Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [118]
"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.