Something Blue aod-2

by Emily Giffin

  He shook his head and gave me a look of warning, as if to tell me that he wasn't going to bash his precious Rachel. "Seriously. What is all of this crap?"

  "Just clothes, shoes. A lot of toiletries, perfumes, that sort of thing," I said, scooping up my lighter bags, explaining that pregnant women shouldn't lift anything heavier than twenty pounds.

  "Gotcha," Ethan said, struggling his way through the front door. Four trips later, he had all of my bags inside the building. I followed him into the dark, mothball-smelling lobby complete with seventies-green carpeting. I must have made a face, because Ethan asked me if something was wrong.

  "Mothballs," I said, wrinkling my nose.

  "Better than moths," Ethan said. "Wouldn't want them to ruin your expensive jumpers."

  "Jumpers?"

  "Sweaters."

  "My jumpers. Right," I said, feeling excited to adopt British slang for everything. Maybe even pick up an English accent.

  Ethan led me to the back of the dark, cold hall and then, to my disappointment, down a flight of stairs. I couldn't stand basement apartments. They made me claustrophobic. They also translated to inadequate light and no terrace or view. Maybe the inside would compensate, I thought, as Ethan pushed open his door. "So this is it. Home sweet home," he said.

  I looked around, trying to mask my disappointment.

  "I told you it was small," he said, giving me a nonchalant tour. Everything was clean and neat and well decorated, but nothing struck me as particularly European except for some decent crown molding around fairly high ceilings. The kitchen was nondescript and the bathroom downright grim-with wall-to-wall carpeting (bizarre in a bathroom, but not uncommon according to Ethan) and an absolutely miniature toilet.

  "Cute flat," I said with false cheer. "Where's my room?"

  "Patience, my dear. I was getting to that," Ethan said, leading me to a room off the kitchen. It was smaller than a maid's room in a New York apartment, and its sole window was too narrow to squeeze through, yet it was still covered with a row of corroded iron bars. There was one white dresser in the corner that somehow clashed with the white walls, each making the other look sickly gray. Against the adjacent wall was a small bookshelf, also painted white, but peeling, exposing a mint-green underbelly. Its shelves were empty save for a few paperbacks and a huge pink conch shell. There is something about seashells displaced from the beach that has always depressed me. I hate the hollow, lonely sound they make when you press them to your ear, although I am always compelled to listen. Sure enough, when I picked up the shell and heard the dull echo, I felt a wave of sadness. I put it back on the shelf, then walked over to the window, peering up to the street level. Nothing about my view indicated that I was in London. I could just as easily have been in Cleveland.

  Ethan must have read my reaction because he said, "Look, Darce. If you don't like your room, there are plenty of hotels…"

  "What?" I asked innocently. "I didn't say a word!"

  "I know you."

  "Well, then you should know that I'm endlessly grateful and thrilled beyond belief to be here. I love my cozy little cell." I laughed. "I mean, room."

  Ethan raised his eyebrows and shot me a look over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses.

  "It was a joke! It's not a cell," I said, thinking that John Hinckley Jr. probably had better accommodations.

  He shook his head, turned, and dragged my bags into the room. By the time he was finished, there was barely room left to stand, let alone sleep.

  "Where will I sleep?" I asked him, horrified.

  Ethan opened a closet door and pointed to an air mattress. "I bought this for you yesterday. Luxury blowup. For a luxury girl."

  I smiled. At least my reputation was intact.

  "Get organized. Shower if you want."

  "Of course I want. I'm soo gross."

  "Okay. Shower up and then we'll get a bite to eat."

  "Perfect!" I said, thinking that perhaps his flat wasn't what I hoped it would be, but everything else would surpass my expectations. The London scene would more than make up for the mothball odor and my cramped quarters.

  I took a shower, disapproving of the water pressure and the way a draft in the bathroom blew the plastic curtain against my legs. At least Ethan had a nice array of unisex bath products. Plenty of Kiehl's goodies, including a pineapple facial scrub that I have always enjoyed. I used it, careful to replace it on the tub exactly as it was so as not to give myself away. Nobody likes a houseguest who saps their best toiletries.

  "Is there something wrong with your water?" I asked Ethan as I emerged from the bathroom in my finest pink silk robe, finger-combing my wet hair. "My hair feels gross. Stripped."

  "The water here is very hard. You'll get used to it… Only annoying thing is that it leaves stains on your clothes."

  "Are you serious?" I asked, thinking that I'd have to dry-clean everything if that was the case. "Can't you get a water softener?"

  "Never looked into it. But you're welcome to undertake the project."

  I sighed. "And I assume you don't have a hair dryer?"

  "Good assumption," he said.

  "Well. Guess I'll have to go with the natural look. We're not hanging out with other people today, are we? I want to look my best when you introduce me to your crowd."

  Ethan busied himself with a stack of bills on his dining room table, his back to me. "I don't really have a crowd. Just a few friends. And I haven't planned anything."

  "Phew. I want to make a good first impression. You know what they say-first impressions are last impressions!"

  "Uh-huh."

  "So I'll pick up a hair dryer at Harrods today," I said.

  "I wouldn't go to Harrods for a hair dryer. There's a drugstore up on the corner. Boots."

  "Boots! How sweet!"

  "Just your standard drugstore."

  "Well, I better go dress then."

  "Okay," Ethan said without looking up.

  After I had changed into my warmest sweater and my hair had dried somewhat, Ethan took me to lunch at a pub near his house. It was charming on the outside: a small, ancient-looking brick building covered with ivy. Copper pots filled with tiny red flowers framed the doorway. But like Ethan's flat, the inside was a different story. The place was dingy and reeked of smoke, and it was filled with undesirable workman types with grungy boots and even grungier fingernails. This observation was especially noteworthy because I had read a sign on the front door that said: CLEAN WORKING CLOTHES REQUIRED. I also noticed a small placard near the bar that read: PLEASE REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS BAGS OR PACKAGES TO THE PROPRIETOR.

  "What's up with that?" I asked Ethan, pointing to the sign.

  "The IRA," Ethan said.

  "The who?"

  "Irish Republican Army?" Ethan said. "Ring a bell?"

  "Oh, that," I said, vaguely recalling some incidents of terrorism in years past. "Sure."

  As we sat down, Ethan suggested that I order fish and chips.

  "I'm feeling sort of queasy. Either from being pregnant or from the trip. I think I need something more bland. A grilled cheese, perhaps?"

  "You're in luck," he said. "They have great croque monsieurs."

  "Croque misters?" I said. "What's that?"

  "Fancy French name for ham and cheese."

  "Sounds like a delight," I said, thinking that I should brush up on my high school French. It would come in handy when Alistair and I took our weekend jaunts to Paris.

  Ethan ordered our food at the bar, which he said was standard practice at English pubs, while I perused a newspaper someone had left on our table. Victoria and David Beckham, or, as the Brits called them, "Posh and Becks," were plastered across the front page. I knew David Beckham was a big deal in England, but I just didn't get it. He wasn't that cute. Sunken cheeks, stringy hair. And I hated the earrings in both ears. I made my observations to Ethan, who pinched his lips, as if David were a personal friend of his.

  "Have you ever seen him play soccer?" Ethan asked me.
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  "No. Who watches soccer?"

  "The whole world watches soccer. It happens to be the biggest sport in every country but America."

  "Well, as far as I'm concerned this David guy," I said, tapping his picture, "is no George Clooney. That's all I'm sayin'."

  Ethan rolled his eyes just as an ill-kempt waitress brought our food to the table and handed us each a set of cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin. She briefly chatted with Ethan about his writing. Obviously he ate here often. I noticed that she had dreadful, crooked, yellow teeth. As she walked away, I couldn't refrain from commenting. "So it's true what they say about the dental work over here?"

  Ethan salted his fish and chips and a pile of green mashed potatoes. "Kiley is really nice," he said.

  "Didn't say she wasn't. Just said that her teeth are bad. Sheesh" I said, wondering if he was going to be so touchy about everything. "And what's with the green mashed potatoes?"

  "They're peas. Mushy peas, they're called."

  "Gross."

  Ethan didn't respond. I took a tiny bite of my croque monsieur. As I chewed, I found myself bursting to say Rachel's name, get the full scoop from Ethan, find out everything he knew about her relationship with Dex. But I knew I had to tread carefully. If I launched into a tirade, Ethan would shut down. So after a few minutes of silent strategizing, I brought her up under the pretense of a shared high school memory, one that involved the three of us going to a Cubs game the summer after we graduated from high school. Then I cocked my head and said, very nonchalantly, "How is Rachel anyway?"

  Ethan didn't take the bait. He looked up from his mushy peas and said, "She's fine."

  "Just fine?"

  "Darcy," he said, not fooled at all by my look of wide-eyed innocence. It was hard to pull one over on Ethan.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I'm not going to do this with you," he said.

  "Do what?"

  "Discuss Rachel."

  "Why not? I don't get it," I said, dropping my sandwich onto the plate.

  "Rachel is my friend."

  "You're friends with me, too, you know."

  He poured some vinegar on his fish and said, "I know that."

  "Annalise is friends with both of us, and she'll talk to me about… what happened," I said, choosing my words carefully. "Why won't you tell me what you think? I won't be offended. I mean, clearly you're on her side." Reverse psychology was always worth a try, even with someone as smart as Ethan.

  "Look, Darcy, I just don't feel comfortable with this whole topic. Don't you have anything else to talk about besides Rachel?"

  "Trust me. Plenty," I said, as if my world were as chock full of glamorous intrigue as it had always been before tough times had befallen me.

  "Well, then… stop trying to get me to bash her."

  "I'm doing no such thing. I just wanted to talk to you, my childhood friend, about our other childhood friend and… the current state of affairs. Is that so wrong?"

  He gave me a long look, and then finished his lunch in silence. When he was finished, he lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled in my general direction.

  "Hey! Watch it! I'm with child!" I squawked.

  "Sorry," he said, turning his chair and exhaling in the other direction. "You're going to have a rough time in this country, though. Everybody smokes."

  "I can see that," I said, looking around. "It stinks in here."

  He shrugged.

  "So. Can I just ask a few questions?"

  "Not if they're about Rachel."

  "C'mon, Ethan, they are perfectly harmless questions. Please?"

  He didn't respond so I asked my first question. "Have you talked to her recently?"

  "Fairly recently,"

  "Does she know I'm here?"

  He nodded.

  "And she's okay with that?" I asked, hoping that she was decidedly not okay with it. I wanted her to be jealous that I was here in London with her precious Ethan. I wanted her to feel territorial stabs. I couldn't wait for Ethan to send her postcards from our trips together-jaunts to Vienna, Amsterdam, Barcelona. Perhaps I'd scratch out a haphazard PS on the occasional card. "Wish you were here," I'd write. To show her that I was so over the whole Dex thing. That I had moved on big time.

  "She's fine with it. Yes."

  I made a snorting sound to indicate that I highly doubted that that was the case.

  Ethan shrugged.

  "So what's new with her?"

  "Not much."

  "Is she still with Dex?"

  "Darcy. No more. I mean it."

  "What? Just tell me! I don't care if they're together. I'm just curious, is all…"

  "I really mean it," he said. "No Dex questions."

  "Fine. Fine. I think it's bullshit that we-two friends-can't talk frankly. But whatever. Your issues."

  "Right. My issues," Ethan said, looking drained.

  After lunch I unpacked while Ethan retreated to his bedroom to write. I made several trips to his room to request more hangers, and every time I'd pop in, he would glance up from his laptop with an annoyed expression, as if one little hanger request somehow threw him off his whole train of thought.

  By midafternoon, my room was as organized as it could be considering the lack of space. I had stuffed my closet full of clothes, lined my favorite shoes in two rows along the bottom, and had set up all of my makeup, toiletries, and lingerie on the bookcase. It wasn't pretty, but it was functional enough. Just as I was in the mood to call it quits for the day and round up Ethan for some fun, I caught him in the living room stuffing papers and a pack of cigarettes into a messenger bag.

  "Are you going somewhere?" I asked him.

  "Yeah."

  "Where?"

  "Out. To write."

  "What exactly are you writing again?"

  "A chapter in a book on London architecture. And I recently started writing a novel. And I have a ton of freelance articles due. You know, stuff to pay the rent."

  "What's your novel about?" I asked, thinking that my life would make for an excellent read. I was sure I could provide him with some good material.

  "It's about a guy who loses his whole family in a carbon monoxide accident and goes to live in the woods alone to heal."

  "Sounds cheery."

  "It's ultimately uplifting."

  "If you say so… But do you have to work on my first day?"

  "Yes. I do," he said unapologetically.

  I frowned, asked him why he couldn't stay at home and write. I told him I'd be extra quiet. "Like a church mouse," I whispered.

  He smiled. "You? A church mouse?"

  "C'mon, Ethan. Please," I said. "I'll be lonely here."

  He shook his head. "I can't think here."

  No wonder. It's a cramped little shit hole, I thought to myself. Instead I just threw up my hands and said, "Fine. Fine. But just so you know… glasses and caps don't go together. Pick one or the other. It's like… overaccessorizing or something. Edit your look."

  He shook his head as I followed him to the door.

  "Where do I find you if I need you?" I asked.

  "You don't," he said.

  "Seriously, Ethan! Where will you be?"

  "I don't know. I just wander around until I find a cafe with a good vibe. Nothing too quiet. Nothing too clamorous. Just a nice dull din. I left my mobile number on that pad," he said, pointing to a tablet on the hall table. "Call only if absolutely necessary."

  "Can't I come with you?"

  "No."

  I sighed. "What am I supposed to do for the rest of the day without you? I didn't think I'd be all alone on my first day here."

  He shifted his bag to the opposite shoulder and looked at me, poised to lecture.

  "Okay. Okay. Sorry… I'll make do."

  He handed me a set of keys and a spiral book with a map on the front. "The small key works the front door. The brass one goes in the top lock. Skull key for the bottom. All turn to the left. And take this A to Zed. Your bible to the London street
s."

  "I hate maps," I said, flipping through the book. "And this one looks impossible. There are too many pages."

  "You're impossible," Ethan said.

  "Just tell me where I should go to shop," I said.

  "There's an index in the back of the A to Zed. Look up Knightsbridge. You have plenty of shopping in that general area. Harrods. And Harvey Nichols, which is more your bag."

  "How so?" I asked, anticipating a compliment.

  "More fashionably elite."

  I smiled. I was nothing if not fashionably elite. "How far away is Knightsbridge?"

  "A long walk. Or short cab ride. I'll explain the tube another day. No time now."

  "Thanks, Ethan," I said, kissing his cheek. "I'll see you tonight. And in the meantime, I'm going to find some cute clothes!"

  "Sounds like a swell plan," he said with a supportive smile. It was as if Ethan understood that if I were going to start a new life, I needed a whole new wardrobe too.

  nineteen

  As it turned out, Ethan was right.

  Harvey Nichols was exactly my bag. I started out at Harrods, but it was too large and packed with touristy riffraff in much the same way Macy's is at home. Harvey Nics, as I overheard one British girl call it right outside the Sloane Street entrance, was more upscale and boutiquey, reminding me of Henri Bendel or Barneys in New York. I was in heaven, going from rack to rack, gathering various gems by Stella McCartney, Dolce amp; Gabbana, Alexander McQueen, Jean Paul Gaultier, and Marc Jacobs. Then I threw some new names into the mix, finding splendid, wintery garments from designers I had never heard of.

  My only bad moment of the afternoon came when I discovered that I could no longer squeeze into a size six. I was seventeen weeks pregnant, and my initial few pounds of pregnancy weight had already propelled me up from my usual size four, but when even the sixes didn't fit, I panicked. I examined my ass and thighs in the dressing room mirror, and then simulated the old pencil test, where you stand with your feet together, place a pencil between your legs, and see if it stays put between your thighs or drops to the ground. I was relieved to see that there was still adequate space-a pencil would definitely fall to the ground. So how could it be that my size had changed so significantly, seemingly overnight? I poked my head out of the dressing room and summoned a striking salesgirl wearing a funky leather skirt and orange vinyl boots.