Once, long ago, in the quiet streets of York, I sat with my dearest friend, Emily, as she fixed me with a reproachful glance.
«Did no one ever tell you as a child that happiness built on anothers sorrow never lasts?»
«They did,» I admitted. «I read it in books. But as a child, what use had I for such wisdom? Back then, I scarcely understood what happiness or sorrow even meantlet alone how one could be built upon the other. A child dreams of simpler things: sweets, ice cream, Saturday morning cartoons, a trip to the cinema»
Truth be told, most of my aunts and uncles had been through second and third marriages. Where was I to learn such morals?
Emily had always been the proper sortunshakably upright, yet never one to judge. Over a glass of sherry, she would listen to my tangled tales of love with amused indulgence. She, however, was bound by propriety. A lecturer at the university, her position demanded decorum.
Her own marriage had been steady, unyielding. In their youth, her husband, Edward, had often been deep in his cupscarousing, stirring trouble, even straying. But Emily had seen to it that Edward was cured of his drunkenness for good.
Now, at gatherings, Edward would sometimes grumble that he, too, deserved a bit of indulgence. Emily would reply coolly, «Edward, if you cannot behave in company, best not trouble yourself.»
He learned to hold his tongue, and in time, took pride in his role as the one who poured drinks for guestsmeticulously measuring each serving, offering plates of cheese and biscuits with earnest hospitality.
Occasionally, Emily took Edward abroadto Spain, to Italyyet even there, he misbehaved.
«Imagine,» she fumed upon returning from Seville, «while I was at the pool, that wretched man was at the bar, making eyes at some brazen creature. Smiling, sipping cocktailsher gaze begging him to take her upstairs! Well, I thought, just wait till were back in our room, Edward. Youll get whats coming!»
«Did he deny it?» I asked, amused.
«Naturally! Said I was imagining things,» Emily scoffed.
«And you?»
«Oh, let him dream. Where would Edward go? What woman would want a man with his paltry salary? Even if some lonely widow took him in, shed toss him out within the month. Hes got nothing but a roguish twinkle in his eye.»
Then came James.
When James strode into my married life, I felt something tighten in my chestsomething uneasy, foreboding. He was wed, with two sons. I fought the swell of feeling, but it came like an avalanche, unstoppable, ruinous. A love that tore at the seams.
My conscience whispered urgently: *Stop. Dont grasp the hot iron. Nothing good comes of this. You have a family. Why chase a married man? Youll weep tears of blood before this ends.*
Yet I charged ahead, reckless. A day without James was unbearable. He was my sun, my moon. We drowned in each other, loves knife pressed to our throatsinescapable.
And thenbarriers broken, we were alone with our ruinous passion. The same circles, the same mistakes.
Within months, it was clear we had nothing in common. Yet we clung to the illusion that love still breathed between us. I revived it, resuscitated it, again and again.
James drank without restraint, lied without shame, even raised his hand to me. We were worlds apart. I threw him out, took back my keys, cut off his calls, held silent vigils of fury. He vanished for weeks, then returned with roses and burning promises.
I took him backbecause I loved him wretchedly, because I could not carve him out of my heart. But I should have.
He drained me, hollowed me, turned me inside out. And so, in retaliation, I plunged into another mans arms. If I must suffer, let him suffer too.
One day, after yet another quarrelfinal, as alwaysJames vanished. I called upon an old admirer, as women sometimes do when they keep a spare tucked away.
Victor was James oppositesteady, polite, a teetotaller. At first, I fancied him. But within weeks, I found him dull as dishwater. No fire, no thrilljust a flat, endless line. I longed for peaks and valleys, for the wild ride. Later, I regretted ever letting him near. *Not for me.* Still, he called, he lingereduntil at last, he understood. It was over.
Alone at last, I savoured my freedom. A month passed in peaceful solitude.
ThenJames returned, asking to meet. I ran, stumbling, heart still foolishly his.
«Eleanor, we must end this,» he said, eyes averted. «Well destroy each other. This fireits unbearable.»
«Youre right,» I said, though my heart shattered. «We walk too close to the edge.»
We parted. For three days.
Thena knock. James stood at my door, champagne in hand, roses, eyes alight.
That night burned like wildfire. Our bodies entwined, we fell into the sky, breathless with love.
I knew morning would bring no joy. The night had been too perfect, too sweet, too much.
And thenthe final blow. James confessed a debta gambling debt, owed to dangerous men. If he did not pay, the consequences would be dire.
In time, we paid it. Sold his flat, his car. And with that, my passion for James waned. The debt was the last straw.
Now? Indifference. We live as friends, distant kin. We talk, we laugh, we sleep beneath separate blankets. Drifting. Nothing warms me. I have drained the bitter cup. Happiness was not built.
The love is spent. The ache is gone.
