"Seriously, Ethan! Where will you be?"
"I don't know. I just wander around until I find a cafe with a good vibe. Nothing too quiet. Nothing too clamorous. Just a nice dull din. I left my mobile number on that pad," he said, pointing to a tablet on the hall table. "Call only if absolutely necessary."
"Can't I come with you?"
"No."
I sighed. "What am I supposed to do for the rest of the day without you? I didn't think I'd be all alone on my first day here."
He shifted his bag to the opposite shoulder and looked at me, poised to lecture.
"Okay. Okay. Sorry… I'll make do."
He handed me a set of keys and a spiral book with a map on the front. "The small key works the front door. The brass one goes in the top lock. Skull key for the bottom. All turn to the left. And take this A to Zed. Your bible to the London streets."
"I hate maps," I said, flipping through the book. "And this one looks impossible. There are too many pages."
"You're impossible," Ethan said.
"Just tell me where I should go to shop," I said.
"There's an index in the back of the A to Zed. Look up Knightsbridge. You have plenty of shopping in that general area. Harrods. And Harvey Nichols, which is more your bag."
"How so?" I asked, anticipating a compliment.
"More fashionably elite."
I smiled. I was nothing if not fashionably elite. "How far away is Knightsbridge?"
"A long walk. Or short cab ride. I'll explain the tube another day. No time now."
"Thanks, Ethan," I said, kissing his cheek. "I'll see you tonight. And in the meantime, I'm going to find some cute clothes!"
"Sounds like a swell plan," he said with a supportive smile. It was as if Ethan understood that if I were going to start a new life, I needed a whole new wardrobe too.
* * *
nineteen
As it turned out, Ethan was right.
Harvey Nichols was exactly my bag. I started out at Harrods, but it was too large and packed with touristy riffraff in much the same way Macy's is at home. Harvey Nics, as I overheard one British girl call it right outside the Sloane Street entrance, was more upscale and boutiquey, reminding me of Henri Bendel or Barneys in New York. I was in heaven, going from rack to rack, gathering various gems by Stella McCartney, Dolce & Gabbana, Alexander McQueen, Jean Paul Gaultier, and Marc Jacobs. Then I threw some new names into the mix, finding splendid, wintery garments from designers I had never heard of.
My only bad moment of the afternoon came when I discovered that I could no longer squeeze into a size six. I was seventeen weeks pregnant, and my initial few pounds of pregnancy weight had already propelled me up from my usual size four, but when even the sixes didn't fit, I panicked. I examined my ass and thighs in the dressing room mirror, and then simulated the old pencil test, where you stand with your feet together, place a pencil between your legs, and see if it stays put between your thighs or drops to the ground. I was relieved to see that there was still adequate space—a pencil would definitely fall to the ground. So how could it be that my size had changed so significantly, seemingly overnight? I poked my head out of the dressing room and summoned a striking salesgirl wearing a funky leather skirt and orange vinyl boots.
"Excuse me, but are the sizes a bit off in Dries Van Noten?" I asked her.
She gave me a melodious laugh. "American?"
I nodded.
"The sizes run different here, love. Are you a four at home?"
"Yes," I said proudly. "I am normally. But lately I take a six at home."
"That's a ten here typically."
"Oh, what a relief!" I said.
"Would you like me to get you some new sizes?"
I nodded gratefully, handed her my stash, and asked her if she would add a skirt like hers to my pile. Then I waited, half naked, in the dressing room, studying the small bump protruding from my stomach. It had popped out seemingly overnight, but my body was otherwise still trim and well toned. I had fallen off my rigorous, prewedding workout schedule, but I reasoned that as long as I was careful with my diet, I could maintain my figure for at least a few more months.
When the salesgirl finally returned, she squealed, "Oh, my, you're pregnant! How far along are you?"
"Four months and change," I said, running my hand down along my bump.
"You look smashing for four months," she purred in her chic accent.