So for the rest of the week, I was all about the job hunt. I kept an open mind, diligently seeking any kind of work: high-minded jobs, jobs in PR, even menial jobs. I checked the papers, made phone calls, hit the pavement. Nothing turned up—except some disappointing findings regarding the difficulty of securing a work permit. Even worse, I learned that all female employees in England are entitled to twenty-six weeks' maternity leave. Not exactly promising news. Who would hire me so far along in my pregnancy, knowing they'd have to let me go for six months? I began to worry that I was going to have to return to New York. To my old job and my old life. It was the last thing I wanted to do.
By Saturday evening, I was totally drained and disheartened and ready to let my hair down at Meg's party, stop worrying for one night. I took my time getting ready, trying on several maternity outfits that I had purchased at H&M (which didn't count as frivolous shopping as my regular wardrobe no longer fit) before settling on a simple black dress. I stood in front of the mirror, admiring the way it hugged my stomach and hips, showcasing my bump. I added a touch of mascara and gloss, deciding not to hide my glow of pregnancy behind a veil of heavy makeup. Then I slid on a pair of simple black heels and my diamond studs from Dex. The result, if I do say so myself, was understated elegance.
Ethan returned home just as I was heading out the door.
He whistled as he rested his open palm on my stomach and then patted. "You look great. Where are you off to?"
I reminded him that I had been invited to a dinner party. "Remember? The girls I met at the coffee shop last week?"
"Oh, yeah. The English girls," he said. "I'm impressed that you got the invite. Most Americans don't get invited into a Brit's home until their going-away party." It wasn't his first comment on the closed nature of British society, one of the few things he did not like about the country.
"I am very excited about it," I said. "I hope it feels like a night out with Bridget Jones."
"You mean a bunch of neurotic women chain-smoking, talking about losing weight and shagging their bosses?"
"Something like that," I said, laughing. "So what are you up to tonight?"
"Didn't I tell you?… I'm going to dinner with Sondrine." I felt a stab of envy as he gave me a sheepish look. He knew full well that he hadn't mentioned his date with her. In fact, he hadn't mentioned her at all since the day I met her at the Muffin Man.
"No. You didn't tell me." I nodded toward the plastic bag he was holding from Oddbins, a wine shop near us. "And apparently you have plans for after dinner too?"
He said maybe, he'd see how dinner went.
"Well, have fun. I'm off," I said, telling myself not to dwell on his relationship.
As I headed out the door, Ethan asked if I planned on taking a cab.
"No. The tube," I said, holding up my tube pass. "I'm very frugal these days—in case you hadn't noticed."
"It's too late for you to take the tube alone."
"I thought you said the tube was safe at night?" I asked.
"It is. But… I don't know. You're pregnant. Here you go." He opened his wallet, pulled out a few bills, and tried to hand them to me.
"Ethan, I don't need your money. I'm operating perfectly well within the confines of my budget," I said, even though one of my credit cards had been declined at Marks & Spencer that morning when I tried to buy a new bra to support my burgeoning, pregnant-girl D cups.
He slipped the money back in his wallet and said, "Okay… but please take a cab."
"I will," I said, feeling touched that he was being so protective. "You be careful too." I winked.
He gave me a puzzled look.
"Wear a condom."
He rolled his eyes and gave me a dismissive wave, which I translated to mean: "Don't be crazy. I'm not sleeping with her anytime soon." Then he kissed me good-bye on the cheek and I caught a whiff of his cologne. The scent was nice, and it made me feel strangely melancholy. I reminded myself that Simon the Ginger was waiting for me at an English dinner party in Mayfair.
But as I sat in the back of the cab on my way to Meg's flat, psyching myself up for the evening ahead, I couldn't get rid of the pit in my stomach. It wasn't just my seeming jealousy over Sondrine and Ethan's date, or my overarching worry about mothering twins. I was also just plain nervous for the party. Anxiety was not an emotion I could ever remember feeling when I went out in New York, and I wondered why tonight felt so different. Maybe it was because I no longer had a boyfriend or fiance. I suddenly recognized that there was a safety in having someone, as well as a lack of pressure to shine. Ironically, this had cultivated a certain free-spiritedness that had, in turn, allowed me to be the life of the party and hoard the affection of additional men.
But I was no longer attached to someone and no longer in my comfort zone of Manhattan and the Hamptons, where I knew exactly what to expect at any bar, club, party, or gathering. Where I knew that no matter what the venue, I could have a few drinks and I would not only be the most beautiful woman in the room (except for the one time that I happened to be at Lotus when Gisele Bundchen walked in), but usually the most scintillating too.