by Emily Giffin
As I turned over on my mattress to face the window, I heard Ethan's words: the part about me being a bad friend, the part about me being selfish and self-centered and shallow. A warm shame spread over me as I acknowledged that there was a ring of truth to his accusations. I looked at the facts: I had no doctor, no income, no close girlfriends, no contact with my family. I was on the verge of depleting all my savings, and all I had to show for myself was a closet full of gorgeous clothing, most of which no longer fit. I had moved to London to find change, but I hadn't really changed at all. My life was stagnating. I needed to do more. For myself and for my baby.
I stared out my barred window into the dreary London morning, and vowed to make the day I first felt my baby kick a turning point in my life. I would prove to Ethan that I was not the person he had described the evening before. I got to my feet (which was becoming more difficult to do, particularly from a horizontal position on a soft air mattress) and found a pad of paper in the bottom of one of my suitcases. I ripped out a page and wrote: "Steps to Becoming a Better Darcy." I thought for a second, replaying Ethan's speech. Then I wrote:
1. Go to an ob-gyn in London and prepare for motherhood!
2. Be more healthy, i.e., eat better, no caffeine or alcohol
3. Find some new girlfriends (no competing with them!)
4. Let my family know that I'm in London and that I'm okay
5. Get a job (preferably a "do-gooding" job)
6. Stop buying clothes (and shoes, etc.) and start saving money!
Then, because something still seemed to be missing, I threw in a catchall:
7. Refine my character (i.e., be more thoughtful, less selfish, etc.)
As I reread my list, I found myself wondering what Ethan would say if he saw it. Would he praise my effort or would he scoff, "Don't be so naive, Darcy. You can't just make a list and fix yourself overnight! It doesn't work like that."
Why did I care so much about what Ethan thought anyway? Part of me wanted to hate him. Hate him for siding with Rachel. Hate him for lying to me. Hate him for the awful things he had said about me.
But I couldn't hate him. And in a bizarre, surprising way, all I wanted to do was see him, or at the very least set about changing his opinion of me.
I rocked once to gain momentum before standing again. Then I made my way down the hall to Ethan's room. Upon discovering that he had already left for the day, I went to the kitchen and whipped up a healthy egg-white omelet. Then I consulted my list and decided to clean his flat. I dusted and vacuumed, scrubbed the toilet, took out the trash, did two loads of laundry in his ridiculously small washer/dryer unit (the Brits have miserable, third-world appliances), carefully stacked his magazines and newspapers, and soaped down the kitchen floors.
After the place was spotless, I wrote my mother a quick note, telling her that I was staying with Ethan in London. "I know we're not happy with each other right now," I wrote, "but I still don't want you and Daddy to worry about me. I'm doing fine." Then I wrote Ethan's phone number in a PS just in case she wanted to call me. I sealed and stamped my letter, showered, and headed out in the London drizzle, wandering up Kensington Church Street to Notting Hill. I resisted the urge to stop in a single store, gaining strength from my list, which was folded in neat thirds and tucked into my coat pocket. I even stopped in a charity thrift shop to ask for a job. No positions were available, but I felt proud of myself for trying.
On my way home, I ducked inside a coffee shop for a short rest, ordered a decaffeinated latte, and hunkered down in a big overstuffed armchair. On the couch next to me sat two women-a blonde and a brunette-who looked about my age. The blonde was balancing a baby on one knee as she struggled to eat a brownie with her free hand. Both girls wore tiny diamonds on their left ring fingers, and I recalled that Ethan had mentioned that the Brits are less ostentatious about engagement rings than Americans. Maybe that sort of thing was emblematic of what Ethan liked about London. The Brits' understated quality was the opposite of what he said I was-more or less a shameless show-off.
From the corner of my eye, I continued to study the women. The blonde had a weak chin but good highlights; the brunette wore gripping velour sweats but was holding an enviable Prada bag. I felt a pang of worry that I was being shallow, but reassured myself that it was okay to be observant; I just shouldn't draw conclusions about the women as people. I thought of how many times I had judged people by their footwear, and vowed that I would never do so again. After all, wearing a square-toed shoe in a pointy-toed season was not a crime. To prove the point to myself, I resisted looking down at their feet. I could feel myself turning into a more solid person already, and my spirits soared.
As I sipped my coffee and flipped through Hello magazine, I listened to the women talk, noting that their conversation sounded much more interesting in their British accents. The theme of their chat was marital woes-both had issues with their husbands. The blonde said that having a baby makes everything worse. The brunette complained that since she and her husband started trying to conceive, sex had become a chore. Every few seconds, I turned the pages of my magazine, which was filled with Hollywood stars, as well as people I had never seen before, presumably British television actors. And more photos of Posh and Becks.
The blonde sighed as she repositioned her squirming baby. "At least you're having sex," she said to her friend, as she reached down and pulled a pacifier out of a side pocket in her stroller and popped it into the baby's mouth. The baby sucked vigorously for several seconds before letting the pacifier drop to the ground. An apparent subscriber to the three-second rule, the blonde picked it up, swiped it across her sleeve, and reinserted it in her child's mouth.
"How long has it been?" the brunette asked, in a candid way that told me these two were not new or casual acquaintances. It made me ache for Rachel, for the way things used to be.
"I couldn't even say," the blonde answered. "Ages."
The brunette made a sympathetic clucking noise as she wrapped her tea bag around a plastic stirrer and squeezed with her thumb and index finger.
I closed my magazine and made eye contact with the blonde. She smiled at me, giving me an opening.
"She's really cute," I said, gazing at her baby and then realizing with panic that the baby could be a boy. It was impossible to tell. Yellow outfit, bald head, no gender-based accoutrement.
"Thank you," the blonde said.
Good. I guessed right. "What's her name?"
"Natalie."
"Hi, Natalie," I said in a high, singsongy voice. Natalie ignored me, kept straining to grasp her mother's brownie. "How old is she?"
"Twenty-two weeks." The blonde smiled as she jiggled her up and down on one knee.
"So… that's what? Five months?"
She laughed. "Yeah, right. Sorry. I remember before I had Natalie I wondered why mums gave their child's age in weeks. I guess it's an extension of the pregnancy."
I nodded as I noticed the brunette giving me a curious once-over as if to say, "What is your deal, American girl, sitting here alone on a weekday?"
"Yeah, I know what you mean. I'm eighteen weeks along myself-"
"Pregnant?" both women squealed at once as if I had just told them that I was dating Prince William. It felt great to finally have a little enthusiasm over my news.
"Yes," I said, moving aside my coat and rubbing my stomach with my ringless left hand. "In fact, I just felt a kick for the first time this morning."
It struck me as a bit sad that I was first sharing such monumental news with strangers, but I told myself that they were potential new friends. Perhaps they would even become lifelong, to-the-grave mates.
"Congrats!" the blonde squealed.
"You look amazing for eighteen weeks!" the brunette said.
I smiled with what felt like sincere modesty. "Thank you."
"Boy or girl?" the brunette asked.
"I don't know yet for sure, but I'm fairly certain that it's a girl."
"I was too," th
e blonde said, rubbing Natalie's fuzzy head. "I just knew she was a girl."
"Did you find out ahead of time?"
"No, I wanted to be surprised," she said. "My husband knew, though."
I raised my eyebrows. "He knew and you didn't?"
She nodded. "Our doctor showed him the relevant anatomy on the sonogram while I closed my eyes. My husband swore that he wouldn't tell another soul. Not even our mums, who were positively dying to know."
"I can't believe he kept it a secret! That's amazing," I said.
"Her husband is great that way," the brunette said.
"Hmm." The blonde nodded. I had begun to notice that the Brits make that hmm sound often, in lieu of saying yes or uh-huh or yeah. She continued, "Never one slip with the pronouns. He was always very careful to say 'he or she' or just 'the baby.' "
"What about baby names? Wasn't it obvious when you'd discuss names?"
"Not at all. He covered both equally… In fact, he pushed Gavin so hard that if anything, I thought we were having a boy."
"Wow. Your husband sounds like a great guy," I said.
She turned to look at her friend and they both burst into laughter. "We were just tearing him to shreds. He's being a bit of a prat these days."
I wasn't sure what a prat was, but I nodded empathetically and said, "I know how that is!"
A few seconds of silence passed and I could tell that the girls were again wondering about my situation.
"I'm Darcy, by the way," I said, with what I hoped was a disarming, "I won't compete with you" smile.
"I'm Charlotte," the blonde said.
"And I'm Meg," the brunette said.
"It's so great to meet you both. I've been dying to have some female interaction since moving here," I said. It was the truth, although I don't think I consciously realized it until that moment.
"When did you move to London?" Meg asked.
"About a month ago."
"Did you move here alone?" she asked. It was as close as she could come to inquiring about the father of my child.
"Yes, I'm going it alone," I said.
Meg and Charlotte both stared at me, with what I detected as admiration. I gave them a warm, open smile, tacit permission to inquire further, which they did, tentatively. I answered each of their questions, only embellishing occasionally. For example, I told them that I caught Rachel in bed with Dex-and I left out Marcus altogether, thereby implying that Dex was the father. It just seemed easier that way, and frankly, what was the difference at this point? Both men were out of the picture. My audience of two was riveted. Charlotte even ignored Natalie, who was gumming the corner of an Evening Standard. I continued my tale, telling them I had quit my job, and come to London to live with my childhood friend Ethan. "He's straight, but we're just friends," I told them. A gay friend might be more interesting, and certainly more entertaining, but there was something compelling about an aboveboard, straight male-female friendship. Besides, it gave me more credibility as a nice girl. I could hear them saying later, "She's beautiful, but she doesn't go around stalking every available man."
Charlotte asked if I had any interest in Ethan. I shook my head vigorously. "Absolutely not… We're strictly friends. Although we did go out in the fifth grade!"
They laughed.
"So I'm entirely single… if you know anyone?" I said, fleetingly worrying that finding a man shouldn't be important to me. I dismissed the concern; a boyfriend needn't detract from my other, loftier goals.
Meg and Charlotte exchanged a thoughtful glance as if doing a mental inventory of all their male acquaintances.
"Simon?" Charlotte posited to Meg.
Meg made a face.
"You don't like Simon?" Charlotte asked her.
"I like Si well enough…" Meg said with a shrug.
I resisted the temptation to inquire about Simon's looks, but Meg seemed to read my mind because she giggled and said, "I doubt that Darcy is attracted to gingers!"
"Meg!" Charlotte said, reminding me of Rachel. Rachel must have said "Darcy!" in that same tone close to a million times. "Besides, I'd say Si is more of a strawberry blonde."
"He's a ginger and you know it!" Meg said, sipping her tea.
"What's a ginger?" I asked.
"You know, orange hair? I think you call it a 'redhead'?" Meg said.
I laughed. "Oh. Right."
"So? Do you like gingers?" Charlotte asked.
"Probably not my favorite," I said diplomatically, rationalizing that chemistry is beyond one's control. And for a relationship to work, the chemistry has to be there.
"I suppose gingers aren't sought after on either side of the pond," Meg opined.
Charlotte looked disappointed, so I said, "But there are exceptions. Look at cute little Prince Harry. I like his devilish little smile. It depends entirely on personality."
I couldn't help thinking of Marcus. It had been a misguided (to use Ethan's word) decision to start a relationship with him, a decision based largely on intrigue, lust, and competition with Rachel. But at least I wasn't driven by appearances. Marcus was far from perfect looking. So I knew I had it in me to look beyond the mere physical.
Charlotte smiled at me. "Precisely," she said, nodding. Then she turned to Meg. "Why don't you invite Darcy to your party? Isn't Si coming?"
"What a fab idea! You must come, Darcy. I'm having a few friends over this Saturday night. Won't you join us?" Meg asked.
"I'd love to," I said, thinking how satisfying it would be to tell Ethan I had been invited to a party by women. I took a mental inventory of my list. In just one short day, I had ticked off several items already. I had helped Ethan (by cleaning his apartment), I was being healthy (by not ordering a caffeinated beverage), and I had made a couple of new friends. I still needed to find a job and a doctor, so after a few more minutes of polite conversation, I asked Meg and Charlotte for a recommendation on both fronts.
"Oh, I have the perfect chap for you. Mr. Moore is his name," Charlotte said, consulting her address book and jotting down his number on the back of one of her own calling cards. "Here you go. Give him a ring. He's really lovely."
"How come he goes by 'mister' and not 'doctor'?" I asked, feeling a bit skeptical about the British health care system.
Meg explained that in England only nonoperating physicians are called doctors-something that goes back to medieval times, when all surgeons were butchers and therefore mere misters.
"As for the job," Charlotte said, "what is it that you did in New York?"
"I worked in public relations… But I'm looking for something different here. Something that would help the poor, old, or sick," I said earnestly.
"That is so nice," Charlotte and Meg said in unison.
I smiled.
Meg told me that there was a nursing home right around the corner. She jotted down some directions on a napkin, and then wrote her own address and phone number on the other side. "Do stop by on Saturday," she said. "We'd love to see you. And so would Si." She winked.
I smiled, took my last sip of coffee, and said good-bye to my new friends.
That evening, when Ethan returned home, I was waiting for him with a homemade Greek salad, a glass of red wine, and softly playing classical music.
"Welcome home!" I said, smiling nervously as I handed him his glass.
He took it from me tentatively, sipped, and then looked around his apartment. "It looks great in here. Smells good too. Did you clean?"
I nodded. "Uh-huh. I scoured the place. I even cleaned your room," I said, and then couldn't resist adding, "Still think I'm a lousy friend?"
He took another sip and sat on his couch. "I didn't say that exactly."
I sat next to him. "Yes you did."
He gave me a half-smile. "You can be a good friend when you try, Darce. You tried today. Thank you."
The old me would have held out for an over-the-top apology coupled with a complete retraction and a small gift. But somehow Ethan's simple "thank you" was enough for me
. I just wanted to make up and move on.
"So guess what happened this morning?" I said, bursting to share my news with him. Before he could guess, I blurted out, "I felt my baby kick!"
"Wow," Ethan said. "That was the first time you felt it?"
"Yeah. But I haven't felt her since. Should I be worried?"
Ethan shook his head. "No. I remember when Brandi was pregnant… she would feel a kick one day and then nothing for several days. The doctor told her that when you're active, the baby is less likely to move around, because you're essentially lulling it to sleep," he said with a somewhat pained expression, as if it still hurt to think of Brandi's betrayal.
"Does it make you sad to think about her?" I asked.
He kicked off his wet Pumas, peeled off his socks, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. "I'm not sad about Brandi, but sometimes I am sad when I think about Milo."
"Milo? Was that the guy Brandi cheated on you with?"
"No. Milo's the baby."
"Oh," I said sheepishly, knowing that I should have remembered that detail. I looked at Ethan, wondering what empathetic words Rachel would offer. She always had a way of saying the right thing, making someone feel better. I couldn't think of anything good so I just waited for Ethan to continue.
"For nine months, I thought I was going to be a father. I went to every doctor's appointment and fell in love with those ultrasound pictures… I even picked the name Milo." He shook his head. "Then we had the baby, and I realized he wasn't mine."