Something Blue

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.

'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,