The Closed Circle Read Free

want to stay under his roof for more nights than I can help it, this time.
    Last night I had a meal out with Philip and Patrick.
    Now—I hadn’t seen Philip for more than two years, and I suppose it’s pretty
common, in these circumstances, for ex-wives to look at their ex-husbands and
wonder what on earth it was that drew them together in the first place. I’m talking about physical attraction, more than anything else. I remember that when I
was a student, and lived in Mantova for the best part of a year, back in 1981 if I
can believe myself when I write that (God!), I was surrounded by young Italian
men, most of them gorgeous, all of them as good as begging me to go to bed with
them. A posse of teenage Mastroiannis in their sexual prime, gagging for it, not to
mince words. My Englishness made me exotic in a way which would have been
unthinkable in Birmingham, and I could have had my pick of that lot. I could
have had them all, one after the other. But what did I choose instead? Or who did
I choose, rather. I chose Philip. Philip Chase, whey-faced, nerdy Philip Chase, with
his straggly ginger beard and his horn-rimmed specs, who came to stay with me
for a week and somehow got me into bed on the second day and ended up changing
the whole course of my life, not permanently, I suppose, but radically . . . fundamentally . . . I don’t know. I can’t think of the word. One word is as good as
another, sometimes. Was it just because we were too young, I wonder? No, that’s
not fair on him. Of all the boys I’d known up until that point, he was the most
straightforward, the most sympathetic, the least arrogant (Doug and Benjamin
were so up themselves, in their different ways!). There is a tremendous decency in
Phil, as well: he is absolutely reliable and trustworthy. He made the divorce so
untraumatic, I remember—a back-handed compliment, I know, but if you ever
want to get divorced from someone . . . Philip’s your man.
    As for Patrick, well . . . I want to see as much of Pat as I can, while I’m here,
obviously. He is so grown up now. Of course, we have been writing and emailing
each other constantly, and last year he came out to Lucca for a few days, but still—
it surprises me every time. I can’t tell you what a peculiar feeling it is, to look at
this
man
—he may be only fifteen, but that’s what he seems like, now—this tall
(rather skinny, rather pale, rather sad-looking) man and know that once he
was . . .
inside me,
not to put too fine a point on it. He seems to have a very good
relationship with his father, I must admit. I envied them the ease with which they
talked to each other, shared jokes together. Blokes’ stuff, maybe. But no, there was
more to it than that. I can see that they look after him well, Philip and Carol. I
have no grounds for complaint there. A little jealousy, maybe. But then, it was my
choice, to try my luck in Italy again, and leave Pat with his father. My choice.
    And now to my final piece of news, and in some ways the most momentous—
or disturbing, maybe. I saw Benjamin again. About an hour ago. And in the
strangest circumstances, I have to say.
    I had been given the lowdown on Ben the night before. Still working for the
same firm—a senior partner now, and I should think so too, after being there for
so long—and still married to Emily. No kids: but, well, everyone has given up
asking about that. Phil said that they’d tried everything, and been down the adoption route as well. Medical science baffled, etc., etc. Neither of them is to blame,
apparently (which probably means that, deep down, without being able to say it,
each blames the other). And in Benjamin’s case, as with children, so it is with
books: he’s been labouring (!) for years to produce some shattering masterpiece, and
so far, nobody has seen a word. Though everyone still seems touchingly convinced
that it will appear one of these days.
    So,