Something Blue - Emily Giffin [75]
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.
"Darcy. We've heard so much about you," she said, her voice loaded with sarcasm and innuendo.
My mind raced. What had Ethan told them that would cause Phoebe to smirk? I considered the possibilities: Pregnant and alone? No. That didn't warrant a smirk, especially from a hulking woman with orange hair whose best hope of offspring sat in a Petri dish at a sperm bank. Mooching roommate? No. I hadn't been in the country long enough to achieve that status. Besides, I was still (barely) self-sufficient. Shallow New Yorker? Perhaps that was it, but I wasn't about to feel ashamed for being well-groomed and wearing fine clothes.
Then it hit me. Phoebe was smirking about Rachel and Dex. Ethan must have told them the whole story. Sure enough, as I talked about how much I was enjoying my visit to London, Phoebe's smile evolved into a full-on jackal grin, and I became convinced that she was amused by my plight, amused that my former best friend was shagging my former fiance.
"What's so funny here? Am I missing something?" I finally asked, glancing around the table.
Martin muttered that nothing was funny. Ethan shrugged, looking flustered and guilty. Phoebe hid her smile with her pint of frothy Guinness, a fitting drink for a beast of a woman. At least I don't have fat sausage limbs. At least I'm pretty and not wearing a nappy puce turtleneck. How could she not see that I had it all over her? As I watched Phoebe guffaw at her own bad jokes and order pint after pint to wash down her pork chops covered with thick, oniony sauce, I marveled at her abundance of misplaced confidence. To make my displeasure known to Ethan, I remained mostly silent.
Then, as we waited for our bill, Phoebe confirmed my hunch as she turned to me and slurred, "I met your friend Rachel a few months back. She was lovely."
I inhaled sharply and held her gaze, struggling to remain calm. "Oh, you met Rachel? That is lovely… Ethan didn't mention that." I glared at Ethan as he flinched, recrossed his arms, and averted his eyes to a nearby raucous table.
"Yeah," he said. "Martin and Phoebe met Rachel when she visited me…"
My heart pounded with indignation, and I could feel my face tighten and contort in an attempt not to cry. How dare Ethan bring me out with these people after introducing Rachel to them—and not give me any warning? And worse, from the way Phoebe was acting, I just knew that Rachel had had feelings for Dex during her