After the Fall

CARY


To tell you the truth, it was Cressida I was interested in at first. I’d seen her in the corridors at work, her light blond hair rippling down her back as she walked, a stethoscope slung loosely around her neck holding it in place. It was amazing hair, and to be honest probably not all that appropriate for a hospital. But as far as I know she was never once told to tie it back, not even by the carbuncled old professors who usually took such delight in petty administration. My guess is that they enjoyed looking at it every bit as much as the rest of us. Once she came to a meeting in scrubs, her hair hidden under a green cloth cap, and there was a palpable sense of disappointment in the room.
We all looked at Cressida. I wasn’t alone in that. Her iridescent hair and medieval name made her stand out, even when she was a student. But despite all the attention she had never relied on her charms to make her way. Hospitals are like country towns, and I would have heard about it if she slept around. No, the astonishing thing was that she really did seem as pure and unsullied as that sheaf of blond locks. She went out, I guess, but not with any of us. Not, that is, until persuaded by Steve.
Steve was the guy I shared my lab with at the time. He’s noisier than I am, so every year he got the job of lecturing the med students for their six hours of genetics, and I got the job of setting and marking their exams. It was a system that suited us both, particularly Steve, who’d turn his last lecture into a forum at the local pub and use the opportunity to chat up that year’s talent. Steve was gregarious and well liked, but even I was surprised when he told me he had managed to persuade Cressida and some of her friends to join the group of genetics staff who were planning a picnic at the Melbourne Cup.
He watched me carefully as he told me the news.
“Really? Are you sure?” I asked when he mentioned her name in the group of student attendees. Cressida had always seemed friendly enough, but distinctly unattainable.
I’m not a gambling man. I’m always weighing up chance and probability for the families who consult me; it’s what I do for a job. I work with odds every day, and I know that they’re rarely on your side. So I don’t like to bet, but I went along to that picnic in the hope I’d see Cressida.
I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine her there anyway, among the debris and the debauchery; couldn’t imagine her at ease between the girls with vomit in their hair and the boys wearing top hats and board shorts. Steve thought he had seen Cressida in the crowd, but wasn’t completely sure. Had she even turned up? It hardly matters now, I guess. By the time our paths crossed again years later and we finally did become friends I was married to Kate and she was seeing Luke.



KATE


I love weddings, always have. I’m not usually a romantic, but there’s something about all that unbounded optimism, people hugging one another and toasting the future, that gets me every time. And the enormous power of those words, which are so well-worn but never fail to move me: With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship…. With all that I have, and all that I am … till death do us part. It’s the idea of giving oneself up so utterly to someone else, to something else, something bigger, more meaningful and grander than you both.
So I guess I was in the mood to fall in love. I was certainly in the mood to cry and feel sentimental and drink too much, all of which probably contributed to the former. And there was a ready-made target in Cary, who stood smiling on my doorstep at exactly the time he had said he would be there.
It was good to see him again. Cary isn’t stunning in the way Luke is. His hair is ash blond to Luke’s gold, his eyes gray and calm. He doesn’t make women turn around and look back over their shoulder when they pass him in the street, but he’s tall and slim, and has a friendly face. As soon as you meet Cary you feel relaxed, comfortable, as if the two of you went to primary school together or something. Not much upsets him. He wasn’t at all concerned about being a rent-a-date or spending an evening with strangers, and because he was so unself-conscious I soon felt that way too.
We got to the church a little early, a first for me. I was trying to talk to Cary above the strains of the organ when in the middle of a chord the music suddenly stopped, and I turned to see Sarah materialize at the back of the church. I think I might have gasped, then immediately turned it into a cough so as not to embarrass myself. She looked transformed. Radiant is a cliché for brides, but radiant she was, as if there were candles under her skin. I had the sudden urge to touch her, to see if she was real.
As she came down the aisle I felt Cary take my hand and gently stroke it. The service murmured in the background while his fingers moved lightly but purposefully over knuckles and wrist, making velvety forays along the five digits, faintly resting on the nail bed before retracing their path. There was a daring and a tenderness in the movements that stopped my breath, made my blood grow thick and languid, banished thought altogether. I felt that were I to look down, his passage would be marked on my skin, like henna on the hands of an Indian bride. When I glanced toward Cary he was looking straight ahead, to all appearances intent on Rick’s declaration to Sarah, though to me this was now only a sideshow compared to the three-ring circus in my lap. Cary’s touch was intimate, but not really sexual. Rather, it was a hypnotism, a promise, an opiate that both aroused and calmed. I was caught completely unprepared as the happy couple paraded back down the aisle, retrieving my hand with both haste and regret, feeling it burn and pulse at the end of my arm like a phantom limb.
Outside the church someone tapped me on the shoulder and I jumped, nerve endings still tingling. It was Jake, with a nervous-looking brunette in tow.
“Thought we’d better get the introductions over and done with,” he said, tugging his partner toward him. “I’m Jake,” he continued, looking at Cary curiously, “and this is Samantha.” Samantha smiled, but I was the only one who noticed. After all my fears she was just an average girl, like me.
“And I’m Cary,” said my partner, reaching across to shake Jake’s hand. “Did you go to college with this bunch? I don’t think I’ve heard Kate mention your name.”
I nearly snorted with laughter at his cheek, but managed to smile innocently at Jake instead. Jake, however, was not so easily discomforted.
“Yeah, I know her pretty well. Most of the guys here do,” he replied in a tone that hinted at more than my sociability.
Cary, bless him, was unfazed. “Then they’ll know how lucky I am to be here with her tonight,” he said smoothly, putting one long arm around me as if he had been doing it all his life.
“How long have you two known each other?” asked Samantha.
“Since last summer,” Cary replied, smiling down at me fondly. “There were fireworks from the minute we met.”
And from then on I was hooked. I don’t think I spoke to Jake the rest of the night, and he would have had to screw Samantha on the bridal table to get my attention. Cary and I drank champagne, we talked, I introduced him to my friends, and after dinner he held my hand again. When I met up with Sarah to compare notes in the bathroom she laughed at how flushed I was, and when we embraced at the end of the night she whispered, “Keep him,” in my ear. I didn’t need to be told. When she arrived back from her honeymoon ten days later his car was still parked outside my house.



LUKE


Cressida’s family had a beach house, of course, but I was surprised to learn that Cary’s did too. Actually, it was more of a shack, and on a lake, though one so vast that it could have been the sea. The property was in the north of the state, not far from where Cary had grown up amid the flat wheat-lands. Usually that part of the country was in drought, but this year it had rained, and for the first time in memory the lake was almost full. When Cary discovered that I was as keen a water-skier as himself, the first time they came over for dinner, he promptly invited Cress and me to join them for the approaching Easter break.
“Hey!” I remember Kate protesting through my acceptance. “I thought we were going to catch up with Rick and Sarah?”
“We can do that anytime. You know I never get a chance to ski,” Cary said, then turned to Cress and me. “She’s not all that keen unless it’s about a hundred degrees, and even when the weather is right, skiing’s not legal unless there’s a third person there to keep watch. So I’ve got my boat sitting in the garage, and it gets out about once a year when I can talk some mates into coming.” He turned to Kate. “Say yes—I don’t think I’ve seen you in your bikini all summer.”
Kate giggled, slightly shrill from the champagne. “Well, it’s not my fault if you’re always spending your weekends off at conferences rather than at home with your bikini-clad wife.” She swallowed another mouthful, then shrugged. “Okay, then.”
I was a bit surprised—Kate had struck me as someone who usually got her own way.
“Is that all right with you?” I asked my own wife belatedly.
Cress replied as she always did: “Sure, as long as I’m not working.”
Of course, Cress was supposed to be working, but for once she managed to swap her shifts, all except for the last day of the break. We took her car so she could come back to work on Monday, following Cary’s four-wheel drive as the city gave way to suburbs, paddocks, unending land. Easter was early that year, midway through March, and hot enough even for Kate. As holidays go, it was close to perfect. Though the four of us hadn’t known one another for long, we got on easily. Cress and Cary had worked together on and off for years. At first I found him a bit withdrawn, but he loosened up and relaxed as the days went by. Kate was different altogether—laughing, talkative, noisy from the word go. I don’t think she was ever completely quiet; even when reading or making her breakfast she would be humming under her breath, occasionally singing a few lines. She flirted with all three of us, Cress as much as Cary and me. Cress is too self-conscious to have ever been a flirt herself, but she responds to it in others and was easy prey for Kate’s charms. The two of them couldn’t have been more different physically: Cress with her almost Nordic good looks and thoroughbred body, all lean lines and flared nostrils. Kate was slim too, but in a different, more compact way, half a head shorter than my wife, her hair and skin dark.
The days fell into a pattern: regular, comfortable. Mornings were for fishing while the girls slept in, then lunch on the deck before afternoons spent reading or sunbathing on the small crescent of beach near the house. Around four, with the sun still high but the evening calm descending, Cary and I would launch the boat while Cress and Kate tied back their hair and eased into wet suits, squealing as warm skin met rubber still wet from the day before. Kate would usually ski first, too impatient to wait once she was ready. Cary would throw her the rope; then we’d idle as she adjusted herself, the small, sleek head bobbing in the water like a seal’s, eyes narrowed in concentration. Behind her floated the bush and the beach, our bright towels on the sand the only man-made items.
Kate, I remember, was learning to slalom. She got out of the water all right on one ski, but then invariably lost control and skidded off over the wake to either side, her slight body jerked straight out of the binding on more than one occasion. This made for some spectacular falls and, hours later, even more impressive bruises, spreading like sunsets on the flesh caught by the rope or the ski as she toppled. “Lean back! Back!” Cary would yell over the din of the engine as she emerged from the water, only to groan as once again the ski began to wobble, and Kate received another dunking. But she refused to go back to two skis, despite her frustration. “Just stubborn,” Cary said, shaking his head in resignation as Kate nosedived off our stern for at least the twentieth time that weekend. Finally he’d order her into the boat and I’d drive while Cress skied—elegantly, gracefully, the way she did most things, not even getting her hair wet—and Kate sat shivering beside me in the observer’s seat while Cary rubbed feeling back into her battered limbs.
We’d return from skiing as dusk was falling, then sit with beers on the sagging deck until the mosquitoes drove us inside. Spread out at our feet the lake glowed like a mirror, brighter each night as Easter’s full moon bloomed. Kate drank straight from the bottle, occasionally pressing the cold glass against her skin to ease sunburn or muscle strain, Cary toying with the damp hair still slicked to her neck. Eventually, someone would start dinner while the others showered and cleaned up.
On the second night Cary excused himself sheepishly after Kate had left for the bathroom, and a few minutes later we heard giggles and shrieks over the thrum of the water. Cress and I exchanged knowing glances and laughed, slicing tomatoes for a salad as the noise continued. But then it went quiet, the water stopped, and moments later I heard a soft, stifled moan.
“That was Kate!” I said, intrigued. I’m always interested in other people’s sex lives.
“Mmmm,” replied Cress, slicing faster, biting her lip.
There was another low moan, and I reached to turn down the volume of the CD we were listening to.
“Don’t,” said Cress, blocking my hand, then increasing the sound instead. When I looked at her she was blushing, eyes riveted to the chopping board. “It’s none of our business,” she added, sounding tense.
“Let’s do some business of our own then,” I suggested, lifting a strand of pale yellow hair away from her face.
“In here?” Cress asked, shocked.
“Why not? It’s not as if they’re going to notice.”
The noise from the bathroom had risen in pitch, and the water had been turned back on.
“I don’t know,” said Cress, crossing to the refrigerator for more tomatoes. “There’s something a bit sick about their being so overt and your being so turned on by it.”
I walked over and pinned her against the fridge, cutting the sentence off with my lips. Caught by static, her hair fanned out across the surface of the door, sparking and crackling as I pressed myself against her. For a moment she resisted, but then kissed me back, giving in with good grace. Try as I might to ignore them, Kate’s moans were still faintly audible as I made love to my wife. Dinner was late, and our own showers cold.



CARY


Weddings aren’t my scene, as spectator or participant. As a general rule I try to avoid them, though when Kate called and begged me to come to Sarah’s I agreed at once, thrilled at the second chance. We’d drifted out of contact after that evening at the Cup, though not because I was pining after Cressida. Like any man with eyes in his head I was interested in her at first, but once I met Kate, Cressida was just a pretty face. Guys like me don’t end up with women who look like Cressida anyway.
No, what happened was that I lost my nerve. I’m pretty shy, and Kate was like one of those firecrackers that had danced in the air as we kissed, full of light and spark. Usually I’d tag along with Steve, eking out a social life from the students he met or parties he invited me to. On my own I was less confident—I think I called Kate twice before giving up and hoping she’d call me. That strategy eventually worked, though I can’t say I’d advise it.
We started going out after Sarah’s wedding, effective immediately. I couldn’t believe my luck when Kate took me home, and to be honest figured that what came next was a particularly generous thank-you gesture for rescuing her in her hour of need. But the next morning she seemed to want me to stick around, and the next night too. Before I knew it we’d been together for six months, then twelve, and I wasn’t even sure how it had happened.
Three and a bit years on we went back to the church for the christening of Sarah and Rick’s first child. Kate was one of the godmothers. Afterward we picnicked on Sarah and Rick’s sloping back lawn. Kate was on her third glass of champagne when Sarah wandered over.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the child at Kate, who took her awkwardly—reluctant, I suspect, to put down her glass.
“So,” Sarah said without preamble, sitting down next to me, “enough of us always inviting you two to these things. When are you going to make an honest woman of her?”
I glanced across at Kate, expecting her to howl in protest. We’d never really discussed the future—it was hard enough getting Kate to commit to dinner with my parents in a week’s time. Besides, things were fine as they were.
“Good question,” Kate said, bouncing the baby rather gracelessly on her lap without looking up. “When are we getting married, Cary?”
“Married?” I said. “I’ve never thought about marriage.”
It was the wrong thing to say, though in fairness I was put on the spot. Kate colored but was silent, her movements gaining in vigor. The infant in her lap shrieked with glee, her head wobbling about on the stalk of her neck.
“Never thought about it?” scoffed Sarah, reclaiming her baby lest Kate do actual damage. “How can you have been together for this long and not have thought about it?”
I shrugged, outnumbered. “Kate knows I want to be with her. I just didn’t think the whole white-dress thing was really necessary.”
“Well, you never asked,” Kate shot back, her eyes finally meeting mine.
“I don’t like weddings,” I tried to explain, irritated at having to justify myself in front of Sarah. I’ve always hated scenes. “They’re expensive, outdated, too formal. And a piece of paper won’t make any difference to how we feel or whether we stay together.”
“Well, you’re wrong if you think we’ll stay together without it,” Kate snapped, her tone making it clear she wasn’t joking.
Sarah shushed the baby, though she was already quiet. Though she swore later she’d had no idea what trouble her question would provoke, I was furious at the unexpected interrogation and humiliated by our private business being dealt with in public. It wasn’t even as if marriage had ever been an issue before. Early on, in the first rush of love, I’d deliberately not mentioned it for fear of scaring the somewhat flighty Kate. Later, I guess, I’d just gotten settled. It was a ridiculous scene, and for a second I thought about walking out. But Kate is a proud woman, and I knew if I left she would never forgive me. Besides, I’d been sure since the start that she was the one, and if this was what she wanted, was it really such a sacrifice?
Nonetheless, I hesitated for a second, the car keys in my hand biting like tiny knives. Kate’s opal-colored eyes sparkled defiantly, the picnic around us gone quiet. Then I put the keys back in my pocket and picked up the half-empty champagne bottle at Kate’s feet.
“Okay, then,” I said, raising it as if for a toast. “Kate, will you marry me?” The funny thing was that as the words left my mouth I felt my anger leave too, replaced with assurance and the closest I’ve yet come to joy.
A few people on an adjoining rug turned around to look at us, one of them knocking over a deck chair as she craned to hear Kate’s answer.
“Are you serious?” asked my bride-to-be. Then, without waiting for an answer, she leaned over, took my face in her hands, and kissed me until we were both breathless. Through the applause of the watching guests I heard the clink of glasses and the laughter of children playing at the end of the garden.



CRESSIDA


It wasn’t his looks that attracted me to Luke. I can be sure of that because I hadn’t even laid eyes on him when I first started falling in love. It happened over Christmas, at the end of my second intern year. After six years of medical school, then two years in the public hospital system, I was exhausted, and had no greater plans for the festive season than to crash at the family beach house before commencing my pediatrics training in January. The rest of my family was there too, but they’d been in the same boat and understood my fatigue enough to leave me to a routine of sleeping in and long afternoons lying on the sand.
The first note appeared on Boxing Day. After Christmas lunch I’d come down to the beach for a swim, as I’d also done the day before, the first of my leave. Our house was right on the water, with a little beach hut off to one side. My mother had insisted on the hut so that all our beach equipment—buckets and spades when we were younger, sun lounges and umbrellas as the family grew up—could be left there and not transferred inside, where sand might sully her carpets. It was a hot afternoon, and I had gone to the beach hut for an umbrella when I found the note, jammed into the U of the padlock. To the girl with blond hair and green bikini it read, the words spelled out in a loose, attractive script. I unfolded it, glancing around. Only a lone geriatric dog walker was in sight. Merry Christmas! the note read. Can I be your present?
I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered by the attention, or terrified that I had acquired a stalker. On reflection I determined to be neither, and got on with reading my book.
But the next day there was another one. You’re too pretty to stay under that umbrella, it said. Can I tempt you away for a swim? Foolishly, I blushed at the compliment, and again looked around. The beach was rocky, and relatively unpopular. A few families splashed nearby, but there was no sign of my anonymous suitor. I felt annoyed, and more than a bit silly as I scanned the horizon. Was this supposed to be a joke? Maybe tomorrow I’d stay at the house.
But when tomorrow came my curiosity got the better of me. Despite myself, my pulse surged as I approached the beach hut, noticing the now familiar white cardboard wedged into the lock. This time it was wrapped around a small bunch of flowers, pink daisies with faces as yellow as egg yolk. With eager fingers I opened the note, dropping the flowers into my bag. Hello again, gorgeous, it said, the tone confident and cheeky. Can we meet just once? I’m single, straight and on the balcony of the house at the bottom of the cliff—the one with the Spanish roof. Just raise your arm if I can come down and say hi. I looked up, panicked, knowing immediately the home that was meant. The sunlight was strong, and for a second I couldn’t quite pick it out. Then something bright caught my eye, and I could just make out a man standing on the balcony. It was too far away to see much, but I could tell that he was smiling and had an arm raised, his golden hair catching the light like a jewel. Without thinking and despite my better instincts I raised my own arm. Then I stood there waiting, my heart pounding in my ears, while my future husband strolled down the beach toward me.



LUKE


Though that Easter break was only four days it felt like forever, the warmth of the sun wrapping my memories in a kind of opiate haze. I’m not a sentimental man, but I often find myself remembering that holiday. On the last morning Cress left around dawn so she could make it to her shift. Though she was quiet, her departure woke Cary, who took one look at the becalmed lake and insisted the three of us head out for a ski. The sun hadn’t long been up by the time we got the boat in, and mist lingered on the water like guests reluctant to leave a good party. Kate had to be coaxed into the lake, grimacing as she lowered herself from the back of the boat.
“Now remember,” Cary instructed as he lassoed the ski rope toward her, “weight on the back leg, then go with it. Okay?”
Kate just nodded, teeth chattering as ripples lapped at her ski. Cary resumed his seat, looked back over his shoulder, then threw the throttle forward. Kate shot up from the foam, the ski wavering beneath her. For a moment it veered wildly toward the wake and I groaned to myself, sure she had lost it again. But with a monumental effort Kate centered her weight, dug in, then finally leaned back as if there had never been any problem. Her features relaxed and she let out a whoop, frightening the cormorants paddling for fish on the edge of the lake, the flapping of their black wings as they took flight sounding like applause. Cary grinned and gave her the thumbs-up.
Kate made it around the lake then, growing in confidence, zigzagged back and forth across the wake, occasionally unsteady but always recovering. When her thin arms could finally hang on no longer she threw the rope in the air, making a quick curtsy on her ski before it sank beneath the water. We motored back to pick her up and found she was still smiling.
“It all just clicked,” she said, thrilled, treading water as she pushed the ski toward me.
“You did look pretty good out there,” I said as I plucked it from the lake, then extended my hand to help her into the boat.
“Good? I looked fantastic!” Kate exulted. Then she took my hand, but instead of climbing into the boat she gave a sudden sharp tug. Not expecting it, I was pulled off my feet and headfirst into the water, hearing her laugh as I went under. When I came up coughing she was halfway up the ladder, still laughing. I made a lunge to pull her back in, but she was too quick, wriggling out of my grasp as she scrambled up the rungs to safety, giggling. And that was it—literally, I guess I fell for her. Maybe not immediately, but that was the start of it. For the rest of the day and all the way home in the backseat of Cary’s car I sat and tried not to think about the way Kate’s thighs had slipped through my hands, like mercury rising up a thermometer.



TIM


I thought nothing Luke could do would ever surprise me, until the day he told me he was getting married. Don’t get me wrong—Cressida is a wonderful woman: intelligent, refined and undeniably beautiful, and I couldn’t fault his choice in any way. I actually even worried about her at first. I wondered how she’d cope when Luke’s interest flagged, and anticipated missing her when they broke up, as they were sure to do. When Luke called after they had been seeing each other about six months and said he had some important news I just assumed it was over. But before I could get to the hows or whys he was telling me they were engaged, and asking me to be best man.
I suspect people think I’m jealous of Luke, though I swear that’s not the case. I know that next to him I seem drab and unexciting, my mediocrity magnified by his own sheen and poise, like cheap buttons on an expensive suit. But appearances aren’t important to me, and Luke’s life is far too complicated for me ever to covet it. We are so different that I doubt we would have become friends if not thrown together by the private school we attended, whose classes were seated according to alphabetical order. It meant that Luke Stevens and Timothy Stevenson, who would never usually have moved in the same circles, became inseparable.
A lot of Luke is about surface, but it’s a mistake to think that’s all there is. By thirteen, Luke’s face had already marked him out from the rest of us. Teachers paid him extra attention; he was regularly picked early for teams at recess, though he was no better at sports than anyone else. In tenth grade, when we started dancing lessons, it seemed as if the entire one hundred and twenty girls bused in from a nearby school had eyes only for him, a collective passion that occasionally erupted in name-calling and tears after class. Luke made the most of it—who wouldn’t? But he never relied on it. He still did his homework. He still practiced for those teams, when he probably could have gotten away without it. And because we were seated next to each other he talked to me, though I was never in the popular group, and stayed my friend even after we left school.
Predictably, the wedding couldn’t have been lovelier. Cressida’s family has money but, more important, taste. On top of that, Cressida and Luke made a stunning couple, never more so than on that bright afternoon, when the glow coming off them was almost palpable. They were in love, but the most touching thing was how both thought they had done so well to be marrying the other. “Isn’t she just gorgeous?” Luke whispered to me as Cressida came down the aisle, as humbled as if he were the woodcutter marrying the princess. “I still can’t believe he chose me,” confided his bride later, as we danced at the reception, her voice thrilled and awed in equal measure. If I was ever jealous of Luke, it was on that day. Not because, once again, he was getting what he wanted, or because I secretly lusted after Cressida. No, what I envied was the excitement that they both radiated, the certainty that they couldn’t have done better.
And for that reason I expected it to last. God knows, Luke had been flighty with women. But then, he could afford to be, and it was no more than you’d expect from any good-looking male in his twenties. For all his conquests, though, Luke had never before admitted love.
In a funny way, I was kind of relieved when he told me he was getting married. It was exhausting keeping up with Luke’s dalliances. Months went by when he would see and/or sleep with five, six or seven different women. I’d find myself having drinks with him and some Monica when I’d seen him the week before with a Kelly, after bumping into a bothered Belinda, moping because he hadn’t called. Stupidly, I felt bad for those girls, and if I’m honest probably a little piqued that he invested so much time and energy in them. I had seen much more of him since he met Cressida, and I liked her a lot. She was calm, kind, dependable, and more adult than him, though a few years younger. I thought she was great: a smart choice, a good influence who would save him from AIDS or a palimony suit. I thought marriage would be the making of Luke. And I really did think that nothing he could do would ever surprise me again.



LUKE


I did love Cress, and I expected to be faithful to her. I wrote those notes because of how she looked when I spied her on the beach from my brother-in-law’s home, indulging in a little voyeurism between courses on Christmas Day. That’s pretty superficial, but it turned out I couldn’t have picked better if I’d asked for résumés. She was sweet and smart, not just a doctor, but one who treated kids with cancer. I thought my mother would expire from delight when I told her.
I planned our meeting as carefully as any advertising campaign: the notes, the daisies, what I was wearing the day she looked up to the balcony. Later, with Kate, it was a lot more visceral, completely out of my control, which should have told me something. But with Cress I was stage-managing the play. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, so I set out to woo her, guessing that she was the type to be won over with patience, not passion. Years of practice give you an instinct. Three days later I kissed her for the first time in her parents’ beach hut, surrounded by rotting spades and damp towels, the smell of seaweed and the ocean thick in my nostrils.
And then the crowning achievement on that conjured résumé: she was still a virgin. I was almost tempted to tell my mother that too, so pleased was I. Though I didn’t marry her for it, Cressida’s virginity appealed. I’ve never subscribed to the try-before-you-buy theory, and I knew enough about sex to understand that if you love someone the physical stuff will be commensurate, at least while the love lasts. Of course, love is no prerequisite for good sex, and I’d also learned that. But it’s crazy to think that you could be mad about someone and then incompatible in the sack. The chemistry comes first, and well before you take off your clothes. I truly didn’t care if she’d had other men before me. I’d had other women and that didn’t mean a thing—sex is just sex, not something to be saved or traded like shares. But I think it was the whole mythology of the virgin that appealed—the integrity and strength it implied, the way it made my choice of her seem even more astute.
So I was quite prepared to wait for Cress in that regard. Truth be told, the anticipation was a turn-on, abstinence being about the only sexual technique I hadn’t tried. It wasn’t complete chastity—I couldn’t have borne that—just enough of the taste to make me crave the whole meal. Once we were engaged it seemed we might as well wait, and I thought we’d come to some sort of understanding. I’d kiss and tease and fondle; she’d respond to a point, then push me away. It drove me wild. No one had ever pushed me away before. Each time I tried to get a little further, sure that she would put the brakes on, arousing us both in drawn-out, months-long foreplay. It was all building up to one hell of a wedding night when, two evenings before the big day, she suddenly gave in. I was so used to her stopping things that I just kept going, and before we knew it that was that.
To be honest, I think we were both a little disappointed. Not by the sex, but the fact that it had happened: my climax was an anticlimax. And then there was the question of contraception. I hadn’t used it, and I assumed Cress hadn’t either—it wasn’t as if she had ever needed it before. I spent the entire day leading up to our wedding worried about becoming a father rather than anticipating being a husband. I knew Cress wanted kids—of course she did, with her job—and I supposed I wanted them too, just not yet, or anything even approximating yet.
By our rehearsal that evening I couldn’t bear it.
“You look nervous,” said Tim, when I met him at the church.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered grimly as he steered me inside.
At the far end of the church Cressida was laughing with her bridesmaids. In a floral-print dress and wearing no makeup, she looked about twelve years old. For a second I felt a stupid urge to turn and run.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Tim reassured me. “Heck, if I meet anyone half as good as—”
“I’m scared I’ve gotten her pregnant,” I hissed, cutting him off midfantasy. Even through my panic I almost laughed at his expression. Tim must have had sex by now, I thought, but you’d never know it.
“How?” he asked, loudly enough to make a bridesmaid turn. I just rolled my eyes. Perhaps he hadn’t after all.
“Hello, hubby,” said Cress, almost skipping over and taking my arm. She looked flushed, and I wondered if she felt all right. Before I could kiss her, the minister cleared his throat and asked us to kneel. We mouthed words after him for twenty minutes, then approached the altar to practice signing the register.
“Cress, last night …” I whispered over the organ’s drone.
“Was perfect,” she finished for me, giggling, “even if it means I can’t wear white tomorrow.”
“Did you use anything?” I demanded, aware even as I did so how bald the words sounded.
“What?” she replied dreamily, practicing her new signature. My name looked alien coming after hers.
I was opening my mouth to ask again when the priest indicated we should proceed back down the aisle of the church, and the moment was lost. Anyway, what could I do? Cress was so excited that I didn’t have the heart to push it. The odds were low, I told myself. Cress shouldn’t have her big day spoiled by my panic.
I needn’t have worried. Driving home after drinks with the wedding party, Tim revealed that he’d overheard the bridesmaids chatting as Cress and I pretended to sign the registry. One of them had remarked that Cress had lost weight, putting it down to prenuptial nerves. The other had agreed, adding that she’d probably been lucky not to gain any, given that she had recently gone on the pill. I felt ridiculously relieved—relieved and ridiculous. Of course Cress would have done something like that. She was a doctor, after all, as well as being one of the most organized and efficient people I knew. I stared out the window, cursing myself for overreacting.
“Can I ask why it mattered so much?” Tim said, choosing his words carefully as he steered around a parked car. “I mean, even if the timing wasn’t ideal, you are still getting married.”
He was right, but I didn’t know myself.



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?