Betrayal Quotes

EMMA: How’s Sam?

JERRY: You mean Judith.

EMMA: Do I?

JERRY: You remember the form. I ask about your husband, you ask about my wife.

EMMA: Yes, of course. How is your wife?

JERRY: All right.

Pause

JERRY: The funny thing was that the only thing I really felt was irritation, I mean irritation that nobody gossiped about us like that, in the old days. I nearly said, now look, she may be having the occasional drink with Casey, who cares, but she and I had an affair for seven years and none of you bastards had the faintest idea it was happening.

Pause

EMMA: I wonder. I wonder if everyone knew, all the time.

JERRY: You didn’t tell Robert about me last night, did you?

EMMA: I had to.

Pause

He told me everything. I told him everything. We were up… all night. At one point Ned came down. I had to take him up to bed, had to put him back to bed. Then I went down again. I think it was the voices woke him up. You know…

[…]

JERRY: You told him everything… about us?

EMMA: I had to.

Pause

JERRY: But he’s my oldest friend. I mean, I picked his own daughter up in my own arms and threw her up and caught her, in my kitchen. He watched me do it.

EMMA: It doesn’t matter. It’s all gone.

JERRY: The fact is I can’t understand… why she thought it necessary… after all these years… to tell you… so suddenly… last night…

ROBERT: Last night?

JERRY: Without consulting me. Without even warning me. After all, you and me…

ROBERT: She didn’t tell me last night.

JERRY: [Casey’s] over the hill

ROBERT: Is he?

JERRY: Don’t you think so?

ROBERT: In what respect?

JERRY: His work. His books.

ROBERT: Oh, his books. His art. Yes his art does seem to be falling away, doesn’t it?

JERRY: Still sells.

ROBERT: Oh, sells very well. Sells very well indeed. Very good for us. For you and me.

JERRY: Yes.

JERRY: We’re here now.

EMMA: Not really.

Silence

JERRY: Well, things have changed. You’ve been so busy, your job, and everything.

EMMA: Well, I know. But I mean, I like it. I want to do it.

JERRY: No, it’s great. It’s marvellous for you. But you’re not—

EMMA: If you’re running a gallery you’ve got to run it, you’ve got to be there.

JERRY: But you’re not free in the afternoons. Are you?

EMMA No.

EMMA: It’s just… an empty home.

JERRY: It’s not a home.

Pause

I know… I know what you wanted… but it could never… actually be a home. You have a home. I have a home. With curtains, etcetera. And children. Two children in two homes. There are no children here, so it’s not the same kind of home.

JERRY: Well, I suppose… boys are more anxious.

ROBERT: Boy babies?

JERRY: Yes.

ROBERT: What the hell are they anxious about… at their age? Do you think?

JERRY: Well… facing the world, I suppose, leaving the womb, all that.

ROBERT: But what about girl babies? They leave the womb too.

JERRY: That’s true. It’s also true that nobody much talks about girl babies leaving the womb. Do they?

ROBERT: Well, to be brutally honest, we wouldn’t actually want a woman around, would we, Jerry? I mean a game of squash isn’t simply a game of squash, it’s rather more than that […] You really don’t want a woman within a mile of the place […] You see, at lunch you want to talk about squash, or cricket, or books, or even women, with your friend, and be able to warm to your theme without feat of improper interruption. That’s what it’s all about. What do you think, Jerry?

JERRY: I haven’t played squash for years.

Pause

[Jerry] used to write me at one time. Long letters about Ford Madox Ford. I used to write him too, come to think of it. Long letters about… oh, W.B. Yeats, I suppose. That was the time when we were both editors of poetry magazines. Him at Cambridge, me at Oxford. Did you know that? We were bright young men.

I’ve always liked Jerry. To be honest, I’ve always liked him rather more than I’ve liked you. Maybe I should have had an affair with him myself.

JERRY: Sam fell off his bike […] He was knocked out. He was out for about a minute.

EMMA: Were you with him?

JERRY: No. Judith. He’s all right. And then I got this bug.

JERRY: She was so light. And there was your husband and my wife and all the kids, all standing and laughing in your kitchen. I can’t get rid of it.

EMMA: It was your kitchen, actually.

ROBERT: How are you? Apart from the bug?

JERRY: Fine.

ROBERT: Ready for some squash?

JERRY: When I’ve got rid of the bug, yes.

I’m a bad publisher because I hate books […]. I mean modern novels, first novels and second novels, all that promise and sensibility it falls upon me to judge, to put the firm’s money on, and then to push for the third novel, see it done, see the dust jacket done, see the dinner for the national literary editors done, […] all in the name of literature. You know what you and Emma have in common? You love literature. I mean you love modern prose literature, I mean you love the new novel by the new Casey or Spinks. It gives you a thrill.

JERRY: Ginos? What the hell was she doing at Ginos?

EMMA: She was having lunch. With a woman.

JERRY: A woman?

EMMA: Yes.

Pause

JERRY: Ginos is a long way from the hospital.

EMMA: Of course it isn’t.

JERRY: Well… I suppose not.

Pause

And you?

EMMA: Me?

JERRY: What were you doing at Ginos?

EMMA: Having lunch.

JERRY: Yes, but with who?

Pause

EMMA: My sister.

JERRY: Ah.

Pause

EMMA: Have you ever been unfaithful?

JERRY: To whom?

EMMA: To me, of course.

JERRY: No.

Pause

Have you… to me?

EMMA: No.

I should have had you in your white, before the wedding. I should have blackened you, in your white wedding dress, blackened you in your bridal dress, before ushering you into your wedding, as your best man.

[…] I’m madly in love with you. I can’t believe that what anyone is at this moment saying has ever happened has ever happened. Nothing has ever happened. Nothing. This is the only thing that has ever happened. Your eyes kill me. I’m lost. You’re wonderful

JERRY: I speak as your oldest friend. Your best man.

ROBERT: You are, actually.