Arthur Hailey - Strong Medicine

As he said it, Celia wondered if for the first time there was the slightest crack, a hint of weakness, in the confident facade. She wasn't sure, but pressed on. "Is it possible," she insisted, "that scientific arrogance, or whatever else you call it, can go too far; that someone can become so convinced of what they want to believe that they indulge in wishful thinking which becomes unshakable?" "Everything's possible," Martin answered.”Though not in this case.”

But his voice was flat, with less conviction than previously. Now she was sure. She had probed his weakness, and he was close to concession, perhaps to breaking point. "I read something last night," Celia said.”I wrote it down, even though I think you may know of it.”

Her purse was beside her. From it she extracted a sheet of hotel stationery and read aloud:

"Error is not a fault of our knowledge, but a mistake of our judgment... Those who cannot carry a train of consequences in their heads; nor weigh exactly the preponderancy of contrary proofs and testimonies... may be easily misled to assent to positions that are not probable.”

There was a silence which, after a moment, Celia filled, aware she was being relentless, even cruel.”It's from An Essay Concerning Human Understanding by John Locke. The man you believe in and revere.”

"Yes," he said, "I know.”

"So isn't it likely," she persisted, "that you are not weighing those 'contrary proofs' and you are holding to 'positions that are not probable just the way Locke said?" Martin turned toward her, in his eyes a mute appeal.”Do you think I am?" Celia said quietly, "Yes, I do.”

"I'm sorry you...”

He choked on the words and she scarcely recognized his voice. Now he said faintly, "Then... I give up.”

Martin had broken. The quotation from Locke, his idol-turned against him by Celia-had pierced him to the heart. More than that, like a suddenly failing machine that turns inward, devouring itself, he had lost control. His face was ashen, his mouth hung open, and his jaw sagged. Disconnected words emerged.”.

...tell your people to end it... let them close down... I do believe, but maybe I'm not good enough, not alone... What we've looked for will he found... it will happen, must happen... but somewhere else...”

Celia was aghast. What had she done? She had sought to shock Martin into what she perceived as reality, but had neither intended, nor wanted, to go this far. Clearly the accumulated strain over more than two years, the lonely and awesome responsibility he had carried, had exacted its toll, which was visible now. Again Martin's voice.”...tired, so tired...”

Hearing the defeated phrases, Celia had an overwhelming desire to take him in her arms and comfort him. Then, with the suddenness of a revelation, she knew what would happen next.”Martin," she said decisively, "let's get out of here.”

A passing waitress glanced toward them curiously. Celia, standing, told her, "Put the meal on my bill. My friend isn't well.”

"Certainly, Mrs. Jordan.”

The girl eased their table outward.”Do you need help?" "No, thank you. I'll manage.”

She took Martin's arm and propelled him toward the lounge-bar outside. From there a stairway ascended to a series of guest rooms. Celia's room was near the head of the stairway. She used her key to open it. They went inside. This portion of the building, too, had been preserved from Jacobean days. The rectangular bedroom had a low strapwork ceiling, oak-paneled walls and a fireplace framed in stone. Leaded-light windows were small, their smallness a reminder that in the seventeenth century glass was an expensive luxury. The bed was a roomy four-poster with a canopy. During the dinner hours a maid had been here, neatly turning down the bedsheets and leaving a negligee of Celia's draped across a pillow. Celia wondered how much history-of ancient families: their births and deaths, illnesses, loving passions, joys and sorrows, quarrels, assignations-this room had seen. Well, she thought, tonight there would be something more to add. Martin was standing, still dazed and suffering, regarding her uncertainly. She picked up the negligee and, turning toward the bathroom, told him softly, "Get undressed. Get into bed. I'll join you.”

As he continued to look at her, still unmoving, she came close and whispered, "You want this too, don't you?"

His body heaved with a groaning, gasping sigh.”Oh my God, yes”,

While they held each other, she comforted him as she would a child. But not for long. She felt Martin's passion rise, and her own accompanied it. Just as Martin had wanted this moment, Celia knew that she had sought it too. In a way, it had been inevitable, ever since their first meeting at Cambridge when something far stronger than instant, mutual liking had flashed between them. From then on, Celia realized, the question had never been "if", but merely "when?" The choice of consummation here and now had, in one sense, been accidental. It had happened because of Martin's sudden breakdown and despair, his obvious, urgent need to draw on outside strength and solace. Yet, if what was occurring now had not occurred tonight, some other time would have seen the same conclusion, with each of their meetings bringing the fateful moment closer. As Martin kissed her ardently, and she responded, feeling his rigid masculinity against her, she knew in a crevice of her mind that sooner or later moral issues must be faced and consequences weighed. But not now! There was no strength left in Celia for anything but the fulfillment of desire. Her own desire, all-encompassing, burning, blissful, overwhelming, coalesced with Martin's. Moments later they cried out to each other, lovingly, and with exquisite joy. Afterward they slept, Martin-it seemed to Celia--deeply, and no longer troubled. In the early morning hours they awakened and, this time more tenderly but with equal pleasure, made love again. When next Celia awoke, daylight was streaming in through the old-fashioned windows. Martin had gone. She found the note soon after.

Dearest: You have been, and are, an inspiration. Early this morning while you were sleeping--oh, so beautiful yet-an idea, a "perhaps" solution to our research impasse, came to me. I am going to the lab, even though I know I don't have long, to see if it has promise. Either way I shall keep the faith, carrying on until the eviction order comes. What happened between us will be safely secret and a lovely memory. Don't worry about anything. I know that Paradise Found only happens once. I suggest you do not preserve this note.

Yours always,

Martin

Celia showered, ordered breakfast, and began packing for the journey home.

On the British Airways Concorde, after luncheon had been served, Celia closed her eyes and marshaled her thoughts. Personal things first. During the eighteen years of her marriage to Andrew, never until last night-had she had sexual relations with another man. It was not that opportunities had not arisen; they often had. She had even been tempted occasionally to avail herself of proffered sex, but always thrust the notion away, either out of loyalty to Andrew or because, in business terms, it seemed unwise. Sometimes her reasoning was a combination of the two. Sam Hawthorne had indicated, more than once, that he would enjoy an affair with Celia. But she had decided long ago that it would be the worst thing for them both, and discouraged Sam's rare overtures with politeness, but firmly. Martin had been different. From the beginning, Celia admired him, and also-she now admitted to herself-had wanted him physically. Well, that wish had been fulfilled, and the result was as good as any lover could have hoped for. There could also be, Celia knew-if their circumstances were different-a good deal more between herself and Martin. But Martin had wisely recognized that there was no future in their loving, and Celia saw that too. That is, unless she was prepared to abandon Andrew and risk estrangement with her children, which she wasn't, and never would be. Besides, she loved Andrew dearly. They had been through so much together, and Andrew had rich qualities of wisdom, tenderness and strength that no one else Celia knew-not even Martin-could ever come close to. Therefore Martin, sounding more like a poet than a scientist, had said it all that morning.”What happened between us will be safely secret and a lovely memory... I know that Paradise Found only happens once.” She supposed there were people who would believe she ought to feel guilty about what happened last night. Well, she didn't-quite the reverse!-and that was that. Her thoughts moved from herself to Andrew. Had Andrew, she wondered, ever indulged in extramarital sex? Probably yes. He, too, would have had opportunities, and he was a man whom women found attractive. Then how, Celia asked herself, did she feel about that? Not happy, of course, assuming it had happened, because it was difficult, if not impossible, to be logical in such matters. On the other hand, she would never let herself become concerned over something that she didn't know about. Celia had once heard someone say cynically at a Morristown cocktail party, "Any normal man who has been married twenty years and claims not to have had some sex on the side is either a liar or a nebbish.”