by Marian Keyes
“Wait!” I wanted to shout after her. “I’m not finished. There’s lots more that I want to ask you.”
But she went into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her.
I could still hear her singing, but it was a bit fainter now.
I stood in the hall, feeling desolate.
“I can’t think about it now,” I told myself. “I must forget it. I’ll think about it some other time when everything is different. When I’m happy and things are worked out. But not now.”
I forced myself to stop thinking about it. I went to the room in my brain where all my thoughts about Adam lived and disconnected the electricity and boarded up all the doors and windows, so nothing could get in or out.
Obviously it was very unsightly. There were bound to be complaints from the neighboring thoughts. But I had no choice. I was trying to sort out my marriage, one way or the other, and I could do without any distractions.
Mum eventually found the keys to the car. Kate, Mum and I piled in and we drove to the airport. We didn’t speak. I could tell that Mum was itching to ask me what was going on. But thankfully she kept her mouth shut.
It was miraculous, but I really did stop thinking about Adam. I was so upset and angry about James that I suppose there just wasn’t any room in my head left to worry about anything else. My worry arena was packed to capacity with thousands and thousands of thoughts worrying about James.
And there wasn’t even standing room left for any thoughts that might have hoped to get in and worry about Adam.
Unfair, perhaps. But it was on a first-come, first-served basis.
Leaving Kate was awful, but I had to do it. It wouldn’t have been right to bring her. I believe it has a terrible effect on children if they happen to witness their mother murdering their father.
I kissed Kate good-bye at the departure area. “See you soon, darling,” I said.
I hugged Mum.
“Can I ask you just one thing?” she said anxiously, inspecting my face for any imminent explosions of rage.
“Go on,” I said, trying to sound nice.
“Has James gone back to that Denise woman?” she asked.
“Not that I know of.” I smiled bitter reassurance at her.
“Thank God,” she said, breathing out with relief.
Oh dear. Poor Mum. If only she knew. Denise wasn’t a problem. But there was a problem. A problem that was much bigger than Denise. And, hey, that was really saying something.
Honestly, wouldn’t you think that by now I might have begun to forgive and forget? Wasn’t it time that I stopped being nasty about Denise?
It’s just that it was so easy.
I turned on my sexy high heels and tried to march purposefully across the departure area. It wasn’t easy to be purposeful when I kept colliding with all kinds of easygoing people who stood around chatting, surrounded by suitcases and bags, rest- ing their elbows on their carts, as if they had all the time in the world. As if this wasn’t an airport at all and nobody had a flight to catch. Certainly not one departing in the next decade or so.
I tried briskly to reserve a flight to London.
But it wasn’t possible.
The pleasant, laid-back Aer Lingus rep would only allow me to make my reservation in a relaxed, easygoing fashion.
In between a discussion on the Russian presidency (isn’t the drink a scourge?) and a chat about the weather (let’s hope the dry spell lasts), I just happened to get myself a standby on a flight leaving shortly for London.
There were no problems at all. Which I thought was an awful waste because it wasn’t often that I was in a filthy mood and able to stand up for myself and insist on my rights and cause trouble and all that and today would have been just ideal to do it.
I was all fired up for a good fight.
But everybody was so decent and accommodating and it all went beautifully.
Damn it.
It was ten minutes past five.
The flight was uneventful.
It would have been great if the important-looking business-man beside me had tried to talk to me, or even better, tried to flirt with me, just so that I could take full advantage of my bad mood.
Honestly, I was so childish. I was just itching for a chance to say something mean. I thought I might like to experiment with a Joan Collins-type voice. You know, all posh and scary, my words sounding like pieces of ice dropping into a glass. And say something like, “I really wouldn’t bother trying to talk to me. I’m in a very bad mood, and I’m not sure how long I can be polite to you.”
But apart from giving me a vague “Sorry” as he fumbled around my hips for his seat belt, he totally ignored me. He just opened up his impressive-looking leather briefcase and in no time at all had his nose buried in a Catherine Cookson novel. I’m sure you know it. It’s the one about the ille-gitimate girl with the wine-colored birthmark, whose cousin falls in love with her, who gets scourged with a riding crop by her stepmother and raped when she is thirteen by the lord from the Big Hall and, while escaping from him, gets her foot caught in a rabbit trap and has to have it amputated and the wound cauterized by a red-hot poker while her screams echo throughout the slag heaps.
Or is that all of them?
Anyway, the man was far more interested in Catherine Cookson than he was in me and that made me a bit fidgety. I was dying to exercise my bad mood. Limber up, as it were, for the real nastiness that I’d be involved in later. But nothing doing.
And then I felt ashamed of myself and tried to strike up a conversation with him, smiling above and beyond the call of duty at him when he passed me my food tray, gently offering to open his little container of milk for him when he ran into difficulties, giving him my mint to bring home to his little girl, even thought he ate his own—that kind of thing.
He turned out to be a lovely man. We discussed the book he was reading.
I recommended a couple of other writers to him. And by the time we landed at Heathrow, we were on first-name terms. We shook each other’s hand, said that it had been a pleasure to meet each other and warmly wished each other a safe onward journey.
Then I was on my own again. On my own with my thoughts and fears and anger.
Apart from the ninety billion other people in Heathrow I was completely alone in London.
Now if this was a film instead of a book, you’d be shown shots of red buses and black cabs passing the houses of Parliament and Big Ben, and policemen with funny hats directing traffic outside Buckingham Palace and smiling girls in very short skirts standing underneath a “Welcome to Carnaby street” sign.
But as this is a book, you’ll just have to use your imagination.
Heathrow was, well…it was busy. That’s one way of putting it.
It was totally crazy.
I couldn’t believe that there were so many people. It was like a Renais-sance painting of the Day of Judgment come to life.
Or like the opening ceremony at the Olympics.
People of all nationalities, with all manner of exotic outfits, rushed past me, speaking every language under the sun.
Why was everyone in such a hurry?
And the noise was deafening. Announcements over the loudspeaker.
Small boys lost. Grown men lost. Expensive luggage lost. Patience lost.
Tempers lost. Marbles lost. You name it and there was a good chance that it was lost.
I had forgotten that London was like this. There was a time when I would operate at this kind of speed with the greatest of ease. But I was now on Dublin tempo so I had slowed down and kicked back and chilled out. I stood in the arrivals area, terrified, looking like a hick from the sticks, feeling overwhelmed by the number of people, feebly apologizing as people bumped into me and tisked loudly at me.
Then I pulled myself together. This was only London, after all.
I mean, I could have been somewhere really scary.
Like Limerick, for e
xample. Sorry, no, only joking.
And everywhere I looked, everywhere, were small clusters of businessmen.
Standing around in their nasty suits, either waiting for their bags or waiting for a flight, their briefcases that were probably full of porn mags by their feet.
They were all drinking beer, out-glad-handing each other, determinedly exuding “nice-guyness” and bonhomie, having competitions to see who could laugh the most uproariously and who could make the most disparaging remark about his wife or the most vulgar remark about any of the women at the conference they had just been to or were just about to go to.
“I wouldn’t throw her out of the bed for farting” and “Nah, her tits are too small” and “Everyone’s had her, even the guys in the mailroom” drifted over to me from the various groups.
I wonder what the collective noun for a group of businessmen is? Surely there’s got to be one.
A conference of businessmen? A briefcase of businessmen? A meeting of businessmen? A polyester of businessmen? A pinstripe of businessmen?
It’s no good. None of those words really conveys the nastiness of the little groups. How about an insincerity of businessmen? A disloyalty of businessmen? An infidelity of businessmen?
I caught a man from one of the groups leering over at me. I looked away hastily. He turned back to the four or five men he was with and said something. There was a big burst of laughter and they all started bending and stretching and craning their necks to get a good look at me.
The bastards! I wanted to kill them!
And they were all so unattractive and nondescript. How dare they be so arrogant about me? Or any woman, for that matter. They should be grateful that any woman would touch them with a stick. Fuck them! I thought furiously.
Time to leave.
I had no bags to collect. I wasn’t planning on staying long enough to need them. So at least I was spared the carousel hell.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, set my jaw firmly and started to push through the arrivals area. I was heading in the direction of the subway station, determinedly making my way through all the other human beings, like an Amazon explorer hacking his way through dense under-growth.
I finally got to the station. Japan was obviously holding its national census there. After waiting for what seemed like several years while the sons of Nippon figured out how to operate the ticket machines—I thought they were all supposed to be technological wizards?—I bought myself a ticket and boarded a train for central London. Funds didn’t run to a taxi. The train was full and every nation on earth had a representative on it.
I don’t need to go to an Emergency Council meeting of the United Nations. I’ve already been there.
The journey was so crowded and uncomfortable and unpleasant that in a way it was a godsend. Even if I hadn’t already been feeling totally hom-icidal before I got on the train, there was a good chance that I would be when I got off.
A fellow passenger was kind enough to take my mind off my forthcoming antler-locking with James by pressing his erection against me every time the train turned a corner.
And at about ten minutes to eight I arrived at my station.
thirty-four
When I came out of the station and onto the road where I lived, my stomach gave a sudden lurch. Everything was so achingly familiar, the newsagents, the launderette, the liquor store, the Indian takeout restaurant.
In one way I felt that I’d been away for light-years, but in another I felt that I’d never left. I started to walk toward my apartment, my heart pounding, my knees feeling peculiar and kind of trembly.
I was surprised. A bit shocked.
I hadn’t expected to be so affected by being back in my old neighborhood.
When I came around the corner and saw my apartment, the home that I had shared with James, my forehead started to prickle with sweat.
I walked slowly, reluctantly.
Now that I had arrived I didn’t really know what to do.
I just wished that I wasn’t there. That I didn’t have to be there.
“Do I have to have this confrontation?” I asked myself wildly. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe James really does love me as I am. Maybe I should just turn around and go back home and pretend that everything is fine.”
I stood at the entrance door to the apartment house and leaned my burning face against the cool glass. I wasn’t so angry now. I wasn’t angry at all. I felt afraid and so, so sad.
A taxi came around the corner. It had its light on. Hope surged through me. I could hail it and just get out of here, I thought. I don’t have to go through with this.
Let this cup pass from my lips.
Speaking of cups, I thought, my mind wandering. I really must remember to pick up some of my bras while I’m here. Now that my tits had—regret-tably—returned to their normal size, all the bras that I had in Ireland were too big for me.
This momentary lapse of concentration was fatal and I watched the taxi drive past me.
I wasn’t leaving, it seemed. Not just yet, in any case.
I was going to see James and find out what was going on.
Remind me again why I’m here—oh yes, I remember. Because James had lied to me. Lied about the fundamentals of how he feels about me, about the essence of our relationship.
I started to feel angry again. That was good. The whole thing wasn’t quite so nightmarish when I felt angry.
I took a deep, shaky breath.
Should I ring the doorbell and give James a slight warning that I had arrived? Or should I just march on in like I owned the place? When everyone knows that I only owned half the place. But then I thought, dammit no, it’s my home. I’m going to let myself bloody well in.
My hand was shaking as I fumbled around in my bag for my bunch of keys. It took me ages to get the key in the lock.
The familiar, evocative smell of the entrance hall hit me in the pit of my stomach. It smelled like home. I tried hard to ignore it—this was no time for sentimentality.
The elevator delivered me to the second floor. I reluctantly walked down the corridor to my front door. When I heard the noise of the television coming from my apartment my heart sank even further. It meant that James was home. Now there really was no getting out of it.
I let myself in and, with an attempt at nonchalance, strolled into the front room.
James nearly died of shock when he saw me.
In a perverse way I would have been glad if I had caught him up to no good. Maybe in the throes of bondage with a fourteen-year-old girl. Or even better, a fourteen-year-old boy. Or better still, a fourteen-year-old sheep.
It would have meant that I wouldn’t have had to confront him. I could have walked away from him, knowing that he was a terrible person. No room for any doubt. All neatly tied up. No loose ends.
But, contrary bastard that he was, he couldn’t have looked more whole-some and innocent if he had been rehearsing all day. He was reading the paper. Even the mug beside him contained Coke and not alcohol. Clean as a goddam whistle.
“Cl…Claire, what are you doing here?” he gasped, leaping up from the couch. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. In fairness, it must have been a terrible shock. As far as he knew I was hundreds of miles away in another city.
But at the same time, under ordinary circumstances, he should have been a bit glad to see me. Surprised delighted, instead of Shocked horrified. If he really loved me and didn’t have a guilty conscience and had nothing to be afraid of, or to feel ashamed about, wouldn’t he have been just over the moon to see me? He looked nervous. You know, edgy, watchful. Wondering why I had come. He knew something was wrong.
And with a jolt I realized that I hadn’t been imagining things. Something was badly amiss. I had only to look at James’s face to know.
I can’t be sad now, I told myself. I can let myself be heartbroken and go to pieces later, but for the moment I have to stay strong.
�
��Gr…great to see you, Claire,” he said, sounding horrified. He seemed a bit hysterical.
I looked into his white, anxious face and I felt such a surge of anger that I wanted to bite him. I wanted to feel angry. I wanted anger to course through me.
Anger is good, I told myself. Anger keeps the pain away. Anger em-powers me.
I looked around the front room. I smiled graciously at him, even though I was shaking. “The place looks nice,” I told him pleasantly. I was surprised that my voice wasn’t trembling. “I see you’ve moved your books and records and stuff back. And…”
I pushed past him and marched into the bedroom and flung open the closet. “I see you’ve moved all your clothes back also. Very cozy.”
“Claire, what are you doing here?” he managed to ask.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” I asked, all coquettish and simpery.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, “Of course, it’s just…I mean, I wasn’t expecting you…you know…I thought you were going to call.”
“I know exactly what you thought, James,” I said, fixing him with a judgmental stare.
I must say, in spite of the feeling of impending doom, I was starting to enjoy this.
There was a little silence.
“Is something wrong, Claire?” he asked cautiously.
He looked frightened. From the moment James had watched me walk into the apartment, he knew that I hadn’t come on a mission of love. He was acting far too guilty and scared.
Maybe he had already spoken to George and knew that I knew about his duplicity?
Maybe he had been expecting some kind of showdown?
But at least he wanted to discuss whatever was wrong.
That had to count for something, didn’t it?
Maybe it was all going to be fine.
Or was I just too pathetic for words?
“Claire,” he said again, a bit more urgently, “is something wrong?”
“Yes, James,” I said sweetly, “something is wrong.”
“What is it?” he asked, watching me warily.
“I had a very interesting conversation with George today,” I said idly.
