He made me wear a long skirt and a high-necked blouse for the same reason.
He sat in the courtroom holding my hand as I waited for my turn to come.
He hummed little songs to me as I sat there white-faced and nauseous with the shock and the hangover.
I found the songs that he was humming very comforting.
Until I caught a few words of one.
Something about breaking rocks and being on a chain gang.
I turned and glared at him tearfully, ready to tell him to fuck off and go home if he found my predicament that amusing.
But I caught his eye.
And I just couldn't help it.
I started to laugh.
He was right.
The whole situation was so ridiculous that there was no point in not laughing at it.
The pair of us sniggered like schoolchildren.
The judge gave us a filthy look.
"That's another ten years onto your sentence," snorted James, and the pair of us collapsed again.
I got off with a fifty-pound fine, which James laughingly paid. "You can pay it yourself the next time." He grinned at me.
I couldn't believe his attitude. If someone woke me at two in the morning to tell me that James had been arrested I would have been horrified. I cer- tainly wouldn't have found the situation funny the way he had.
I would have seriously asked myself to think about what kind of man I had married.
I wouldn't have been indulgent and so completely supportive and for- giving the way James was.
In fact, he wasn't even forgiving, because he never for a second acted as if I had done something wrong.
So now the next time I got arrested I wouldn't have anyone to hold my hand in the courtroom and make me laugh.
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Sometimes he was just so sweet. When I used to wake in the middle of the night to worry, he was wonderful.
"What's wrong, baby?" he used to ask.
"Nothing," I'd say, unable to put words on that horrible, nameless, free- floating anxiety.
"Can't you sleep?"
"No."
"Should I bore you to sleep?"
"Yes, please."
And I would eventually fall into a peaceful sleep, lulled by the sound of James's soothing voice explaining tax breaks for charities or the new eco- nomic regulations set by the European Union.
I turned off the shower and dried myself.
I'd better call him, I told myself.
I went back into my room and started to get dressed.
"Call him," I ordered myself sternly.
"After I've fed Kate," I replied in a vague and wishy-washy fashion.
"Call him!" I told myself again.
"Do you want the child to starve?" I asked, trying to sound outraged. "I'll call him when I've fed her."
"No you won't. Call him now!"
I was up to my old tricks again.
Procrastinating, avoiding responsibility, running away from unpleasant situations.
But I was so afraid.
I knew that I had to talk to James about money and the apartment and all that. I wasn't denying that for a minute. But I felt that the moment I ac- tually spoke to him about these things they would become real.
And if they were real it meant that my marriage was over.
"Oh God," I sighed.
I looked at Kate, lying in her bassinet, soft and plump and fragrant in her little pink pajamas.
And I knew that I had to call James. I could be a yaller-bellied, lily-livered, cringing coward on my own account all I liked, but I owed it to this beau- tiful child of mine to sort out her future.
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"Right," I said resignedly, looking at her. "You've twisted my arm. I'll call him."
I went into Mum's room to use the phone there.
I started to dial the number of James's office in London and I began to feel dizzy.
Excited and frightened at the same time.
In a few moments I'd hear his voice.
And I couldn't wait.
I was warm and shaky with anticipation.
I'd be speaking to him, to my James, my best friend. Except, of course, he wasn't anymore, was he? But sometimes I forgot. Just for a second.
It was becoming very hard for me to breathe. My breath didn't seem to be able to go down all the way.
The phone connected and started to ring.
A thrill ran through me and I thought I might throw up. The receptionist answered.
"Um, can I speak to Mr. James Webster, please," I asked, my voice wobbling. My lips felt as if I'd been given an injection to numb them.
There were a couple of clicks on the line.
I'd be speaking to him in a moment.
I held my breath.
It wasn't as if the breathing that I had been doing had been particularly successful anyway.
Another click.
And the receptionist was back.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Webster is away this week. Can anyone else help?"
The disappointment was so painful that I could hardly stammer out, "No, that's all right, thank you."
And I hung up the phone.
I stayed sitting on Mum's bed.
I didn't really know what to do now.
It had been such an ordeal to ring him. It was such a hard thing to do. And then, in spite of myself, I had been excited about talking to him. And he wasn't even there. I had gallons of adrenaline coursing through my body, making prickles of sweat break out on my forehead, making my hands wet and
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shaky, making me light-headed, and I just didn't know what to do with it.
And then the thought just struck me, where was James?
Please don't tell me that he's gone on vacation.
On vacation?
How could he go on vacation when his marriage was breaking up? Had broken up, in fact.
Maybe he's on a business trip, I thought desperately.
I half thought of calling the receptionist back and asking her where James was.
But I stopped myself. I wasn't going to throw away the tiny bit of pride I had left. Maybe he's sick, I thought. Maybe he has the flu.
I probably would have welcomed the news that he had terminal cancer. Anything, but don't let him have gone on vacation.
The thought of him having a life without me, the thought of him actually enjoying that life, was deeply unpleasant.
He mustn't have a care in the world, I thought, my imagination running wild. Probably off with his fancy woman in some exotic resort. Drinking Pi�a Coladas from Denise's shoe. His life resonating to the sound of champagne corks popping and fireworks exploding and surrounded by music and happy people, wearing party hats and decorated with streamers, dancing past him, whooping and doing the conga.