"How come he goes by 'mister' and not 'doctor'?" I asked, feeling a bit skeptical about the British health care system.

Meg explained that in England only nonoperating physicians are called doctors-something that goes back to medieval times, when all surgeons were butchers and therefore mere misters.

"As for the job," Charlotte said, "what is it that you did in New York?"

"I worked in public relations… But I'm looking for something different here. Something that would help the poor, old, or sick," I said earnestly.

"That is so nice," Charlotte and Meg said in unison.

I smiled.

Meg told me that there was a nursing home right around the corner. She jotted down some directions on a napkin, and then wrote her own address and phone number on the other side. "Do stop by on Saturday," she said. "We'd love to see you. And so would Si." She winked.

I smiled, took my last sip of coffee, and said good-bye to my new friends.


That evening, when Ethan returned home, I was waiting for him with a homemade Greek salad, a glass of red wine, and softly playing classical music.

"Welcome home!" I said, smiling nervously as I handed him his glass.

He took it from me tentatively, sipped, and then looked around his apartment. "It looks great in here. Smells good too. Did you clean?"

I nodded. "Uh-huh. I scoured the place. I even cleaned your room," I said, and then couldn't resist adding, "Still think I'm a lousy friend?"

He took another sip and sat on his couch. "I didn't say that exactly."

I sat next to him. "Yes you did."

He gave me a half-smile. "You can be a good friend when you try, Darce. You tried today. Thank you."

The old me would have held out for an over-the-top apology coupled with a complete retraction and a small gift. But somehow Ethan's simple "thank you" was enough for me. I just wanted to make up and move on.

"So guess what happened this morning?" I said, bursting to share my news with him. Before he could guess, I blurted out, "I felt my baby kick!"

"Wow," Ethan said. "That was the first time you felt it?"

"Yeah. But I haven't felt her since. Should I be worried?"

Ethan shook his head. "No. I remember when Brandi was pregnant… she would feel a kick one day and then nothing for several days. The doctor told her that when you're active, the baby is less likely to move around, because you're essentially lulling it to sleep," he said with a somewhat pained expression, as if it still hurt to think of Brandi's betrayal.

"Does it make you sad to think about her?" I asked.

He kicked off his wet Pumas, peeled off his socks, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. "I'm not sad about Brandi, but sometimes I am sad when I think about Milo."

"Milo? Was that the guy Brandi cheated on you with?"

"No. Milo's the baby."

"Oh," I said sheepishly, knowing that I should have remembered that detail. I looked at Ethan, wondering what empathetic words Rachel would offer. She always had a way of saying the right thing, making someone feel better. I couldn't think of anything good so I just waited for Ethan to continue.

"For nine months, I thought I was going to be a father. I went to every doctor's appointment and fell in love with those ultrasound pictures… I even picked the name Milo." He shook his head. "Then we had the baby, and I realized he wasn't mine."

"When did you know for sure that he wasn't yours?"

"As soon as he was born. I mean, he was dark-skinned with black eyes and all this crazy black hair sticking up everywhere. I kept thinking of my own baby pictures. Bald and pink. Brandi's a blue-eyed blonde too. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on."

"So what did you do?"

"For the first few days, I think I was in shock. I pretended that it wasn't true, that it was just a fluke genetic thing… All the while, in the back of my mind, I remembered that 'big b, little b' chart from high-school biology… Two blue-eyed parents just couldn't make a Milo."

I touched his arm lightly. "That must have been so hard."

"It was awful. I mean, I loved that little boy. Enough so that I almost stayed with her. In the end… well… you know the rest." His voice cracked. "I left. It felt as though someone had died."

I remembered Rachel telling me about Ethan's divorce and the baby that wasn't his. At the time, I think I had been preoccupied with some crisis of my own and hadn't been particularly empathetic to his pain.

"You did the right thing," I said now, taking his hand in mine.

He didn't pull away. "Yeah. I guess I did."

"Do you think I did the right thing? Keeping my baby?"

"Absolutely."

"Even though you think I'm being a bad mother so far?" I asked, resisting the urge to tell him about my list. I wanted to make more progress before confiding in him.

"You'll get it together," Ethan said, squeezing my hand. "I have faith in you."

I looked at him, and felt the same way I did on Thanksgiving, sitting on our bench in Holland Park. I wanted to kiss him. But of course I didn't. I wondered why I resisted, when in the past I had always followed my impulses with not much thought of the consequences. Maybe because it didn't feel like a game with Ethan, the way it had with Marcus and so many guys before him. Maybe because I had more to lose. Blurring the line between friendship and attraction was a surefire way to lose a friend. And losing one good friend was enough this year.


Later that night, after Ethan and I watched the news, he turned to me and said, "C'mon, Darce. Let's hit the hay."

"The hay in your room?" I asked hopefully.

Ethan laughed. "Yeah. In my room."

"So you missed me last night?" I asked.

He laughed again. "I wouldn't go that far."

But I could tell by his expression that he had missed me. I could also tell that he was a little bit sorry for our fight, even though much of what he had said about me was true. Ethan liked me in spite of my flaws, and as I fell asleep next to him, I thought of how much more he was going to like the new and improved Darcy.

twenty-two

The next morning, prodded by another series of kicks from my baby, I decided that I would go apply for a job at the nursing home Meg and Charlotte had told me about. Ethan had already left for the day, so I used his computer to type up my resume and a quick cover letter, which articulately explained that my success in the world of public relations had everything to do with my outgoing personality, and that certainly this quality would translate well in the group bingo setting. After I spellchecked the letter, opting for the British spelling of the words colourful and organised, I showered, dressed, and headed out into the London chill.

When I arrived at the nursing home, I was blasted with the distinct and depressing odor of old people and institutional food, and felt my first wave of morning sickness since my first trimester had ended. I found a mint in my purse and drew a deep breath through my mouth as I studied two little old ladies in matching floral smocks parked in wheelchairs in the lobby. Watching them laugh and chat together made me think of Rachel and how we used to say that when we were old and widowed we wanted to be put in a nursing home together. I remembered her saying that I would still be a guy magnet well into my nineties and could help her get dates with the cutest old men in the home. I guess she decided to play that one out sixty years early, I thought, as a gnomelike man, whom I'd assumed was a resident, came to the door and introduced himself as the manager.

"I'm Darcy Rhone," I said, shaking his hand.

"Bernard Dobbs," he said. "How may I help you?"

"The question is, Mr. Dobbs, how can I help you? You see, I have come today to find a position at this fine institution," I said, redecorating the shabby, poorly lit lobby in my mind.

"What sort of experience do you have?" he asked.

"I have a background in public relations," I said, handing him my resume. "Which is a very interactive, people-driven business." Then I paraphrased my cover letter, concluding with, "Most importantly, I just want to help spread cheer to the elderly folk in your fine country."

Mr. Dobbs looked at me skeptically and asked if I had a work permit.

"Um… no," I said. "But I'm sure 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge' we could deal with that problem, couldn't we?"

He gave me a blank stare and then asked if I had ever worked in a nursing home. I considered lying. After all, I seriously doubted that he would place an international call to check my references. But I made a split-second determination that lying was not in keeping with the new Darcy, and that deceit wasn't necessary to get a job. So I told him no, I hadn't, and then added, "But believe me, Mr. Dobbs, I can handle anything here. My job in Manhattan was quite challenging. I worked long hours and was very successful."

"Hmm. Well. I'm so sorry, Dicey," he said, without sounding the slightest bit apologetic.

"It's Darcy," I said.

"Yes. Well. I'm sorry, Darcy. We can't have just anyone working with our residents. You must be qualified." He handed me back my resume.

Just anyone? Was he for real? I pictured my future sister-in-law wiping up old-person drool as she hummed "Oh, Susanna." Her job hardly required much skill.

"I understand where you're coming from, Mr. Dobbs… but what experience do you really need to relate well to others? I mean, you either have that or you don't. And I have that in spades," I gushed, noticing a woman with a horrifying case of osteoporosis, inching her way down the hallway toward us. She craned her neck sideways and looked at me. I smiled at her and uttered a high, cheery "Good morning" just to prove my point.