"Yes, please."

And I would eventually fall into a peaceful sleep, lulled by the sound of James's soothing voice explaining tax breaks for charities or the new economic regulations set by the European Union.

I turned off the shower and dried myself.

I'd better call him, I told myself.

I went back into my room and started to get dressed.

"Call him," I ordered myself sternly.

"After I've fed Kate," I replied in a vague and wishy-washy fashion.

"Call him!" I told myself again.

"Do you want the child to starve starve?" I asked, trying to sound outraged.

"I'll call him when I've fed her."

"No you won't. Call him now now!"

I was up to my old tricks again.

Procrastinating, avoiding responsibility, running away from unpleasant situations.

But I was so afraid.

I knew knew that I had to talk to James about money and the apartment and all that. I wasn't denying that for a minute. But I felt that the moment I actually spoke to him about these things they would become real. that I had to talk to James about money and the apartment and all that. I wasn't denying that for a minute. But I felt that the moment I actually spoke to him about these things they would become real.

And if they were real it meant that my marriage was over.

"Oh God," I sighed.

I looked at Kate, lying in her bassinet, soft and plump and fragrant in her little pink pajamas.

And I knew that I had to call James. I could be a yaller-bellied, lily-livered, cringing coward on my own account all I liked, but I owed it to this beautiful child of mine to sort out her future.135.

"Right," I said resignedly, looking at her. "You've twisted my arm. I'll call him."

I went into Mum's room to use the phone there.

I started to dial the number of James's office in London and I began to feel dizzy.

Excited and frightened at the same time.

In a few moments I'd hear his voice.

And I couldn't wait.

I was warm and shaky with anticipation.

I'd be speaking to him, to my James, my best friend. Except, of course, he wasn't anymore, was he? But sometimes I forgot. Just for a second.

It was becoming very hard for me to breathe. My breath didn't seem to be able to go down all the way.

The phone connected and started to ring.

A thrill ran through me and I thought I might throw up. The receptionist answered.

"Um, can I speak to Mr. James Webster, please," I asked, my voice wobbling. My lips felt as if I'd been given an injection to numb them.

There were a couple of clicks on the line.

I'd be speaking to him in a moment.

I held my breath.

It wasn't as if the breathing that I had been doing had been particularly successful anyway.

Another click.

And the receptionist was back.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Webster is away this week. Can anyone else help?"

The disappointment was so painful that I could hardly stammer out, "No, that's all right, thank you."

And I hung up the phone.

I stayed sitting on Mum's bed.

I didn't really know what to do now.

It had been such an ordeal to ring him. It was such a hard thing to do.

And then, in spite of myself, I had been excited about talking to him. And he wasn't even there. I had gallons of adrenaline coursing through my body, making prickles of sweat break out on my forehead, making my hands wet and136.

shaky, making me light-headed, and I just didn't know what to do with it.

And then the thought just struck me, where was was James? James?

Please don't tell me that he's gone on vacation.

On vacation?

How could he go on vacation when his marriage was breaking up? Had broken up, in fact.

Maybe he's on a business trip, I thought desperately.

I half thought of calling the receptionist back and asking her where James was.

But I stopped myself. I wasn't going to throw away the tiny bit of pride I had left. Maybe he's sick, I thought. Maybe he has the flu.

I probably would have welcomed the news that he had terminal cancer.

Anything, but don't let him have gone on vacation.

The thought of him having a life without me, the thought of him actually enjoying enjoying that life, was deeply unpleasant. that life, was deeply unpleasant.

He mustn't have a care in the world, I thought, my imagination running wild. Probably off with his fancy woman in some exotic resort. Drinking Pina Coladas from Denise's shoe. His life resonating to the sound of champagne corks popping and fireworks exploding and surrounded by music and happy people, wearing party hats and decorated with streamers, dancing past him, whooping and doing the conga.

While I was freezing in this March weather, I became fully convinced that James was living it up in some very expensive Caribbean resort, where he had fourteen houseboys and a private swimming pool and the air was scented with frangipani blossoms.

I had no idea what frangipani blossoms were like. I simply knew that they regularly appeared in this type of scenario.

"Oh dear," I thought, swallowing. I certainly hadn't expected to feel like this.

Now what do I do?

Mum marched into the room with a huge bundle of freshly ironed clothes in her arms.

She stopped in surprise when she saw me.

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded, looking at my white, miserable face.137.

"I called James," I told her, and burst into tears.

"Oh Lord," she said, putting the pile of clothes down on a chair and coming over to sit beside me.

"What did he say?" she asked.

"Nothing," I sobbed. "He wasn't there. I bet he's gone on a vacation with that fat bitch. And I bet they flew first-class. And I bet they have a Jacuzzi in their bathroom."

Mum put her arms around me.

And eventually I stopped crying.

"Do you want a hand putting the ironing away?" I asked Mum in a snivelly and tearful voice.

That made her look really really worried. "Are you okay?" she said anxiously. worried. "Are you okay?" she said anxiously.

"Yes," I said. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" she said, still not convinced.

"Yes," I insisted, a bit annoyed.

I was fine.

I had better get used to feeling this upset, I decided.

Because it was going to happen a lot. At least until I came to terms with the fact that it really was over with James.

All right, so I really did feel awful now.

Hurt and shocked.

But in a while those feelings wouldn't hurt so much. The pain would go away.

So I wasn't going to take to the bed for a week.

I was going to square my shoulders and get on with things.

And I'd call him on Monday.

That'd be a really good time to talk to him. He was bound to be feeling really miserable then anyway, what with being back at work and having the postvacation blues and jet lag. I was trying to cheer myself up by pretending that I would be glad to see him being miserable.

And if I didn't think too hard about it, it would work for a little while.

"Right then, Mum," I said determinedly. "Let's put these clothes away."

I went purposefully over to the pile of freshly ironed clothes on the chair.

Mum looked a little bit blown away as I started to quickly sort them out.138.

I picked up an armful and said to Mum, "I'll put these in Anna's drawer."

"But..." started Mum.

"No buts," I told her soothingly.

"No, Claire..." she said anxiously.

"Mum," I insisted, quite touched by her concern but determined to pull myself together and be a dutiful daughter, "I'm fine now."

And I left her bedroom, making for Anna's.

Mum's door swung shut behind me. So her voice was muffled when she called out to me. "Claire! For God's sake. How am I going to explain to your father why his underpants are in Anna's drawer?"

I was on my knees in front of Anna's chest of drawers.

I paused in what I was going.

I wasn't putting Dad's underpants in Anna's drawer, was I?

I was.

I realized that I had better move them. Because there was no way that Anna would realize that there was anything unusual when she changed her underwear and found herself wearing huge, baggy men's briefs.