Charlie was pulling up as we arrived back at the house. Despite accepting my offer to prepare dinner, he had bought a substantial quantity of food, which he dismissed as appetizers. I guessed it was instinctive for him to react to adversity with generosity.
Angelina headed upstairs, and I went to the kitchen to offload the shopping and grab something to eat. We had missed lunch.
Charlie cornered me. “How was your day?” he said.
“Best talk to Angelina,” I replied, trying not to sound aggressive.
Charlie put a big hand on my chest and pushed me against the wall like a rag doll.
“I asked you, how was your fucking day?”
“Good,” I said stupidly. “We broke up.”
It was a hopeless choice of words but I had been under some pressure. To my enormous embarrassment, I felt tears running down my face. Charlie let me go, then put his arms around me, and I heard Angelina walking into the kitchen.
Charlie and I separated, and looked at each other goofily. Did people ever grow up?
Charlie shook his head. “Margarita and two beers?”
“Don’t overdo the Cointreau if you’re using those round lemons,” said Angelina. “They’re sweeter.” Then she checked herself and laughed.
“Dinner at seven-thirty?” said Charlie.
“Fine,” I said. I was famished, but I needed the time-out more than food.
I knew that I had made the right choice, even with Angelina wanting me, being prepared to walk away from her husband and her family, and with Claire out of the picture.
What about the other, extreme option? If Charlie’s heart succumbed to the croissants, it would be a different matter. I would be the white knight on a steed instead of the home-wrecker. But I wasn’t going to spend my life wishing for that.
* * *
In my room, I booted up the laptop and composed belated apologies to work. I could catch up on Sunday. I was about to send the e-mail when it struck me that I did not want to return to my mother’s in Manchester. The job paid well, and would easily cover accommodation within commuting distance. I added a query about whether it was too late to withdraw my notice.
I was browsing Claire’s e-mail, losing any claim to moral superiority over Charlie’s bugging, when the reply from work popped up.
As long as you don’t come in too often;-)
I felt surprisingly moved by this backhanded compliment.
But Claire’s inbox confirmed what I had expected. Dinner tonight in London with Concertina Ray.
I sent her an e-mail:
How’s the deal going? Make sure you and the guys have worked through your BATNA. Good luck.
The reply came straightaway:
Thanks. Deadline Monday. The weekend to decide. Leaning toward yes. We haven’t talked, but assuming for purposes of decision that you are not a part of it. Let me know if you want to discuss. Love, Claire.
I lay on the bed. What about Claire?
Claire had been my Charlie. Her message said she had not given up on me, but Leaning toward yes meant leaning toward moving to the U.S. Yet she still seemed prepared to take my wishes into account.
Angelina was no longer an option. Say it again. Angelina was no longer an option. Where did that leave Claire?
Not twenty-four hours earlier I had been ready to make a life with another woman. I had told Angelina—and myself—that I left Claire for the prospect of something better.
I e-mailed back: Best to assume I’m not part of it.
I decided not to add any warnings based on what Charlie had told me. It would only appear that I was trying to talk her out of the deal, which would be as good as saying that I wanted her to stay in the UK. I did not want to let down a second person who had imagined a future with me.
My meditations on what to do with my own life were brought to a halt by Angelina putting her head in the door. She had been crying.
“I did what you wanted me to do. Made it right with Charlie. I want you to know it wasn’t easy.”
“Do you think you needed to?”
“I know I needed to. I knew that already.”
“For him or you?”
“Him. Which means ultimately both of us, I guess.”
She turned and left before I could say anything more.
I leaned back into the pillows, trying to work it out. What had been so traumatic about confirming her commitment? Was I missing something?
A few minutes later, Charlie called me from the kitchen. “Hey, Adam, you still want that beer?”
* * *
We sat outside. Charlie had put out a plate of the best anchovies and olives I had ever tasted, with crusty bread.
“More Spanish than French,” he said. “Save some room for dinner.”
The beer and food made me feel a bit better and a load seemed to have been lifted from Charlie, at least since the morning. Angelina came down after about forty-five minutes, with the puffiness gone from her eyes but still looking flat.
Charlie fetched fresh beers, and had been forward-thinking enough to make a double mix of margaritas, which apparently contained the correct amount of Cointreau. I tasted Angelina’s and it seemed fine to me.
“So,” said Charlie. “Have you guys got it out of your systems?”
“Yes,” I said, and gave Angelina a look.
“You read anything by John Irving?” said Charlie.
“The World According to Garp?”
“That’s the man. But I’m thinking Hotel New Hampshire.”
“I might have seen the film.”
Charlie laughed. “I doubt this bit’s in the film. The hero’s in love with his older sister. They can’t keep their hands off each other, even though they’ve never gone the whole enchilada. Then one day she calls him up—they’re adults living in apartments—and says, ‘Come on over and have your way with me.’ So he races across New York and screws his big sister. And when he’s done, she says, ‘Do it again, and again.’ Until he’s begging for mercy. And they’ve both really got it out of their systems.”
“Cigarettes,” I said. “When I was fifteen, my mother caught me smoking and made me smoke the whole pack. Until I threw up. Probably saved my life.”
“They don’t make mothers like that anymore. She’d probably get put away for child abuse by the morality police,” said Charlie.
“When’s dinner?” said the equal opportunity commissioner. “I’m going to eat all that bread if you don’t take it away.”
“Dinner,” said Charlie, “will be at seven-thirty. And afterwards, we shall take the Hotel New Hampshire cure.”
“Charlie. That’s enough.”
He smiled. “I speak metaphorically, of course. Nobody’s going to have to screw their soul mate. We’re going to play music until we’ve all had enough.”
“What do you mean, we?” I said.
“I’ve got a blues harp,” said Charlie. “Careful what you wish for.”
My beer bottle was almost empty, but I raised it and clinked it with Charlie’s. Angelina waited a few moments before joining in with her cocktail glass.
“Amen to that,” I said.
It would have been simple enough for Charlie to say, “Since this is your last night together, feel free to have a sentimental musical send-off.” But that would not have been in character. He had to frame everything as a game.
It was hard to see how Charlie had taken the resolution of the marital crisis. He played his cards close to his stent-reinforced chest; a lot could change beneath the veneer before any cracks showed on the surface. Angelina was looking more composed. Which left me.
Back in my room, I looked in the mirror again. Maybe I was fooling myself, but I didn’t see Freddie Sharp looking back.
* * *
Dinner was a tour de force, in keeping with tradition, except this time I made a contribution. The Jamie Oliver recipe for pork shoulder, which I had always bought in a ready-to-cook pack, was on the Internet, and once I’d committed it to memory I only needed one surreptitious look at my phone to recheck the marinade ingredients. As a seasoned consultant, I was able to translate my last-minute cribbing into an impression of expertise good enough to convince my client, and put him on the defensive by raising an eyebrow at the lack of allspice berries.
The kettle barbecue had only been used once. The coals had cooled before the cooking finished, and Charlie had decided it was a bad job. I offered him some instruction and he was a willing student. An Australian taking lessons on barbecuing from an Englishman, albeit via California and Randall. Could it be any clearer that he did not feel competitive toward me?
Well, yes. The hors d’oeuvres threatened to kill our appetites. All week he had been sending me a message with the food and wine: This is what you would have to match. And to Angelina: This is what you would be missing.
Charlie was being less pushy with the wine than usual, and when Angelina waved an empty glass at him, he said, “Steady, it’s a long night.”
As we picked the meat from the not-too-rare-but-still-moist quail—blasted, at my Internet-informed suggestion, for fifteen minutes at three hundred degrees Celsius over the hot coals—I asked, “So, what do you eat on a Friday night at home?”
“Not too different to this,” said Angelina. “But Thursdays we always eat out at the same place.”
“I know it sounds boring,” said Charlie, “but we both work crazy hours, and if we didn’t lock in something, we’d never get around to having time for ourselves. Angelina would never get out of her work clothes.”
“Your idea, right?” I said.
“We treat it like a business meeting. No canceling without rescheduling, and the guys at the restaurant know us and look after us.”
She smiled, the first time I had seen her smile since the walk. “Family dinner on Sunday nights. Compulsory attendance.”
I excused myself to go to the bathroom, then went to my room and checked my e-mail. Claire had replied.
Message received. I’d still like to talk sometime. We should stay friends. Going to London Sunday to talk with VJ and Tim pre The Big Meeting on Monday.
I mailed back a Good Luck.
I walked back to the smell of roasting pork, and the voices of the couple who were going home to date nights and family dinners and everlasting love.
“Thought we’d lost you,” said Charlie.
“Taking a bit of time out,” I said. “Reflecting on what you two have managed to do. If I’d done half what you’ve done with Claire…”
“You’d want to think it was enough, wouldn’t you?”
Angelina’s lips tightened. Charlie’s point was clear. It almost hadn’t been enough.
“Charlie,” I said. “You know I love Angelina. She’s a fantastic person and I’ve often wished I’d married her, even though it would have been a mistake. For her, in particular. The time I spent in Australia…”
I was drifting from my point, like a drunk. Do not start the next sentence with I just want to say.
“I just want to say that if she has to be with someone else, I’m glad she’s with you.”
The smile he gave me in response was unmistakably ironic.