Sébastien Benaim was an obstetric consultant at the Homerton and his wife, Anne, a cardiologist at the Royal Free. Sébastien and James had worked together ten years ago when they were all new Londoners—James from Boston, the Benaims from Paris. The family lived a ten-minute walk away, on Hartland Road, a pretty terrace of ice-cream–colored blocks in whose front gardens the Camden Town revelers regularly threw bottles and cigarette boxes, or nightclub flyers in acid pinks and greens, or intermittently relieved themselves through the spear-headed railings. “If you live in Camden, you must ’ave many parties,” Sébastien had told James when he’d invited him for New Year’s Eve, “ozzerwise ze parties everyone else is ’aving will drive you crazy.”
They arrived late and the kitchen was hot and crowded; five or six people were already dancing rather drunkenly in the darkened living room. The Benaim children, a boy and girl of seven and eight, were in their pajamas and jumping together in a corner, giggling. Julia saw Claire, James’s registrar, crouched on the floor over a laptop, controlling the music. She was a poor and impatient DJ, and two-thirds of the way through a song would become enthused about her next selection and abruptly replace mideighties singalong Madonna with harsh-edged euro electronica, or a sensual R&B anthem with the title song of a Disney movie. It was loud, and even in the kitchen people shouted at one another to make themselves heard. It was a real party, Julia thought, surprised by the stirring of pleasure and recognition within her. Not civilized canapés. Not dinner for three couples and a discussion of school policy changes and university application forms. A loud, messy, drunken, badly behaved party. The copious wine was excellent. Curls of smoke drifted in from the small back garden; a fat spliff circulating around a circle of cardiologists. The music grew louder. I am not old, Julia reminded herself, and found herself smiling, happy she’d dressed up, happy she’d thought to wear makeup, and to pay attention to her hair. She grinned at James, who grinned back, buoyed by the same remembered freedom. He handed her a champagne flute from the kitchen counter.
“And the best part is,” he said, continuing a wordless exchange aloud, “that they’re busy, they’re apart, and we don’t have to lay eyes on either of them till at least lunchtime tomorrow. Prosecco?”
Julia nodded and held up her glass; they were toasting their liberty as Sébastien came over to them and put an arm around each of their shoulders. After a decade, he retained a preposterously extravagant accent. “’Ow are you, James?” He slapped him heartily and turned to Julia. “I love zis man. ’E made me laugh every day. Now it is dull wizout him. ’Ow is the eye chlamydia? You did not know that James as ‘chlamydia of the eye,’ but ’e does, I am convinced of it. One of the best moments of my whole life was in ze operating room,”—James, too, was laughing and shaking his head, covering his eyes with both hands—“when zis man decided to operate on an énorme Bartholin’s cyst wizout glasses.” He mimed a fountain, or explosion. “And whoosh. Pus in ze eye. Even ze poor patient she was laughing at ’im. Such joy, you brought us all. It was a sacrifice, you know?” Sébastien nodded approvingly at their full glasses and excused himself, just as Claire bounced over.
Julia had met her in passing several times before, a slim, Chinese-American woman in her midthirties with short-cropped hair and a large diamond-and-ruby cocktail ring slung on a chain around her neck. This evening she was in a pair of black leather pants and high-top white sneakers, and looked, Julia thought with envy, about twenty-five. She kissed Julia and high-fived James. Julia noticed that Claire’s nails were painted with a sparkly black polish Gwen would have loved. When did I stop wearing nail polish? Julia wondered, watching the tips of Claire’s fingers flash prettily as she gestured. Why? The idea returned as if from another lifetime, together with a memory of admiring her own hands as they moved, claret-tipped, across the piano keys. Gwen would howl with laughter at the very thought of her mother so adorned. Can anything make a woman feel more ancient than her own teenage daughter?
“When did you guys get here? You missed Rebecca and Sam; they were going to another thing. You need to get Rebecca to tell you about the amniotic band we had the day before yesterday, I can’t even. It fell off. On the floor. I’m going back, this music’s terrible; I’m saving Guns n’ Roses for later”—she pointed at James—“we’ll get the whole disco break crew.”
“What’s an amniotic band?”
Claire gave Julia a dark look. “Truly—in this case, don’t ask.”
“I’ve just been hearing about eye chlamydia, I’m not sure it can be worse.”
“Oh yes, but luckily your man is the world’s only known sufferer. No one he’s taught ever forgets glasses when they go near a Bartholin’s cyst now; it’s truly a cautionary tale. James is the only consultant to admit he’s fallible; the others are too grand. Or too weird,” she concluded, and then handed Julia the bowl of strawberries she’d been holding and returned to her station on the floor. The song changed again, and there were whoops of appreciation from somewhere in the dark depths of the room.
It was different to be at a party together. Almost immediately they were pulled apart by conversational tides but she could look across at James and recall the stranger he had been, not so long ago. She talked to his friends and felt his eyes on her and stood taller. She saw Claire say something and laugh with her whole body angled toward his, her hand for a moment on his forearm and thought, That man chose me. It seemed impossible good fortune. She alone would go home with James and, for tonight, there would be no children, no drama, no competition. Just the two of them, the way it had never been at the beginning. Second relationships are starved of precious, nourishing solitude, and second couples must snatch for it with jealous determination. They cannot put themselves first, but must not put themselves last. We will, she resolved, try harder to be alone.
Julia felt a hand on her waist and suddenly James was beside her. His eyes were bright. He took her wrist and led her down a corridor and into a dark spare bedroom, in which coats and bags were piled. James pushed the door closed, and pressed Julia against it.
“I missed you.” His hands were moving beneath her skirt. “Don’t run away with a boring cardiologist. Be with me.” For a moment his mouth was at her throat, but the door behind them began to open and they sprang apart. His eyes glittered at her in the darkness.
It was Claire, apparently amused to find them there. “Just getting lip balm from my bag, don’t mind me, lovebirds. Just so you know, it’s almost midnight.” She rummaged in the pile of coats for a moment and then was gone, closing the door rather pointedly behind her.