by Emily Giffin
“You can stay in my bed,” he said.
“I can? Why’s that?” I asked, perhaps a tad hopeful that Ethan had determined that Sondrine wasn’t the woman for him in the long term.
“Because I’m not going to throw a pregnant woman to the wolves…. I’ll just stay at her place,” he said quickly, as if he had already given much thought to the issue.
Maybe he had even decided that it was no longer appropriate for us to sleep next to each other. At least I still had my bed for the short term, but what if Ethan and Sondrine became more serious and moved in together? What then? I felt anxious at the thought of it—and maybe even a little sad. I liked how close Ethan and I were, and didn’t want that to change.
I decided that I had to prepare for the worst. If Ethan and Sondrine did become serious, I sure as hell wanted to be in a relationship too. From an emotional standpoint (I mean, who wants to be alone?), and as much as I hated to admit it, from a financial standpoint. I so wanted to add “be self-sufficient and independent” to my list, but in practical terms, how could I stay in London, jobless, with two children on the way?
So I threw myself into dating Geoffrey, catching myself fantasizing about a big wedding and the blissful life after with our three boys and a couple of Cavalier King Charles spaniels. I could hear myself saying, years later, every time I would tell the convoluted story of how we met: “See? Things happen for a reason. My life was hell and then it all fell neatly, magically into place.”
I told Charlotte and Meg of my hopes for the future as we strolled through Hyde Park with Natalie one afternoon. They both seemed thrilled with the idea of Geoffrey and me being together. They sang his praises, calling him a “wonderful father,” a “brilliant doctor,” and the “rare, highly evolved man who is not scared off by a pregnant woman.”
“And,” said Charlotte, as she maneuvered Natalie’s pram around a cluster of Japanese tourists snapping photos of the Peter Pan statue, “he’s gorgeous and rich to boot!”
I laughed. “Yeah. And you wanted to set me up with a damn ginger!”
Meg laughed. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of Geoffrey in the first place. I guess because we were thinking of him as your doctor.”
Charlotte agreed. “I know! But it’s so obvious now. Clearly you’re perfect together.”
Meg nodded. “He adores you…and you even look amazing together.”
I had a second of uneasiness. “You look amazing together” was the kind of thing people always said to Dex and me, and look how we turned out. But I pushed the comparison out of my head and said with a chuckle, “Yeah. Well. Now I just have to find out whether he’s good in bed. If so, this whole thing is a done deal!”
So a few nights later, I set about finding out. Our evening began at the Ivy, one of the most popular restaurants in London. The head chef was a friend of Geoffrey’s, so we had a tasting menu prepared especially for us, followed by a magnificent slice of flourless chocolate cake for dessert, and some very expensive port for Geoffrey.
While we waited for the bill, Elle MacPherson and her husband sauntered in for a late reservation. They sat one table over from us. I caught Geoffrey inspecting her, and then glancing back at me as if comparing us feature by feature. When I asked him what he was thinking, he said, “You truly are prettier than she. I much prefer your eyes.”
I smiled, and told him that he was more handsome than Elle’s husband too. Handsome was the right word for Geoffrey’s looks. He reached across the table and put his hand on mine. “What do you say we go back to my place?”
I leaned seductively across the table and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
We left the Ivy and returned to Geoffrey’s flat, my first visit to his place. I pictured him living in a traditional town house, like Meg’s, but instead it was a sleek, minimalist loft decorated with interesting sculptures, monochromatic paintings, and contemporary furniture. I thought of Marcus’s sloppy apartment, relishing the absence of video games, fish tanks, dirty sneakers, and beer cans.
“I love your flat. It’s exactly my taste,” I said.
He looked pleased with the compliment, but confessed that he had used a decorator. “She’s quite good. I don’t have the patience for it.”
I glanced around again, noticing a little red table and chairs covered with crayons, scraps of paper, and a half-assembled puzzle of a cartoon character I didn’t recognize. “Max’s play area?” I asked.
He nodded. “Although his stuff usually spreads from his bedroom to every corner of the flat.”
I smiled.
“Could I see a picture of him?”
He pointed to his mantel. On it was a photo of Max walking along a pebbled beach, squinting up in the sunlight. “He’s two and a half in that photo. It was taken at my cottage at St. Mawe’s.”
“What a beautiful little boy. He looks a bit like you,” I said, glancing from the photo back to Geoffrey.
“He actually looks more like his mum,” Geoffrey said. “But he got my nose. Poor chap.”
I laughed and told him that I loved his nose. “It has character,” I said, reminding myself of Rachel. She always talked of the character in someone’s face, saying that small, pretty noses on men turned her off. I sort of knew what she meant. I liked the strong statement that Geoffrey’s nose made.
He put his arms around me and kissed my nose. “And I love yours.”
The exchange was one of those very early precursors to I love you. You know—when a couple goes around saying that they love certain things about each other. I love your eyes. I love spending time with you. I love the way you make me feel. And then out of the blue—a straight-up I love you.
Geoffrey offered me a drink. “Juice? Water? Tea?”
“Nothing, thank you,” I said, shifting a Tic Tac from one side of my mouth to the other.
I watched him stride over to his wet bar and pour himself a glass of bourbon. Then he turned on his stereo. African music that reminded me of the background singers in Paul Simon’s Graceland filled his flat. We sat on his modern leather couch, he draped his arm around my shoulder, and we talked. As I listened to his charming accent, punctuated by the atmospheric clinking of ice in his rock-cut tumbler, I tried to figure out who he reminded me of. I finally decided that he was a mature Hugh Grant, a straight Rupert Everett, and an English Dex Thaler. He was exactly what I would have ordered off a menu: an absolute gentleman—no part guy or boy.
And as always, he waited just long enough before he kissed me, not delving in too quickly. We were half-reclined, but every few minutes, Geoffrey would stop the tide, straighten up, sip his bourbon, and sort of silently gather himself. Then he’d kiss me again. The last such session concluded with him standing and issuing a formal invitation to his bedroom. I obliged, thinking how much I wanted to have sex. I missed it a lot. It had been my longest drought in at least a decade, maybe ever. More important, I wanted to take things to another level with Geoffrey. I wanted to infuse intensity and intimacy into our somewhat formal relationship.
Moments later I got my wish. Geoffrey and I were standing by his bed, undressing each other slowly. We faced each other, alternating pieces of clothing like a game of strip poker where you can’t decide if you want to be the one naked and vulnerable or the one in control. I wanted everything, all at once. But I was patient, letting the suspense build. Finally we were both naked. For the first time, I was with a guy and feeling self-conscious about my body, but Geoffrey quickly dispelled any lingering worry I had that my pregnancy would turn him off. He kneeled in front of me and kissed my navel. The sensual gesture made me feel lush and beautiful.
Then he took my hand and led me over to his bed. The transition was smooth, like a scene in a movie where everything flows just right. After some quality foreplay, the somewhat awkward production of a condom, and Geoffrey’s reassurance that sex was perfectly safe during this stage of my pregnancy, he entered me from behind, which was practical given my stomach issues, but nonetheles
s quite nice. Geoffrey lasted a very long time. A very, very long time. In addition to his impressive staying power, he was definitely less reserved between the sheets. At some point I stopped observing and just let myself go.
Then, in the sweaty aftermath, while listening to an a cappella tribal chorus of tu lu lus, he curled his body around mine, kissed the nape of my neck, and said, “You’re amazing.”
I thanked him and returned the compliment. He was amazing.
We both fell asleep and repeated everything in the middle of the night and then again in the very early morning. After our third time together, I looked into his eyes and saw something. Saw a look I recognized. It took a moment to place it, but when I did, I was certain of what it was. It was addiction. Geoffrey was addicted to me. And this fact alone felt like a very significant triumph in a season of heavy losses.
A short time later, I met Geoffrey’s son, Max. Geoffrey went to pick him up at his mother’s house in Wimbledon while I waited in his flat, resisting the strong temptation to snoop through his drawers. In the past, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself, but in the past, I think I wanted to find some fodder for a fight. A photo of another woman, an old love letter, a condom that predated me. Something to rile me up, fuel my jealous instincts, get my competitive juices flowing. I wasn’t sure whether my pregnancy had matured me, mellowed me, or simply sapped my strength. But in any event, I was enjoying the ease of my new, tranquil relationship. I wasn’t interested in barriers, only smooth sailing and a happy ending.
When Geoffrey and Max returned, I stood to greet them, my face stretched out in a huge smile. Max was adorable—cute enough to be in a Gap ad in his little navy overalls and fire-engine-red turtleneck. I felt my first wave of excitement over having sons instead of daughters.
“Hi, Max,” I said. “How are you?”
“Fine,” he said, avoiding eye contact as he got down on his knees and rolled his toy truck along the hardwood floor. I noticed that he had blue eyes, but lashes as dark as Geoffrey’s.
I tried again to engage Max, lowering myself to the floor, where I sat back on my heels. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
Geoffrey mouthed, “He’s shy,” before gently prompting Max, “Can you tell Darcy it’s nice to meet her too?”
“Nice to meet you, Darcy,” Max mumbled, giving me a suspicious glance.
I suddenly wished that I had more experience talking to children. I struggled for a second and then said, “That’s a great truck—lorry—you have there.” I lowered myself further, sitting cross-legged.
Max glanced at me again, slightly longer this time. He gripped the cab of his truck and pushed it a few inches toward me. “It has big tires. See?” he said, almost as if he were testing me.
“It sure does. Some really, really big tires.”
Max didn’t seem too impressed with my answer. I tried to dig up any scrap of information I had stored in my memory on trucks. “My brother, Jeremy, had a red lorry just like this one,” I finally said. “Only the steering wheel was on the other side!”
“On this side?” he asked, pointing to the passenger side.
“Exactly!” I said, resting my hands gently over his and trying to remember the throaty sounds that Jeremy used to annoy me with when he played with his trucks. I cleared my throat, hoping that I could get them right.
“Vroom,” I started, realizing that such a noise belonged more to a sports car. I tried again. “Grrrrrrrr. Grrrrrrrrrrr,” I growled, easing the front wheels over my right knee. I felt slightly foolish, like a man must feel when prompted by his daughter to play with a Ken doll.
Fortunately, Max seemed to approve of my sound effects. I saw the corners of his mouth twitch into the smallest of smiles. This gave me confidence. So I made more motor noises, followed by the sound of an engine idling. “Buh. Buh. Buh. Buh.” That had been one of Jeremy’s favorites.
“Do it again,” Max squealed.
I did, forgetting that Geoffrey was watching, perhaps even critiquing me.
“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” I said more robustly, as the rear wheels completed the bouncy climb over my leg. Then, I slipped off my socks, balled them up, and stuffed them into the cab of the truck. “Here. Some…cargo for you to drive…to the factory in…Liverpool,” I said. It all sounded feasible, and I felt relieved that boy games might be easier and more fun than I had once thought.
“The factory in Liverpool,” Max repeated happily.
And from that moment on, Max and I were fast friends. He didn’t stop saying my name in his adorable English accent, leading me around by the hand, showing me his toys, even insisting that I take a tour of his bedroom. I basked in his acceptance, feeling thrilled that Geoffrey and I had cleared the final hurdle.
Later that night, after Geoffrey put Max to bed, he rejoined me in the bedroom, all smiles. “Well. You did it! He loves you.”
“He does?” I asked, wondering if his father loved me too.
“Yes,” Geoffrey said, grinning.
“Does that make you happy?” I asked, snuggling up to him.
“Over the moon,” Geoffrey said as he smoothed my hair away from my face. “A million miles over the moon.”
Twenty-Six
Geoffrey invited me to go to the Maldives with him and Max for Christmas, even offering to buy me a plane ticket.
I hesitated before asking, “Where are the Maldives exactly?”
He gave me the sort of affectionate gaze Dex had given me in the beginning whenever I confessed ignorance. “In the Indian Ocean, darling,” he said, stroking my hair. “Think white-sand beaches, crystal-clear water, palm trees swaying in the breeze.”
As tempting as a vacation in the sun was and as eager as I was to push things even further along with our relationship, I politely declined the invite, telling him that I thought he should spend quality father-son time with Max. The truth was, I didn’t want to leave Ethan all by himself in London. He didn’t have the extra cash to fly home for the holidays, and Sondrine was going to Paris for the week, so I think he was counting on spending time with me. Part of me was even excited that it would just be the two of us. I figured it might be our last hurrah—and our last flurry of sleepovers—before things really took off for each of us on the romance front.
I think Ethan felt the same way because on Christmas Eve morning, he went to Sondrine’s to say good-bye and returned home in high spirits, suggesting that we go buy a tree together. “Better late than never!” he chirped. So we put on our warmest clothes and strolled over to the nursery near his house. Of course, the best trees were long gone, so we had to settle for a small fir with mangled branches and several bald patches around the base. As we dragged the tree home, it lost even more needles.
But between Ethan’s ornament collection and a few pairs of my most sparkly chandelier earrings, our little tree became more than respectable. Ethan said the transformation reminded him of the tree in A Charlie Brown Christmas. I agreed and told him that it was the prettiest one I had ever owned, even though I had always made Dex buy grand eight-footers for our New York apartment.
We dimmed the lights in the living room and then switched on the white tree lights, spending the longest time just gazing at the tree, listening to Harry Connick Jr. croon Christmas carols, and drinking hot apple cider. After a long, cozy stretch of silence, Ethan turned to me and asked me if I had come up with any baby names.
I told him that I had a short list, but nothing concrete. I rattled some of them off. “Trevor. Flynn. Jonas. What do you think?”
“Honestly?”
I nodded.
“Hmm…Well, let’s see…a guy named Trevor got caught stealing clothes from the dryers in my dorm at Stanford. Flynn sounds like phlegm, and Jonas conjures whales…”
I laughed, and said that I’d have to go back to the drawing board.
“Don’t change on account of me.”
I shook my head. “Nope. I want you to love my names.”
He smiled and then suggested that
we exchange our presents.
“Okay,” I said, clapping excitedly.
He got up from the couch, sat cross-legged on the floor next to the tree, and handed me a large box wrapped with silver paper. “You first,” he said.
I sat down beside him and carefully sliced open the paper the way my grandmother always did, as if to save it for future use. Then I opened the white box and the turquoise tissue paper inside to find a beautiful gray cashmere sweater coat from Brora, a store I had passed many times on the King’s Road.
“It’s not technically a maternity sweater, but it’s quite roomy, and the lady at the store said that lots of pregnant women buy them,” he explained.
I stood up and tried it on over my sweats. It fit perfectly, with room to grow, and the cashmere was positively luxurious. “I love it, Ethan!”
“See? It’s belted,” Ethan said earnestly. “So you can just loosen the belt as you get bigger…I thought you could wear it when you bring the boys home from the hospital. It will look really nice in photos.”
“I will definitely do that,” I said, loving that Ethan cared about photos. He was one of the few guys I knew who bothered to put them in albums. I looked at him and asked if he’d be there to take those photos.
“I wouldn’t want to step on Geoffrey’s toes…but I’d like to be there. It’s your call.”
“Geoffrey understands our friendship,” I said, not knowing whether that was exactly true, but hoping that it was the case. It was the only way our relationship would work.
Ethan smiled and said, “There’s another gift under there.” He pointed to a white envelope. On it, he had written, “To Darcy, Baby A and Baby B.” Inside was a small square of blue paper. I studied it, puzzled. “What is it?”
“It’s a paint swatch,” he said. “I want to paint your room that color. For the nursery. I was going to just surprise you and do it, but then I worried that blue was too obvious for you. Would you rather do something more…unexpected?”
“I love this shade of blue,” I said, feeling all warm inside and thrilled that Ethan wanted me to stay with him even after the babies arrived. I had been wanting to broach the subject for weeks, and now I had my answer. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.