everyday nature of it. I vaguely remembered feeling the same way when Rachel spent all of her time with her law school boyfriend, Nate. I reassured myself that although things would change in the upcoming year, Ethan and I would always remain close. Much closer than we’d ever been before my move to London. We just had to make the effort to see each other. So after a week of not connecting, I phoned his mobile and arranged a dinner alone.

  “You seem down,” Ethan said over our Thai takeaway back at his flat.

  “Maybe a little,” I said. “I think it’s all the changes on the horizon. Meg and Charlotte said it’s normal to feel apprehensive.”

  He nodded as he transferred our dinner from Styrofoam containers onto plates. “Yeah. Your life is about to change dramatically.” Then he thought for a second and said, “Maybe it’s also your unresolved conflict with your mother?”

  “No,” I said, blowing on my Pad Thai. “And I don’t think it’s Rachel, either, in case that’s what you’re thinking.” I looked at him, expecting him to say something more about her. He still had not told me—nor had I asked—about their conversation on Christmas Day. Which was fine by me. I didn’t want the confirmation of her engagement to upset the delicate balance in my life. I looked up at him and said, “I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on exactly what I’m feeling. Something just isn’t quite right.”

  He suggested that perhaps I needed to nest. “You’re prepared mentally…but now you have to get there physically.” He took a sip of beer. “I think we need to get the nursery set up. I was thinking that I’d paint this weekend.”

  I smiled, thrilled that he still wanted us, but then hesitated and said, “What about Geoffrey?”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, I think he might want me to move in with him,” I said. “He’s been talking about finding a bigger flat,” I said nervously, as if I were somehow betraying Ethan by moving out. We had come a long way since my frantic phone calls from New York when I had to practically beg to stay with him for a few weeks.

  Ethan jabbed at a green pepper with one chopstick. “Is that what you want? To live with Geoffrey?” he asked in a judgmental tone.

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “I’m not…I mean…I just didn’t know you two were that serious,” Ethan said. “It seems like it’s really happening fast.”

  I felt myself getting defensive as I told him yes, we were getting quite serious and that Geoffrey was everything I was looking for.

  “As long as you’re happy,” Ethan said. “That’s all I want for you.”

  “I am happy.”

  Ethan looked pensive as he took a bite of brown rice. He chewed, swallowed, sipped his beer, and then said, “Well, I still think we should go ahead and paint your room…just in case.”

  “Just in case Geoffrey and I break up?”

  “No. I didn’t mean that. I just meant…well…just in case it takes longer than expected for you and Geoffrey to feel ready to live together. In any event, I want the boys to have a room here too.”

  “That is so sweet, Ethan. You’re such a good friend,” I said.

  So that weekend, while Geoffrey was on call, Ethan painted the nursery walls blue, touched up the bookcase with a coat of fresh white paint, and assembled the spindle cribs I had charged a few weeks earlier. Meanwhile, Meg and Charlotte took me shopping for more supplies. I stuck to the essentials—nappies, wipes, bottles, bibs, onesies, a changing pad, and a double stroller—and charged the items on my last remaining credit card. But as I paid, Meg and Charlotte sneaked off and surprised me by purchasing some gorgeous and way too expensive blue toile crib bedding and a matching curtain for the small nursery window.

  “We saw you admiring it,” Meg said.

  “Thank you, guys, so much,” I said, accepting the gift. It was the kind of thing Rachel always did for me—generosity I had taken for granted in my selfish past.

  “You’re so welcome,” they said, looking as happy as I felt.

  I told them how lucky I felt to have such close friends in London.

  Later that night, as Ethan and I put the finishing touches on the nursery, I thanked him again too.

  He smiled and said, “You feel better now?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

  He rested his arm on the edge of Baby A’s crib. “See? It was nothing that a little shopping spree couldn’t cure.”

  I laughed, and said that he was right. “Yeah. Nothing that a little blue toile couldn’t fix.”

  But as I packed my bag for Geoffrey’s, I had a strong suspicion that things weren’t that simple.

  Twenty-Eight

  I had my epiphany on Valentine’s Day.

  It was my idea to go on another double date with Ethan and Sondrine. Although our first effort wasn’t an overwhelming success, I wanted to give it another try. Geoffrey protested a bit, saying that he preferred to be alone with me. I told him that where I came from, Valentine’s was a cheesy, amateur nonevent and therefore we had two options: blow it off altogether and order a pizza, or share the evening with another couple. I told him I wasn’t going to be one of those silly couples sitting alone at a table, all dressed up and eagerly ordering off a jacked-up, prix-fixe menu, and that going to dinner with another couple would temper the whole cheese factor. He reluctantly saw my point and made reservations for four at Daphne’s, an Italian restaurant in South Kensington.

  On the evening of the fourteenth, Geoffrey and I drove to the restaurant, arriving right on time. Sondrine and Ethan showed up nearly thirty minutes late with that telltale “I just had sex” look about them: messy hair, flushed cheeks, flustered expressions and all. Of course, I couldn’t resist rubbing it in to the always-punctual Ethan, asking, “What were you two up to that you couldn’t get here on time?”

  Sondrine smirked, looking exceedingly pleased with herself, and Ethan mumbled guiltily, “Bad traffic. I’m really sorry, guys.”

  I raised my eyebrows and said, “Uh-huh. Sure it was the traffic,” while Geoffrey found the maître d’ and told him our party was “finally present.” On the way to our table we made small talk—which with two women always includes some obligatory compliments. I praised Sondrine’s Chanel ballet flats, and she told me for the zillionth time how marvelous I looked. Then she touched my stomach without asking permission first (something I did not appreciate from anyone other than Ethan or Geoffrey) and said, in an exaggerated tone, “This is so exciting!” Her words did not sound sincere. Perhaps because I r
emembered issuing similar statements to Annalise during her pregnancy while thinking, Better you than me, sister.

  “How much longer do you have?” Sondrine asked.

  “Geoffrey says term for twins is about thirty-six or thirty-seven weeks, so I guess I have about six weeks to go.”

  Geoffrey looked up from the wine list and gazed adoringly at me. He found my hand under the table and laced his fingers with mine. “We can barely stand the suspense,” he said.

  I saw a tightening in Ethan’s face—a look he gets when he’s upset where his mouth sort of twitches. I wondered what he was thinking. Just in case he felt excluded by Geoffrey’s we, I said to Sondrine, “Yeah. It’s really starting to feel real now. Especially when Ethan and I set up the nursery last weekend. It’s adorable. Have you seen it yet?”

  “No,” she said stiffly, glancing at Ethan. Now it was her turn to be annoyed. I guess I could empathize with her. If I were dating a guy, I wouldn’t want his female friend and her twins aboard in the flat. So she did what I would have done—she elicited disapproval from Geoffrey, her ally apparent. “Have you seen the room yet?” she asked him.

  The tactic worked, because Geoffrey’s lips fell into a sharp line. Then he said, “No. I haven’t seen it yet…I’ve been really busy at work…and looking at flats. I’m trying to find something with a bit more room for us.”

  Sondrine lit up. “You and Darcy are moving in together?”

  Geoffrey moved our clasped hands to the top of the table and gave me a look, the English equivalent of “aw shucks,” while I said, “Yeah. We’re thinking about moving in together.”