beginning, but for the sake of the biography I didn’t pursue it. Indeed, prior to that evening when she joined me for a drink, we’d not met for reasons unrelated to the biography. Even a meal at home with the family had been primarily for data collection, although, as it turned out, it had an enormous impact on me.
The meal had been Cynthia’s idea, to provide an opportunity for Edwina to observe the family man in situ. We were all there: my mother, Cynthia, Simone and Greg, and at the last minute and looking as if she’d dragged herself from the gutter, Claire. She was reeking of smoke and probably far worse, but there was nothing I could do as we were about to sit down to dinner. Fortunately she behaved herself, which is to say she spent most of the meal silent and scowling and clearly wanting to be elsewhere. Although Edwina managed to draw her out, and by the time coffee was served, had her talking about her painting. After dinner, she actually showed Edwina some of her work, an invitation never extended to Cynthia and me.
I was very conscious of Edwina’s being in my home. I was extra solicitous towards my mother, very much the attentive husband with Cynthia, the fond father with my daughters. But every time Edwina spoke I felt a rush of adrenalin. She might have been working, but she was in my home, a social occasion with food and wine, it was simply not the same as sitting with her and her tape-recorder in my office. I remember touching her several times, knowing that what was permissible in the milieu of one’s loving family would not be elsewhere.
A night for data collection but so much more. This, I realised, was no fly-by-night attraction. I saw Edwina alongside Cynthia, saw her vitality, her originality, her newness, and knew I’d never wanted a woman so much. I’m not proud of this, and certainly not now when I’d give anything for Cynthia’s warm, steady devotion. But at the time, I looked from my wife to Edwina and knew that Cynthia’s love was no longer enough. I wanted some white water, I wanted Edwina.
Fortunately I had the good sense to put the biography first. Outwardly nothing changed, but privately I exercised no restraint. I imagined the places we’d go, the conversations we’d have, most of all I imagined being in bed with her. Over and over I imagined these things, until they were second nature to me. By the time I rang her for a drink, a real lover could not have occupied me more fully.
I never doubted she wanted me too. I find the digestive tract fascinating but I know it’s not a common interest. Yet from the beginning, Edwina encouraged me to talk way beyond the requirements of the biography. Such a charming inquisitor she was, I truly believed she was attracted to me. I remember when she asked about my choice of specialty, how she leaned forward, her arms resting on my desk, how she was close enough to touch, the fine white skin, the raised pipes of her veins, her perfume, the carved stretch of her clavicle, her gaze so attentive.
I told her about Peter Faine, without whom I might have become a skin specialist or a neurologist, and his sons, both of whom attended my school. The Faine boys never showed any interest in medicine, but they were good company and wild within the acceptable limits of the day. The Faine house was full of all the noise and activity lacking in my only-child home and I visited often.
The sons were my friends, but it was Peter Faine who was the main attraction. He was a gastroenterologist, the sort of doctor quite common in those days who regarded medicine as a public calling. A short, jolly man with a shiny pate and tailored beard, he always found time for me. He used to tell me about medical life — the patients, surgery, the illnesses, students — and I came to admire him in a way I did not my own father. When I thought of being a doctor, I imagined myself just like Dr Faine, taller and younger, but in most respects very similar.
Looking back, I suspect I wanted to be Peter Faine. I enrolled in the same medical school, did my residency at the same hospital, and never questioned I would specialise in gastroenterology. As for my choice of the lower tract rather than the upper, it was pragmatism more than anything else; there was a crowd at the upper end and much more room for a newcomer at the lower.
Pragmatism? I remember Edwina saying. Is that a euphemism for money?
It wasn’t, and besides I found the large bowel more interesting than other areas of gastroenterology. And there was so much to be done. With most of the research having focussed on the upper tract, the lower area was wide open — I actually said that to her, but rather than the snickering it would occasion from most people, Edwina responded with the same regard she reserved for everything I said.
Can I be blamed for thinking she was interested in me? She did encourage me, although now I see her approach as one of calculated entrapment. Harder to explain is my own collaboration, the way in which I filtered all her responses through my own fantasies and desires. So easy to be wise after the event. But at the time I was convinced she was attracted to me, so when an evening meeting was cancelled, I called her at home and invited her for a drink. I was thrilled when she accepted.
I selected the place, a quiet bar attached to a boutique hotel where I’d be unlikely to run into anyone I knew. I planned the evening as if it were the start of an affair, and, as it turned out, it was. The bar was designed like a comfortable lounge room, with couches, armchairs and low tables in small discreet arrangements. I arrived early, sensing that if Edwina turned up before me she wouldn’t wait. I was drinking a second scotch when she appeared.
I have loved many women in my life, but before I met Edwina, romantic love, being ‘in love’, had struck only once. It was an addiction, and a polluted pleasure if ever there was one. Sybil Becker was bad for me and I couldn’t give her up. No matter that I had turned into a pathetic braying donkey, no matter that I had become utterly unlovable, no matter that I was a ludicrous fool, I couldn’t drag myself away.
This was my one experience of being in love and I never wanted it again. Yet when Edwina entered the bar that evening, all the signs were there. It should have been a warning, instead I revelled in it. A man in his fifties and feeling like a kid again. It was wonderful.
She was all creamy skin and creamy clothes, her hair sparkled in the tinted light. She drank red wine and ate chips with sour cream. She enjoyed food and was wary of thin people. They’re mean and hungry, she said, and not to be trusted.
We both laughed, she, because she thought she’d made a joke, and I because I wanted to laugh with her.
And so it began, exactly as I’d imagined. The laughter, the intimacy, the magic, the passion. We sat closer than necessary, she leaning towards me, touching my arm to make a point. And I touched her too, this time without the protective gaze of family. There was no mention of the biography. We talked about films and books, we bantered about nothing in particular, and when we parted two hours later I was in love.
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