Chapter 4

Cedric:My deepest sympathy

It's a shock to see her – with him. I liked her, despite my mother's interference. I even thought about her a couple of times during the previous weeks. But now it turns out she's with him. She's always attracted to pricks, indeed.

It hurts. Seeing him always does. We bump into each other occasionally (once or twice a year, approximately). It's unavoidable; we both live and work in London. I'm a barrister, so I meet many people. He's a publisher, so he does too. And once in a while, the people we meet are the same ones. I hate it when it happens, but I've come to accept the risk.

I never considered leaving town. I had too much pride. He took my wife; I wouldn't let him have my city as well. Henrietta did leave, though. Once she discovered she wasn't the only one Ian had an affair with, she went to Manchester. From my mother I heard she married a banker and has three children now.

I never came across Ian and Henrietta as a couple in the past, but that is not a real consolation. Seeing him, every time accompanied by yet another attractive woman, hurts badly enough. It's a regular reminder that he can have anything he wants, and throw it away when he's fed up with it, without serious repercussions.

Like he did with our friendship.

No. I don't want to think about that. I decide to join my mother, who is talking to her big discovery and protégé, Ross Philip. She's an important benefactor to young artists in London. She arranged that Ross was published, and now she's providing him with the right mix of public attention and privacy, as he's only 24, rather shy and not used to publicity.

I arrive just in time to witness my mother telling a couple of vultures – very politely, of course – to piss off. In their midst – what a surprise – is Mr. Vulture himself, accompanied by his freshly found lay-for-a-day. (Jesus, jealous much, Cedric?). She looks at me – how? Guiltily? Compassionately? (Oh, please, god, no. What has he told her?) I feel the urge to warn her, but I don't. She won't believe me until it's too late, when she'll have found out on her own what a prick he is.

The third time I meet her is on the occasion of a rather premature 'spring garden party' (it's not even mid-February yet) once again organized by the Abercrombies. The guests don't see much of the garden, though, because there's a large party tent set up on the lawn. There's electric heating too, which is a blessing, because it's quite cold.

She's alone. She sees me. She hesitates. I walk over to her.

'Geraldine. How nice to see you again.' I have to know. 'Is, um … I take it that Ian couldn't come?'

'Yes, that would be a fair assumption,' she says, rather aggressively. 'My bet too, would be that he's far too busy shagging his latest sex-project.'

God, she's angry. And eager to talk, apparently. 'What happened?' I ask.

I can see the hurt kick in as the memory emerges. Her tone of voice is very different from angry when she says, 'I caught them you know. Her, I mean. I visited his house. He was behaving very strangely lately, cancelling dates, not answering my phone calls, so I was wondering … he wouldn't open the door at first, and when he finally did, he acted really weird, and he looked like he had gotten dressing in a hurry.' She swallows. 'I knew something was wrong, and I went, um, sort of hysterical, I guess. I rushed to his bedroom. He ran after me, but I was quicker. I threw the door open, and then I saw … her. She was 20 at the most. And gorgeous.'

She's barely audible, but she seems to shake off her depressed mood and her voice is much louder when she adds, 'And when I left he had the nerve to apologise!'

God, I feel for her. Still, I'm torn between comforting her and fleeing the scene. It hurts to see her like this. She so much reminds me of myself, when I was … Nine years ago. Our stories are so similar. Well, mine is yet a little wryer. I literally caught them in the act, Henrietta and Ian. My wife and my best man. Best mate, I had thought.

I had come home late from work, but not as late as I had expected and told Henrietta. I knew she was home – the door wasn't locked and the lights were on – but she didn't respond to my calling her. She wasn't in the living room or in the kitchen, but I thought I heard noises upstairs. As I opened the bedroom door, I saw them. Her body was arched backwards beneath his. He was … moving. Shifting back and forth. The motion of his bare shoulders clearly visible against the pale sheets.

I felt like I was kicked in the stomach; all air was pressed out of me. I suppose I made a sound. They stopped. Henrietta turned her head away, but Ian looked at me. 'God, Cyd. I'm so sorry'.

Someone (not me – somebody else had taken over) said very calmly, 'I expect you both to have left this house within ten minutes.'

It was only when they were gone that I started to tremble. I recall that I couldn't stop shaking for hours.

'Cedric?'

I snap out of the memory. Geraldine is regarding me with a concerned expression on her face.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes. Yes I am,' I tell her.

'You looked like you were very far away for a moment.'

'Sorry. Your story … got to me, I guess.'

'Really? Why is that?' She's not a very discrete woman, Geraldine. But then again, I asked about her first.

'Something similar happened to me once.' I can't help whispering. I swallow. 'Nine years ago I caught Ian in bed with my wife.'

'Your wife!' She instantly clasps a hand for her mouth, and looks around to see if anybody heard her exclamation.

I do the same. Fortunately and remarkably, nobody seems particularly interested in our conversation.

'I'm sorry,' she says.

'It happened two weeks after the wedding. He was the best man,' I say, to explain things.

'What a jerk,' Geraldine comments.

'Indeed,' I agree.

We fall silent for a while. Thinking – I only know about myself, of course, I have to guess about her – what a complete bastard Ian Lovelace is, what a weird coincidence that we both fell victim to his betrayal, and how, indeed, a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved.

I am the first to speak. Rather daring (for me, that is) I say, 'You know, I find I quite like bumping into you at gatherings. But maybe we shouldn't leave it up to fate when our next conversation shall be. Can I call you sometime?'

She looks at me; eyes squinted a little – considering members of the male sex and reliability, no doubt. 'Yes,' she says slowly. 'Why not.'

At the end of the afternoon, my mother is – once again – very pleased with me. 'I saw you talking to Geraldine Brady,' she says. 'She's such a lovely woman. You are going to call her, aren't you, darling?'

Yes, mother,' I reply obediently, but truthfully. 'I am.'