I laughed for the first time in weeks.
"So anyway, Josh is a-vail-a-ble" Claire sang and spun around ballerina-style.
I became momentarily suspicious. "Why don't you want him?"
"You know my uptight Episcopalian parents would never let me go down the Jewish-guy road or I would have claimed him for myself… But you better act fast because the girls in this city are ready to pounce."
"Yeah. Don't let Jocelyn catch wind of this," I said.
Jocelyn Silver worked with Claire and me, and although I liked her in small doses, she was a total alpha female, way too competitive for me ever to trust. She also bore a strong resemblance to Uma Thurman, and if I had to watch her pretend to be annoyed when one more stranger approached her to ask if she was Uma, I was going to puke. Which, incidentally, was what Jocelyn did after every meal.
"No kidding… I haven't mentioned anything about the breakup to her. Even if I did, Josh would totally go for you over her."
I smiled with false modesty.
She continued, "So how about this? I'll make sure Josh comes to our club opening next week—the one Jocelyn's going to miss for her cousin's wedding…" She winked at me. "So stop this sniveling over Marcus. I mean, Christ, what was the deal there anyway? He could be fun, but he's certainly not worthy of macaroni-and-cheese-level grief."
"You're right," I said. I could feel myself cheering up as I thought of how Jewish men were supposed make great husbands. "Josh sounds divine. I'm sure I could convince him to have a Christmas tree, don't you think?"
"You can convince anyone to do anything," Claire said.
I beamed. That theory had been proven wrong a few times in recent days, but surely I was going to get back on track with my charmed life.
"And I had another thought on my way over…" Claire smiled mysteriously, poised to reveal another terrific surprise.
"What's that?"
"Well," she said as she uncorked the bottle of Patron, our favorite brand of tequila. "What do you say we move in together again? My lease is up, and you have a spare bedroom. We could save a ton on rent and have a blast together. What do you say?"
"That's a fantastic idea," I said, remembering fondly our roomie days before I had moved in with Dex. Claire and I had shared the same shoe size, the same taste in music, and the same love of fruity mixed drinks that we consumed in quantity as we primped for our big nights out. Besides, it would be great to have her around when the baby arrived. I was sure she wouldn't mind getting up occasionally for nighttime feedings. I watched as she sliced a lime and hung perfect twists on our glasses. She had a nice touch when it came to entertaining, another perk of living with her. "Let's do it!"
"Excellent!" she. squealed. "My lease expires next month."
"There's just one thing I should tell you," I said as she crossed the living room over to my couch, drinks in hand.
"What's that?"
I swallowed, reassuring myself that although Claire could be snobbish and judgmental, she had only demonstrated a sense of absolute loyalty to me over the years. I had to believe that she would be there for me in my hour of need. So as she handed me a temptingly perfect margarita on the rocks, salt lined evenly along the rim of the glass (an engagement present from Dexter's Aunt Suzy), I blurted out my big secret. "I'm pregnant with Marcus's baby." Then I took one tiny sip of my drink, inhaling the sweet smell of tequila, licking the salt from my lips.
"Get outta here," she said, her crystal drop earrings swinging as she plopped down next to me and curled her legs up under her ample bottom. "Oh—we didn't do a toast. Here's to being roomies again!"
She clearly thought I was joking. I clinked my glass against hers, took another tiny sip, and said, "No. It's true. I am pregnant. So I probably shouldn't drink this. Although a few more sips couldn't hurt. It's not that strong, is it?"
She looked at me sideways and said, "You're kidding, right?"
I shook my head.
"Darcy!" She froze, a fearful smile plastered on her face.
"I'm not joking."
"Swear." I swear.
It went on like that for some time before I could convince her that I wasn't putting her on, that I was, indeed, pregnant with the child of a man whom she had deemed woefully inadequate. As she listened to me ramble about my morning sickness, my due date, the problems with my mother, she gulped her margarita—which was highly unusual for Claire. She had finishing-school manners even when wasted. She never forgot to cross her legs on a bar stool or keep her elbows off a table, and she never gulped. But at that moment, she was rattled.
"So what do you think?" I asked her.