Something Blue

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,' the 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.'