After The Fall Part 13

"Maybe, but I wasn't married when I met Joan," he replied, as straight as ever. "And isn't that what you felt when you met Cressida?"

I thought about it. Yeah, possibly, but that was so long ago and this was now. I was suddenly sick of talking about it, sick of being interrogated. Sure, I'd screwed up, but I'd made the honorable decision in the end, and I didn't seem to be getting any credit for that. All I really wanted to do was have a beer and watch football: anything to forget about it for a while.

Tim waited for an answer, then gave up, heading back down the stairs for another load.

"Anyway," he called back, "she called while you were driving over here. Had a message for you."

"She did? Who?"

"Cressida, of course," he replied scornfully, waiting for me to catch up to him.

I was momentarily disappointed. "What did she say?"

Tim removed a piece of paper from his pocket and studied it carefully, as if he hadn't already memorized the words.

"That if you ever want to move home again it's contingent upon attending counseling with her and having some tests."

I was confused. "Tests?"

He blushed. "HIV, gonorrhea, that sort of thing. She said she'd e-mail you a list."

Tim refolded the note and returned it carefully to his pocket, glancing at me as if I were crawling with vermin before heaving another box from the trunk. Jesus-I'd never felt more at a loss. Counseling and an STD checkup? I couldn't decide which would be worse.

CRESSIDA.

On one of my wards, a young boy was dying. Just ten years old, his life barely dipped into, yet winding down with each labored breath. I wondered if his parents felt the way that I did: the grief, the injustice, the loss of control. Death, infidelity-it's all the same, except one is more humiliating. Daily I suffered as if I were dying too.

I found myself thinking again of Emma, and more specifically her parents. I had been so angry with them for neglecting Shura while her sister's life hung in the balance, but I'd had a change of heart. I understood now that when something you love dies, everything else is secondary. There is only room for so much emotion. Nothing mattered anymore; for a while everything I experienced was uniformly bland, equal in its ability to delight or repulse. I finalized details of my fellowship as if filling out a tax return; I closed the eyes of dead children and wondered what to get for lunch.

Eventually, though, I started caring again. It was inevitable, I suppose, though I'd rather I hadn't. While it lasted, the first gray shroud of grief was easier to live with than its successor, anger. I could tranquilize grief, exhaust it into submission, subdue it with sleeping tablets and long shifts. Anger was trickier. It erupted in me at inopportune moments, while I was lecturing students or rea.s.suring a mother. Suppressing it took all my self-control, left me shaken and sick. Gradually I learned to retreat to the park or a broom closet after each of these episodes, to find a s.p.a.ce where I could scream out my fury in private. It helped for a short while, this bulimia of the psyche, but still the anger kept coming.

I craved details. I wanted to know why it happened, but not just that-the how and where as well. Perhaps that's why I initiated the counseling, for it wasn't as if I really wanted him back. How could I, after what he'd done? To be honest, though, I didn't know exactly what that was. When Cary called he said Kate had admitted that they'd slept together, but that it was over. It was the last part that made me throw Luke out. Over Over implied longevity, a relationship. It told me that whatever went on between them hadn't just happened the once, a drunken slipup or silly mistake. implied longevity, a relationship. It told me that whatever went on between them hadn't just happened the once, a drunken slipup or silly mistake. Over Over meant planning and deceit and some sort of commitment, the things I couldn't forgive. Counseling wasn't going to change that, but it would give me the facts: the extent of his deception, how thoroughly I had been betrayed. I needed to know those things precisely so I wouldn't take him back. And for all that he had put me through I wanted to hear Luke say he was sorry, to look into his eyes and see if he really was. meant planning and deceit and some sort of commitment, the things I couldn't forgive. Counseling wasn't going to change that, but it would give me the facts: the extent of his deception, how thoroughly I had been betrayed. I needed to know those things precisely so I wouldn't take him back. And for all that he had put me through I wanted to hear Luke say he was sorry, to look into his eyes and see if he really was.

CARY.

A month after Kate had broken my heart it still felt unmended. Worse: the pain was as sharp as the first day, the anguish all-consuming. Sometimes, late at night, it hurt so much that I fancied the serrated edges of that organ were rubbing together, grinding away scar tissue and the first tentative healing clots.

I didn't hate Kate. I suppose I should have, but I couldn't. I was furious with her, though, enraged at the way she'd screwed up what I thought was a perfectly happy marriage. She was the one who wanted to take all those vows, not me. For what? To end up only three years later lying to me, hiding things from me, letting me naively go on dreaming my dreams when they in no way coincided with hers?

I did hate Luke, though. Kate I could make excuses for, but he had none. Maybe her head was turned by his good looks; maybe he got her drunk, then took advantage of the situation. Somehow I was sure he initiated it all: guys like that always do. I thought about threatening him, but what would it have achieved? Physically, I'm bigger, but I wouldn't mind betting he's been in similar situations and would know how to handle himself. And I didn't ever want to see him again, didn't want to publicize or even acknowledge the situation.

Something else I didn't want was to be told all the details. That would only hurt, and believe it or not, it wasn't the s.e.x that bothered me the most. What is s.e.x, after all, but a physical reflex? I made myself get over that sort of jealousy after I discovered how many lovers Kate had had. It's not the doing that counts, but the feeling behind it. It still killed me that she slept with him, but I knew I could get through it by convincing myself that's all it was. No, what kept me awake at night was the deception and how easily it was achieved. It takes two to tango-maybe I was as much at fault for never questioning her, or ignoring the signs. Sure, I knew something was up, but a.s.sumed she was worried about work or having a baby. I tried to be supportive, but it never occurred to me that the rot was of Kate's own making. I thought she had integrity. Now I was disappointed not only in her, but in myself for getting it so wrong.

We didn't speak for weeks. At first every time I opened my mouth to say something I tasted tears instead, so I quickly gave that up. Then I didn't know how to get started again. Despite everything, I still wanted Kate. I kidded myself that it was because I had too much invested in her to let it all go, but the bottom line was that I loved her, even after all this. Why? I don't know. After seven years together maybe that was a reflex as well. All I could hold on to was that she seemed to want to stay too. That is, she didn't move out, though I'd heard through the hospital grapevine that Cressida and Luke had separated. Maybe Kate realized what a mistake she'd made; maybe it was was only s.e.x. only s.e.x.

I lost her, but not completely. She never hummed anymore, never laughed or even drank, never walked in the door scattering shoes and papers, peeling off her clothes as she told me about her day. But still, she was there. Things could be worse. I just needed to work out how to make them better. Talking wouldn't do it, not by itself. s.e.x was the farthest thing from my mind. I thought about counseling, but it seemed counterproductive. I wanted to move on, to block things out if necessary, not keep rehashing them. Forward was the only direction I was interested in, putting as much distance between ourselves and what happened as possible. My guess was that we needed s.p.a.ce and time, a second courtship, a place where we could find our way back to each other. But where?

KATE.

Cary booked a trip overseas. For both of us: six weeks in France and Italy, as if we were students again with time on our hands, or honeymooners starting a new life together. I found the tickets when I arrived home from work yesterday, over a month since I last saw Luke. At first I'd thought they were for some conference he was attending, but underneath was a carefully typed itinerary with both our names at the top. Mr. and Mrs. Hunter. Cary and Kate. We sound like film stars We sound like film stars, I'd laughed to him the first time I heard us introduced together. I flipped through the pages, place names clamoring for attention. In truth it should have read Dr. and Mrs. Hunter. Cary has a PhD, but never uses his t.i.tle. He wouldn't have dreamed of correcting the travel agent, and for some reason that irritated me. What was the use of all those years of effort if you didn't have something to show for them?

The funny thing was that we had never really had a honeymoon. I had been working only a short while at the time of our marriage and hadn't acc.u.mulated any annual leave. The museum had grudgingly granted me a week's break, which we spent in a rented cottage in the spa country. A funny choice, when neither of us was into spas or the myriad treatments that went with them. Cary's scientific streak derided the whole idea of taking the waters; I couldn't bear to lie still long enough for the mud packs to set or the ma.s.seuse to finish. Despite that, we'd had a wonderful time-going for walks along the lake, browsing in bookshops, eating too much and sleeping in. And making love, two or even three times a day, long afternoons spent in bed while the scent from a nearby lavender farm drifted through the open windows around us. We had lived together for over a year before we married and dated for three before that, so it wasn't as if the s.e.x were new. Yet somehow it felt it. Cary seemed more relaxed, more open to the possibility of simply having fun rather than focusing on his technique or pleasing me. We never talked about it, but I suspect that the gold band on my finger made him confident, banished those concerns about his seventeen predecessors. I hadn't realized how much they bothered him, but to what else could I ascribe the change? Or maybe it was the water after all.

Three years ago a trip to Europe would have been a dream come true. Now it just seemed odd, or worse-a mistake. What was he hoping to achieve? To rekindle some flame? Get me as far away from Luke as possible? To push me off some cliff on the Riviera and then return, feigning grief and tales of holiday tragedy? The last didn't seem as ridiculous as it sounds. Cary was a calm man, but he felt things deeply. On top of that, he hadn't spoken a word to me in over a month; then suddenly here he was whisking us off to Paris. Is that normal behavior?

So I felt a sense of trepidation when I heard his key in the door later that evening. I had been wondering what I was meant to do. Leave him a note? Send him an e-mail? It looked as if we would finally have to talk.

"h.e.l.lo," I began cautiously as he came into the kitchen. He looked tired, older, and the guilt that was my near-constant companion winched up a notch.

"h.e.l.lo," he replied, meeting my eyes for the shortest of seconds before turning away to take off his coat. A pause hung between us.

"Have you eaten?" I asked eventually, cursing myself for my cowardice. The tickets lay on the counter between us like a summons.

"Yes, thanks. At the hospital." His voice sounded croaky with disuse and unnaturally polite. Silence descended again while he unpacked his briefcase. This time it was Cary who spoke first.

"Look, Kate," he said, without glancing up from his task, "I left some stuff there for you to see. I know you must have read it. I hope that's okay, but really it's too bad if it isn't."

"The tickets, you mean? You could have at least asked me." I had no right to be angry, considering my own crimes, but for some reason I was. It wasn't like Cary to order me around.

"Yeah, well, there were lots of things you never shared with me either." His voice was weary, but with an edge of determination. And something else-almost hatred but not quite. Disgust. He finished sorting his papers and stood up.

"I guess it comes down to whether you want to stay in the marriage or not. I'm a.s.suming you do, since you haven't moved out. I'm prepared to give it a shot too, and I think this is the best way. Getting away from everything here, making the effort just to concentrate on each other."

It sounded reasonable, but I felt compelled to argue.

"I don't know if my pa.s.sport's valid."

"I've checked, and it's okay."

"What about leave then, Mr. Organized? You might be owed that long, but I'm certainly not."

For the first time he looked furious, and despite myself I took half a step back.

"Don't be so b.l.o.o.d.y petty. Any other man would have thrown you out for what you did, but you're quibbling about leave. If you really want to I'm sure you can arrange some time off. Take it without pay, or quit. For f.u.c.k's sake, I'm offering you a second chance. Don't you want it?"

To be honest I wasn't sure. As Cary had said, I hadn't moved out, but was that just inertia? I suppose if I'd had to I could have stayed with Sarah or gotten an apartment by myself. It wouldn't have been impossible. Or was it because I hadn't heard from Luke? What would I have done if he'd called sometime in the last few weeks, admitting he'd made a mistake, begging me to take him back? Then there was the remaining possibility: that I still felt something for my husband. Nothing was clear. I took refuge in more questions.

"How can we even afford it? Wouldn't counseling be cheaper?"

Cary didn't meet my eyes as he replied.

"I've been putting some money aside in case we had to do IVF. We'll use those savings. It's obvious we're not going to need them now."

His tone could have been bitter or accusing, but it was neither. Instead the words were just plain sad, laden with grief and longing. I felt so sorry for him that I didn't argue any further. But I couldn't comfort him either, couldn't a.s.sure him that his plan would make any sort of difference.

"Okay then," I muttered, giving in without grace. Then I left the room and went to bed.

I couldn't sleep. Lying alone in the darkness, I thought the whole thing felt like a huge mistake, doomed to fail. But what was the alternative? Move out, which I lacked the energy to contemplate? Continue dragging myself to work, though they'd surely fire me soon, I was so unproductive? Hope Luke would call, or call him myself? I felt my teeth clench at the latter. Never. I'd given him the choice and then a chance, and he'd blown them both. I was never going to contact him again.

That left Europe. Still, I vowed, Cary couldn't expect me to be thrilled about it. I was truly sorry I had hurt him. Maybe I even still loved him. But all that had happened was too raw, too fresh to be moving away from. I wanted time to regroup and lick my wounds, not be rushed off to Europe and a fantasy reconciliation. If he was determined that we go I owed him that, but I couldn't pretend. There would be no poring over the atlas together, none of the antic.i.p.ation that makes travel so sweet. I would leave it all up to him. Six weeks away, departing in less than a month. I should have been excited, but the world felt dulled, as if I were missing a sense.

LUKE.

Do you know how they do those tests-the ones that Cress insisted on, for AIDS and other s.e.xually transmitted diseases, as if I'd been sleeping with half of Melbourne instead of just one other woman in the past three years? First you take off everything from the waist down, then clamber inelegantly onto some stained examination couch while the nurse snaps on a pair of rubber gloves behind you. Next she's grasping your old fellow between her finger and thumb as if it were a dead mouse, then zeroing in on her target with something that looks like a long cotton swab. Before you can even comprehend what she's going to do with it the swab has been rammed down the eye of your p.e.n.i.s like a ferret sent into a rabbit hole. As if that weren't enough it is then rotated-once, twice-and withdrawn with the same breathtaking brutality. I'm not ashamed to admit that the whole procedure almost reduced me to tears.

Counseling was only marginally less painful. If I had to attend I'd wanted us to see a man, someone who might understand my point of view. No such luck. Cress had chosen a woman. Not only that, but a colleague-someone she knew from the pediatric psych department who conducted what she termed "relationship therapy" on the side. I asked our new counselor why at our first session, and she bristled as if accused.

"It's a natural extension of my work with children," she'd said with a sniff. "Every one of us is a product of our childhood; ergo, it makes sense to look for the roots of our adult behaviors and dysfunctions in the patterns of our infancy and upbringing." I almost groaned aloud. Any hopes I had of being done with counseling in a session or two were swiftly dashed.

The appointments were held at the hospital, after hours. After everyone else's hours, that is, Cressida invariably arriving late and distracted or slotting in the meeting in the middle of a shift. Hardly neutral ground or ideal conditions, and I told her so.

"And just what is ideal about meeting to discuss your infidelity?" she shot back, and I retreated. She'd grown a tongue since we separated, developed opinions and a blunt streak I barely recognized in my previously compliant wife. It was attractive, though, probably because it reminded me of Kate. Lots of things did that: the dark-haired girl whom I spotted once at an industry luncheon, a fig tree coming into bloom at the end of my street, the long evenings I would once have filled talking to or spending with her. Funny how things change. A month ago I was dividing my time between Kate and Cress, rushing from one beautiful woman to be with the next. Now, I was beached in the spare room of Tim's tiny apartment, and most nights it was Joan I came home to.

My test results were fine. NAD, to use Cress's hospital parlance: no abnormalities detected. I wasn't surprised-what were the odds? Kate hadn't been with anyone but Cary for the seven years before we took up, and he hardly looked the type to have introduced any microbes of his own. The nurse who gave me the news didn't even smile. It was the same one who had performed the examination, features set rigid with disapproval-I don't imagine many happily monogamous types felt the cool pinch of her latex. Still, I guess it had been a useful exercise, and gave me some hope for the future. Surely Cress wouldn't have asked me to submit to such indignities if she weren't considering that we might sleep together again someday? The thought filled me with antic.i.p.ation. I missed s.e.x. Oh, I missed Cress too, of course, still hoped the marriage could be saved, but it had been six weeks since I had seen a woman undressed, the longest period of abstinence I had endured since losing my virginity at the age of fifteen. Once or twice I thought vaguely about going back to the bars where Tim and I had hung out before I met Cress, seeing if I couldn't just get some relief for the night. But I didn't follow through. For one it was too risky-if Cress found out she would never speak to me again. The other reason was less comprehensible. Whenever I entertained such thoughts I found myself feeling unfaithful to Kate. Not to my wife, with whom I was trying to reconcile, but to Kate. The one who had caused all this trouble in the first place; the one whom I'd agonized over, but hadn't chosen. Sometimes the feeling was so strong it made me question my decision. I never let myself dwell on it, though, never once gave in to the temptation to grieve or even despair. What was done was done and for good reasons, though I couldn't really remember them now. All I'd wanted from Kate was a year, and she hadn't even granted that. Most mornings I ached for her, but if she felt the same pain surely she would call? Yet the phone remained as quiet as my evenings.

CRESSIDA.

The first three sessions went okay. Not brilliantly, but okay. I trusted Robyn, our therapist, and thought we could get somewhere-maybe not to the point where I would take Luke back, but could at least start to understand his behavior. I'd arrived at the first session wanting to get straight into it, hungry for details, the whole sordid picture. Robyn's plan, though, was to work up to that slowly, to have us talk about our families and establish a context, as she put it. Once upon a time I would have blindly gone along with her recommendations. Now I found myself wondering somewhat cynically if she wasn't just trying to spin things out to make a bit of extra money. Gain from pain. Someone might as well, I suppose.

I have to admit, though, that what followed was more interesting than I'd expected. My own story was fairly straightforward: youngest sibling in a high-achieving family, all three offspring following in their father's footsteps. We didn't see one another very often, but that was just because of work.

"Your mother," Robyn prompted. "What about her?"

I shrugged. We were close, I guess-she'd acted as both parents when I was growing up, my father so often absent at the hospital. Now she lived a life of genteel boredom, her days spent fund-raising and hankering for grandchildren.

"I wonder if you were looking for a father figure in your own marriage, Cressida?" Robyn mused. I scoffed at the idea. Luke was too virile for any such Oedipal role.

"No," she persisted, "I meant somebody you could look up to, maybe even revere. Someone to set an agenda that you could fall into line with." I hadn't thought of it that way.

Then it was Luke's turn. Another youngest sibling, but this time the yearned-for boy finally appearing after three girls. Robyn's eyes lit up when he told her that.

"He's grown up on a diet of female attention," she theorized, as if Luke were absent or anesthetized. "Maybe that's the only way he functions." I was liking this approach more and more until she turned to me and asked, "Do you think it's fair to expect him to change?" Luke looked smug and I wanted to hit him. I knew he liked women; I'd turned a blind eye to his flirting for years. But he hadn't slept with his sisters, had he?

At the third appointment we talked about s.e.x. Just in general, no specifics-I was still waiting for those. By this stage I was beginning to wonder if it really was such a good idea to have a colleague acting in this way. I'm sure Robyn was too professional to gossip to anyone about our sessions, but even the idea of one person walking around the hospital knowing how I liked it made me uncomfortable. So I lied a little, bent the truth. I told her that I wasn't very s.e.xually experienced when I met Luke rather than admit I had still been a virgin. He glanced over at me quizzically but said nothing, and I could see him saving up the falsehood as future ammunition. I also informed her that we'd had a great s.e.x life, with nothing wrong as far as I was concerned. That wasn't entirely the truth either, though Luke didn't question that one.

Not having anyone to compare him with, I had always a.s.sumed that Luke was a good lover. To be fair, mostly he was. But before we separated I had begun to feel that it was all on his terms-we did what he liked, and when. I hadn't had much chance to ever experiment for myself; rather, Luke had taught me his tastes and procedures. Still, I knew my own performance wasn't faultless. I was thankful the session ended before Robyn had a chance to quiz Luke about our connubial compatibility, but I could guess what he would have said. That while I never refused him I never instigated s.e.x either-I was always too tired, or preoccupied with the problems of my day. s.e.xually speaking, that was our biggest issue, but maybe there were others. Perhaps I was too modest for his tastes, not given to s.l.u.tty lingerie or screaming out his name loudly enough to wake the neighbors. Perhaps I was too pa.s.sive, letting him set the pace because I felt gauche and naive in comparison to his obvious experience. Maybe he just got bored. After all, there must have been something missing for him to do what he did.

But missing or not, the session in Robyn's office had obviously put him in the mood. After the hour was up he asked me to join him for dinner, and when I refused he suggested coffee instead. I wavered, glancing at my watch. My shift was officially over for the day, though I had letters to write and charts to update. More to the point, could I bear to be alone with him, a hostage to his charm and our history? It had been two months since I'd thrown him out. The initial shock was gone but the pain was still well and truly there, throbbing darkly in the background of everything I did, malignant as a heart murmur. On the other hand it was only coffee. We'd have to start talking again sometime, if only to work out details of the property settlement. So I said yes, stipulating that I wanted to be back on the ward by eight. He agreed, smiling, though it could have been a smirk.

Inevitably, though, we were still there at nine. By limiting our conversation to purely trivial matters I found I could relax enough to enjoy myself. We talked about our work, the weather, his sister who was pregnant. I told him about a patient with Tourette's syndrome who had insulted all the nurses; he made jokes about the cleaning regimen Joan had imposed at Tim's apartment. It was easy and fun. If I tried I could almost imagine we were dating again. Later Luke insisted on walking me back to the hospital, and when I went to say good-bye he kissed me. For a moment I was stunned, but then I felt some sort of current, some remaining vagal impulse. Despite everything I kissed him back.

You know what comes next. We've all been there and done that-it's not original. Let me say, though, that it was my decision, my initiative. Five minutes into kissing Luke my hands were on his chest, then under his shirt. Another five minutes and I was panting against his neck while his fingers slid seductively from my nape to the small of my back, cradling me against his body.

"Come home," I heard myself saying against his throat.

"Are you sure?" he asked, though one hand was already on his car keys.

I nodded and kissed him again, eyes tightly shut, abandoning myself to the oblivion offered by his mouth. Somehow he disentangled from me and we drove home in silence.

At home I made him leave the lights off. I didn't want to think about what I was doing, never mind have to see it. Oh, I wanted him, but it was as much about pride as l.u.s.t. I needed to be a.s.sured that he still desired me, that I could still arouse and satisfy him. It turned out that I could, but it was a hollow victory. As soon as he'd finished I wanted him out. Of my bed, my house, my body. I wanted to run to the shower and scrub away all the emissions he'd befouled me with-his sweat and s.e.m.e.n, the kisses he'd planted like land mines on my throat and face, the very words he'd whispered while invading me. Instead I lay still, willing him to leave. When it looked as if he would fall asleep I shook him gently and asked him to go, explaining that it was too soon for us to be spending the night together. For a second I thought he would refuse or at least lay claim to that half of the house that was legally his. Fortunately he acquiesced, obviously realizing he'd do well to heed my wishes if he wanted a repeat performance.

There was no chance of that. I hadn't felt such physical revulsion since my first dissection as a medical student, gagging when the initial incision produced an ooze of yellow pearls, fat globules spilling from the abdomen onto my gloves and the table. Throughout our coupling I couldn't help but wonder how my body felt under his hands after Kate's. Did I excite him as much as she did; was I moving in the way he liked? Were my b.r.e.a.s.t.s the right shape? Had I moaned enough? He seemed to enjoy himself, but there was no pleasure for me. After a while I faked some in a desperate effort to accelerate the proceedings, shuddering with relief when it was finally over. I slept after he left, but only as a form of escape.

The next morning I took off my rings. For a moment or two over coffee the night before I had allowed myself to think the marriage might be saved, but I should have trusted my premonitions. It was as dead as Emma. I didn't want to be single, didn't want the dream-come-true that Luke had seemed to represent to be over. But I knew now there was no way I could go back to sharing a life or even a bed with him. Some things can't be forgotten. Or maybe they can, but not by me. Whenever he touched me I was going to think of her. Whatever he vowed I wasn't going to believe. Maybe he was genuinely sorry that he'd hurt me, but I was beginning to realize that he wasn't sorry it had happened. And if that was the case, how could I ever possibly be sure it wouldn't happen again?

I hadn't removed my rings since my wedding day almost two years earlier, though they slid off without protest. The skin underneath was as pale and vulnerable as the belly of a frog. I tucked the wedding band away in my jewelry box on the dresser, careful not to read the inscription inside. The engagement ring was more valuable and would have to go somewhere else. Maybe to the bank, to my family's safe-deposit box, at least while I worked out what to do with it. But before I thought about that I had another task. I sat down at the computer and drafted a letter accepting the fellowship. For weeks I'd put off giving them an answer, citing personal reasons, but now I had made up my mind. There was no future with Luke. I'd create a new one for myself elsewhere.

LUKE.

I always a.s.sumed that Cress would have me back. That she would throw her little fit-she deserved that-but if I behaved myself and said the right things we would go on as before. That was why I had chosen her, after all: because given that I loved them both, it was simply easier to stay with the one I was already married to. Wasn't a reconciliation what the counseling was about, and all those hideous tests? I wouldn't have agreed to either if I hadn't thought they were prerequisites for getting my foot back in the door. Maybe I should have just kissed Cressida that evening after coffee, left her wistful and wanting in the way that had worked so well before we were married. I could have drawn things out until she was so mad for it that continuing the separation would have been the last thing on her mind. But for once I wasn't working to a plan.

Maybe I should have just kissed her, but the desire I felt for Cress that night was undeniable. Cress is a beautiful woman, and I'd been abstinent for what seemed like years. But the desire was triggered by more than that, by something I couldn't name at the time: relief. Relief that we had been talking so easily, that she was smiling at me again, that the end was in sight. It's a heady aphrodisiac, more potent than I could have imagined. She appeared to feel the same way. Her mouth opened when I kissed her; she was ready for me almost as soon as we got home. Right at the end she cried out my name and quivered with pleasure, something that rarely occurred. I wanted to stay but left when she asked me to, figuring it was just another hoop to jump through.

The next day, though, she canceled the rest of our counseling sessions. Didn't even tell me personally, just left a brief message on my voice mail at work at a time she must have known I wouldn't be in. I tried to call her, but she didn't answer the page. I even dropped past our house that night, hoping to speak to her, but the windows were dark and her car wasn't in the driveway.

Another week went by with no further contact. I rea.s.sured myself that it would all be okay, that she was simply playing hard to get. Just in case it was more than that I drafted a conciliatory letter, planning to send it if we still hadn't spoken in a couple weeks. Really, I should have done that in the first place-I've sold more dubious products using such skills. But before the deadline had been reached Tim came home with some news.

I was in the kitchen helping myself to one of his beers when I heard his key in the door. I'd just gotten in from work myself, and was relieved to see that for once he was alone: most nights he showed up with Joan, for whom familiarity was fast breeding contempt as far as I was concerned. It wasn't that she was boring or unattractive, the two qualities I most detest in a woman. It was just that she was loud. Opinionated, rather. Headstrong. Determined that not only should everyone know her views, but they should share them. We'd clashed more than once, arguing about topics ranging from rain forests to rugby, bickering back and forth while Tim stood between us practically wringing his hands. Some of the time I actually agreed with Joan, yet found myself taking the opposite side just for the pleasure of seeing her rise to the bait. It wasn't as if I had anything much else to entertain me.

"Luke," Tim called out in greeting as he unlaced his shoes. Joan had decreed that we all remove our footwear at the door for fear of tracking in dirt.

"Want a beer?" I asked, hastily proffering my own.

"Nah, I'm going out. We're due at Joan's parents' for dinner."

"Big night then. Sure you don't need something to dull the pain?"

"Oh, they're all right," he replied loyally. "Not as fancy as your in-laws, but her mom's a great cook."

I had begun to make myself a sandwich but looked up at that. Tim hadn't mentioned Cress or anything to do with her ever since our conversation when I had first moved in. He sat down on the couch with his back to me, ostensibly flicking through the newspaper. I knew there was more.

"Speaking of which," he continued, choosing his words carefully, "I caught up with Cressida today."

"Oh, yeah?" I replied nonchalantly. Two could play this game. h.e.l.l, I could best Tim at any game I chose.

"Yeah. She said she's accepted the fellowship-you know that she was offered it?"