Then she calls Dan, pacing nervously on a stretch of Thirty-Ninth Street, making a circuit from the free newspaper kiosk to the fire hydrant. A Sikh shopkeeper studies her suspiciously, and she stares him down icily. Dan is in the middle of prepping the big presentation, which is due to go off to The Hague next week. Their conversations when he is at work are never that fulfilling—monosyllables, nodding—so when she hangs up, she calls Lauren.
Years, what, more than a decade ago, a long-ago January night, drunken, because what else was there to do in the dead of the upstate winter, after some party in some person’s house, she and Lauren had been making their way across that well-lit campus, the reassuring blue glow of those security telephones, the pools of light meant to discourage attackers. They walked with too much confidence: The snow had melted, the water had frozen, and ice was everywhere, and they were too drunk to care. It was Lauren who fell, all of a sudden, that’s how these things happen, about to step and then prone, not hurt, because it was the heel of the foot behind her that had foundered, so she landed with a graceless thud on her ass.
“Ouch,” she said, first, then started to laugh, tears mixing in, not from pain, or shame, but from the cold, the preposterousness of the situation.
“Promise me,” Lauren had said later, “if you are my friend, if we are friends, let’s make a deal. From now on, when one of us slips and falls on the ice, the other one will, too.”
“Why?” Sarah had asked.
“We’re in this together” was Lauren’s answer, and it somehow made sense.
“Lolo,” Sarah says, when Lauren picks up, efficiently, after one brief ring, answering with her name—“Lauren Brooks”—so terse, so professional. “Lolo, I fell on the ice.”
The first place Sarah could think of is this strange hotel near Bryant Park. It’s in Midtown, and it seems furtive, the place you’d go for an extramarital martini. She’s forgotten that the old hotel has undergone a modern renovation. It’s a ghost of its former self, a suggestion of columns and grandeur, the patina of slick woods and velvet. It’s a pastiche. It’s ugly, but classy. It’s not yet quitting time and well past lunchtime; the place is deserted. The host has olive skin and beautiful features. His hair has a subtle wave to it, and some kind of product to hold that wave in place. She’s seized by a desire to touch it. He shows her to a booth, delivers a glass of ice water, which she drains, and a menu.
Lauren arrives after only a few minutes; true to her word, she must have left as soon as she received the call. She is there, as Sarah has asked her to be.
“Hey!” A jocular tone, concealing an edge of worry. Confusion.
“Hey yourself,” Sarah says.
Lauren slides into the banquette opposite, pushing off her coat and scarf and bag in one graceless motion, shoving the bulk onto the bench beside her. “What’s going on?” She pauses. “You fell on the ice.”
“Our distress call.” Sarah nods at the menu. “Drink?”
“Drink, why not.” Lauren smiles. “It took me a second there, the ice thing. But I remembered.”
“Of course you remembered, Lolo.”
“So you want to tell me what’s going on? Why we’re drinking?”
“You’re drinking.” Sarah hesitates. She’s grateful. “I’m pregnant.”
“Oh. Oh!” Lauren stares at her. “Congratulations?” She looks down at the closed menu on the table in front of her. “Jesus. Who’s the father?”
“You know, I tried to guess what joke you were going to make.” Sarah smiles, crazily. She feels like laughing. “I had Who’s the father? on my list. I also had Again?”
“That’s pretty good, actually.” Lauren laughs. “So I guess wearing white is out?”
“That was on my list, too.”
They order drinks.
“I’ll take two sips,” Sarah explains, defensively, as the waiter disappears in search of their drinks.
Lauren holds her hands up in protest. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I’m fucking pregnant.” She stares at Lauren. She wants something from this exchange but has no idea what. She’s looking to Lauren to tell her how to react.
“That’s amazing.” This time, no joking. Lauren smiles.
“The miracle of life.” Sarah frowns. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“I take it this is a surprise?”
She’s only been off the pill a few months, the doctor’s advice. If they were going to start trying, the doctor suggested, it was time. They’d been sure it would take a while. “This is a surprise,” Sarah says. “I mean, it’s good, generally speaking, though the timing is a little . . .”
“Did you know?” Lauren sits up, leans forward a little. “Wait, do you know?”
“Went to the doctor. The usual visit, but like—I’ve been tired. I thought it was just the wedding stuff.” She shrugs.
“Shit.” Lauren is still smiling. This is the right response, Sarah knows: shock, but also joy. “How far along are you?”
“I’m four weeks, she thinks, maybe six. Can’t confirm as yet.”
“Which means that two months from now, you’ll be three or possibly four months pregnant.”
“I’ll be fucking showing.” Sarah feels her shoulders seize up. Her biceps are sore, as they have been for weeks. All those dutiful curls.