Meternity

by Meghann Foye

  “Oh, okay, cool,” I answer.

  “Yeah, and uh, it looks like the pregnancy is treating you well.”

  “Thanks, Jeffry,” I say quickly and jet out. Just then I see Alix waiting for me back at my cube. She looks pissed.

  “So we got back the final layout of ‘Postpartum Depression’—looks like Cynthia was pleased.”

  “Good,” I say tentatively.

  “But she did have one last question about homeopathic remedies that might be helpful,” she says, showing me the red line on the layout. “I thought we could reach out to your doctor for a quote—you know, Dr. Honeycut.”

  I try to hide a gasp. Could she have found out?

  “And did you?” I ask.

  “I asked Jules for the contact info; she said she’d email it. In the meantime I Googled him, but couldn’t find him anywhere. Can you send his info to me?”

  “He’s actually away this week,” I say quickly. “I’ll get you a better source ASAP.”

  “Okay, better be in by first thing tomorrow,” she says.

  I dig around for replacement physicians, then head home at about 6 p.m. and begin to do my now nightly rubdown of my chafed midsection. If I really were pregnant, my books tell me I’d probably be dealing with indigestion, night sweats and insomnia. Maybe the pregnant women in the office don’t have it as easy as I’d thought. As I’m contemplating the unfairness of it all, I hear my phone chime.

  Aussie, reads the phone’s caller ID.

  Ah, it’s Gavin! It’s been almost a month—surely he couldn’t be asking about his wallet now, after all this time. A thought of Ryan blows through my brain. But, Gavin is also good-looking, employed and seemingly not a serial killer. “Hey there,” I say.

  “Hey there yourself. How’r’ya going?” His tone is chipper and warm.

  “Uh, good, fine. How are you going yourself?” Damn, why did I just pretend to have an Aussie accent myself? Now he thinks I’m making fun of him.

  “Just fine, thanks,” he says, a little swayed. “Heya, sorry for taking so long to call you. I was out of the country on business. You still have my billfold, do ya?”

  “Let me just check to make sure I have yours. You know, lots of men park their wallets under my bed,” I say, unable to help myself.

  “Ha. Mine’s the black one.”

  I open the worn-in Louis Vuitton billfold. “Gavin Bettencourt, thirty-nine, Manhattan, New York. You’re a blood donor, a member of the Printing House Squash Club, like carrying twenties, though aren’t obsessive about keeping them all in order, and you have, let’s see here...a purple Amex card.”

  “Hey, yeah, and if you’re done rifling through the contents of my wallet, I’ll be needing that purple Amex.”

  “Not if I don’t use it for my own purposes first,” I jet back.

  “And what purposes would those be?” His tone quiets.

  “You know, trip to France, new summer wardrobe, upgraded membership to my male escort service...”

  He starts to laugh. “I’d give you a discount rate—you just have to ask nicely.”

  Hmm.

  “Well, I’m here if you’d like to stop by and pick it up. Do you, uh, live in the area?”

  “No, I live downtown, in the West Village. Jane Street.”

  “Ooh, I love Jane Street! I used to live downtown, too, and spent hours in the Paris Commune. My friends would make fun of me because I’d pretend I was Ernest Hemingway. I’d order an espresso and nurse it for hours, reading and writing my ‘deep thoughts.’ How and why am I talking about this?”

  “Er, sounds fun...” he says, snapping me back to the present.

  “Yeah, it was,” I say wistfully. “Well, guess my bestselling novel has yet to materialize. I work for a baby magazine now.”

  “Oh, do you? Right. That would explain it!”

  “What?”

  “Those baby books and magazines under your bed!”

  “Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! Yeah, no, I’m totally not pregnant.”

  “Those are mutually exclusive, yeah?” he teases.

  “In my case they are.”

  “Can I get my wallet cards tomorrow, then? Is it okay to drop by your apartment around eight? I’ll take you to my favorite wine bar in your neighborhood for a proper thank-you drink for keeping them safe for me.”

  Without thinking, I reply, “Yes, uh, sure. See you then.”

  “Yep,” says Gavin, clicking the phone off.

  I take a deep breath in. Running off to Australia is a neat solution I hadn’t thought of yet, albeit completely insane.

  * * *

  The next night, I’m attempting to reposition my bump in the bathroom before heading home for my date, when all of a sudden Cynthia walks in. I try to remain still and quiet, hoping she won’t notice me bent over, but she comes right up to me. As I flip back up, blood rushes to my face. “Elizabeth, Liz, I’ve been waiting until some things worked out in HR before officially talking to you. I’ll put it bluntly. I really like the work you’ve been doing lately. ‘Fair-Trade Families’ was absolutely spot-on in the end—just the right make-them-sit-up-and-give-us–their-full-attention story I’ve been hoping for. How’d you like to try writing features in the well on a more regular basis?”

  “Uh. Sure. That’d be great,” I stammer, thinking about that news headline—oof.

  “Now, as for your pregnancy... I can see that you’ve been filling out a little through the face and thighs—”

  “Um, yes, the pregnancy is going well. Everything is on track. My due date is still October 20.”

  “I’m now going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone at this magazine. I’m not sure why, but you seem like the kind of girl who can keep a secret.”

  I cringe at the thought of this.

  “I’d just made editor in chief at Italian Bella. I was having an affair with the publisher at the time. Married.” I look down for a brief second. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” scoffs Cynthia, folding her arms. “American puritanism. Anyway, one night after we got the numbers back on a record-breaking March issue, we went out to celebrate and got a little careless.” Cynthia says with an air of vulnerability I’ve never before seen.

  “A few weeks later, I was forced to make, well, a life-changing decision. Let’s just say we made a deal. If I did something about my situation, and brought sales up by 25 percent in a year, he’d double my salary and make sure I was well regarded in the company. I was single at the time, and the thought of a whole other life to take care of...” Cynthia stiffens up a bit. “Let’s just say I held my end up of the deal and he held his. I was just about your age and I was not about to give up a career I’d fought so hard for to be a, well, single mum,” she says disdainfully. “People might think differently now, I suppose. I might have certain, er, regrets myself,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “But it was the best decision for me at the time. I can count on you not to reveal this to anyone on staff,” she says, eyes lowering.

  “Of course,” I say. For once, I know I won’t tell anyone, not even Jules.

  “Now you tell me,” she says, eyes. “Whose little bump is this?” she asks, moving her hands to her hips.

  “It’s not someone you know. Just like you, I didn’t exactly know what I was going to do myself. I wanted to make sure it was kept quiet until I did.” My face warms at the lie. I don’t know where I’m coming up with this, but it seems to be believable.

  My knees shake, but Cynthia’s expression softens into genuine concern. “I won’t pry any further, Elizabeth, but I wanted to mention I loved what you did with ‘Best Colleges for Toddlers,’ ‘The New PPD Spectrum’ and ‘The Surrogacy Report.’ Let’s just say as long as you keep pumping out these five-star features, you’ll be taken care of during your maternity leave and we�
��ll be sure to discuss your growing future at Paddy Cakes when you return,” she says, a hint of a smile on her lips. But like lightning, her expression changes. “You are returning, right?” Her face hardens ever so slightly.

  “Yes, of course,” I hear myself saying quickly, completely perplexed by this new turn of events. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving,” I say. Could it be that being pregnant is like rocket fuel for my career? Did I just commit to coming back after maternity leave?

  * * *

  I make it home with barely enough time to pull out my bump, throw on a loose purple silk tank dress and attempt a few comb-throughs of my hair. I hear the buzzer ring, and do a quick scan of the apartment in the very unlikely case that there is some post-wine-bar action later. No bump, no baby books, no maternity materials or mommy blogs open on my computer. Zzzzzzz chimes the buzzer.

  “Hey, all ready up they-ah,” says Gavin into the speakerphone.

  “Be down in a saay-c!” I sing back in an Australian accent. Wait, why am I still talking in an Australian accent?

  I see him turn around as I come outside my building. Gavin’s green eyes are sparkling and his outfit is perfectly casual-cool: a green plaid button-down rolled up around his wrists, the kind of well-fitting jeans only select few men know how to find, a brown belt sitting just right above his cute butt and Brooklyn-style brown suede Hush Puppies.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” Gavin gives me a distinct, not bad look. I may be paranoid, but I think I also catch him quickly checking my belly for signs of life, because he then seems to look relieved. Despite my attempts not to feel anything—nervous, excited, shaky—an instant surge of chemical attraction runs through my lower half.

  I hand him his wallet. “The purple Amex is still there. You can check.”

  “If you bought that dress with it, I approve.”

  We head a little ways down Columbus Avenue to Bin 71, a small wine bar with fewer than twenty seats and dim lighting, which I reason will be good for my skin as well as remaining incognito.

  For a few fun hours Gavin tells me about where he’s from in the Barossa Valley, and that his family owns some of the top vineyards in Southern Australia. His parents never pressured him to take over, encouraging him to go to business school in the States. But he can see himself going back one day to continue building the company with his brother’s family.

  Wine is in his blood. He traveled the world as a backpacker after uni, and now does it for his own wine importing business. He’s out of town for weeks at a time, which has been rough on past relationships. It might be the fifteen-dollarglasses of “Cab Sav,” as he calls it, but envisioning him in the world’s wine regions—France, Italy, South America—is pretty sexy, admittedly. I soak up his stories like a sponge. I am truly interested. Though, I’m also careful to remain pulled back a bit. He seems to sense it—like a tiger ready to pounce.

  “So, now you’ve gone and got me all vulnerable, Liz. Totally unfair on a first date. You know they’re supposed to be all about footsie under the table.” He gives me a wide, playful grin. “It’s only fair that you share your secret vulnerability. I know you’ve got one. Spill it.”

  Ha, if you only knew, I think, but the wine has emboldened me.

  “This is my card of choice,” I say, reaching into my bag and pulling out my passport. I once read in Sex and the Single Girl that Helen Gurley Brown always kept hers on her in case she was ever offered a last-minute trip across the world.

  He seems interested, so I keep going. “Much to my mother’s delight, I inherited her love of all things French. I was going to study in Paris for my junior year abroad.”

  “Let me take a look at that.” I hand over the stiff book. “There aren’t any stamps? So wait, you didn’t go to Paris?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I had to turn it down. Made more sense for me to stay home.”

  He gives me a ponderous look. “For a girl who’s all about travel, you should really think about setting foot on a plane, now, shouldn’t ya?”

  “I’m working on it,” I say. I wonder what he would think if I told him about my secret pregnancy scheme. Something tells me he’s also had a mischievous past and wouldn’t totally judge me.

  “But you’re in your thirties now, aren’t cha. Isn’t it time to start thinking about settling down?” What? His question seems far from fair on a first date—and one I’m not prepared to answer.

  “Can’t you do both? Travel and have a family?”

  “No, not at the beginning,” he says plainly.

  “Well, I will. I absolutely don’t see why it’s not possible,” I say, a little aggressively, which seems to have the opposite effect than I’m expecting.

  “I like this fiery side of you, Liz. Even if you’re wrong.” He signals the bartender. “Sir, give us your 1999 Chateau Estephe Grand Cru,” Gavin says, making it a point to show us both the line on the menu: $150.

  The waiter returns, pouring the burgundy liquid into Gavin’s glass. “I think you’ll like this one, Liz. It’s earthy, full-bodied, complex.” Then, winking at the waiter, “I like my wine like I like my women.”

  “The lady would like to try?”

  I take a sip, not indulging him. “Not bad.”

  “Not bad. It’s the best out there. One of my first major buys here in New York.”

  “Not bad.” I hold firm.

  Gavin takes the wine out of my hands. “Okay, I’ve heard enough, love. Shut up and let me kiss you,” he says, grabbing the back of my head to move in for a kiss. His eyes close to soft slits, but mine remain wide-open. As much as I think he’s probably the hottest man I’ve ever dated, and as much as his facial angularity is doing mighty strange things to my lower abdominal region, my heart’s just not in it. I pull away.

  “I’ve had a great time, Gavin,” I tell him quickly. “Thank you for the drinks, but I’ve got to make it an early night. Big day at work tomorrow.”

  A little surprised, he starts to backtrack, reaching toward my hand with his. “You don’t want to go back to your apartment, love? I could open a bottle I just got today, and we could drink it and talk more about your passport. Or, you know, other things.” Eek.

  I stand up and gather my coat and bag. “Well, thank you for a lovely evening. I’m sure you’re glad to have all your cards back.”

  “Yes, sure, Lizzie,” he says, changing clip. “I’ll call you to see if you’re around for group drinks sometime with your girlfriends. Would you like that?”

  “Sure,” I say coolly. “You have my number.”

  “Great. Want me to get you a taxi, love?”

  “No, that’s okay. It’s just a few blocks up,” I counter, thinking he’ll probably stand up to get me one anyway. As I near the door, I look back and see that he’s already looking down at his phone.

  I enter my dark apartment and plop down my bag, fall into bed and stare off into space, my little metal Eiffel Tower statue on my bedside table taunting me. “Australian-dangling-his-global-travels-in-my-face-player douche bag—argh!” I scream out loud to no one in particular. I don’t need a man to take me to Paris. I will get there on my own. Someday soon. I pull my covers around me tight, a fit of resolution covering up the tempestuous sea beneath.

  Eighteen

  The pastel pink, yellow, green and blue–bedecked convention hall is everything I’m expecting and more as I arrive at the Javits Center with Ford for “The Ultimate Baby Shower” event, my six-month bump firmly in place. The “New York Fashion Week of Maternal Couture” showcases all the latest baby products coming out next year, available now for viewing by wholesalers, big-box retailers, smaller baby stores around the country and the press—and this year it seems bigger than ever. There’s even a catwalk. Deep down, I’m excited.

  “You can thank Kate Mi
ddleton and Kim Kardashian for all this,” says Ford, as we make our way through the main entrance. “They’ve really done an amazing job codifying the original biblical archetypes for women,” says Ford. We come up to a collection of rather scary, completely customizable life-size dolls meant to overtake American Girl mania, thanks to what looks like pure extra-terrestrial-like size and abnormally small waists even for “pweens” as we’ve started calling pretweens of the very specific age of ten.

  “Think about it. Kate is the virginal mother, Kim, the vampy Mary Magdalene. Women define themselves by which camp they’re currently siding with. Do you put your son-king first? Or, do you choose to hold on to your own sexy image above all else?”

  “What if you side with both?” I say, pawing “Jessica’s” creepy doll hair.

  “Look at this collection of dolls. Perfectly diverse, with one African-American girl, two Hispanic girls, one Asian, one Indian, one Native American and five Caucasian girls with different hair colors and eye shapes. You choose the exact combination of facial features that looks like you. Easy. There’s an algorithm to life now. All of our choices are being dictated by Google. You better get used to it.”

  “That’s just if you live in your head,” I say, thinking of the Life-Wise intensive with Brie, wistfully. “I think we have a greater choice, and I’m choosing to live from my heart from now on.”

  “Ah, I’ve given up on that a looongg time ago. Too painful.”

  We find the VIP beauty lounge at the back of the hall. Trying all the creams, elixers, serums, it’s like I’ve hit the jackpot. An assistant offers to give me the third-trimester makeover. She says in the end, the trick to looking awake and alive in the throws of new momdom—and as you age in general—is all about the brows, which no one ever realizes.

  I admit that I’ve never even given my brows a second thought. The lady pulls out a beige-colored wand, running through my thin, yet unruly brows, smoothing them into a shape worthy of Brooke Shields herself. I look focused. Clear. A woman with intention. Staring back at me is no longer Liz, girl about town. No, instead it’s something completely different... I’m a woman. A woman who could be mistaken for a mother.