After the Fall (8 page)

CARY
•

As a student, Cressida was a bit of a disappointment. Not to Steve, of course, who practically started panting when I told him she’d be working with us for a while. I’d also been pleased when she’d approached me for supervision on her fellowship project, though for different reasons. I remembered Cressida as a conscientious and careful medical student, and looked forward to her bringing those qualities to our research.

It wasn’t that she was no good: far from it. Her lab work was thoughtfully designed and carried out, her reports turned in on time. In the years since I’d first attended meetings with her Cressida had developed a textbook clinical manner: concerned without being overinvolved, able to mix inquiry and empathy in equal parts. She certainly had the skills for the work; it was just that her mind was elsewhere. The timing was to blame, I guess. When I agreed to her doing her project in the department she was going out with Luke. By the time she actually started at the beginning of the new academic year they were engaged. Then came the wedding and the honeymoon and weekends spent house-hunting rather than writing. In the end, what should have taken six months dragged on for over twelve, till we were both sick to death of it. I think we published the results, though I can’t remember. Funny how important that seemed at the time.

Actually, it bothered Steve more than it bothered me. “What
is
she doing?” he’d moan whenever Cressida’s weekly lit review was a day late on his desk, or a meeting had to be canceled so she could attend a dress fitting. “You’re too soft on that girl,” he told me more than once, with an irritation that I suspected was owed to pique that she was so transparently crazy about someone else than any concern for our tenure. I don’t think I even replied. For one, I enjoyed having Cressida around the place. She was smart and pretty and a welcome change after years spent hunched over microscopes with only Steve for company. And she was so darn happy that it made you smile just to see her. When we weren’t discussing genetics it was Luke, Luke, Luke. “I’ll leave you two to pick out your china patterns,” Steve would mutter in disgust, stalking out whenever conversation veered toward the conjugal. Cressida would look momentarily abashed, then carry on with an apologetic smile.

I knew how she felt. Kate and I had been together for about six years at that stage, married for two, and listening to Cressida’s chatter took me back to the early days of our own relationship. I’d remember those first few months of living together, the excitement I’d feel as my headlights picked out our house at the end of the day. How I’d find myself accelerating into the driveway in my eagerness to get inside. How I’d hurry up the path beside the lemon tree, driven by a desire that was part sexual, but mostly just a need to see Kate again. My key would fumble in the lock and then like a child playing tag I’d be home, safe, with the world shut out behind me. Inside Kate would be humming as she prepared dinner or flicked through a magazine, and she’d look up laughing at my abrupt entrance, then kiss me with lips that tasted of the apple she’d been eating or the basil she’d just added to our dinner. Cressida was now caught up in the same manic delirium, but having been such a willing victim of it myself, how could I complain? In fact, I think I enjoyed the reminder. Half a decade later I was still very much in love, but I no longer sprinted up our garden path at the end of the day. That’s no failing: I defy you to show me anyone who does. In my book, familiarity breeds content; love plateaus but is none the less for that. It has to, or no one would ever get any work done.

CRESSIDA
•

My part should have ended there, at the hospital in my wedding gown. Maybe there could have been a postscript: two healthy children, respected in her profession, a long and happy marriage. But no more, and certainly not this. What could I possibly have done to deserve it?

LUKE
•

It just happened, I swear. That’s what I told Cress and the counselor, and I mean it. I admit there were a lot of lies, but that wasn’t one of them. How else can you explain such a thing? Sure, I was attracted to Kate, but I’ve been attracted to plenty of other women before without feeling obliged to kiss them in the middle of a dance floor in full view of their husbands. Or my wife, for that matter. Of course, there was alcohol involved, and I tried to blame it on that: a stupid, drunken gaffe. I think Cress believed me—what choice did she have? I almost believed it myself. That is, until I saw Kate again and realized that there’d been no mistake.

CARY
•

Kate sparkles; I don’t. She flirts; I don’t. She dances; I don’t. She’s an extrovert, and I’m not. But I wouldn’t say I was introverted, just that I’m neutral, naturally quieter, Belgium to her Brazil. Apart from that, I’ve always thought we were pretty well matched. Water finds its own level, my father used to say, and I believe that. I mean, we knew what we were getting into—we were together for four years before marrying, and she was the one who forced the issue then. On some basic level we must have been suited. Up until that night I thought we were perfectly happy. Maybe not perfectly, but more than most. Then suddenly she’s kissing someone who isn’t me. Is sparkling and flirting and dancing worth risking a marriage over?

KATE
•

What can I possibly say in my defense? That it was dark, that I was drunk or confused or premenstrual? That I was swept away by the music and the night and had no idea how it happened? No, I have no defense, but at least I can be honest. Of course it didn’t “just happen.” That’s not to say I expected it, but I can’t say I was surprised either. I knew Luke was attracted to me, though that was no big deal; in my experience, men like Luke are always attracted to someone. I was attracted to him too. Why wouldn’t I be? He was beautiful, and our both being married didn’t change that. Still, I could have pulled away. The signs were there. I could have stopped dancing, gone outside for some air or to find Cary. Could have, should have, but didn’t. Didn’t stop, didn’t think, didn’t want to.

TIM
•

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 sexy 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 passion. 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 grass 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 sexy 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 glass 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 scrap 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.”

“God, who can blame her, though?” said the sniffer. “He was a bit of all right.”

My ears pricked 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 bitch.”

“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 Passion 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.