Sondrine? What kind of name was that? I examined her closely. Her skin was poreless, and she had perfectly arched eyebrows. I hadn't had my own brows done since I had left New York.
"Nice to meet you, Sondrine," I said, catching myself in the pregnant-girl stance: knees locked, hands resting on my stomach. I dropped my arms to my sides, assuming a more attractive pose.
"And you," Sondrine purred in a phone-sex voice.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then, just in case Ethan had downplayed my importance in his life—or failed to mention me altogether—I told him that I'd see him back home. I checked Sondrine's face for a flash of surprise or insecurity, but saw neither. Just pleasant indifference. As I departed the Muffin Man and rounded the corner back to Ethan's flat, I felt inexplicably wistful, almost sad. I felt my baby kick again, and I confided in her, whispering, "Ethan has a girlfriend. And I don't know why that upsets me."
I didn't see Ethan until much later that night when he finally returned to the flat, sans Sondrine. I was sprawled on his couch, half-asleep, waiting for him with a pit in my stomach as I listened to a Norah Jones CD.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Tenish," he said, standing over me. "Have you eaten?"
"Yes," I said. "You?"
He nodded.
"Where've you been?" I asked, feeling like a suspicious wife who just found a smear of pink lipstick on her husband's starched white shirt.
"Writing."
"Sure you were," I said, trying to sound nonchalant and playful.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, motioning for me to move over and clear a space for him.
I lifted my legs long enough for him to sit and then rested my feet on his thighs. "It means, were you really writing or were you hanging out with Sondrine?" I asked the question in the singsongy way that kids say, "Ethan and Sondrine sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"
"I really was writing," he said innocently. Then he tried to change the subject by asking what I did with my day.
"I looked for a job. Called some places. Surfed the Net."
"And?"
"All to no avail," I said. "Very frustrating… So what's the deal with Sondrine?" I pronounced her name as un-Frenchy as possible, making the word sound clunky and unattractive.
"She's cool. Fun to hang out with."
"Don't play dumb with me, Ethan."
He gave me a quizzical look.
"Is she your girlfriend or what?"
He yawned and stretched. "No, she's not my girlfriend."
"But you're her petit chou." I grinned.
"What?"
"I heard her on the phone talking to you right before you showed up at the Muffin Man. She called you her petit chou."
"You're too much," Ethan said, smiling.
"By the way, are you aware that a chou is a cabbage?" I asked, rolling my eyes. I had looked the word up on the Internet as soon as I had returned to the flat, and could not believe that she was using such a dumb pet name.
Ethan shrugged. "I had no idea. I took Spanish. Remember?"
"Too bad for you."
"Why?"
"Because your girlfriend's French, that's why."
"She's not my girlfriend, Darce," Ethan said unconvincingly. "We've just gone out a couple of times."
"When was that?"
"Once last week… and then today."
"Was last week a dinner date?" I asked, trying to remember which nights Ethan had stayed out late.
"No. We met for lunch."
"Where?"
"At a bistro in Notting Hill."
"Did you go dutch?"
"No. I paid… Is your inquisition almost over?"
"I guess so. I just don't get why you didn't tell me about her."
He shrugged. "I don't know why I didn't mention her. It's really not a big deal," he said, as he kneaded my left heel and then my right. I couldn't remember the last time someone had given me a foot massage. It felt better than an orgasm. I told Ethan this. He gave me a proud smile that I translated as: "You've never had an orgasm with me." An image of Ethan and Sondrine, naked and sweaty, popped into my head. I pictured them postcoitus, sharing a cigarette. She had to be a smoker with that raspy voice.
"So tell me about her," I probed.
"There's not much to tell… I met her at the Tate Gallery. We were both there to see this exhibit," he said as he made a fist and rolled it along my arches.
"So what, did you meet in front of a painting?" I asked, thinking of my own trip to the National Gallery with Ethan and wondering why he hadn't invited me to the Tate.
"No. We met in the cafe at the museum. She was behind me in line. I got the last free table. She asked if she could join me," he said. I could hear the story being retold later, whenever anyone asked how they had met. I could see Sondrine linking her arm through his, concluding the tale with a coy, "He got the last Caesar salad and the last table!"
"What a sweet story," I said.
He ignored my sarcasm. "And then we walked around the museum together afterward."