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-
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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 an- other woman, you left me the day I gave birth to your child, then you de- cided 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 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 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.
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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. Es- pecially 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 magic- ally 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
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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.
"And Aisling and Brian and Matthew got it wrong too?"
"They must have," he said carelessly.
"Look, James," I said earnestly, "be reasonable. They can't all be wrong, can they?"
"They can," he said abruptly. "They are."
"James, please, you're a logical man," I said, starting to feel desperate. "Can't you see that someone isn't telling the truth? And didn't you think that sooner or later the different stories would get back to me? Don't you know that my friends and I discuss everything?"