After The Fall Part 4

I wasn't there, though I heard plenty about it. It was a hospital function: a doctor that Cressida knew marrying a doctor whom Cary was friendly with. I thought that was kind of sweet, though Luke pulled a face when he told me.

"Big mistake to marry someone in your own profession," he stated firmly, as if he'd majored in psychology and not creative sciences, whatever that is.

"Why?" I asked, no doubt naively.

"They're bound to end up competing with each other. And even if they don't, imagine being in the same place as your wife twenty-four hours a day."

I reiterated that I thought it was sweet. Besides, wasn't that the whole idea of marriage-to be together?

"Not that much," he said, rolling his eyes.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think Luke ever planned to cheat on Cressida, or saw it as an inevitability. On the contrary, having made up his mind to get married, I'm convinced he took his vows seriously, and intended to honor them. Luke is basically an honorable man. Yeah, he'd cheated on women before, but he'd never made promises to any of them, never said things he didn't mean. I'm sure he told them all they were beautiful or s.e.xy or whatever it takes to get a girl into bed, but it wouldn't have gone further than that. Cressida, he revealed to me once, was only the second girl he had told he loved. The first was when he was seventeen. "Surely that doesn't count?" he had asked me, only half joking. "I wasn't even old enough to vote." I think Luke liked the idea that Cress was his only love, his grand pa.s.sion. It made good copy.

Anyway, from what I understand, Luke, Cressida, Cary and Kate had met at Cressida's thank-you dinner for Cary, then gone away together at Easter. "Luke seems to really like this couple," Cressida had told me excitedly. I was pleased for her-I knew that wasn't the case with a lot of her friends. Over the next six months their names came up quite often in conversation: "Kate and Cary met us at the restaurant"; "We played tennis with Kate and Cary." Cressida threw Luke a surprise party for his birthday, and I was introduced to them there. Cary was reserved initially, Kate far less so. I noticed how Kate flirted with Luke, but by the end of the night she was also flirting with me, at least two of Luke's brothers-in-law, and even the caterer. Cary seemed both resigned and relaxed about it. I watched him over the course of the evening, saw how he always kept a subtle eye on her as she bounced from group to group-not, it seemed to me, out of jealousy or fear, but simply because that was where his gaze was drawn. The last hour they spent together, curled up like kids in the corner of a sofa. Kate was quieter, tired; Cary, stroking her shoulder, appeared to have absorbed some of her energy, and we talked and laughed until Cress threw us out. I liked them.

I met the four of them for drinks a few times after that. Then Luke invited me to a fund-raiser for the hospital where Cress worked-it was a trivia night, and he wanted me on their team. But by the time the evening arrived the two couples were no longer speaking.

KATE.

I used to think that there should be a rule preventing people from marrying until they were over thirty. Before then, I reasoned, you couldn't appreciate it. Part of it was that you needed to see a bit of the world, experience different lovers and ways of loving, make sure that the gra.s.s wasn't greener elsewhere. But mostly, I thought, you needed to know yourself: who you were, what you needed, the things you couldn't live without and those you could. Thirty, it seemed, was long enough to have most of that worked out. Actually, I was twenty-nine and a half when I got married, but close enough.

I was thinking all this again as we stood around at the reception after Jane and Dan's wedding. To tell the truth, I was feeling pretty smug. Chances are it was the champagne, but I remember feeling immoderately happy. As I've said, I love weddings, so there was that: the chance to drink, dance and dress up, sentimental songs, public declarations of love. Then there was Cary, looking smart and kind of s.e.xy in black tie, squeezing my hand while the happy couple made their vows, telling me I looked great before I'd even put on any makeup. Work was going well; we had our own home and lots of lovely friends. Often at weddings I can feel a bit jealous of the bride and groom, envying them the romance and excitement of the day, that newly married rush before it all settles back into the comfort zone. Not tonight, though. Tonight the comfort zone was feeling particularly, well, comfortable. Watching the newlyweds, who looked so young, I congratulated myself. I'd married well, at the right time, and for love. I was grown-up and centered and content. Now all I needed was another gla.s.s of champagne.

My high lasted right through dinner and the speeches, then deserted me abruptly when the dancing began. I love dancing and wanted to join in. It's awkward sometimes that Cary won't. Not can't, but won't-he's funny like that. Most of the time, Cary is the sweetest, most accommodating man I know, but when he makes up his mind about something, that's it. At our own wedding he made me sc.r.a.p the bridal waltz altogether. So I resigned myself to watching the dancing instead. Maybe I was jealous that I couldn't be out there, or maybe it was just that the champagne was wearing off, but I started feeling melancholy. Unbeknownst to anyone, the newlyweds had taken tango lessons, and instead of the traditional stolid waltz, Latin rhythms snaked from the dance floor. All around me people were tapping their feet, jumping up from their chairs as if bitten, placing imaginary roses between their teeth. In the center of the floor, the bridal couple moved with confidence. They'd obviously practiced, for they danced beautifully. At the slightest pressure from Dan, Jane dipped; following her lead his arms spun or steadied her. Their feet met, touched, moved as if mirrored. Fingers converged, interlocked, then were released again. Together, apart, together, apart, their bodies turning instinctively toward each other at the end of each movement. I was spellbound. So engrossed, in fact, that I did not notice Luke's approach until he was right in front of me.

"Shall we?" he asked simply, extending a hand.

I accepted without replying, hungry to dance and for who knows what else.

I'd hardly seen Luke all night; we were at different tables. Still, he'd caught my eye once, smiled and winked in the church before the ceremony started. I'd winked back, then immediately regretted it. We weren't conspiring about anything. Remembering it now I felt uncomfortable in his arms, stiff and wrong-footed. But then the music started, and so did everything else.

CRESSIDA.

I was in the ladies' room, reapplying my lipstick, when the two girls tottered in, giggling and shrieking. Drunk, I thought to myself, glancing in the mirror while I uncapped a cinnamon lip pencil.

"I mean, did you see her?" the shorter one was saying as they took up a position at the basin next to mine. "How she has the nerve to wear something like that with her figure I'll never know."

"She probably thinks it makes her look thinner," said the other, fluffing her hair, then sniffing covertly under one armpit.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't working. That blond guy she was throwing herself at couldn't have cared less."

"G.o.d, who can blame her, though?" said the sniffer. "He was a bit of all right."

My ears p.r.i.c.ked up. I'm always overhearing conversations like this, and they inevitably turn out to be about Luke.

"I guess his attention was elsewhere. Did you see him just now? He was in the middle of the dance floor, kissing some girl."

"Probably his wife," said her friend, dousing herself with scent while her friend picked at her nail polish. "Lucky b.i.t.c.h."

"Hey, from the way he was kissing her I don't think it was his wife. Maybe he's not even married."

"I bet he is. Men like that always are." They both laughed, spitefully, then left, heels clattering on the faux-marble floor.

I finished with the lip pencil, then hunted in my purse for my lipstick. My heart was hammering and my throat was dry, but I made myself complete the job. There was no reason to rush out there. Luke surely wasn't the only attractive blond man at the wedding, and besides, he certainly wouldn't be kissing anyone. I unscrewed the lipstick, then glanced distractedly at the tube. Painful Pa.s.sion it was called, the bluish red of venous blood. How did they come up with these names? My hands shook as I filled in my lips.

The girls were wrong about one thing: it wasn't the middle of the dance floor, but off to the left, in the shadow of some ridiculous potted palms. Still, it was Luke. I was so shocked that it took me a minute to realize whom he was kissing. Kate, with Cary nowhere to be seen, Luke clinging to her as if he were drowning. Or maybe it was the other way around. Whatever, it was definitely mutual and more than friendly. In fact, they almost looked as if they'd done it before, her dark head fitting smoothly under his fair one with none of the graceless fumblings that usually accompany first kisses.

Stupidly, I didn't know what to do. I guess I should have raced over and torn them apart, but I hate scenes, and I didn't want to draw any more attention to the whole horrible incident. Luke was kissing Kate. Kissing her as if he meant it, as my girlfriends would say, kissing her as if he weren't married, kissing her as he'd never kissed me in public.

I think I sat down, though I can't be sure. A minute went by, then another. Where was Cary? Why wasn't he breaking this up? I should have looked for him, but somehow I couldn't look away, riveted by the car crash that was suddenly my marriage. Eventually they stopped kissing, Luke opening his eyes abruptly as if he had been dreaming, blinking in the light, then spotting me instantly. He left Kate without a word and came straight to my side, but I was already on my feet.

"Get your coat. We're going," I ordered, searching in my purse for car keys rather than meeting his eyes. We left quickly, without saying goodbye. Halfway across the room I stumbled and he reached out to grab me, but I snapped my arm away as if he were poison. Over my shoulder I noted Kate still standing alone on the dance floor, looking foolish and lost.

LUKE.

I was bored; that's why I danced with Kate. Cress was talking medicine with her doctor friends at our table; their partners were talking golf or getting drunk. I was ripe for a diversion and I found it: Kate alone and looking wistful on the opposite side of the floor.

I don't remember what she was wearing; I'm not sentimental like that. Blue, I think, though it should have been red. What I did notice as she stepped into my arms was that there was something bright caught in her eyelashes, glinting under the disco lights like traffic signals. I actually reached to brush it off, thinking it was stray confetti or a thread from her dress, but Kate caught my hand.

"Don't. It's meant to be like that," she said, unembarra.s.sed. "It's mascara a friend gave me, with glitter in it. We don't go to many black-tie events, so I thought I'd make an effort." We started moving together in silence.

"I didn't realize it was going to be quite so obvious, though," Kate continued after a moment. "People keep coming up and touching it."

I laughed, and spun her hard. Kate was a good dancer and kept her feet, unfurling in a graceful circle from my fingertips. Of course she had realized the mascara would sparkle and attract attention-that was exactly why she had worn it. I was tipsy and told her so. She shrugged, smiling, not at all offended, and I felt a sudden rush of affection for her. Cressida had real beauty, the sort of looks that are all about bone structure and good breeding. She had no need for anything as obvious as glittery mascara, and would have scorned it as ridiculous. Kate, by contrast, was merely pretty. But she was also daring and vivid and there was a glow coming off her that was more than just iridescent makeup. Besides, those lashes really were surprisingly long, and she was right to highlight them. She must have felt me looking and tilted her face up. Did she mean for me to kiss her? So many women have lifted their faces to mine in just such a way that my response was reflexive. I kissed her, the tango music dying in my ears. Her mouth was soft and urgent and our feet continued to move in time, at least initially. Once I remembered Cress and went to draw away, or at least thought of it. But I couldn't seem to do so, trapped by the nip of a little eyetooth and Kate's hands on the nape of my neck.

CRESSIDA.

We hardly talked on the way home from the wedding. I drove; I always do after functions. Luke likes to drink, whereas I'm not fussed, happy to be the obliging spouse. I concentrated instead, paying strict attention to traffic signals and staying below the speed limit, refusing to allow my escalating anger to compromise our safety. The minute I'd parked, though, I felt it all flood in, and, surprising even myself, I reached across and hit Luke once hard in the chest, then again when he didn't respond.

"Hey," he said softly in the gloom of our garage, catching my wrists to prevent a third blow. "I guess I asked for that."

"d.a.m.n right you did," I spat at him, struggling to get free.

"Cress, I'm sorry," he said with a sigh in his voice, oozing remorse. "I don't know why I did such a stupid thing, or if you can ever forgive me. I didn't enjoy it."

"Well, you certainly gave a good impression of enjoying it. I thought someone was going to have to throw a bucket of water over the two of you. And in front of all my friends!" My voice cracked with fury.

"I know," he almost whispered. "I can't believe it myself. But it didn't mean anything. I'll never love anyone like I love you, Cress."

And at that, inexplicably, all my anger was gone and instead I started crying. Luke let go of my hands and held me while I sobbed on his chest, in his lap, stroking my hair while he murmured that he had been drunk, caught up by the dancing, thinking he was with me. They were not terribly good excuses but I bought them, wanting so desperately for them to be true. As my tears ebbed he carried me inside, something he'd not done in years. He laid me gently on our bed, and lit a candle on the dresser. Slowly, softly, he made love to me, saying my name over and over, telling me how he loved me, how he needed me. In bed, Luke is always pa.s.sionate, fervent, but this was a side of him I'd never seen before. He was tender, controlled, far more than he'd been when he took my virginity. Afterward he held me as if I would break, kissing my fingertips and my eyelids, repeating my name again and again. For all I had been humiliated and hurt, it was a magical night.

We slept in each other's arms that night. Luke was repentant; I was forgiving. I told him that I never wanted to catch him so much as talking to Kate again, and he swore that he wouldn't, protesting anew that he would never love anyone like he did me. A year later I suddenly remembered that promise, and winced at how I'd been taken in. He hadn't vowed that he'd never love anyone else, just not love anyone in the same way. I couldn't have been listening properly at the time, or I wouldn't have missed the duplicity. Did he mean to deceive me, even back then? Or did his words just lead where his heart would follow?

CARY.

I hardly ever get drunk, but I did that night. Usually Kate's drunk enough for both of us, though in fairness it doesn't take much, just a gla.s.s or two. But why am I being fair to Kate?

Though Steve's my friend, I think he almost enjoyed breaking the news. "Cary!" he practically shouted when he tracked me down to the veranda of the reception center, where I was talking with some people from the hospital. They'd come outside to smoke; I'd left to escape being pressured to dance. "I think you'd better come inside," he stage-whispered, tweaking at my sleeve.

"Why?" I asked, happy where I was.

"It's Kate," he urged, though now he really did drop his voice, and swallowed as if not quite sure what to say.

Immediately the tone of his voice made me panic. Had something happened? Was she hurt?

I rushed back into the reception fully expecting to see Kate unconscious in a corner or trapped under one of those implausible palm trees. But she was neither, and for a second I was so relieved that she was upright and well that I didn't take in what was happening. When I did I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. All the air suddenly left me, and I had a mental picture of my lungs shriveling like week-old party balloons. Steve was looking uncomfortable and backing away, the scandal suddenly not quite so tasty. I started toward the pair of them, struggling for air, but as I did Luke moved away himself, his back to me. Kate stood there, the dancing continuing around her, looking dazed and still beautiful in her turquoise dress. I felt tears push at my eyes and turned away in shame.

We didn't leave, though I ached to. Instead, I carried on as if nothing had happened. I have my pride. Kate didn't dance again. We stayed at the bar, she close to my side, uncharacteristically subdued and toying with a gla.s.s of mineral water. I ordered Scotch, which I don't usually drink. The liquid burned my throat and reinflated my lungs till it seemed that I was almost breathing too much. Steve kept shooting me worried looks, but I stopped noticing after the first three gla.s.ses. I didn't see Cressida or Luke again.

I'd intended to drive, but we went home in a taxi. Kate must have said something, must have apologized, but I can't remember it. The night air sobered me up but also made things worse: clearer, sharper, altogether too large. At the front door I couldn't find my keys. I searched for them with growing anger, then shook the door handle until the small panes of gla.s.s in it rattled. Behind me, the taxi backed out of the driveway. Its headlights lit up the scene for a moment and then were gone, leaving us in the dark. Furious at being locked out of my own house I raised one fist and knocked the gla.s.s out of the door.

I don't really remember the rest. Kate had keys, of course, so we must have gotten in that way. I dimly recall us making love, or rather hammering myself into Kate while she lay unresisting in the darkness. Although I hadn't noticed it at the time, I had cut my hand on the gla.s.s, and when I came to in the morning there was blood in our bed and on Kate's body, smudged through her hair and across both b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She cried and I held her, apologetic in spite of myself. When she wiped her eyes she left a sodden trail of sparkles across one cheekbone, their light smudged out.

Later, I went to retrieve the car, still parked a street away from the reception hall. One of the side mirrors had been broken off, whether by accident or design I couldn't tell. My head ached. I drove home through the Sunday-morning silence, occasionally, out of habit, glancing at the place where the mirror should have been. But there was only s.p.a.ce, a blind spot that unnerved and misled.

KATE.

The trouble was, the kiss worked. We fitted. There was no awkward b.u.mping of noses, no colliding chins, no gla.s.ses sliding off into my face. In heels, I didn't have to strain my neck or bend my knees: I just lifted my head and there he was.

Luke was a good kisser-I guess he'd had plenty of practice. Still, there was more there than just familiarity with the mechanics, knowing how long to go on or how much tongue was enough. Chemistry is an overused word. I prefer fit fit, that indefinable sensation when a man takes your arm as you move through a door, or leans into you to light your cigarette. (I gave up smoking for Cary and sometimes I still miss it.) Fit is an understanding between bodies: that you've been designed the same way, that you speak each other's language, and fluently. It's all about physical compatibility and has nothing to do with whether you'll last or even have anything to talk about afterward; fit is no relation to the brain, and only a distant cousin of the heart. It's something that's clearest with the lights off or your eyes closed, delineated by the way his stride matches yours or your hips meet while dancing. As he kissed me, Luke held my hand to his cheek, our fingers interlaced in a mirror of our mouths. That's fit.

CRESSIDA.

The next morning I got up and went to work. Sometimes it seems like that's all my life consists of, but I love my job and feel lucky to do what I do. I've never said so to Luke, but occasionally I wonder how he can possibly derive any satisfaction from selling bread or cars or panty liners. At the end of the day, what difference has he made? No one's life has been changed, and someone else has gotten richer. He'd say that it's the creative side that he enjoys, that he gets paid good money to daydream and make believe, and all without getting his hands dirty. Admittedly, a lot of his stuff is pretty funny and even clever. But if the outcome is simply that a few more cartons of orange juice are sold, how can you get too worked up about that? My own results were based on a far harsher currency: lives lost or saved, children restored to their families.

I'm being hard, particularly when it's those extra cartons of juice that pay our mortgage. Public hospitals are no place to get rich, and my area of specialty doesn't lend itself to private practice. And even if I had my doubts about his work, Luke was incredibly supportive of mine. He often told me he was proud of me, and he loved boasting that his wife cured kids with cancer, even if that was only true about half of the time. He'd always put up with the long hours too, the weekends when we couldn't go away because I was on call, the bedroom sessions interrupted by my beeper. Now, as I got ready to leave, Luke was still asleep. Sunday morning, eight o'clock. I wasn't due in until nine, but there was a particular patient I wanted to see and Luke wouldn't be up for hours. I dropped a kiss on one warm shoulder, then hurried out before he had time to stir.

Despite the events of the previous night I was in a good mood as I drove to work. I always love that time of morning: the streets empty, the traffic flowing. A fresh start. Coffee shops were setting out tables, joggers were stretching or fiddling with b.u.t.tons on their watches. All was in readiness: no matter what the previous day had held, a brand-new one was about to unfold. On a sudden whim I turned off early and parked near the zoo, then walked across the surrounding gardens to the children's hospital.

It wasn't that I didn't mind that Luke had kissed Kate, and in such a public and pa.s.sionate manner. If I let myself think of it the pain and anger were still fresh, adrenaline racing down my limbs to pool, hot and itchy, in fingertips and toes. But I didn't let myself think of it, concentrating instead on the way he had held me through the night. Never had I felt so close to Luke, I reflected, as some tropical bird called out from an aviary in the zoo behind me. Just remembering the lightness of his hands on my face and between my legs made me shiver, made my thighs warm and heavy once again. By the time I reached my ward I was flushed, but not from the walk.

When I stopped in to check on my patient she was sleeping quietly, and I smiled to myself as I read over her charts. At times it had looked grim, but I hadn't felt that this one was destined to die, even as her hair fell out and the white-cell count rose. I'd never been wrong before. I suppose it was bound to happen eventually, but not with this girl. Her mother, sleeping awkwardly in a chair beside her daughter's bed, woke as I put down the file.

"She's better, isn't she?" she asked me immediately, pushing tired hair out of her face.

"There's still a long way to go yet," I cautioned, "but I think she's moving in the right direction."

"I knew it," said the mother, unheeded tears suddenly incandescent at the corners of her eyes. "Around midnight the color started coming back into her face, and she asked for her teddy."

I just nodded, and together we watched the young girl in silence. Most of my patients toss and turn in pain and fever, or lie, almost comatose, in a drug-induced stupor. This one had been through both stages, but now lay sleeping the sound and rhythmic sleep of the healthy child, limbs curled around a beloved soft toy.

"Oh, G.o.d, I couldn't bear to have lost her," said the mother suddenly, her hand coming up to her mouth as if she might vomit.

"I know," I said quietly, reaching out a hand, then taking the woman in my arms, where she sobbed, shuddering, against my shoulder. As part of my training I'd worked in obstetrics, and seen some wonderful things. But for all its pain, this job was better, for how many children are reborn? There's no happier ending than a second chance.

Later that day, one of the nurses remarked in pa.s.sing that there was a delivery for me in the ward clerk's office. Chocolates and gifts from grateful parents weren't an unusual occurrence, and, feeling hungry and hopeful, I went to have a look. At first I couldn't see anything for a clutch of nurses surrounding the desk, leaning over something vivid and rustling. For one ridiculous moment I panicked, thinking a patient was being resuscitated. But then one giggled and they parted, revealing an enormous bunch of deep red roses. There must have been at least four dozen, with velvety petals as large as a child's fist. The card in the center of them was addressed to me. To my darling Cress To my darling Cress, it read for everyone to see, the most beautiful woman in the world. I'll love you always, Luke the most beautiful woman in the world. I'll love you always, Luke.

"You must have done something right," one of the nurses joked as I stooped to pick up the enormous bouquet. Maybe what happened wasn't so bad, I thought to myself as I smelled the flowers. Maybe it could even bring us closer, remind us of our love for each other. Maybe in the dark he did really mistake her for me. As I went to tuck the card back in my fingers brushed something soft hidden among the thorns. I pulled it out, and almost cried. It was a tiny bunch of pink daisies, incongruous amid the other regal blooms, but infinitely more precious.

KATE.

When I first got my engagement ring I couldn't stop looking at it. It was so shiny, so vibrant, the colors rich and mesmerizing. The ring had moods, and I knew them all. Mostly it shone green and blue, peaceful, becalmed, a little planet on my finger. Sometimes, though, it darkened to violet, the color of a bruise, or red flecks appeared, flashing like beacons against the cerulean miasma. I liked to think that the changes reflected my own emotional state, as if conducted by blood to the skin beneath the band. But when I remarked on this to Cary he pointed out what I'd suspected all along: that it was probably just the light playing tricks, some alteration in the external environment, nothing more.

Yet after a while I stopped noticing the ring. I can't remember when it was, but sometime after we married. One year? Two? It had lost its sparkle and no longer clamored for my attention. The second gold band beneath it seemed to draw away some of its shine; the rest was lost to dirt and sweat, shampoo or the dusting powders I used at work. Occasionally I thought I should clean it, but then I never took it off, so I never got around to it. When I did examine the ring, mostly in boring meetings for want of something better to do, it regarded me dully, through a film of neglect.

I work with artifacts, with relics. I know in my heart that there's little that stays shiny forever, even with effort. Tarnish and rust are inevitable with age, and it's unrealistic to expect otherwise. But I did; I couldn't help it. And all of a sudden it seemed that nothing gleamed as brightly as it used to. I still loved Cary, but seven years had left a film on that too. I went for hours without thinking about him, no longer experienced the pit-of-the-stomach antic.i.p.ation of going to bed together. s.e.x was comforting, successful, even pa.s.sionate. But it wasn't new, didn't sweep across me in great waves of silver and gold light the way those fireworks had done years ago on Cup Day. How could it? I hated myself for being so shallow even as I mourned the loss. I'd insisted on that ring, picked it out and paid for it myself. Maybe it wasn't so shiny anymore, but underneath I knew it was still the same. Didn't I?

CARY.

I didn't want to go to the trivia night. Three weeks after the wedding I was still feeling fragile, and had no desire to attend another hospital function, surrounded by many of the same faces that had witnessed Luke and Kate's clinch. Steve had started avoiding me at work, as if I'd want to cry on his shoulder or discuss the situation. The thought couldn't have been further from my mind. For more than a fortnight we circled around each other, barely speaking, until the upcoming event forced him to talk to me.

"You're still coming on Sat.u.r.day, aren't you?" he asked nervously.

"I suppose so," I replied, not looking up from the DNA sequence I was examining. Each department had been allocated a table at the trivia night, which was one of the biggest fund-raising events of the year. Although our own department-genetics-consisted of only two full-time staff, we were still expected to field a team of twelve paying partic.i.p.ants. At the time we'd agreed to split the duty, and I'd rashly promised that Kate would invite a single girlfriend to partner Steve.

"Both of you, I mean," he persisted. "Will Kate be there too?" Whether he was worried about me or about missing out on a date I couldn't tell, though I suspected the latter.

"Of course she will. Why wouldn't she be?" I answered angrily. Did he think I might have left Kate, or vice versa, that one kiss could undo seven years of loving?

"No reason," Steve almost stammered. "I'll look forward to seeing her. She's good value at these things."

I looked up at him closely, but there was no malice in the words. Kate was was usually good value in such a situation: funny, bright, enthusiastic. The last few weeks, though, she had been subdued, quieter than usual. She hadn't gone out as much, and called every day just to chat. I guess it was her way of apologizing, of rea.s.suring me, and I appreciated it. usually good value in such a situation: funny, bright, enthusiastic. The last few weeks, though, she had been subdued, quieter than usual. She hadn't gone out as much, and called every day just to chat. I guess it was her way of apologizing, of rea.s.suring me, and I appreciated it.

"Don't worry; she's arranged a friend for you," I said to Steve, relenting.

"Oh, I'd forgotten about that. What's she like?" he asked, the rapidity of the second sentence belying the truth of the first.

"Okay." I shrugged, not wanting to get his hopes up. The only one of her unattached friends Kate had been able to talk into coming was Joan, who was apparently attending on the proviso that there might be some single doctors present. Sarah and Rick would also be there, with the six that I'd promised rounded out by an old friend of mine from university.

"Well, thanks for that," Steve said, looking pleased. "Should be a good night."