Lauren Weisberger - Chasing Harry Winston

Emmy was lying spread-eagled on the exam table exactly one day before her thirtieth birthday, and she was determined to hear the heartening news again. “Tell me about your average patient,” Emmy prompted, barely even noticing Dr. Kim’s gloved finger inside her. She felt the pinch of the Pap smear Q-tip and held her breath to keep from moving.

“Emmy! You could tell it to me. I’ve told you a hundred times already.”

“One more won’t hurt.”

Dr. Kim removed her finger and snapped off her glove. She sighed again. “I have approximately two hundred and fifty patients in my practice at this location. Of those women, the average age for first-time pregnancy is thirty-four. Which of course means that-”

“A whole bunch have to be even older than that,” Emmy finished.

“Exactly. And while I don’t want to misrepresent anything here-it’s important you understand that this is the Upper East Side and probably the only place in the country, if not the world, where that statistic stands-the majority do not experience difficulty.”

“So no pregnant patients in their twenties?” Emmy prompted.

Dr. Kim untied Emmy’s robe and began to examine her left breast in a firm, circular motion. She stared at the wall as she did this, clearly concentrating. After finishing both sides, she pulled the robe closed again and placed a hand on Emmy’s arm.

“Only a few,” she said, looking at Emmy with concern.

“A few! Last time you said ‘practically none.’”

“Only the very young wives of a few Mormon doctors from Utah doing their rotations at Mt. Sinai.”

Emmy breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you still happy with your pill?” Dr. Kim asked, making notations on Emmy’s chart.

“It’s fine.” Emmy shrugged and sat up on the table, removing her feet from the sock-covered stirrups. “Certainly does work like a charm.”

Dr. Kim laughed. “That is the point, isn’t it? I’ll leave you a new script for another six months’ worth at the front desk, okay? We’ll mail your test results within a week, but I don’t foresee any problems at all. Everything looks perfectly healthy.” She handed Emmy’s chart to the nurse and, after making sure Emmy was covered, opened the door. “See you in six months. And sweetheart? Please relax. As your doctor, I’m telling you that there’s absolutely nothing whatsoever to worry about.”

Easy for you to say, with your three kids , Emmy thought as she smiled politely and nodded. You, and Izzie, and all those other gynecologists with gaggles of children or sporting gigantic baby bumps themselves, telling me not to worry. Izzie was due any moment now-she was already three days past her due date, in fact-but to her misery she hadn’t felt a single contraction, nor dilated a fraction of a centimeter. Emmy had grudgingly agreed to wait until Izzie checked herself into the hospital to jump on a flight to Florida (Izzie insisted that first babies could be a week or even two weeks late, and it was stupid to rush down there until they were sure), but she couldn’t stop thinking of her new nephew’s impending arrival.

After dressing, Emmy jumped on the 4 train to Union Square. She figured on a brisk walk directly home to shower-something she always felt compelled to do after the K-Y-heavy exams-but as she exited the subway at Fourteenth and Broadway she found herself heading directly toward Leigh and Adriana’s building. With Leigh’s breakup only a week old and Adriana’s newfound commitment to work, she figured at least one of them had to be home, sulking or writing or both, but the doorman shook his head.

“They did leave together, though,” he said, checking his watch. “Probably an hour or so ago.”

Emmy texted them both the same message: WTF?? In your lobby. Where are you? and received nearly simultaneous responses. Leigh’s read Shopping w/Adi for your 30th! Talk later ; Adriana’s was a bit more concise: If you want a bday present, go home. Emmy sighed, thanked the girls’ doorman, and began the slushy, freezing trudge to Perry Street. It was a cold, wet Friday evening in February, and Emmy was desperate for a shower, but she managed to avoid going home to her empty apartment for nearly two hours, as she found a reason to stop at nearly every block along Thirteenth: a hot coffee from Grey Dog on University; a long, adoring gaze at the puppies playing in the window at Wet Nose; an impromptu manicure and paraffin pedicure at Silk Day Spa, where they were kind enough to take her without an appointment. No point in racing home only to sit by herself as the clock struck twelve and she kissed her twenties good-bye. She’d flat-out rejected the girls’ offer of a fun night out-shot down suggestions for everything from an elegant dinner at Babbo (even though she was dying to try their mint pasta with the spicy lamb sausage) to a regressive night at Culture Club. It was only after weeks of pushing and prodding that Emmy finally agreed to show up the next afternoon for some sort of surprise birthday activity. Adriana and Leigh promised only that it wouldn’t involve men of any kind, so she had grudgingly agreed. She planned to fill the hours between now and then with a bottle of wine and some quality self-pity. Perhaps, if she was feeling really motivated, she’d MaxDelivery herself some cupcakes.

By the time she reached her building and trudged up the five flights of stairs, she was drenched from head to toe: her hair from the freezing rain, her feet from the filthy slush, and her ladyparts from the overzealous application of medical-grade lube. There had been no birthday cards in her mailbox, and not a single package in the hallway outside her door. Nothing. She reminded herself that it was still only the day before, that if all else failed she could certainly rely on something from her mom and Izzie. She stripped just inside the doorway, tossing her wet clothes in a pile by the closet, and made a beeline for the bathroom. It was just as the hot water was fully soaking her hair that she heard her cell phone ring. Her home phone rang next, and then the cell again. She couldn’t help but hope it was Rafi, that he’d tracked down her number somehow and was calling to apologize for being such an ass. Granted, it was unlikely that he’d found both her cell and home numbers, but who knew? He seemed resourceful enough, and besides, he was likely the only one of her recent men- affairs -who might even bother to find her. George had definitely moved on to his next undergraduate already, and there was no reason to believe Croc Dundee would ever be heard from again.

After towel-drying her hair and maneuvering her body next to the toilet so she could open the door, Emmy crossed the small studio and, kneeling down, naked, pulled a shopping bag out from under her bed. She carefully untied the grosgrain ribbon that secured the handles and gingerly removed the tissue-wrapped bundle from inside. Then, losing all patience, she tore the monogrammed foil sticker in half, bunched the tissue paper into a pile, and plunged her hands into the plushness of the single most expensive item she had ever owned. To call it a robe was a disservice to the luxurious softness of the four-ply cashmere, to its rich chocolate color and its elegantly simple monogrammed E. Robes were for covering up flannel pajamas or maintaining a modicum of decency between the locker room and the pool. But this? This was meant to drape sexily over every curve (or, in Emmy’s case, to expertly accentuate what few curves there were), to feel as light as silk but as warm as down. It grazed the floor breezily as she walked, and the cinch-tie at the waist made her feel like a model. She was instantly flooded with relief. It had not been a mistake. She’d seen it a couple of weeks earlier in the window of SoHo’s most expensive lingerie salon, a place where it was impossible to buy three inches of fabric for less than a few hundred dollars. Every bra, every panty, every pair of stockings in the store was more expensive than any dress she owned, which made the robe…well…a bigger chunk of her monthly rent than she cared to remember. How had she worked up the nerve even to enter the store? It remained a blur. All she knew was how good she looked wearing that robe in the plush salon dressing room with the heavy brocade curtains, her lips pursed and her right hip jutted out, standing sexily in the provided pair of stilettos. One look in the mirror tonight confirmed that nothing had changed in the weeks the robe had waited, virginal and wrapped, until her big birthday. Still in front of the mirror, Emmy combed her wet hair back into a chic chignon and bit her lips to make them swell. She slicked on a new sheer berry lip gloss from her makeup drawer and patted a bit onto her cheeks. Not bad , she thought with surprised pleasure. Not bad for thirty at all. Then, suddenly bored with the spontaneous makeover and ravenously hungry, she slid into a pair of snuggly sheepskin booties, retied the cashmere dream around her middle, and headed to the kitchen to make some soup.