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 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 pre- tending 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.

Assuming that she did in fact change her underwear.

Or wear underwear at all, now that I came to think of it.

I was sure I'd heard her going on about clothes--especially under- clothes--being a form of fascism. Vague talk of air needing to circulate and skin needing to breathe and needing to feel liberated and unrestricted just led me to suspect that underwear and the wearing thereof might not feature highly on Anna's list of priorities.

With a martyred sigh, I gathered up the bundle of underpants.

139

thirteen

I was meeting Laura for a drink that evening.

I'd better give you a little bit of background here.

Laura, Judy and I were in college together. And we have been friends ever since.

Judy lived in London.

And Laura lived in Dublin.

I hadn't seen Laura since I fled from London, minus a husband and with a baby, but I had spoken on the phone to her a few times. I told her I was far too depressed to see her.

And because she was a good friend, she didn't get all huffy with me, but told me not to worry and that I would feel better eventually and that she'd see me then.

I told her that I would never feel better and that I would never see her again but that it had been lovely knowing her.

I had a feeling that she had rung Mum a few times over the past month to make discreet inquiries about the state of my heart (still broken at the last checkup), my mental health (still very unstable) and my popularity (at an all-time low).

But she hadn't pestered me, and for that I was very grateful.

But now I was feeling a good deal better so I called her and suggested meeting in town for a drink. Laura sounded delighted at this idea.

"We'll get plastered," she said enthusiastically over the phone.

140

I'm not sure whether this was a suggestion or a prediction. Either way it was a foregone conclusion.

"I'd say we will all right," I agreed, if our encounters over the past ten years or so were anything to go by. I was feeling quite alarmed. I'd forgotten what an unbridled hedonist Laura was--she could have shown those Ro- man emperors a thing or two.

Mum said she would be only too delighted to look after Kate.

After dinner (microwaved frozen shepherd's pie, not too bad actually), I went upstairs to get ready for my first social outing since my husband left me. Quite an occasion. A bit like losing my virginity or making my first Communion or getting married. Something that only happens once.

I hadn't a stitch to wear.

I began to feel very sorry and very foolish indeed about the martyrish way I had left all my lovely clothes behind in London. Behaving like a condemned man on his way to the gallows, crying dramatically, saying my life was over and that I wouldn't be needing clothes where I was going.