by Meghann Foye
My mom waits patiently as I say my goodbyes to the staff, then comes over when it’s just Jules and me. “Lizzie, don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem—nervous. Is everything okay with the baby?”
“Yes. I promise I’ll explain later.”
Her brow furrows with concern, but she seems to accept my response as I lead her out and put her in a cab to Port Authority. Jules graciously volunteers to help me clean up. I’ve decided I’m going to send all of the gifts to Kristy, the contact Ryan gave me for my surrogacy story, for her new little daughter, Emerson. As I pile stuff into bags, Jules and I start talking.
“You know, I think when I saw this day in my head, I envisioned my cute husband bringing the car around,” I say wryly.
“You mean BabyBjorn dad,” says Jules, referring to our running joke about the solid, strong man many of our mutual friends were married to—the kind who watches the game, but also does the laundry. He cleans the dishes after she cooks, and is there to push the stroller around the park while training for a triathlon.
“Remember last year, Elyse just had to telepath that it was the end of the shower, and her husband, Chris, was right there with the Forester.”
“Well, I hate to tell you but you know what baby daddies hate more than anything?”
“When you forget to DVR Real Housewives?”
“Well, that, but also when their wife has faked a pregnancy and is now virtually unemployable—you know how they like double incomes,” chides Jules.
“Well, the way Cynthia’s been loving my stories lately, I think my future is assured at Paddy Cakes.”
“Yes, Cynthia’s loving on you now, but you realize babies aren’t exactly a verboten topic of conversation around the office. The vultures will ask you everything from the moment little ‘Lucie Rose’ is born.”
As she says this, I actually catch myself looking lovingly down at my bump.
“First it’ll be which day care she’s going to, or whether you’ll be hiring a nanny...then where she’ll be enrolling in pre-K,” says Jules, furthering the line of questioning.
“I’ve already thought of that,” I say, thanking myself for a recent stroll around the Upper West Side for more in-depth “research.”
“She’s going to the Le Jardin Française preschool,” I go on, now looking off into the distance. “She’s going to be bilingual, and we’re going to speak French at the dinner table, and when she’s old enough to go to preschool, she’ll have an automatic in at the Lycée Français,” I say brightly, referring to the prestigious French high school where students not only have to take the SATs, but also prepare for the baccalaureate.
Jules isn’t having any of it. “And how are you going to afford that? You know an editor’s salary at Paddy Cakes isn’t even enough for Pampers!”
“I haven’t quite worked out all the details, but I think these hormones are affecting my brain in some weird way. I’ve never felt more relaxed. It’s like everything will just work out okay.”
“Hold up, Teen Mom! These ‘hormones’ aren’t really there.” Jules stops bagging gifts for a second.
“What the fuck? Why have you been so cranky recently? At least you’re married. That’s the hard part, remember? Finding the love of your life. Maybe you should realize how good you have it? You and Henry have the perfect relationship, you live the high life without kids, and you’re able to do all the fun stuff you want. You went to China and Chile last year! Your Facebook pictures are amazing.”
Jules just gives a half smile.
“What?” I ask, perturbed.
“Nothing’s perfect. You know that, Liz.” Jules looks down.
I can tell I’ve triggered something, so I reply, “I know, I’m sorry. What’s up?”
“What do you think, Liz, people just snap their fingers and things work out like they’re magically supposed to all the time? It’s not always that easy. Henry’s GMATs suck. He’s not going to get in anywhere.”
“You know what, Jules? I think you’re wrong. It can be. I know things haven’t been working out for you lately, but I think there’s another option you’re not realizing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Out of you and Henry, do you know who should be applying to business schools?”
Jules looks taken aback.
“You practically quote Sheryl Sandberg every day, Jules. You’re organized, methodical, smart and entrepreneurial.”
“You’re saying I should be going to b-school. Huh. Huh. Oh.” She scratches her head as if the thought never occurred to her—the Bird Cage strikes again.
In the cab ride home, I look down at the blanket my mom gave me, the one thing I’m not going to be giving away. I wonder what it’d be like to be using this stuff for real with my very own little baby, rocking her gently to sleep, then going to bed with my husband. An image of Ryan pops into my brain.
* * *
Back at my apartment, I take off the bump and slide into the tub, rubbing my achy muscles. I have to give it to pregnant women—after a day of standing around in heels, my back is killing me. The ache then shifts from my lower body upward to my head and now that I’m alone, I feel an intense migraine coming on. I’m now an “expecting mother” with only a few months to go and reality starts to sink in. I need to come up with a plan to not only carry myself through the pregnancy, but to take care of myself afterward for the rest of my life.
Will I officially take maternity leave? Quit my job and reveal the truth? That would undoubtedly mean that I could never work in magazines again. But what’s the other option? Pretend to have a baby and keep working at Paddy Cakes? No way could I keep up the ruse with thirty very nosy women. And if I try to get a job at another magazine, the industry is pretty small and people will talk. Having a bump is one thing, but pretending to have a living, breathing child is a different thing altogether.
What about my romantic life? How would I be able to keep up this secret double life if a guy were in the picture? And what if this fake bump prevents me from having a real baby of my own one day? I can feel the proverbial clock begin to tick and I realize that’s what’s been waking me up so early in the mornings—my own heart, starting to beat faster for something I haven’t even realized I’ve wanted until just now—though still far off, a vision starts to paint a shadowy outline—of a real-life Lucie Rose. The reality of all of this sends me into a panic. I start to breathe quicker and my chest tightens. I have made the stupidest mistake of my life.
I get out of the tub and dry off, but I can’t stop thinking about what a fool I am. I get into bed, but toss and turn the whole night. I contemplate the most ridiculous solutions, like telling everyone it was all just water weight after a dieting backslide and that I was just too embarrassed to admit it.
Deep into the night, a dark thought strikes me. I could feign a miscarriage. But there’s just something so karmically wrong about it, I immediately shrug it off. Then, I think, I could just quit. If I get out now, maybe I can still save myself, if not my career.
I wake up the next morning groggy and tired, and realize that I’m going to have to tell everyone what I’ve done. Own up to my mistakes and end this once and for all. It might get me fired, but it’s the right thing to do.
Twenty
PUSH! :) Notification! Week 27: Is Red Bull, like, your new BFF? Well, you probably shouldn’t be drinking Red Bull, but whatevs. Welcome to the (sleepless) world of preg-somnia! Heartburn, leg cramps, bathroom runs are just some of the fun! Baby Smiles: 9!
The gray skies start to open halfway on my walk to work, and even though I remembered to bring my umbrella, my flip-flopped feet slip and slide atop the damp pavement. I’m so early to work that it looks as though I’m the only one who’s come in yet. I turn on my computer and check my email. The first message is from Cynthia. “See me as soon as
you get in. Urgent matters to discuss.”
Okay, perfect. I will tell her everything. My chest is pounding and I feel light-headed. All the blood in my body feels like it’s rushing to my face.
Walking over to her office, I see Cynthia through the glass, turned toward her computer, ever-present macchiato on her desk. This should be easy. I tap lightly.
Cynthia turns toward me, nodding me in.
I pad over to the chair, feeling as though I might faint, grabbing on to the sides of my stomach for balance.
“So. I’ve been thinking about your situation,” starts Cynthia.
“Yes,” I say. “Me, too. There’s actually something I need to tell you.” I can barely get the words out, but now that I’ve said them, there’s no going back.
“Well, I’ll go first. I know that as a single working woman, your budget’s going to be...tight.” Her sharp features soften ever so slightly. “I want you to know that I recognize that you haven’t received more than our usual standard of living increase in salary in the ten years that you’ve been here. We’re in budget talks at the moment and Jeffry mentioned that you’ve been taking on many of the senior editor’s assignments. I’ve decided to continue monitoring your performance these next few months. If you continue with your current progress, once the baby arrives, I’ll raise your salary to one hundred thousand and offer you a title change to deputy editor. I’ll be expecting even more of you, but this new increase in salary should help at least a little more with child care. Oh, and the expenses for a new mobile will also be covered. You can pick one up downstairs in IT today. Can’t have you missing important messages with...that beleaguered contraption.”
The news is so unbelievable I don’t know what to say. My whole life I’d been scrounging and saving just to afford my tiny studio on my salary. I can’t even fathom what that amount of money would mean—and it’s the title I’ve been coveting. My mom will be so proud to hear the news. My mind goes blank as I hear myself saying, “Thank you for this opportunity, Cynthia. Of course I’ll work as hard as I can.”
Friday, I’m finishing up a bunch of late finals when I get a random 5:45 p.m. incoming text from Gavin. Hello dear Elizabeth. If you haven’t skipped town for Timbuktu yet, I was wondering if you’d like to join me and some mates at the Mondrian Rooftop tonight for a media party. The GM passed on some VIP passes to the celebrity function since one of my importers is sponsoring it. The lovely Addison and Brie are invited, too. Just let me know and I’ll put your names on the list. Cheers, love.
Clicking off the phone, I wonder why he invited me. I know he’s not interested in me as a girlfriend, and yet I made it clear enough that I wasn’t looking for a hookup-only situation.
Excited anyway about the night’s possibilities, Addison, Brie and I meet up for drinks at a wine bar in the West Village before the party. For once, we’re all in the exact same place—single, but feeling strangely confident. After each going through a bad run of going-nowhere guys this spring, it feels like there’s a change in the midsummer night air.
“Maybe he really likes you, Liz,” says Brie, after I’ve rereminded her of all the facts from date one with Gavin. “It’s not totally out of the question. Plus, you’re looking hot these days. All the bump-wearing is paying off!”
“Aw, thanks, B,” I say, looking down at my figure sheepishly. I guess I have shrunken in size a bit—maybe from carrying a fifteen-pound orb ten hours a day? I feel a slight wave of worry and glance around the trendy bar for coworkers. It’s a risk to be out without my bump, but it’s so hot tonight I couldn’t bear it. I’ve brought it in a big carryall tote just in case.
“Maybe he realizes what he’s missing out on,” Addison says, giving me a suggestive wink. “But really, even if he does turn out to be a total player, what do you have to lose by hanging out with him and his friends? They’re all cute. Try not to think so hard and just have fun.”
“Besides, after your meternity leave, you’ll be off traveling,” she says jokily. “We better take advantage of any cute guy connections while we’ve got ’em!” Addison straightens up a bit to arrange herself, dabbing on some coral lip gloss.
Maybe the girls are right—thirty-one isn’t old, I think, looking around at our glowing faces. It’s been a record twenty-one straight days of Brie not texting Baxter, and a slew of new, not horrible online dates, and I can see the change in her face—she’s happy, her phone no longer a third appendage. And I think we’re past our fight. Think—or hope.
Addison’s just back from a Hamptons weekend, where she’s managed to get in some sun between signing two new lucrative deals. The glow of success is showing up on her face. We finish up our bottle of rosé, settle the tab and then head across town to the Mondrian Hotel.
Inside, the bar upstairs is packed. I immediately recognize the corporate signage on the walls. It’s a Discovery Channel party? Oh, no! I can’t believe it! Will Ryan be here?
I’m shocked at how loud the music is in the all-glass space. We head over to the bar area already jammed with tons of crop-top-bedecked LBGs vying for shrub n’ sodas, the summer’s new classed-up vodka sodas. I see Gavin talking with some of the same friends we met that first night. One has a British-celeb-chef look, complete with dyed-green steampunk-style hair. There’s a tall, blond, clean-cut-looking guy, and a slightly older, aging-rock-star type. I’m still slightly nervous about seeing Ryan, but he’s nowhere in sight. I smile at Gavin’s navy cotton blazer and jeans mixed with his soccer sneakers.
“Why hello, gorgeous,” says Gavin, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you again. And hello, Addison, Brie. It’s been too long.”
Gavin’s friend Doug, also tall and blond, gets us drinks. The DJ spins get louder and louder, so we swap chatting for dancing. Eek, this is going to be one of those nights. When Gavin finds me dancing with Addison he has to shout in my ear, “Addison’s looking sexy, isn’t she? Bet she’ll have her pick of the men tonight.”
Smiling back, I realize, ah yes, maybe he’s into her. I shrug it off, knowing it doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve already made my decision about him.
I walk over to Brie and Doug since Gavin and Addison have gone back to dancing, but the music’s too loud to break into their conversation. Doug puts a big arm around Brie and they start to dance. Then Gavin comes over to me and spins me around again, swooping in to give me a peck on the cheek. “Mmm, you smell nice, Liz,” he says. “What is it? Vanilla?” I give him a playful punch in the stomach and a look that says, “What exactly are you up to tonight?”
The music finally dies down, and Doug offers us all another shot. As he turns toward the bar, Gavin now has his arm around Brie.
“You’re so cool.”
“Foreign men always have better taste,” Brie says back flirtatiously.
“I love this girl,” Gavin says to me in front of Brie and Doug. “Brie, you are the marrying kind, you know that,” to which Brie lights up. Humph, am I not the marrying kind? I think.
Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot him—Ryan. He’s with a twentysomething, heavily highlighted “bouncy” girl if there ever was one. I try to turn and face the other way, but it’s too late. He notices me, too, and does a double take.
“Hey, Liz!” he says, walking over as the blonde girl trails behind.
“Hi,” I respond meekly. His energy makes my stomach flip-flop as it always does.
He goes in for a big hug, and I end up spilling a little bit of champagne on his shirt, which he brushes off good-naturedly. His open smile makes it seem like he’s genuinely happy to see me. “You look good. So you managed to get in, huh?”
“I, uh,” I stammer. Even with a few drinks in me, I feel myself blushing. Despite what happened between us, the butterflies are still there. “I’m here with a group of friends,” nodding at my clearly drunken compatriots clowning around on the dance f
loor. Doug looks as though he’s attempting the running man to impress Brie with ironic goofiness. “You?”
“Discovery thought it’d be a good idea to launch the new season of Top Gear here. I asked Kendall to put your name on the media list and was hoping you’d make it.”
“Really? I didn’t get the invite.”
“That’s strange...” starts Ryan. Just then, the blonde catches up next to Ryan and slides an arm through his elbow, wearing some sort of off-the-shoulder, barely-covering-her-butt “festival” dress. Her whole aura reads “uncomplicated.”
“Hi there,” she smiles, eyeing me up and down.
“Hi.”
“Kendall, this is Liz Buckley—you remember, we worked on the mega-multiples and Laos stories with her at Paddy Cakes?” He gives me a warm smile.
“Liz, this is Kendall—she’s my coworker at Discovery.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. This is who he was probably going shot for shot with the night of our falling-out. She’s definitely still a good two to three years away from the big 3-0. I find myself looking off toward my group of friends as a protective measure so Ryan won’t see the disappointment in my face.
“Hey, good to meet you,” she says, smiling. Her eyes dart back and forth between Ryan and me.
“Liz’s name was on the list, right, K?”
“I’m sure I put it on,” she says with nothing but a courteous smile. Feeling a sudden urge to leave, I quickly say, “Nice to meet you, Kendall. Talk to you later, Ryan.” And turn smack into Gavin, who wraps both hands around my waist sloppily.
“Who’s this, Lizzie?” says Gavin, looking Kendall up and down.
“Oh, these are my friends from Discovery Channel.”