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 organized.

Forever scribbling on the backs of envelopes or on napkins and coming up with immensely detailed calculations which, oddly enough, nearly al- ways 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-

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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 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's and cross the 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-

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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 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 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.

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"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 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 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 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 wrong with my having to comfort him, with my having to make light of things and encourage him to be strong.