Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [119]
"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.
Suddenly Phoebe gets this fabulous idea. Her friend James is newly single, and he loves American women. Why not set that up and see what happens?
"She lives in New York," Martin says. "Remember?"
"So? That's just a minor logistical problem. She could move. He could move. And at the very least, they both will have a good time. Perhaps have a good shag."
"Not everyone sees a shag as therapy," Martin says.
Phoebe raises one eyebrow. I wish I could do that. There are times when it is such an appropriate gesture. "Oh, really? You might want to give it a go, Marty." She turns back to me, waiting to hear my position on this topic.
"A good shag can never hurt," I say, to win favor with Phoebe.
She runs her hands through her tousled hair and looks smug. "My point precisely."
"What're you doing?" Ethan asks, as Phoebe retrieves her cell phone from her purse.
"Calling James," she says.
"Fucking hell, Pheebs! Put your mobile down," Martin says. "Have some tact."
"No, it's okay," I say, fighting against my prudish instincts. "You can call him.'
Phoebe beams. "Yeah. You boys stay out of this one."
So the next night, thanks to Phoebe, I am eating Thai food on a blind date with James Hathaway. James is a thirty-year-old freelance journalist. He is nice-looking, although Dexter's opposite. He is on the short side, with blue eyes, light hair, and even paler eyebrows. Something about him reminds me of Hugh Grant. At first I think it's just the accent, but then I realize that like Hugh, he has a certain flippant charm. And like Hugh, I bet he's slept with plenty of women. Maybe I should let him add me to his List.
I nod and laugh at something James just said, a wry comment about the couple next to us. He's funny. It suddenly occurs to me that maybe Dex is not very funny. Of course, I've always subscribed to the notion that if I want to laugh out