'Your spleen acting up in this weather?'
'Ethan! I have to go to the wedding.'
'Just blow it off.'
'I'm the maid of honor.'
'Oh, right] I keep forgetting that,' he says, wiping his glasses on his sleeve.
As we walk back to his flat, Ethan chuckles to himself.
'What?'
'Darcy,' he says, shaking his head.
'What about her?'
'I was just thinking about the time she wrote to Michael Jordan and asked him to our prom.'
I laugh. 'She actually thought he was going to come! Remember how she was worried about how she would break the news to Blaine?'
'And then Jordan wrote back to her. Or his people did, anyway. That's the part that I found unreal. I never thought she'd get a response.' He laughs. No matter what he says, I know he has a soft spot for her, in spite of himself. Just as I do.
'Yeah. Well, she did. She still has the letter.'
'You've seen it?'
'Yeah. Don't you remember how she taped it up in our locker?'
'And yet,' he says, 'you never saw the letter from Notre Dame.'
'Okay. Okay. You might be right. But where were you twelve years ago with that insight?'
'As I said, I thought we were on the same page there. The whole thing was pretty transparent… You know, for a smart woman you can be pretty dim.'
'Why, thank you.'
He tips an imaginary hat. 'Don't mention it.'
We return to Ethan's flat, where I succumb to my jet lag. When I wake up, Ethan offers me a cup of Earl Grey tea and a crumpet. Lunch at a pub, a walk past Diana's old pad, an afternoon nap where I don't dream once about Dex, and tea and crumpets with my good friend. The trip is off to a good start. If anything can really be good with a broken heart.
That evening we meet up with
Ethan's friends Martin and Phoebe, whom he met during his stint writing for Time Out. I have heard much about both of them: I know that Martin is very proper, went to Oxford, and comes from a ton of money, and that Phoebe hails from East London, once got fired for telling her boss to 'piss off,' and has slept with a lot of men.
They are exactly as I imagined. Martin is well dressed and attractive in an unsexy way. He sits with his legs crossed at the knee, nods and frowns a lot, and makes a 'hmm' sound whenever anyone else speaks, showing rapt attention. Phoebe is Amazon-tall with untamed, tomato-red hair. I can't decide whether her orange lipstick clashes with her hair or complements it. I also can't decide whether she is very pretty or just plain weird-looking. Her body is definitely not ideal, but she doesn't try to hide it. One roll of her big white stomach shows between her shirt and jeans. Nobody in Manhattan would expose her stomach unless it was as hard as bedrock. Ethan told me once that British women are much less obsessed with appearances and being thin than American women. Phoebe is evidence of this, and it is refreshing. All night she talks about this bloke whom she wants to shag, and that bloke whom she has already shagged. She makes all the statements matter-of-factly, as you would tell someone that work has been very busy or that you are tired of all of the rain. I like her candor, but Martin rolls his eyes a lot and makes dry comments about her being uncouth.
After Phoebe has carried on for a while about this guy Roger, who 'deserves to have kerosene poured on his balls,' she turns to me and asks, 'So, Rachel, how do you find the men in New York? Are they as bloody dreadful as English men?'
'Why, thank you, darling,' Martin deadpans.
I smile at Martin and then turn back to Phoebe. 'It depends… widely varies,' I say. I have never thought in terms of 'American men.' They are all I know.
'Are you involved with anyone now?' she asks me, and then blows smoke up toward the ceiling.
'Um. Not exactly. No. I'm… unattached.'
Ethan and I exchange a look. Phoebe is all over it. 'What? There is a story here. I know there is.'
Martin unfolds his arms, waves smoke out of his face, and waits. Phoebe makes a hand motion, as if to say, come on, out with it.
'It's nothing,' I say. 'Not worth discussing, really.'
'Tell them,' Ethan says.
So now I have no choice in the matter because Ethan has established that there is, indeed, something to tell.
I don't want to annoy everyone with a long session of 'it's nothing,' 'tell,' 'really nothing,' 'c'mon, tell,' and Phoebe does not seem the type to tolerate that evasive charade. She is Hillary-like in this regard-Hillary is fond of saying, 'Well then, why'd you bring it up?' Only in this instance, Ethan brought it up. In any case I am stuck, so I say, 'I've been seeing this guy all summer who is getting married in… less than two weeks. I thought he might call the wedding off. But he didn't. So here I am. Single once again.' I tell my story without emotion, a fact that makes me proud. I am making progress.
Phoebe says, 'Usually they wait until they're married to cheat. This bloke has a head start, eh?… What's his wife-to-be like? Do you know her?'
'Yeah. You could say that.'
'A real bitch, is she?' Phoebe asks solicitously.
Martin clears his throat and waves away her smoke again. 'Maybe Rachel doesn't wish to discuss it. Have we considered that?'
'No, we haven't' she says to him, and then to me, 'Do you mind discussing it?'
'No. I don't mind,' I say. Which I think is the truth.
'So? The girl he's marrying-how do you know her?'
'Well…' I say. 'We've known each other a long time.'
Ethan cuts to the chase. 'In a nutshell, Rachel is the maid of honor.' He pats me on the back and then rests his hand on my shoulder in a congratulatory way. He is clearly pleased to have offered his mates this nugget of transatlantic gossip.
Phoebe isn't fazed. I'm sure she's seen worse trouble. 'Bloody mess,' she says sympathetically.
'But it's over now,' I say. 'I made my feelings known. I told him to call the wedding off. And he picked her. So that's that.' I try to mask the fact that I am a rejected mess; I think I am doing a good job of it.
'She's moving on marvelously,' Ethan says.
'Yes. You don't look a bit ruffled,' Phoebe says. 'Never would have guessed.'
'Should she be crying in her Carling?' Martin asks Phoebe.
'I would be. Remember Oscar?'
Ethan groans, and Martin winces. Clearly they remember Oscar.
Then Ethan tells them that he thinks I should blow off the wedding. Phoebe wants to know more about the bride, so Ethan gives the rundown on Darcy, including some color on our friendship. He even throws in the bit about Notre Dame. I answer questions when directly asked, but otherwise I just listen to the three of them discussing my plight as if I'm not present. It is amusing to hear Martin and Phoebe using Dex's name and Darcy's name and analyzing both in their British accents. People whom they have never met and likely will never meet. Somehow it helps put things in perspective. Almost.
'You don't want to be with him anyway,' Phoebe says.
'That's what I tell her,' Ethan says.
Martin offers that maybe he'll still call it off.
'No,' I say. 'He came over to my place the night before I left and told me in no uncertain terms. He's getting married.'
'At least he told you outright,' Martin says.
'At least,' I say, thinking that that was a good thing. Otherwise I would be filled with hope on this visit. I have to give Dex limited credit for telling me face-to-face.
