Something Blue

the French. (Ethan was astonished when I admitted that I had no idea that the French and British were ever at odds.) We visited Ethan's favorite church, St. Martin-in-the-Fields, which he said was famous for its social activism. Then we had another tea break in the Cafe-in-the-Crypt, located in the basement of the church. Afterward, we made our way over to the National Gallery. Ethan showed me a smattering of his favorite works, and I have to admit, I enjoyed myself. His commentary made the paintings almost interesting. It was as if I were seeing things through his eyes, noticing details of color and shape that otherwise would have been lost on me.

We returned home just after dark, and prepared our untraditional Thanksgiving dinner of salmon, asparagus, and couscous. After we ate, I crawled in bed next to Ethan and thanked him for my tour of London.

He rolled over to face me and gave me a strange, serious look. 'You're welcome, Darcy.'

'It was my best Thanksgiving ever,' I said, surprised to feel my heart beating faster. Our eyes remained locked, and my thoughts returned to that moment on the park bench. I wondered if Ethan occasionally felt a vague attraction to me too. If he did right now.

But as he turned away abruptly, leaning up to switch off his lamp, and repositioning himself farther away from me, I told myself that I was being crazy. It was likely just my pregnancy hormones making me imagine things.

After several minutes, Ethan said quietly, his voice muffled against his pillow, 'I had a nice time, too, Darce.'

I smiled to myself. It may not have been Ethan's best Thanksgiving ever, but I was pretty sure that the day would buy me some more weeks in London. He wasn't going to send me packing just yet.

twenty

One morning the following week I told Ethan I was desperate for a night out on the town and a little social interaction. I insisted that he take me somewhere other than his pub and introduce me to his friends.

'After all,' I said, 'a pregnant girl shouldn't be forced to go to a bar alone, should she?'

'I suppose not,' he said, and then reluctantly promised that he'd invite a few people out to dinner on Saturday night.

'Let's go somewhere fabulous!'

'I don't generally do fabulous. Would you settle for a slightly upscale gastropub?' he asked, as he gathered up his cigarettes and lighter and headed outside for a smoke.

I wasn't a big fan of pubs, gastro or otherwise, but I'd take what I could get, so I lightheartedly called after him, 'Whatever you want. Just invite your coolest friends. Preferably male!'

So on Saturday night, I got all decked out in my favorite Seven jeans (which I could still button right under my belly), an ivory silk brocade coat, a new pair of Moschino leather pumps, and the perfect tourmaline drop earrings.

'How do I look?' I asked.

He gave me a cursory glance and said, 'Nice.'

'Can you tell I'm pregnant?' I asked, following him into the hall outside his flat. 'Or does this jacket sort of hide my stomach?'

He looked at me again. 'I don't know. I know you're pregnant, so I see it, I guess. Why? Are you trying to hide it?'

'Well, naturally,' I said. 'I don't want to scare off all the eligible men before they get to know me.'

I caught Ethan rolling his eyes before he ran to the corner to hail a passing cab. I took my time catching up to him, deciding to let his eye-roll slide. Instead I told him that he looked very nice too. 'I really like your Levi's,' I said.

'Thanks. They're so old.'

I nodded and then said, 'Guys fall into two camps, you know.'

'How's that?' he asked with a bemused expression.

'Those who wear good jeans and those who don't… And it's not about the brand per se. It's more about the fit, the wash, the length. All those subtleties. And you, my friend, have the art of the blue jean mastered.' I kissed my thumb and index finger and made an okay sign in the air.

Ethan laughed and ran the back of his hand along his forehead. 'I was worried.'

I smiled, squeezed his thigh, and said, 'This is fun… Where are we going again?'

'The Admiral Codrington. In Chelsea.'

I was worried when I heard the stodgy name of the restaurant, but there was an excellent vibe when we walked inside. It was nothing like Ethan's nasty local pub. The bar area was packed with a smartly dressed, professional crowd, and I instantly spotted two prospects, one leaning on the bar, smoking, the other telling a story. I smiled at the guy talking. He winked at me, still talking to his smoking friend. The smoking friend then turned to see who was winkworthy, spotted me, and raised his eyebrows as if to second his friend's judgment. I gave him a smile too. Equal opportunity for all Brits.

'Either one of those guys your friend Martin?' I asked, pointing at the cute pair.

'No,' Ethan said, giving them a quick look. 'My friends are out of their teens.'

'Those guys are not teenagers!' I said, but upon second glance, I saw that they were probably in their early twenties. That is one of the problems with getting older. There is a distinct lag time between how you see others and how you view yourself. I still thought of myself as looking about twenty-four. 'So,' I asked Ethan, 'where are Martin and Phoebe?'

'Probably seated already,' Ethan said, glancing at his watch. 'We're late.'

Ethan hated being late, and I could tell he was annoyed that I had taken a bit too long getting ready for our outing. As we made our way to the back of the restaurant, I remembered one night in the tenth grade, just after Ethan got his driver's license, when he took Rachel, Annalise, and me for his inaugural spin to the movie theater. Like tonight, I guess I had taken a bit too long primping, so the whole way to the theater, Ethan kept ranting, saying things like, 'By God, Darcy, we better not be stuck seeing some inane chick flick because everything else is sold out!' Finally, I had had enough of his verbal abuse and told him to stop the car immediately and let me out, never mind that we were cruising down Ogden Avenue, a busy street with very little shoulder. Rachel and Annalise tried to smooth things over from the back seat, but Ethan and I were both too fired up. Then, in our escalating battle, Ethan ran a red light, nearly smashing into a minivan. The driver looked like a prim, well-coiffed soccer mom, but that didn't stop her from leaning on her horn with one hand and flipping Ethan the bird with the other just as a cop pulled Ethan over to issue him his first ticket. Despite the incident, we still made it to the theater in time to see Ethan's first choice of movies, but he brought the night up often anyway, saying that it was 'emblematic of my inconsiderate nature.'

I remembered the night with a mixture of nostalgia and sheepishness as Ethan spotted his friends. 'That's Martin and Phoebe,' he said, pointing to his two closest friends in London. My heart sank as I studied them because, to be frank, I judge books by their covers, and neither of them was impressive. Martin was a thin, balding guy, with a prominent Adam's apple. He was wearing a lackluster corduroy jacket with dark patches at the elbow, and cuffed jeans (which, incidentally, placed him in the bad-jean camp). Phoebe was a large, ruddy woman with man hands and hair like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (before she becomes refined).

My face must have registered disappointment because Ethan made a disgusted sound, shook his head, and walked past me toward his unpolished pals. I followed him, smiling brightly, deciding to make the most of the evening. Maybe one of them had a hot, single brother.

'Martin, Phoebe, this is Darcy,' Ethan said when we reached the table.

'Darcy. Pleasure,' Martin said, standing slightly to shake my hand. I tried not to look at his Adam's apple as I gave him a demure smile and said, 'Likewise' in the Jackie O, finishing-school voice I had mastered from Claire.

Meanwhile, Phoebe's face was frozen into a knowing little smirk that made me instantly, and intensely, dislike her.