Something Blue - Emily Giffin [67]
"Excuse me, but are the sizes a bit off in Dries Van Noten?" I asked her.
She gave me a melodious laugh. "American?"
I nodded.
"The sizes run different here, love. Are you a four at home?"
"Yes," I said proudly. "I am normally. But lately I take a six at home."
"That's a ten here typically."
"Oh, what a relief!" I said.
"Would you like me to get you some new sizes?"
I nodded gratefully, handed her my stash, and asked her if she would add a skirt like hers to my pile. Then I waited, half naked, in the dressing room, studying the small bump protruding from my stomach. It had popped out seemingly overnight, but my body was otherwise still trim and well toned. I had fallen off my rigorous, prewedding workout schedule, but I reasoned that as long as I was careful with my diet, I could maintain my figure for at least a few more months.
When the salesgirl finally returned, she squealed, "Oh, my, you're pregnant! How far along are you?"
"Four months and change," I said, running my hand down along my bump.
"You look smashing for four months," she purred in her chic accent.
I thanked her as I moved aside to let her hang my size tens in the dressing room. An hour later, I was buying five amazing outfits that would have made Claire drool. As I forked over my Visa, I remembered that my spree added up to many more dollars than pounds, but I told myself not to bother with the conversion. I would just pretend to be spending dollars. And anyway, what was a few thousand dollars in the scheme of things? Nothing. Not when I thought of it as a kick start to my new life. It was an investment.
And as long as I was investing in myself, I figured that I might as well throw in a couple pairs of Jimmy Choos, which after all had great practicality as I could wear them throughout my pregnancy, maybe even tapping home in them from the hospital with Alistair by my side.
I left Harvey Nics and found my way back out to glorious Sloane Street, visiting my old friends—Christian Dior, Valentino, Hermes, Prada, and Gucci—discovering with delight that each store had slightly different inventory than what the New York stores carried. So I treated myself to a gorgeous Gucci tan leather hobo bag with the most satisfying brass hardware.
After my final purchase, I hailed a cab and returned to Ethan's flat, exhausted but thrilled with my purchases, anxious to show him what I had discovered, conquered, and made my own. Ethan wasn't yet back at the flat so I helped myself to a cup of raspberry sherbet and turned on the television. I discovered that Ethan only had five channels, and I ended up watching a string of remarkably unfunny British sitcoms and a reality television show based in a hair salon. Ethan finally walked in the door just after ten o'clock.
"Where have you been?" I asked, hands on my hips.
He glanced at me as he tossed his bag on the floor. "Writing," he said.
"This whole time?"
Yes.
"Are you sure? You smell like a bar," I said, burrowing my nose in his jacket. "Don't discount my ability to party just because I'm pregnant."
He jerked his arm away, his blue eyes narrowing. "I wasn't partying, Darce. I work in cafes. Smoky cafes. I told you that."
"If you say so… but I'll have you know I've been bored stiff here. And I'm famished. I only had some sherbet all night. I really shouldn't be skipping meals like this when I'm pregnant."
"You could have eaten without me," he said. "I have stuff here—and there are plenty of places to eat up on the High Street. For future reference, there's a good Lebanese