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 356 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 357 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 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 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 knew something was wrong. 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 wanted to feel angry. I wanted anger to course through me. 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 Very cozy." cozy."358.

"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.

"Did you?" asked James, trying to appear unflustered. But a spasm of something-fear maybe? or could it be annoyance?-passed over his face.

"Hmmm," I said, inspecting my fingernails, "yes, I did actually." There was a pause. James stood watching me, the way a mouse watches a cat.

"Yes," I continued in a very casual tone, "and he gave me a very different version of events concerning you and me."

"Oh," said James, and swallowed heavily.

"Apparently you've always loved me," I said. "And appar-359 ently the only problem you've had with me was that you were afraid that I'd leave you."

James was silent and sullen.

"Is that right, James?" I asked sharply.

"You wouldn't want to take any notice of George," he said, recovering his aplomb somewhat.

"I know that, James," I replied smoothly, "so that's why I rang Judy.

And, guess what, she told me exactly the same thing."

More silence.

"James," I sighed, "it's about time you started to tell me what's going on."

"I have," he muttered.

"No, you haven't," I corrected him loudly. "You had an affair with another woman, you left me the day I gave birth to your child, then you decided that you wanted me back. But instead of telling me that, you had to manufacture a whole pack of lies and malign me and call me selfish and childish and inconsiderate and stupid." (Voice going up several decibels here.) "And instead of apologizing for the lousy way you treated me, you made out that it was all my fault." (Voice continuing to rise.) "And you decided that you'd browbeat me into being something other than what I am. Some meek little woman who wouldn't answer you back. And wouldn't over-shadow you. And wouldn't make you feel insecure!"

"It wasn't like that," he protested feebly.

"It was exactly exactly like that," I shouted. "I just can't believe that I was fool enough to believe your ridiculous story!" like that," I shouted. "I just can't believe that I was fool enough to believe your ridiculous story!"

"Claire, you've got to listen to me," he said, sounding bad-tempered and irritated.

"Oh, no, I do not," I corrected him angrily. "Why do I have to listen to you? Are you going to try and tell me a whole lot more lies?

"Well, are you?" I shouted when he didn't answer.

I sat and looked at him, willing him to speak, willing him to make everything all right.

"Convince me," I begged silently. "I want to be wrong. Tell Tell me I'm wrong. me I'm wrong.

Please explain it to me. I'll even settle for an apology. Just an apology will do."

He slowly sat down on the couch with his face in his hands.360.

And, even though I was expecting some kind of reaction, it still gave me a little jump to realize that he was crying.

Jesus! What was I supposed to say to him?

I hate to see a grown man cry.

Actually, that's not true at all.

Usually, there's nothing I enjoy more than seeing a grown man cry. Especially if I'm the one who made him cry. That feeling of power! You just can't beat it.

If he was crying it must mean that he was really sorry that he'd been so horrible to me and that everything was going to be fine.

He was going to apologize.

He was going to admit that he was completely in the wrong.

My heart started to soften.

But then he looked up at me and I couldn't believe the expression on his face. He looked so angry! "That's just typical of you," he shouted.

"What?" I asked faintly.

"You're so bloody selfish," he yelled, all traces of the tearful man magically vanished.

"Why?" I asked, baffled.

"Everything was fine!" he shouted. "Everything was all worked out and we were going to start again and you were going to try and be mature and a bit more considerate. But you just couldn't let it lie, could you?"

"But what was I supposed to do?" I asked meekly. "George tells me one thing and you tell me something completely different. George's story is a lot more believable than yours. Especially when Judy confirmed it."

I was trying very, very hard to be reasonable. I could see how angry James was and it was frightening, but at the same time, I was trying to stand my ground. Please God, I prayed, give me the strength to stand up to him. Don't let me end up taking the blame for everything again. You know, just for once, it would be nice not to be a wimp.

"Well, of course you'd believe George and Judy," he said nastily. "Of course you want to believe nice things about yourself. You just couldn't take the truth from me, could you?"

"James," I said, struggling to stay calm, "I just want to get 361 to the bottom of things. I just want to know why you told George that you really loved me and that you were afraid that you'd lose me, and why you told me that you could barely tolerate me. It just doesn't add up!"

"I told you the truth," he said sulkily.

"So what was it you told George?" I asked.

"George got it wrong," he said shortly.

"And did Judy get it wrong also?" I asked coldly.

"I suppose," he said offhandedly.