I went to meet James with ears that were red, raw and almost bleeding, instead of a rich, glossy, chestnut color.

But my hair remained up.288.

twenty-eight.

I have to say that walking into that restaurant was one of the most grati-fying experiences I'd ever had. James looked up from whatever he was reading and he literally, have to say that walking into that restaurant was one of the most grati-fying experiences I'd ever had. James looked up from whatever he was reading and he literally, literally literally, did a double take.

"Er, Claire," he said, all of a fluster, "um, you're looking wonderful."

I smiled in what I hoped was a mysterious, enigmatic, sophisticated way.

"Thank you," I purred.

That'll teach you to leave me, you bastard, I thought as I swung into my seat, giving him an eyeful of my thighs in my sheer, shimmering stockings and my short tight black dress.

He couldn't take his eyes off me.

It was wonderful.

I had got a few funny looks as I had walked from where I had parked the car to the restaurant. I suppose I was a bit overdressed for a bright Monday evening in April, but who cared.

The waiter, a youth in an ill-fitting dinner suit-an alleged Italian, but with a Dublin accent-came rushing over and spent an unnecessary amount of time patting my napkin onto my crotch.

"Um, thank you," I said when I felt that it had gone on far too long.

"You're welcome," he drawled, as Italian as bacon and cabbage. He winked at me over James's head.

Honestly!289.

And then I got really paranoid.

Maybe he thought I was a hooker.

Did I look like a prostitute?

I knew knew my dress was too short. my dress was too short.

Oh what the hell, I decided.

James smiled at me. A beautiful, warm, admiring, approving smile. And for a moment I saw the man I'd married.

Then he noticed the young waiter bending down so he could get a better look at my legs under the table and the smile vanished, leaving me feeling bereft.

"Claire." He frowned like a Victorian patriarch. "Cover yourself. Look at the way the waiter is looking at you!"

I reddened.

I felt foolish and embarrassed now in my short dress, instead of sexy and sassy. Fuck James for making me feel like this! Behaving like a bloody Amish person.

He hadn't always been like that, you know. I could remember a time when the shorter my dress was, the better he liked it. Well, times, as they say, had changed.

I put my head down and spitefully looked for the most expensive thing on the menu.

"I suppose we should talk about money," I said after the waiter had gone away.

"It's all right," he said. "I'll pay. I'll put it on the card."

"No, James," I said, wondering if he was being deliberately obtuse. "I mean, we have to talk about our our money. You know, yours and mine, our financial situation." money. You know, yours and mine, our financial situation."

I spoke slowly and deliberately, as if I was talking to a child.

"Oh, I see." He nodded.

"So, do we have any?" I asked anxiously.

"Money? Of course we do," he said, annoyed. I'd hit him where it hurt.

Casting aspersions on his ability to provide for his wife and family. Or should I say his wife and families.

"Why wouldn't we have any money?" he asked.

"Well, because of my not working and only getting maternity pay and with you paying the mortgage and then the rent on another apartment and..."

"What do you mean, paying the rent on another apartment?" he said in loud and annoyed tones.290.

"You know, the apartment that you and...and...Denise live in," I said.

It nearly killed me to say her name.

"But I've moved back into our apartment," he said, looking at me in a slightly baffled way. "Didn't you know?"

Several things occurred to me at once.

Could I fatally wound him with a fork?

Would a woman judge be more lenient?

What would prison food be like?

How would Kate turn out if her mother murdered her father?

James's voice swam toward me through a haze of murderous rage.

"Claire," he was saying anxiously. "Are you feeling okay?"

I realized that I was gripping my butter knife so hard that my hand hurt.

And, although I couldn't see my face, I knew it had gone bright red with fury.

"You mean to tell me," I finally managed to hiss at him, "that you've moved that woman into my home."

I thought that I would choke or vomit or do something something antisocial. antisocial.

"No, no, Claire," he said. Sounding hurried, anxious, afraid that-heaven forbid-I might cause a bit of a scene. "I've moved back into our apartment. But Deni...er...she hasn't."

"Oh."

I was totally flabbergasted. I didn't know what to say. Because I didn't know how I felt.

"I'm not...er...you know...with her anymore. I haven't been for some time."

"Oh."

In a way that was almost worse.

I still wanted to strangle him.

To think that he threw away our marriage, our relationship, for something that hadn't survived even two months of living together. The waste waste. The sense of pointless loss was almost unbearable. Then I burst out, "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

What had happened to the highly efficient bush telegraph system that my friends and I operated?

James spoke to me soothingly.

"Maybe nobody knows yet. I haven't made much of a fuss 291 about it. And I haven't seen much of anyone over the past month," he explained, obviously keen to keep me calm.

He must must be having a nervous breakdown, I thought. He'd become a spooky, shadowy, Howard Hughes-type reclusive figure. be having a nervous breakdown, I thought. He'd become a spooky, shadowy, Howard Hughes-type reclusive figure.

"I've been away on business," he continued.

"Oh."

All right, then he wasn't having a nervous breakdown. He hadn't hadn't become a spooky, shadowy, Howard Hughes-type reclusive figure. become a spooky, shadowy, Howard Hughes-type reclusive figure.

I might have known. James was far too practical to bother with nervous breakdowns. If they couldn't be justified in financial terms he wasn't interested.

At least that meant that he hadn't been away on vacation with fatso Denise that time I called him.

What a waste of all that angst and misery.

And then the curiosity started burning a hole in me.

What had happened with James and Denise?

I knew I shouldn't ask questions, but I just couldn't help myself.

"So did she kick you out?" I asked. I tried to say it lightly but it just sounded bitter. "Gone back to Mario or Sergio or whatever his name is."

"Actually, no, Claire," said James, looking at me carefully. "I left her."

"Gosh." Bitterness seeped out through my pores. "You're making quite a habit of it. Leaving women, that is," I added viciously, just in case he hadn't understood.

"Yes, Claire, I know what you meant." His tone of voice implied that somehow he felt he was above above all this. But that he was a decent guy who was prepared to indulge me. all this. But that he was a decent guy who was prepared to indulge me.

I carried on regardless. "And, anyway, I thought a gentleman would never say that he'd left a woman. I thought it was mannerly to say that she had left you even if she hadn't."

Even I was amazed at how illogical I was being. I was aware of the edge of hysteria in my voice. But I was powerless to stop. I had no control over my runaway emotions.

"I'm not telling the whole world that I left her," he said tightly, "I'm telling you. You asked me, remember?"

"Well, why aren't you telling the whole world that you left 292 her? I want want you to tell the whole world that you left her," I said, a dangerous wobble in my voice. "Why should everyone know that you just dumped me-and Kate-and then think that she kicked you out? Why should she be spared the humiliation?" you to tell the whole world that you left her," I said, a dangerous wobble in my voice. "Why should everyone know that you just dumped me-and Kate-and then think that she kicked you out? Why should she be spared the humiliation?"

"Fine, then, Claire," he said, sighing loudly at my unreasonable and irrational demands. "If it makes you happy I will will tell everyone what happened with Denise." tell everyone what happened with Denise."

"Good," I said, my bottom lip trembling like jelly.

This was awful! Where had the recovered poised Claire gone? I had tried so hard to stay completely in control with James, not to let him see how much he had hurt me, how devastated I was. But all the pain was so close to the surface. I was on the verge of cracking.

It was all so embarrassing embarrassing. I was very upset and he was in control. The contrast was mortifying.

"I'm going to the ladies room," I said. Maybe I could get a grip of myself there.

"No, Claire, wait," said James as I started to stand up. He tried to grab my hand across the table.

I shook his hand away angrily. "Don't touch me," I said tearfully.

Next I'd be saying something like "You lost the right to touch me when you left me."

"You lost the right to touch me when you left me," I found myself saying.

I knew it, I just knew it! The person who had the job of writing my life's dialogue used to work on a very low budget soap opera.

But I meant it.

I wanted to hurt him badly. I wanted him to feel the same loss that I had felt. To want someone so much that it aches. And to realize that you can't have them. And most of all I wanted him to feel that it was his fault fault.

Who made it happen?

You did.

"Claire, please sit down," he said, letting go of my hand slowly. He was doing a good impression of looking pale and upset. For a moment I felt guilty. God, I couldn't win.293.

"Relax, James," I said coldly. "I'm not going to make a scene."