Under the Knife. Andrea Goldsmith

      The greatest griefs are those we cause ourselves.

      Sophocles: Oedipus Rex

      There may always be another reality

      To make fiction of the truth we think we’ve arrived at.

      Christopher Fry: A Yard of Sun. Act 11

      PROLOGUE

      A life, so long in the making, can explode in an instant. Career, family, lover, a status that should have endured forever, all obliterated, and Alexander Otto vanishes in a mess of scandal and shame.

      And who does he blame? Edwina Frye, as surely as if she’d shoved a gun in his hand, crooked his arm, and put his finger on the trigger. Edwina Frye, who ransacked his heart with her sweet giddy touch over and over again. She listened to him for hours on end, collecting his life and putting it in order, and all the while he was falling in love she was plotting his fall.

      Stripped to the waist, Alexander is standing before the bathroom mirror, a razor in his hand. He closes his eyes, he cannot bear the sight of himself. But there will be no relief, for springing out of the dark is Edwina, her face poised above his, their bodies still humid with sex, her breath a cool hit on his sweaty skin.

      ‘I’ve got you, Alexander,’ she said. ‘I’ve got you, because I know who you are.’ And with these words from neither biographer nor lover, he knew she must hate him.

      Later he may wonder if he’d made a mistake, later he might regret not dragging the truth out of her — What do you know? What exactly do you know? — but with so little time and fear already at his throat, he thought only the worst and had to escape.

      ‘I’ve got you, Alexander,’ she said, before sliding off him and leaving the room. He heard the flush of the toilet, the water in the shower, heard her singing her triumph while he lay in his stink on her bed. But he hadn’t worked so hard nor achieved so much to go down without a fight. And mopped his sweat with her sheet, pulled on his trousers and went to her study.

      He searched for nothing other than what he needed to see. He glanced at the biography but no longer cared. And the stack of tapes, all those hours of handing his life over to her. And the medical books and journals, she had no right to them now but neither could he reclaim what once was his. He rifled through her papers, found nothing unexpected, and then to her desk. The top drawer was crammed with the usual desk junk, the second drawer held neat stacks of stationery. Then, in the third drawer, he found what he had hoped did not exist. It was not the official biography, not this pile of pink paper with her scrawl in blue ink, not the biography but still all about him. He fanned the pages, not reading, but sufficient to see the accusing names.

      Condemned now, and only wanting to escape, he is dressed when she returns to the bedroom. He doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to see the white breasts, the glint of water in the blazing hair, gives a hasty explanation, would prefer not to speak at all, kisses her blindly and leaves while there is still time.

      Then the interminable night. The late meal at home with his wife, and how he manages to be himself when his usual self has deserted him, when the fool who remains would still forgive Edwina if only she will love him forever. Or less. A year with Edwina and he wouldn’t want for anything. Cynthia says he’s working too hard, she suggests they take a holiday. He nods and smiles, but he is not listening, and when she proposes a walk, allows himself to be led. He hides in the dark, feels Cynthia against him, kind and loving Cynthia chatting about their holiday, while his thoughts are grabbing at Edwina who slit him open and pulled out his guts. He winces. ‘Are you cold?’ asks Cynthia. No, not cold, just disintegrating.

      The movement through the dark streets is soothing. He holds on to Cynthia, his sanctuary for twenty-five years, pulls her closer and shakes off Edwina. Think, think, he tells himself, remember who you are. And by the time they return home has planned what must be done. Cynthia goes to bed and he to his study. His draft of the biography sits on the desk, a note from Edwina still attached. The note he folds into his wallet, the biography — And suddenly he wants to murder it, his carefully crafted life, he should have known better, should never have agreed to it. And rising from the deep, an old revengeful anger, and in his hand a penknife and stabbing at the paper. He wants to cry but doesn’t know how, so keeps on pummelling, trying to gouge the love out. The knife breaks, his anger misplaced, but where else can it go? He sits at the desk, his head in his hands, his breath pulling in short, bitter jabs. It’s not fair, he is saying. But no one is listening nor would anyone agree.

      He hears Claire come home, far too late for a school night. He doesn’t want to talk to her, couldn’t bear her black gaze. Like Edwina, she sees far too much. They all do — Edwina, Cynthia, Simone and Claire, dead Rosie, even Sybil forgotten for thirty years and now sticking her lanky neck out of memory; why is it that the wrong ones have loved him? Has he always wanted what he couldn’t

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