confident that, although I was from a mad family and a nation of savages, he was really quite safe.

I resisted the urge to lunge across the table at him and rip out his larynx with my teeth, hissing, "Boiling oil would be too good for you."

Instead I gave a cold little smile and said "Oh don't be ridiculous, James.

We're perfectly civilized around here, no matter what you might like to think. Why would we hurt you? And after all"-tinkly little laugh like shards of ice banging off the side of a glass-"we need you to be in good health so that you can afford Kate's child support payments."

There was a resonant silence.

"What are you talking about, 'child support payments'?" he asked slowly, as though he had never before in his life heard of such a thing.

"James, you must know what child support payments are," I told him, faint with shock.

I just stared at him.

What the hell was going on?

He was a boring, accountant-type person.

He and child support agreements should be best buddies.

In fact, I was amazed that he hadn't arrived with a huge itemized agreement for me to sign. You know, detailing all kinds of things, such as the cost of keeping Kate in shoes for the rest of her life, projected economies of scale, sinking funds, amortization and suchlike.

After all, this was the man who could, and probably frequently did, cal-culate a waitress's tip to within fourteen decimal places.

Not that he was cheap, you understand.

But he was very, very very organized. organized.

Forever scribbling on the backs of envelopes or on napkins and coming up with immensely detailed calculations which, oddly enough, nearly always turned out to be correct. In five minutes he could tell you to the nearest penny how much it would cost you to decorate your bathroom, taking everything into account, including paint, fittings, labor, coffee for the workmen, workdays (your own, that is) lost from sleepless nights when the workmen disappeared for three weeks, leav-277 ing the bathtub in the hall etc.... Honestly, he thinks of everything!

"Child support payments," he said again thoughtfully. He didn't sound happy.

"Yes James," I said with steely resolve, although my stomach was lurching around like a ferry in rough seas. If James was going to be difficult about money, I'd die.

No, let me take that back. I wouldn't.

I'd kill him.

"Right, right, I see," he said, sounding a bit stunned. "Yes, we obviously do do have a lot to talk about." have a lot to talk about."

"Yes, we certainly do," I confirmed, trying to sound jovial. "And you're here now so we're in the happy position of being able to do so." I gave him a bright smile.

It was so reluctant that I think I damaged muscles in my face.

But I had to keep this as amiable and friendly as possible.

"So," I continued briskly, determined to sound as if I knew what I was talking about, "I know we're both unfamiliar with this sort of thing, but don't you think we should try to sort out the basic issues ourselves and let the lawyers dot the t t's and cross the i i's?" (I permitted myself a little smile at this. Which he completely ignored.) "Or would you prefer to do the whole lot, lock stock and barrel through our lawyers?"

"Aha!" He suddenly seemed to brighten up. He raised his index finger like Monsieur Poirot demonstrating the fatal flaw in the argument. "That would be fine if we had lawyers. But we haven't, have we?" He looked at me in a kindly but pitying sort of fashion as if I was a bit of a half-wit.

"But...well, actually I have," I told him.

"Have you?" he asked. "Have you indeed? Well, well, well." He sounded quite astonished. And not that pleased.

"Um...yes, of course I have," I said.

"My, my, weren't you the busy one?" he said a bit nastily. "You certainly didn't waste much time."

"James, what are you talking about? It's been two months," I protested.

And to think that I had felt guilty about all the procrastination and time wasting.

I was confused.

Had I done something wrong? Was there some sort of pro-278 tocol? Some sort of time limit that I had to observe before dealing with the wreckage of my broken marriage?

Like not being allowed to go dancing in a red dress until my husband had been dead for six years, or whatever it was that Scarlett O'Hara so scandalized the Atlanta community with?

"Yes," he said. "I suppose it has been two months."

He sighed.

For a moment the wild thought crossed my mind that he might be sad.

And then I realized that, yes, he probably was sad. Wouldn't any man be sad when he suddenly realized that he now had two families to support?

He was probably envisioning lawyers' fees and estate agents' costs stretching as far as the eye can see into the future as we sorted out the severing of our marriage. And of course keeping those three little brats of Denise's in pink nylon shell suits wouldn't come cheap either. Although, by rights, it should.

So I put any sympathy that I might have entertained to one side and said, "James, did you bring the deeds to the apartment with you?"

"Er, no," he said, looking a tiny bit bewildered.

"Why not?" I asked, slightly exasperated.

"I don't know," he said, looking at his shoes.

There was a perplexed pause.

"I suppose I just didn't think of it. I left London in such a hurry."

"Do you have any any of our documents with you?" I asked, fighting the urge to smack him. "You know, bank statements, our pension details, that kind of thing?" of our documents with you?" I asked, fighting the urge to smack him. "You know, bank statements, our pension details, that kind of thing?"

"No," he said shortly. His face had gone very pale. He must have been furious at being caught unprepared.

This kind of inefficiency was really very unlike him. He was acting totally out of character. Although he hadn't exactly been acting in in character for quite a while. Maybe he was having a nervous breakdown? Or maybe he was so in love with fatso Denise that he'd turned into a bimbo. His eyesight had obviously failed him when he ran off with her. What's to say that his brain hadn't gone the same way? character for quite a while. Maybe he was having a nervous breakdown? Or maybe he was so in love with fatso Denise that he'd turned into a bimbo. His eyesight had obviously failed him when he ran off with her. What's to say that his brain hadn't gone the same way?

"Do we need all those documents?" he asked.279.

"Well, not right away, I suppose," I said. "But if we want to work things out while you're here, it would be a lot handier to have them."

"I suppose I could get some of them faxed over," he said slowly. "If that's what you really want."

"Well, it's not exactly a question of what I I want," I said, feeling a bit confused. "It's so that we can try to figure out who owns what." want," I said, feeling a bit confused. "It's so that we can try to figure out who owns what."

"God, how sordid!" he said with great distaste. "You mean, things like 'I own that towel, you own that saucepan' kind of thing."

"Well, yes, I suppose I do," I said.

What was wrong wrong with him? Hadn't he given this any thought whatsoever? with him? Hadn't he given this any thought whatsoever?

"James," I asked him as he sat on the chair looking totally shell-shocked.

"What did you think think was going to happen? That the divorce fairies would come along and magically sort it all out for us while we slept?" was going to happen? That the divorce fairies would come along and magically sort it all out for us while we slept?"

He managed a pale little smile at that.

"You're right," he said wearily. "You're right, you're right, you're right!"

"I am," I reassured him. "And if it makes you feel any better, you can have all the saucepans."

"Thanks," he said quietly.

"And don't worry," I told him, all fake bonhomie and back-slapping jocularity, "one day I'm sure we'll look back and laugh at all of this."

Naturally enough, I was sure of nothing of the sort. I was dimly aware that there was something deeply, deeply deeply wrong with my having to comfort him, with my having to make light of things and encourage him to be strong. wrong with my having to comfort him, with my having to make light of things and encourage him to be strong.

James suddenly got to his feet. He just stood there for a few moments looking lost. He was obviously planning how to get the mortgage documents and all that stuff sent over from London, I thought. He must be mortified that he'd been so inefficient.

"I'd better go," he said.

"Right," I said. "Fine. Why don't you go back to your hotel [hotel! what a joke!] and organize the deeds of the apartment to be sent over? And then we can meet up later."280.

"Fine," he said, still being very quiet.

I couldn't wait for him to leave.

This was too much.

It was finally happening.

It really was really, really over.

We'd dealt with it like civilized human beings. Too civilized, in my opinion. The whole thing had a dreamlike quality, and it was horrible.

"I'll call you this afternoon," he said.

He said good-bye to Kate, and although he looked as if he was explaining her child support entitlements to her, at least he seemed to be making an effort to bond with her.

Finally I managed to get him to leave.

He looked as exhausted as I felt.281.

twenty-seven.

I barely managed to close the door behind him before I started to cry. barely managed to close the door behind him before I started to cry.

As though they instinctively knew that he had left-hey, what am I talking about, because they had been lying on the floor in the bedroom above the dining room with their ears pressed to a glass trying to hear everything that was being said-Anna, Helen and Mum magically emerged from the woodwork, wearing their Concerned Expressions.

I was distraught.

As though she sensed my grief, Kate started to bawl.

Or maybe it was just because she was hungry.

Either way it was a bit of a cacophony.

"The bastard," I managed to say between sobs, tears stinging my face.

"How can it be so easy for him? He's like a fucking machine, with no feelings at all."

"Wasn't he upset, even slightly?" asked Mum anxiously.

"The one thing, the only only thing, the fucker is worried about is how thing, the fucker is worried about is how sordid sordid it's going to be when we have to split up our possessions." it's going to be when we have to split up our possessions."

"But that's not so bad," said Helen soothingly. "Maybe then he'll just leave everything to you. And you'll get everything."

Nice try, Helen.

Not quite what I needed to hear though.

"So there was no mention of a reconciliation?" asked Mum, her face white, her eyes worried.282.

"None!" I burst out, prompting a fresh bout of wailing from Kate, who was being held by a miserable-looking Anna.

"Reconciliation!" screeched Helen. "But you wouldn't take him back, would you? Not after the way he's treated you."

"But that's not the point," I sobbed. "At least I wanted the choice. I wanted the chance to tell him to fuck off and that I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole. And the bastard didn't even have the decency to do that."

The three of them nodded in sympathy.

"And he was so smug!" I burst out. "I remembered how he likes his bloody coffee!"