Fidelity

Christopher Evans FIDELITY

When Malcolm came down with the news, Neal had already been at work for two hours and had finally got his new novel moving again after a sticky patch. Malcolm sauntered into the room and said, in his offhand manner: “Claire’s in hospital. Attempted suicide.”

It was the kind of bad news he had almost expected.

“Is she all right? What did she try?”

“Pills. They’ve pumped her stomach and she’ll be OK. The hospital says she doesn’t want to see you.”

His immediate reaction was one of annoyance that he’d have to suspend work on the book just when he had it moving again; but his irritation was quickly swamped by his concern for Claire.

“Can I take the car?”

“Feel free,” Malcolm said.

* * *

It was a two hour drive from the lodge to central London. Neal would have liked company for the journey, but Malcolm was negotiating an import deal for Korean antiques and he hadn’t wanted to impose further on him. He had been staying at the lodge for the past week, having fled there immediately after his latest bust-up with Claire to subsist on Malcolm’s ever-generous hospitality. The basement room was hermetic and he’d produced some of his best work there. He and Claire had regular fallings-out and he felt greatly in debt to his wealthy patron. “Don’t worry,” Malcolm would insist whenever Neal showed up, as big-hearted as he was large of frame. “Stay as long as you want. You know how much I enjoy having you around”. Malcolm would then tell him that the only way he could really repay him would be to abandon Claire and become his lover, a submission he was constitutionally incapable of making.

This was the third time Claire had attempted suicide. Doubtless, like the two previous occasions, it was more a dramatic gesture, a plea for attention, than any serious desire to end her life. Claire was a gifted poet, but highly emotional and unstable. At his meanest Neal would accuse her of having a Sylvia Plath complex. They had been living together, on and off, for six years—periods of blissful emotional and intellectual harmony interspersed with dreadful fights provoked by Claire’s hysterical reaction to even the mildest of criticism. He had lost count of the number of times he had walked out on her in anger, only to relent days later under the pressure of her pleading, apologetic phonecalls. They were slowly tearing one another apart, locked in an insane, destructive passion for one another.

The poet and the novelist. Their liaison had enchanted the more upmarket gossip columnists with its glittering surfaces. In an age of few celebrities, with the arts teetering on the brink of sterility, suffocated by the palliatives of the Welfare State, their brilliant partnership had received close scrutiny from the news-starved media. They chronicled its vicissitudes with a tedious diligence, providing vicarious excitement for the vast majority of people who led quiet, well-tailored lives, content in their anonymity.

Well, no more. It had to end. He would be considerate to Claire, but firm. He would tell her that it was all over, really over this time, that the only way they could ever survive and lead tolerable existences was to ensure that they never saw one another again. It was the only way. It would be hard, for a while, but they would both get over it eventually and begin to flourish in their separate lives. Yes. Yes. Cheered by this sudden sureness, he slipped a mintranq between his teeth, putting the car on auto.

***

Neal reached the hospital just after noon. The young female doctor was courteous but adamant.

“She refuses to see you, and I think she’s quite right. It’s better that she’s not exposed to any stressful situations at the present time.”

“Can I come back tomorrow?”

“You can, but she’ll be even less able to see you then. We’re operating on her in the morning.”

“Operating? I thought you pumped her stomach? It was pills, wasn’t it?

There are no complications?”

“She’s scheduled for psychosurgery. No doubt she’ll agree to see you when she’s convalescing after the operation. Give it a few days.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, disinterested. As if it were a routine pronouncement.

“Psychosurgery? You wouldn’t dare.”

“It’s not a question of daring. The idea was hers. We brought no pressure to bear whatsoever.”

“I don’t believe you. She’d never agree to it.”

Now he had her full attention. She gave him a “let’s-be-reasonable” look.

“You know very well that we are ethically and legally bound against coercive measures with respect to psychosurgery. Claire asked for the operation.”

“She wouldn’t. She’s always hated the idea.”

“Well, she’s finally come to her senses.”

His anger didn’t intimidate her in the slightest. She was good-looking in a scrubbed, professional way, not a hair out of place, as crisp and polished in manner as she was in appearance.