Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(55)

Josh shakes his head like he’s sorry to disappoint, then he glances at me, and for some reason the way he looks at me makes me feel as naked as the models in their sparkly gold paint.

I frown at him. “Don’t look at me, I don’t read your comic. I can’t tell you the ending. I don’t even like comics.”

Josh laughs. “Someday, Gemma. Someday you’ll read it.”

“And you’ll like it,” Hannah says. “Won’t she, Brook?”

But Brook is looking between Josh and me with narrowed eyes and a pucker between her eyebrows. Ugh. I don’t want to hear more about the FF.

“I’m going to go say hi to Carly and thank her for inviting me.” I turn to Josh. “Do you want to come?”

“Please don’t,” Hannah says, “I actually have more questions about Grim. And I was wondering about the upcoming civil war.”

I wave them off and head through the crowd toward the platform on the other side of the room. The music has shifted to a more raucous beat and the party is beginning to have even more of a bacchanalian feel. The contortionists are twisting their limbs together, there’s a trapeze artist twirling from the ceiling and I see that a few belly dancers are making their way through the crowd. A number of couples have settled down to lounge on the plush floor pillows. A woman in a gorgeous billowy black dress leans back on a pillow and sips from a glass of pink champagne. As I pass, she glances at me and quickly dismisses me as no one of importance. In fact, that’s the general impression I get here. The people see my pumpkin dress, and decide that I’m the pumpkin, not the carriage, and definitely not Cinderella.

But as Ian says, the surest way to be seen as beautiful is to make someone else laugh, make someone else smile, then no matter what you look like, you’ll always be beautiful.

I frown, because, come to think of it, that sounds like something Josh would say.

Weird.

I make it to the platform and catch Carly’s eye. When she sees me, she leans in to her husband and whispers something in his ear. He looks at her disapprovingly, then shrugs. She gives him a bland smile, lifts her skirts and steps down from the platform.

“You came,” Carly says. She kisses the air next to my cheeks. “Hello, darling. Let’s walk, I hate standing on that bloody platform.” Her British accent is more pronounced, and I think it’s because she’s upset.

She threads her arm through mine and we walk toward the stairwell and a relatively empty section of the room.

“I’m going to take you shopping. Your dress is hideous.”

I try to hold back a laugh and only just manage. “That’s what everyone says.”

“How do you expect to keep that sexy Ian if you can’t dress yourself properly?” This sounds so much like something my mom would say that I’m almost offended, except I can tell that Carly isn’t even thinking about what she’s saying, instead she looks like she’s trying not to cry.

“Are you okay?” I ask in a quiet voice.

I look around. There are a few people watching us. Carly is beautiful, she actually looks like Cinderella in her blue sparkling dress. I think no matter where she goes people watch her. She realizes it too. She looks around, then back at her husband still standing on the platform. He tilts his chin up and glowers at her.

She turns back to me. “I need to visit the powder room.”

We walk at a sedate pace down a long, tiled hallway until we come to a door with a brass knob. She turns the handle and we step into a large, carpeted room with cushioned chairs, vanities with mirrors, china vases with floral arrangements, and at the far end, bathroom stalls. The room smells like lemongrass and gardenias.

“I’ll just be a moment,” Carly says.

I lean against one of the vanity counters while she uses the bathroom. While I wait, I stare at myself in the mirror. I realize that I don’t look at myself very often, that I haven’t really looked at myself since my divorce. To be honest, I’ve been afraid that if I looked good and hard, I’d see why Jeremy left me. That if I looked long enough in the mirror I might see why I wasn’t good enough. I’d see the woman that everyone in my hometown sees, the desperate charity case that can’t get a date. I’d see a disappointment.

But in the gardenia-scented, hushed room, I finally gather enough courage to have a good look.

Funny enough, nothing earth-shattering happens. It’s just me, in a horrendously ugly dress, my hair in a messy ponytail, a slightly bemused expression on my face. I stick my tongue out at myself and wrinkle my forehead.

Nothing happens.

I give myself a smile.

Still nothing happens. It’s just me. Slightly older, slightly less sure of myself than I was seven years ago, and slightly more hopeful about my future. Because, this face, the face I see in the mirror, someday, hopefully soon, she’ll have a baby to look down at and love. I’ll make someone laugh, I’ll make someone smile, and they’ll find me beautiful.

At the other end of the powder room, the bathroom stall shuts and Carly comes out. She washes her hands, slowly pats them on the thick paper towels, and then walks to the vanities. When she reaches me she stops. Her face is bone white and her expression is pinched.

“Are you alright?” I ask. She really doesn’t look well.

Her hand shakes as she smooths down a strand of hair. Then she lowers her hand and shrugs. “I’ve started bleeding.”