Something Blue

All of the calls (except Bliss Spa reminding me of my five o'clock facial) were from birthday well-wishers. But no Rachel or Dex.

I know it was on Claire's mind, too, as she mouthed, 'Who?' each time I answered.

After the fifth call, she asked, 'Have you heard from Rachel today?'

'No,' I said. Dex? Nope.

'How rude not to call on your birthday and try to make up.'

'I know!'

'Any sightings since Crate and Barrel?' she asked.

'No. Have you seen them?'

'No. Nobody has seen them,' Claire said-which was saying something as her network was expansive. The next best thing to hiring a private investigator (and believe me, I had considered it) was having Claire as my new best friend.

'Maybe they broke up,' I said.

'Probably so,' she said. 'Out of guilt if nothing else.'

'Or maybe they just went on another exotic trip together,' I said.

She patted my arm sympathetically and ordered me a second glass of chardonnay. I knew I shouldn't be drinking-but Dr. Jan had specifically said that I could drink on special occasions. Besides, plenty of French babies were born undamaged, and I was sure their mothers kept up with their daily intake of wine.

'I do have a little nugget for you, though,' I said, inhaling deeply, excited to drop the Marcus news on her. Minus the pregnancy, of course.

'Oh, really?' Her bangle bracelets clinked together as she crossed her arms and leaned toward me.

'I'm seeing someone,' I said proudly.

'Who?' she asked, wide-eyed. I detected a hint of jealousy. Claire, bless her heart, was a fast and furious matchmaker, but she never seemed to make much progress in her own right.

I smiled mysteriously, took a sip of water, and wiped the lipstick off my glass with my thumb. 'Marcus,' I said proudly.

'Marcus?' she asked with bewilderment. 'You mean, Marcus Marcus?'

I nodded.

'Really?' she asked.

'Uh-huh. Isn't that crazy?'

Something flashed across her face that I wasn't sure how to read. Was it jealousy that I had someone new so fast on the heels of a broken engagement? Did she, too, find him sexy in an unorthodox way? Or was it disapproval? My heart fluttered over the possibility of the latter. I desperately needed affirmation that Marcus was acceptable to a member of the Manhattan elite. I needed to be with someone whom everyone else wanted.

'When did this come about?' she asked.

'Oh, recently…' I said vaguely.

'I'm… I guess I'm a little bit surprised.'

'I know,' I said, thinking that she would have been less surprised if she hadn't been such a sound sleeper that night over our July Fourth weekend. 'Who would have thunk it?… But I really like him.'

'Really?' This time I definitely pegged her expression as disapproving.

'Why are you so surprised?'

'It's just… I don't know. I just didn't think Marcus was your type.'

'You mean his looks?' I asked. 'You mean the fact that I'm better looking than he is?'

'Well, that,' Claire said, struggling for tactful wording. 'And, I don't know, just everything. He's a nice, fun guy-don't get me wrong…' She trailed off.

'You don't think he's sexy?' I said. 'I think he's so sexy.'

Claire looked at me blankly. Her answer was clear. She did not find Marcus sexy. Not in the least.

'Well, I think he is,' I said again, feeling highly offended.

'That's all that matters, then,' Claire said, patting my hand condescendingly.

'Right,' I said, knowing that that was not all that mattered. 'I can't believe you don't think he's cute.'

'I guess,' she said. 'In a… I don't know… 'guy's guy' kind of way.'

'Well, he's great in bed,' I said, trying to convince Claire-and myself-that this single fact could make up for all of his shortcomings.

By five o'clock, I had received a dozen or more birthday e-mails and phone calls, and a stream of chipper office visits from colleagues. Still nothing from Rachel or Dex. There was one last possibility: maybe they had sent a card, note, or gift to my apartment, which I hadn't returned to in several days. So after my facial, I cabbed it across the park to my apartment, anticipating the apologies that were surely awaiting me.

Minutes later I grabbed my mail from the lobby, unlocked my door, and surveyed my stash: I had cards from the usual lineup: my parents; my brother, Jeremy; my still-smitten high school boyfriend, Blaine; my grandmother; and my second-oldest friend from home, Annalise. The final one had no return address. It had to be from Rachel or Dex! I ripped open the envelope to find a picture of wriggling golden retriever puppies piled into a white wicker basket. A 'Happy Birthday' banner stretched over the basket, each letter written in a different shade of pink. My heart sank, as I realized that the card was likely from my aunt Clarice, who still treated me as if I were ten. Unless Rachel was playing on the whole 'friends since childhood' theme. I slowly opened the card, feeling hopeful until I saw the telltale ten-dollar bill taped inside and Aunt Clarice's wobbly signature below the greeting 'Hope your day is a basket of fun!'

And that was that. There was no getting around it-Rachel and Dex had blown off my thirtieth birthday, a day we had talked about for at least the past five years. I started to cry, undermining the treatment for puffy eyes that I had added to my regular facial. I called Marcus's cell to garner some sympathy.

'Where are you?' I asked.

'That's for me to know-and you to find out,' he said, the noise of heavy traffic in the background. I pictured him tripping down Fifth Avenue, his arms filled with packages.

'They didn't call. Neither of them. No calls, e-mails, cards. Nothing.'

He knew who I meant. 'The nerve of some ex-boyfriends,' Marcus joked.

'It's not funny!' I said. 'Can you believe them?'

'Darcy, didn't you tell them that you never wanted to speak to them again? That they were-what were your words?-'dead to you'?'

I gave him credit for recalling my precise wording. 'Yes-but they could at least try to redeem themselves. They didn't even try. It's my thirtieth birthday!'

'I know, babe. And we're gonna celebrate. So bring your skinny ass down here.'

He was right, my ass was still skinny. This observation cheered me up a drop. 'Am I going to be a basketball girl?'

'What's a basketball girl?'

'One of those girls who looks as if she has only a basketball under her shirt. You know, with thin limbs and a still-pretty face? And then the ball falls out and she is, voila, perfect again?'

'Sure you will. Now get down here!'

He hung up before I could ask him where we were going for dinner, how dressed up I needed to be. Well, there's no such thing as being overdressed, I told myself, as I selected my slinkiest black dress, highest Jimmy Choo stilettos, and gauziest wrap out of my closet, lining the ensemble up on my bed. Then I showered, blew my hair out straight, applied makeup to my glowing skin, opting for neutral lips and dramatic, smoky eyes.

'Thirty and ab-so-lute-ly stunning,' I said aloud to the mirror, trying not to look at the tiny crow's feet around my eyes. Or worry about the fact that I was no longer in my twenties, and therefore on the road to losing my two most valuable assets: beauty and youth. I was filled with an unfamiliar sense of self-doubt that I pushed aside as I grabbed Aunt Clarice's ten for cab fare and headed out the door.

Fifteen minutes later I sauntered into Marcus's apartment, catwalk-style.

He whistled. 'You look great.'