LUKE.

Though it was only a week I thought it would never pa.s.s. Christmas took care of one day; then we spent another couple at home b.u.mping uneasily against each other in the unfamiliar togetherness. The days were long and hot and quiet, our friends away on holiday, the suburbs deserted. It was almost a relief when Cress went back to work.

For years I'd nagged her to take some leave, and when she finally did what happened? All I could think about was Kate. Cress may have been my wife but she was suddenly a distraction, a nuisance, something I had to attend to when all I wanted was s.p.a.ce to fantasize. Everything Cress and I had previously enjoyed together-walking a neighbor's dog in the local park, going out for breakfast-became a trial, tedious and inconsequential. I snapped at her once or twice and I know she felt the change in me. There were tears late one night and I ended up making love to her apologetically, relieved that I still found her desirable enough to at least get some pleasure from that.

I didn't like the person I'd become; nor was I proud of what I was doing. I tried to talk about it to Tim on a rare occasion when he wasn't trotting at Joan's heels, but that was no use.

"Don't worry about it," he'd advised, suddenly the expert on relationships. "You're just readjusting to each other. When was the last time you spent more than a day together?"

I had to think. Cress usually ended up working at least one shift each weekend, and half the time when she was home I had arrangements for golf or to go to a football game. When it came, the answer wasn't rea.s.suring.

"Easter last year," I'd told him. "But we weren't alone-we went away with Cary and Kate."

"Ah, yes. You haven't seen them for a while, have you?" Tim was almost smirking. Since going out with Joan he'd become far too confident.

"Well, thanks for your help, mate," I'd said, turning as if to go.

"Hang on, Luke. I was only kidding. Sorry-I thought that was long forgotten."

"It is, but that wasn't what we were talking about." I'd toyed with the idea of telling Tim-to unburden myself, and for the rich guilty pleasure of Kate's name on my lips. But now as we spoke I realized just what a pipe dream that was. Tim would never recover from the shock, the defilement of his moral boundaries.

"You're just out of practice with the whole togetherness thing. Go on a vacation. Take up a hobby that you both enjoy."

I guessed that the advice was sensible, though I didn't see how any amount of ballroom dancing or wine tasting was going to put things right. Still Tim trickled on.

"Join a gym together, or buy a beach house-something that gives you a focus. How long have you been married?"

"Coming up to two years."

"There you go then. Plan some romantic getaway; fly her to King Island or Uluru; take a balloon trip over the Barossa. Make it something memorable, just for the two of you."

Despite everything I had to laugh.

"Balloons? King Island? This from the man who thought Lorne was the height of vacation excitement only a few short months ago."

Tim flushed and conceded my point.

"Yeah, you're right, but things change. You meet someone and everything's new. Nothing's ever the same again."

I couldn't have agreed more, though I kept the thought to myself.

Two weeks before I'd agonized over what to get Cress and Kate for Christmas. There's an old joke about a man who buys a cookbook for his wife and a negligee for his mistress. Somehow, though, the two parcels get mixed up and he fears that all will be lost. But on the contrary, both women are delighted: the wife thrilled to be viewed in a s.e.xual manner after years of domestic tedium, the mistress overjoyed that her lover considers her as more than just a body. I imagined the scenario as I trudged my way through Myer and David Jones. Should I look for lingerie for Cress, rea.s.sure her that despite all the hiccups of the past few months I still loved and wanted her? I thought I did, but a leopard-print G-string didn't seem the right way to express that.

As I left the department store I had a sudden nauseating vision of Cary presenting Kate with the same thing. I a.s.sumed that they must have s.e.x. They were married; there was no reason not to. And if she didn't he'd no doubt become suspicious, so it was in my interests that she kept him happy as well. But why should I even imagine that she didn't? Kate was a s.e.xual woman; she'd have no trouble sleeping with both of us. Stupidly I found myself trying to remember her underwear. There was a purple set I'd seen her in once or twice, albeit briefly. The color was remarkable, regal and whorish all at once. Not something Cress would wear, though it would suit her too. Was it a gift from Cary? Had he gone into a shop, knowing her measurements, familiar with the weight of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in his palms and antic.i.p.ating exactly how she would look when she tried them on? I found myself suddenly sweating and angry and with no justification for either.

Cress solved one problem by suggesting we buy a barbecue as a joint gift to each other. She'd already picked out the model. I was grateful to be let off so easily and in my relief bought a tiny bottle of her favorite scent so she had something to unwrap on Christmas morning. Kate's gift was proving more difficult. She never wore perfume, claiming that clean skin was a more appealing fragrance. She barely wore jewelry either, or makeup, and I could hardly buy her clothes. Maybe it would have to be a cookbook after all.

I gave her the present on Christmas Eve. We had just two short hours together, having skipped out of our respective office parties to meet under the Moreton Bay fig in the botanic gardens. Dusk was falling, a humid twilight with the sun hanging heavy and crimson above the horizon. There was the prediction of a scorcher for Christmas Day.

"What's this?" Kate asked, looking delighted and abashed all at once as I handed her the package.

"Open it and find out," I replied rather predictably, enjoying her excitement.

She tugged at the wrapping, shredding tissue paper and tape. Inside was an unlabeled CD, the silver disk blinking up like the eye of some great landed fish.

"I made it," I explained. "It's all the songs I hear you humming, plus the ones that remind me of you." I hurried on, suddenly scared she would think I was cheap or presumptuous. "I've left it anonymous, just for us to know about. Play it in your car or put it on your iPod for when we're apart."

Kate was quiet for a moment, turning it over in her hands, not meeting my gaze. When she did look up her eyes were wet.

"Thank you," she said simply. "That's the most beautiful thing that anyone's ever done for me."

She moved into my arms and we kissed, deeply and at length, pa.s.sion joined for the first time by something stronger. When we broke apart Kate was smiling.

"I didn't bring anything for you, but I've just had an idea. Close your eyes."

I did as I was told, leaning forward with my head in my hands. Kate busied herself behind me, quietly crooning the melody from one of the songs I had recorded. After five minutes she announced she was ready.

"Turn around," she commanded, lifting my fingers away from my eyes. Carved into the trunk of the Moreton Bay fig in front of me was a small heart, its outline sharp in the desecrated wood. Inside it were our initials, stacked neatly one above the other like a child's blocks.

KH.

LS.

The gesture was pure Kate: impulsive, heartfelt and probably illegal. Instinctively I glanced around to make sure we hadn't been spotted. The tree was well over a hundred years old. I'd read somewhere that it was thought to have been planted by a descendant of the First Fleet, yet Kate had defaced it without a second's thought. The gesture moved and awed me.

"Do you like it?" asked Kate, sitting back on her heels and reattaching a tiny Swiss army knife to her keys. Its red casing winked once between her fingers like blood.

"Like it? I'm overwhelmed," I replied truthfully, flattered but a little uneasy.

"Don't worry. It will grow over in time. Soon no one will know it was there." She regarded me coolly, as if daring me to express relief. I felt it, but kept my counsel and kissed her insouciant mouth instead. What the h.e.l.l. There was more at stake than a tree.

KATE.

Five more months it went on. Good months, that is, the ones before the tears and the ultimatums and the all-encompa.s.sing pain. Summer months composed entirely of stolen hours and phone conversations, months when we must have made love a thousand times. Months of getting behind in my work, of frowns followed by warnings followed by reprimands. Months when I laughed and glowed and didn't care about anything in the whole d.a.m.n world except Luke and when I would see him next. Months, in short, when I lived.

I played the CD the first time I was alone after Cary and I returned from our Christmas visit to his parents. As I lifted it from its case a tiny sc.r.a.p of tissue paper floated to the ground. I picked it up, a.s.suming it had come from the wrapping, but there was something written in Luke's hand on the opposite side. I love you, Kate I love you, Kate. The fragment leaped and quivered in my fingers, as fragile as a bedroom promise. So he loved me, enough to put it in writing. To plan and consider, to set down the words free from pressure or desire, without hope of any immediate gain. I tucked the sc.r.a.p in my underwear drawer, then, reconsidering, fished it out and placed it in my wallet instead, sandwiched anonymously between two business cards. I wanted the words close to me, where I could read them at will, warm my hands at their blaze.

Of course I loved him. Had for a while, maybe even since that night on the roof. Is it possible to fall in love with someone so quickly? I imagine Sarah would say no, that any such emotion was the product of l.u.s.t and likely to be as fleeting. Cary, too, would say that love grew out of trust and time, a slow revealing of yourselves to each other. Maybe so, but then, I'd known Luke for a year or two before he requested that tango. It wasn't as if he were a complete stranger. We'd been friends before we were lovers, and the latter was enhanced by the former.

Well, mostly. I loved him, but I didn't want to know about his life. His real life that is, the part where Cressida shared his bed, sat opposite him at dinner, a.s.sumed his surname. The part where I no longer existed, banished since that kiss at the wedding. Once, in January, he mentioned going away with Cressida for the weekend to her family's beach house, how for some reason she'd been all over him for s.e.x, walking in on him in the shower, grabbing his thigh under the table at mealtimes. I think he was complaining, but I didn't care. The words seared; the images lodged in my brain like fishhooks. Out of pique, I needled him back. Yes, Cary could be like that too. Wanting to try things we'd never do at home-it must be something about a novel environment. "What things?" Luke had asked, and I'd shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly. "Oh, you know. Role playing, a bit of bondage-nothing too heavy, though. Wanting me to pretend to be the nurse to his patient, or some girl he'd picked up in the street." Luke blanched at the last one, but he never called Cressida by name with me again. I returned the favor: whenever we conferred about when or how we'd meet, our spouses were only ever he he or or she she, not even mentioned unless absolutely necessary. As if neglecting to name them could somehow nullify their very existence.

For a while I thought about Sarah's question: Where's it all heading? Where's it all heading? Doubts and worries would surface like sharks whenever I left Luke, hurrying home or back to work with my thighs damp and hair disheveled, or waking up the next morning and realizing it wasn't his arms around me. But I never found an answer, so after a while I stopped wondering. I had enough on my mind. There was the whole juggling act to plan, and Cary to mollify. Every so often I'd realize guiltily that I wasn't giving him as much as I should: as much time, or attention, or affection, or s.e.x. I was still his wife and I was around most nights, but as Sarah had predicted my thoughts were elsewhere. I stopped making an effort over our meals, lost track of how his research was progressing, missed three departmental functions in a row. When he finally confronted me about the lapses I burst into tears and sobbed that I was depressed about our inability to conceive. As I'd envisaged, he was immediately all concern, forgiving me everything and sharing my sorrow. He suggested we look into IVF, but I shook my head no; I wanted to have a baby naturally. Besides, I'd never stopped taking the pill, and couldn't risk that secret being discovered. Doubts and worries would surface like sharks whenever I left Luke, hurrying home or back to work with my thighs damp and hair disheveled, or waking up the next morning and realizing it wasn't his arms around me. But I never found an answer, so after a while I stopped wondering. I had enough on my mind. There was the whole juggling act to plan, and Cary to mollify. Every so often I'd realize guiltily that I wasn't giving him as much as I should: as much time, or attention, or affection, or s.e.x. I was still his wife and I was around most nights, but as Sarah had predicted my thoughts were elsewhere. I stopped making an effort over our meals, lost track of how his research was progressing, missed three departmental functions in a row. When he finally confronted me about the lapses I burst into tears and sobbed that I was depressed about our inability to conceive. As I'd envisaged, he was immediately all concern, forgiving me everything and sharing my sorrow. He suggested we look into IVF, but I shook my head no; I wanted to have a baby naturally. Besides, I'd never stopped taking the pill, and couldn't risk that secret being discovered.

I'm not proud of any of this; truly I'm not. Looking back I can't believe how I acted, how each deceit flowed so seamlessly from another. My only excuse is that I was addicted, and like any addict all I could think about was my next hit. Hurting Cary didn't seem of any consequence; neglecting Sarah or my work was unimportant. All that mattered was Luke and the singing in my veins whenever we were together.

CRESSIDA.

As summer faded into autumn I began to prepare my application for the fellowship. Over the previous months I'd hugged the secret to myself like an unplanned pregnancy, unwilling to talk about it even with Luke lest he scoff at my chances and destroy the dream. Late nights and sunny weekends were spent chasing references at the university medical library, or investigating possible research centers using the Internet. Every other week I'd meet with Dr. Whyte, nervously handing over my latest ideas or proposals. I wasn't home much, but Luke never complained. Actually, he wasn't home all that often himself.

I wanted to study leukemia-in memory, I suppose, of Emma. More specifically, I hoped to trial methods of reducing infection rates in unrelated allogeneic bone-marrow transplants, where the donor comes from outside the patient's family. Dr. Whyte appeared excited about the work and, more important, my chances.

"It's just the sort of thing they'll go for," he declared in early March as he read through my latest draft. "Children, technology and fatal illness-great stuff."

I blushed, praise unnerving me more than criticism.

"The application doesn't need much more work," he continued, "but have you thought about which hospitals you might try?"

I had, actually. Originally I'd found myself daydreaming about the East and West Coasts, New York or Los Angeles. Isn't that where everyone aspires to succeed? My searches, however, had revealed that my best chance lay with the less glamorous but funding-rich specialty centers of the interior: Chicago, Pittsburgh, Minneapolis. I mentioned them all to Dr. Whyte and he sat back in his chair, tapping his teeth with a pen.

"Maybe even Michigan," he said. "There's a very impressive pediatric oncology center that recently opened there. Let's see if I can find their number...."

He began burrowing through the papers on his desk, mumbling to himself, but I wasn't listening. Michigan or the moon, it didn't really matter. I just wanted to go.

CARY.

Another six months pa.s.sed with no baby and growing panic, at least on my side. I was thirty-six and in possession of possibly the only male biological clock known to mankind. Every month I found myself anxiously wondering if maybe this time we'd cracked it; every evening I was alone with Kate I scanned her for signs of fatigue, nausea, even weight gain. She was moody, not sleeping, but there was still no announcement.

I'd always liked children, but this was different. Before, I'd simply enjoyed having my friends' offspring around at picnics or dinner parties; now my eyes followed every baby carriage that pa.s.sed on the street, watched covetously as the gestational b.u.mp of a departmental secretary inflated beneath her clothes. Without telling Kate I went off and had my sperm count checked in case the problem lay with me. One hundred million, with excellent motility. I should have been proud, but it wasn't getting us anywhere.

I dearly wanted Kate to undergo some tests of her own. I'd waited long enough and now it was time to get serious, but I didn't know how to approach her. Kate had become withdrawn, unpredictable. Weeks went by when I felt as if there were a fine mesh between us, distancing and distorting every communication. I'd call in the evening when I knew she should be home, yet the phone would go unanswered. She'd appear distracted, and I'd no longer hear her singing to herself as she went about the house. Then, just as I'd start to panic, the mood would shift and the old Kate would resurface, complete with bursts of affection, s.e.x and laughter. I wondered if it was hormones, or some form of depression. Every time we hit a trough I resolved to speak to her about it, though such a course was fraught with danger and liable to end in denial and tears. Weeks would pa.s.s while I screwed up my courage for a confrontation; then the pendulum would swing back and I would relax and think everything was okay. Maybe it was her reaction to stress, and what was more stressful than trying-and failing-to conceive? I knew that pain only too well and resolved to be more understanding of Kate's moods. Whatever happened, we were married. I was sure we could ride it out.

LUKE.

Everything was wonderful, but at times I felt guilty. Not because I was cheating on Cress or deceiving her per se, but because I had so much for so little. An embarra.s.sment of riches, like the millionaire who wins the lottery. Before Kate I would have said that my life was close to perfect: a beautiful wife whom I loved, a good job I enjoyed, an income that allowed us everything we wanted. Cress's hours were a pain, but in all honesty I didn't always mind them, even if I said I did. I liked being free to do my own thing, be that playing golf, meeting friends for drinks or just watching TV without interruption. I loved that I'd retained most of my independence within marriage and had the best of both worlds. Everything was pretty well settled.

Then there was Kate, and life got better still. She restored perhaps the only things I'd been missing from my bachelor days: the thrill of the chase, the excitement of s.e.xual hunting and gathering. And at first, as I said, I felt almost guilty. Also a little apprehensive-I had it all; I wasn't just tempting fate: I was taunting it. But you know what? After a while guilt fades, fear evaporates, and you start believing in the status quo. Initially I wondered how long it could last, but soon I forgot to do even that. Kate exhilarated; Cressida soothed. One stirred me; the other needed me. One for private, one for public. Between them they were everything a man could want. This was my life, and I had no desire to change it.

KATE.

Early May. We were now meeting every day, making any excuse for half an hour and the chance to talk or kiss or make increasingly frantic love. Every weekday, that is, weekends being off-limits. Cressida's shifts meant that Luke was available at least every second weekend, though I didn't have such a ready-made excuse with Cary. Where he'd once popped into work on the occasional Sat.u.r.day, now he'd spend the days puttering about, never far from my side, suggesting we go for a walk or to the movies or out to dinner. Keeping an eye on me. That's what it felt like, though I had no real reason to be paranoid. I could still get away if I had to. I saw a lot of Sarah that summer, even spending two memorable weekends together down on the coast. Not that she knew anything about it, of course, but I figured she'd cover for me in a pinch. I bought a second cell phone and left it turned off. Only one person had the number, and it meant I could check his messages and movements without worrying about the call showing up on my real phone or relying on e-mail. Not even Cary knew I owned it-I paid cash so it didn't show up on any of our credit card statements. The little deceptions.

For all that, it wasn't easy. I felt like I spent half my life looking at my watch, or driving furiously from one man to the other. Fatigue shadowed me, but I found it difficult to sleep. I'd never had so much s.e.x in my life-not just with Luke, but with Cary too. I'm not a fool. I knew that we'd drifted apart, though not a terminal distance; I saw the hurt in his face when I was late coming home again or disinclined to chat after dinner. Naively, I thought I could make up for it with s.e.x-that by maintaining one variety of intimacy I'd sustain the illusion that we'd preserved it all. Cary went along with it for his own reasons: rea.s.surance, maybe, or to try to conceive the child he thought we were striving for. But gradually the pa.s.sion went, and then the enjoyment. Cary and I had always laughed and talked during s.e.x. Now we performed in silence, as if locked in combat. I hadn't wanted anything to change, but it appeared that something would have to.

LUKE.

It was Cressida who brought things to a head.

"Here, read this," she said one night after dinner, a rare meal that we'd prepared and eaten together, her pager obligingly quiet on one hip. I took the doc.u.ment she handed me, photocopied and crumpled, obviously much perused. The Stevenson Fellowships The Stevenson Fellowships.

"What is it?" I asked, not much interested. "A conference or something? Is it expensive?"

"Just read it," she replied, a little insistently. I glanced up and was surprised to see her looking flushed and nervous, her hands threaded together in front of her as if they might otherwise begin to tremble.

Research ... Scholarships ... Applicant's choice of destination. I was about halfway through before it dawned on me just what she was after.

"Do you mean you're interested in this?" The words came out with more force than I'd intended, but Cress didn't appear perturbed.

"Yes, I am. Dr. Whyte thinks I have an excellent chance." When I didn't reply she quickly went on, pressing her case. "It's two years overseas, full funding for my research. I can go anywhere in America I choose, provided, of course, that the hospital or university accepts me. But the fellowships are so generous that no inst.i.tution is going to decline."

"I didn't know you were so keen on research," I said, my head swimming. "You haven't done any since that paper with Cary." It felt strange saying his name out loud.

"I know," she conceded, "but I quite liked that. And it's not as if I get the time-I hardly have the chance to eat lunch at work, never mind conduct studies as well. This would give me the opportunity to try something different. Even if I hate it, it would look great on my resume, so I could apply for more senior positions when we return."

Cress has always been ambitious, so I shouldn't have been surprised. Those senior positions were important to her, the same positions that her father and sisters held. She'd spoken before of how difficult advancement was within the hospital system, how you had to move outside it if you were to get ahead. I'd never really paid much attention, to be honest. She'd always achieved everything else she'd set her sights on, so I'd figured that if a consultancy was what she wanted, then in time she'd get that too. Still, I should have seen this coming.

"What about me? Do I take it I'm part of the deal?"

"Don't be stupid," she replied, color in her cheeks. "We're married. Of course you'd come. A fellowship would cover both our airfares, plus something for accommodation. We could even rent this place out, make some extra money while we're gone."

"But I'd still have to give up my job."

"Yes, you'd have to give up your job," she snapped, voice angry and rising. "But why is that such a big deal? America must have thousands of jobs in advertising. Your company could probably even transfer you, if you asked. Or you could go back to studying, try something different while we have the luxury of doing so."

"You've got it all worked out, haven't you?" I asked, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. To tell you the truth, her proposal had knocked me sideways. "I suppose you've already decided where we're going?"

"I've looked into it, yes, but only so I could tailor my research project to facilities with the appropriate equipment and personnel."

"And?"

"And I thought maybe Michigan. Actually, it was Dale's suggestion. There's a brand-new pediatric hospital there he tells me is state-of-the-art."

"Dale?" I asked. Jealousy lunged at me before I had a chance to reflect on how ridiculous that was.

"Dr. Whyte. Don't look like that. He's about fifty-five, with grandchildren. And he's my princ.i.p.al reference, so I need his support."

"Michigan? G.o.d, could you have chosen anywhere less glamorous?"

"It's not about glamour, Luke; it's about my career. Why are you being so negative?" She pushed back her chair and stood up. "I thought you'd be excited. The timing's perfect: we're both young, with no commitments. We can add in some travel, see something of the world before we're tied down to school vacations or my private practice or whatever. And there will be more time just for us! I'll be doing a research job: regular hours, no shifts, no pagers." She leaned across the table, eyes bright, b.r.e.a.s.t.s rising and falling in agitation. "You could at least be pleased about that, but all you're concerned about is being somewhere glitzy. I bet you don't even know the first thing about Michigan anyway!"

And with those words I fell in love with her again. I don't think I ever stopped loving her, really, but I had stopped feeling it, as if a dimmer switch had been used on the emotion. Apart from her looks, one of the things that originally attracted me to Cress was her drive, her ambition. At times now her dedication to her profession annoyed the h.e.l.l out of me, but in the beginning I was impressed by her single-mindedness, perhaps because I wanted to be single-minded too. Maybe it's me, maybe it's the job, but I've never gotten into my career the way she has hers. I enjoy it, but what I enjoy is not so much the work but the ease of that work, the idea of it-getting paid for making things up, for saying things you don't mean. Work without feelings or accountability or even much effort. Now here was Cress, pa.s.sionate and focused. It was a long time since I'd seen her like that, and it sparked something in me. Or reignited.

We talked some more after that. Actually, we sat up half the night and talked, something we hadn't done since before we were married. Despite myself, I was intrigued. My job wasn't going anywhere in particular, and while it paid well the figures weren't so staggering as to tie me to it for life. Anyway, America probably paid even better. We moved into the lounge and Cress insisted on making up a fire, the first for the season. In the light of the flames she looked young and excited, happier than I'd seen her for a while, animation accentuating the beauty of her features. For a second I felt content, an emotion so unfamiliar it took me a moment to identify it.

"Here it is," said Cress, looking up Michigan in the atlas, then pa.s.sing it across for me to see. The state nestled in the top right-hand corner of the country, spread across two peninsulas jutting into the Great Lakes.