After the Fall (6 page)

CRESSIDA
•

After our wedding I called in to the hospital. Not to work, though Luke joked that I would no doubt get talked into drawing some blood or doing a discharge, and end up missing the reception. No, I had promised a number of my patients that I would come in so they could see me in my wedding dress. Little girls love the notion of a wedding, of the handsome prince on horseback and a happily-ever-after, particularly when their own likely ever-afters are so bleak. My bridesmaids came in too, with some confetti for the children to sprinkle and a pretend wedding cake my sisters had made, iced in pink and white and topped with silver balls. Luke begged off, saying he had things to organize at the reception. I didn’t mind—I know he can’t bear the smell of hospitals, though I have to say I’ve never noticed it. It was probably better for the girls that way: imagination is usually far less disappointing than reality. For a start, he didn’t have a white horse.

I’d experienced a disappointment myself just a couple of days before, when I’d finally lost my virginity. Luke never pressured me about sex. I knew he desired me, but when I admitted my inexperience he seemed intrigued, charmed. I would have given in much earlier if he’d really wanted, but he always seemed to draw back the moment any real heat arose between us.

When it did happen it wasn’t what I’d expected, though I’d had twenty-seven years and a medical degree to help me prepare. It was clumsy and rushed, more awkward than I’d ever anticipated. I didn’t know if I was meant to help guide him into me, or lie as still as I could. I didn’t know how I should move or how long it should take or quite how much mess there was going to be afterward. For all that, though, it was wonderful. I felt in some primal way that now I belonged to Luke forever, that by entering me he had become me. I understood why marriages were void without consummation, and the power in the act that for centuries had made it taboo for the unwed. Luke, of course, had more experience, but I could swear he felt the same. After all, it was our first time with each other, and on that basis we were equal. It wasn’t what I expected; it was much, much better.

I’m sure some of the bridesmaids felt a bit silly at the hospital, but I was walking on air. People turned to look at me in the corridor; nurses I worked with dabbed their eyes. Usually I’m not one for attention, but I have to admit I enjoyed that hour at work. The best part of all was the children. I think they truly believed I was a fairy princess; even the boys were edging over to touch my gown or stroke the pearls sewn onto my veil. One little girl who was finishing a round of chemotherapy asked if I could grant wishes, but seemed happy to accept a slice of wedding cake instead. Her mother smiled at me, and told her daughter to put it under her pillow, so she would dream of her future husband. I left the hospital light-headed with joy, and with no more need of dreams. I had my husband, my prince. My happily-ever-after was just beginning.

CARY
•

Once I’d popped the question Kate didn’t muck around. The next morning she went out and chose her own ring, having asked me in passing over breakfast if I wanted to come. I had a paper to prepare for work, so I declined, assuming that we’d go another day instead. But when I got back from the hospital that evening she handed me a small emerald-green box.

“I hope you like it,” she said offhandedly, not really meeting my eyes. Then she wandered off to make a cup of coffee, as if the whole thing were merely a tedious detail.

For a second I was confused, never imagining she’d have selected anything without me. Hell, it had taken her five weeks to choose the color of her new car, and by the time that was decided she had changed her mind about the make and model as well. Kate’s the sort of woman who gets dressed at least twice before leaving for work, four or five times for a big date or important meeting. On the days I got home before her I’d find discarded outfits stepped out of in the hall and bathroom, a litter of shoes kicked under the bed in haste. My house was never as neat once Kate moved in.

She came back with the coffee, steam curling in her hair. “Well?” she asked shyly, leaning up against the door frame. I opened the box. Against the mossy velvet, stones sparkled like small fires, like the eyes of a wild creature. Opals. Had I had a chance to think about it, I would have chosen a diamond, something hard and bright and indestructible. I guess it would have been a solitaire, on a plain band, something beautiful without being flashy. Something, I now saw, altogether too pedestrian and impersonal. Instead Kate had gone for opals: luminescent, moody opals. Even as I took the ring from the box the colors shifted, subdued one minute, shimmering the next.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Kate said, swooping on the ring like a magpie.

“It’s not what I would have chosen,” I admitted. Seeing a frown begin, I quickly added, “It’s a lot more beautiful.”

“I knew it!” she crowed, holding her hand up to the light. “Tell the truth—you wouldn’t have gotten around to it for weeks, would you? And when you did you wouldn’t have looked past diamonds.” Her words were mocking and affectionate in equal parts, and she leaned across to kiss me as she spoke. “Lucky I took matters into my own hands then.”

Lucky indeed—my choice would have been sure to disappoint. In my defense I pointed out that things were unfolding far more rapidly than I could ever have expected. Twenty-four hours earlier I hadn’t even thought about getting married, yet now I had a fiancée and she had an engagement ring. I was impressed by Kate’s choice, but something irked me too. For more than three years I’d loved this girl, slept and laughed and fought with her. I thought I knew her, every intricate, irrational facet, and yet I would have gotten it wrong if I’d chosen her ring. It wasn’t just that, though. Why couldn’t she have waited for me to come shopping with her, or even to propose, for that matter? Why did it all have to be so impetuous?

KATE
•

“Seventeen,” I told him, after some quick mental calculation. There was silence. Outside, a light rain started to fall on the slate roof of Cary’s house.

“Seventeen?” he asked. Though it was too dark to see I felt him sit up in bed. “Are you sure?”

“Well, eighteen now, I suppose,” I replied, wishing we were at my place. We’d been going out for about three months, but almost invariably ended up staying at his house, which was bigger and had more food in the fridge. My own roof was tin. I loved lying under it at night when the rain was falling, the staccato patter of small drops and gurgle of water in the congested gutters lulling me to sleep. Cary’s roof was mute, and I imagine the spouting was cleaned regularly.

“And I’m number eighteen?” he persisted.

“Eighteen you are.” I giggled, sleepy despite the lack of aqueous sound effects. “Does that get you the key to the door? Or do I keep that for number twenty-one?”

“Kate!” he protested, reaching for the light. I tried to stop him, but wasn’t quick enough. Unrelenting glare filled the room.

I covered my eyes, though not before I’d seen the aghast expression on his face.

“What?”

“Eighteen! That’s a whole bloody football team.”

“So it is.” I was struck by the image, imagining my ex-lovers lined up for a team photograph, arms oiled and crossed, shoulders dipped menacingly toward the camera. The thought made me smile. “I wonder what position you’d be? You’re not really the full-forward type … maybe a wing. Can you run?”

“Don’t sound so pleased, for God’s sake.”

“Why not?” I asked, cuddling into him with my eyes still tightly shut.

“It just seems an unseemly number of … partners, that’s all.”

“Well, you asked. How many have you had then?” Suddenly curious, I peeped up through my fingers.

“Not
that
many, that’s for sure,” he said petulantly, staring straight ahead.

“How many?”

“Enough,” he mumbled.

“How many?”

“Five,” he said, then looked over at me as if he’d just revealed he had AIDS or liked country music.

“Five’s okay,” I said, covering my eyes again. “Turn out the light.”

“Okay? It’s not even a third of your total.”

“It’s enough for a basketball team. Besides, you seem to know what you’re doing.” I meant the comment as a joke, a compliment, but his face flushed and for a second I feared he was taking me seriously.

“Still,” I went on quickly, “there’s a lot you can learn, so let’s get started.”

I rolled over on top of him and kissed the faint freckles lurking above the bridge of his nose.

“Hey,” he protested, “I’m not finished talking.”

“I am, though,” I said, turning off the light. Cary tried to stop me but instead knocked over a stack of journals piled on his bedside table. They clattered to the floor, bringing the lamp down with them. With a great show of self-restraint he didn’t even jump up to retrieve them. Not immediately, anyway.

I’m still not quite sure what bothered Cary more: the actual number of my lovers or the fact that I’d had more than him. I hate that question anyway. What does it matter, as long as you’re both healthy and taking precautions and not messed up in the head about the whole thing? Still, when Cary asked I wasn’t as wary as I should have been. I really liked him—really,
really
liked him—and so I wanted to be honest. I’ve lied about sex before, and it never works out. There are some things you can lie about, but sex isn’t one of them. Sooner or later with sex you lose your composure, drop your guard and then it’s too late to pretend.
So that
doesn’t
really do it for her. So he
does
like it if I dress like that
.

The other thing was that Cary was four years older than me. Ergo, he probably assumed we would have at least been competitive in the numbers stakes, though I wasn’t surprised that I was so far out in front. Unlike me, Cary’s quite shy. He warms up beautifully, but he is a slow starter, and he’s not much good at making the first move. Years after we met he confessed that he’d been quite taken aback that I slept with him on our first date, and left to his own devices would have waited at least a month before trying his luck.

“Our second date,” I corrected him. “I didn’t sleep with you at the Cup.”

“Of course not,” he’d replied, looking slightly shocked. “We’d have hardly gotten away with it at a racecourse.”

I didn’t tell him, but I’d gotten away with worse. In the stands during a rock concert. At the courthouse, with a guy I met on jury duty. A racecourse would have been quite manageable.

But while I wasn’t going to deny it, I wasn’t necessarily proud of my tally. Most of it was fun, but some of it was silly, or dangerous, or because I was drunk. Even worse, at least twice it had been out of politeness, so I could get home or go to sleep without a scene. The actual number was immaterial; how many of those I had genuinely cared about would have been a better question.

So when Cary said five I was perfectly fine with it, even if he wasn’t. One would have been fine, fifty would have been fine, but five was just right. Knowing Cary, as I was beginning to at that time, he would have found out their full names and where they lived, something that couldn’t necessarily be said of all my conquests. He would have seen that they got home safely, sent flowers or called the next day. He would have made sure, as far as a man ever can, that they enjoyed the experience as much as he did. Or if he didn’t enjoy it, he would have let them down gracefully, tactfully, not let the phone go silent for weeks or start avoiding their eyes at the office. Five was too few not to have exercised some care in selection, some restraint, some integrity. Maybe I’m romanticizing things, but I think not. Five was perfect. Besides, I meant it when I said he knew what he was doing.

CARY
•

For all my initial reluctance I enjoyed marriage more than I expected: saying “my wife” in conversation, coming home to a place where she always was. We’d lived together for about a year before Kate pushed me to propose, but for some reason being Mr. and Mrs. made it different. Kate got rid of most of my bachelor furniture, planted an herb garden and painted the kitchen. When I asked her why she had never bothered with these domestic improvements before the wedding she hesitated and then blushed, something my wife rarely did.

“I wanted to be sure it was worth the effort,” she admitted. “That I wasn’t going to go off you and then end up not living here anyway.”

Note that she hadn’t allowed for the possibility that I might go off her, as she put it. I only laughed, used to Kate’s forthright ways by now. At least she was honest.

My father adored Kate from the moment they met. I wasn’t surprised—Kate was drawn to men, and vice versa. With the exception of Sarah, all her close friends were male. My mother, however, was more reserved, suspicious of Kate’s small frame and profession, worried about her own prospects of becoming a grandmother.

“She’s certainly different from your other girlfriends,” she told me as I scraped the plates after our first dinner together. “Opinions on everything! And working with bones—what sort of job is that?”

“She’s an anthropologist, Mom,” I replied, though Kate had already explained this.

“It’s too creepy for words, if you ask me—handling bits of dead people all day.”

“They’ve been dead for centuries,” I replied calmly. “She cleans the bones, figures out where they’re from and what they can tell her. It’s tricky work.”

My mother sniffed, unimpressed. “She’s not a career woman, is she? I should have guessed that she wasn’t the sort to be burdened by a family.”

That was my mother all over—one minute doubting Kate’s suitability as a partner, the next bemoaning the fact that she wouldn’t be providing grandchildren. We heard my father laughing loudly at something Kate was saying in the other room.

“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, because you’ll have your hands full with that one,” she said, snapping the oven door shut as she removed the pudding.

I didn’t know, I wanted to tell her, but that was half the fun.

Fortunately the relationship improved from there. Kate learned to tone down her views and her voice when we visited, and my mother softened once she realized Kate was a permanent fixture. When I called to tell her we were engaged she seemed genuinely delighted, albeit as cautious as ever.

“I hope it’s not going to cost you a fortune,” she warned after some teary congratulations. “Girls these days have such romantic notions.”

This from a woman who named her only son after a movie star.

“It’s okay, Mom,” I reassured her. “It won’t be a big do.”

That was my hope, anyway—but, of course, I hadn’t reckoned with Kate.