All of the calls (except Bliss Spa reminding me of my five o'clock facial) were from birthday well-wishers. But no Rachel or Dex.
I know it was on Claire's mind, too, as she mouthed, "Who?" each time I answered.
After the fifth call, she asked, "Have you heard from Rachel today?"
"No," I said. Dex? Nope.
"How rude not to call on your birthday and try to make up."
"I know!"
"Any sightings since Crate and Barrel?" she asked.
"No. Have you seen them?"
"No. Nobody has seen them," Claire said—which was saying something as her network was expansive. The next best thing to hiring a private investigator (and believe me, I had considered it) was having Claire as my new best friend.
"Maybe they broke up," I said.
"Probably so," she said. "Out of guilt if nothing else."
"Or maybe they just went on another exotic trip together," I said.
She patted my arm sympathetically and ordered me a second glass of chardonnay. I knew I shouldn't be drinking—but Dr. Jan had specifically said that I could drink on special occasions. Besides, plenty of French babies were born undamaged, and I was sure their mothers kept up with their daily intake of wine.
"I do have a little nugget for you, though," I said, inhaling deeply, excited to drop the Marcus news on her. Minus the pregnancy, of course.
"Oh, really?" Her bangle bracelets clinked together as she crossed her arms and leaned toward me.
"I'm seeing someone," I said proudly.
"Who?" she asked, wide-eyed. I detected a hint of jealousy. Claire, bless her heart, was a fast and furious matchmaker, but she never seemed to make much progress in her own right.
I smiled mysteriously, took a sip of water, and wiped the lipstick off my glass with my thumb. "Marcus," I said proudly.
"Marcus?" she asked with bewilderment. "You mean, Marcus Marcus?"
I nodded.
"Really?" she asked.
"Uh-huh. Isn't that crazy?"
Something flashed across her face that I wasn't sure how to read. Was it jealousy that I had someone new so fast on the heels of a broken engagement? Did she, too, find him sexy in an unorthodox way? Or was it disapproval? My heart fluttered over the possibility of the latter. I desperately needed affirmation that Marcus was acceptable to a member of the Manhattan elite. I needed to be with someone whom everyone else wanted.
"When did this come about?" she asked.
"Oh, recently…" I said vaguely.
"I'm… I guess I'm a little bit surprised."
"I know," I said, thinking that she would have been less surprised if she hadn't been such a sound sleeper that night over our July Fourth weekend. "Who would have thunk it?… But I really like him."
"Really?" This time I definitely pegged her expression as disapproving.
"Why are you so surprised?"
"It's just… I don't know. I just didn't think Marcus was your type."
"You mean his looks?" I asked. "You mean the fact that I'm better looking than he is?"
"Well, that," Claire said, struggling for tactful wording. "And, I don't know, just everything. He's a nice, fun guy—don't get me wrong…" She trailed off.
"You don't think he's sexy?" I said. "I think he's so sexy."
Claire looked at me blankly. Her answer was clear. She did not find Marcus sexy. Not in the least.
"Well, I think he is," I said again, feeling highly offended.
"That's all that matters, then," Claire said, patting my hand condescendingly.
"Right," I said, knowing that that was not all that mattered. "I can't believe you don't think he's cute."
"I guess," she said. "In a… I don't know… 'guy's guy' kind of way."
"Well, he's great in bed," I said, trying to convince Claire—and myself—that this single fact could make up for all of his shortcomings.
By five o'clock, I had received a dozen or more birthday e-mails and phone calls, and a stream of chipper office visits from colleagues. Still nothing from Rachel or Dex. There was one last possibility: maybe they had sent a card, note, or gift to my apartment, which I hadn't returned to in several days. So after my facial, I cabbed it across the park to my apartment, anticipating the apologies that were surely awaiting me.