"Wha...at?" I asked, a bit taken aback.
I was still immersed in feelings of loss and abandonment, but I managed to grasp that something had happened to James. And that this something was not to my advantage. It was immediately obvious that things weren't right when he agreed with me so readily. It was even more immediately obvious that things were very wrong indeed when he agreed with me so readily in such a peculiar tone of voice.
"Oh," he went on, still in the peculiar tone, "I'm just saying how right you are. That's what you want, isn't it? In fact, I'll say it again, will I? You needed me."
What had happened? Events had taken a sudden and unexpected turn. I felt as though I had wandered into someone else's discussion. Or as if James had, all on his own, decided to change channels. I was still knee- deep in the old conversation, the one about James leaving me, and felt pretty wretched about it. But he had flicked over to a new conversation about something totally different. I struggled to catch up with him.
"James, what's going on here?" I asked in confusion.
"What do you mean?" he replied unpleasantly.
"I mean, why are you being so weird all of a sudden?" I said nervously.
"Weird," he said in a thoughtful, weighty tone, and looked
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around the room as if he was appealing to an invisible audience. "She says I'm being weird."
This from the man who was chatting to people who weren't there.
"Well, you are," I said. In fact, he was getting weirder by the second. "All I said was that I needed you and--"
"I heard what you said," he interrupted angrily, the singsong flippant tone abruptly gone.
He leaned across the table and fixed me with a furious face. "Here goes," I thought.
Relief mingled with my fear. At least now I'd know what the hell was up with him.
"You said that you needed me." He made some kind of annoyed sound and threw his eyes heavenward. "What an understatement!"
He paused--for impact?--and stared at me, his face hard and angry.
I didn't dare speak. I was enthralled. What was coming next?
"I know you needed me," he threw at me. "You needed me all the bloody time, for some bloody thing or other. How could I not know?"
I could only stare at him.
He didn't often get angry. So, on the special occasions when he did it was usually quite a treat. A bit spectacular. But not today. I didn't know where this anger of his came from but the message he seemed anxious to convey was that I was the one at fault.
That wasn't part of the script.
I was the one in the right. He was the bastard. That's the way it was.
"You needed me for everything," he almost shouted.
I think I should point out to you at this juncture that James never shouted. He'd never even almost shouted.
"You demanded constant attention," he went on. "And constant rein- forcement. And you never gave a damn about me and how I felt and what I might need."
I stared openmouthed at him.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
Why was he attacking me?
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He was the one who'd left me, right?
So if there was any accusing to be done, I was the correct person for the job.
"James..." I said faintly.
He ignored me and continued ranting and jabbing his finger at me.
"You were impossible. I was exhausted from you. I don't know how I stayed with you as long as I did. And I don't know how anyone could live with you."
Now look it here! That was too much. Anger surged through me.
Talk about a kangaroo court.
I was being done a terrible injustice.
And I wasn't letting him get away with it.
I was livid.
"Oh, I see," I said, absolutely furious. "So now it's all my fault. I made you have an affair. I made you leave me. Well, that's funny, because I don't actually recall holding a gun to your head. It must have slipped my mind."
It's true what they say. Sarcasm really is the lowest form of wit. But I couldn't help myself. He was criticizing me. And I was burning, scalded with a sense of injustice.
"No, Claire," he said. He actually spoke through gritted teeth. Which I'd never seen anyone do before. I thought it was just a figure of speech. "Of course you didn't make me do anything."
"So then what are you saying?" I demanded.
I had a funny cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew it was fear.
"I'm saying that living with you was a bit like living with a demanding child. You always wanted to go out. As though life was one big long party. And it was, for you. You were always laughing and enjoying yourself. So I had to be the grown-up one. I had to worry about money and bills. You were so selfish. I had to be the one who reminded you at one in the morning, at a dinner party, that we both had to be at work the next day. And then I had to put up with you calling me a boring bastard."
I was dumbfounded at this torrent from James. Apart from its unexpec- tedness, I felt that it was so unfair.
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"James, that's the way it worked for us," I protested. "I was the funny one, you were the serious one. Everyone knew that. I was the light relief, the silly one who made you laugh and unwind. You were the strong one. That's the way we both wanted it. That's the way it was. And that's why it was so good."
"But it wasn't," he said. "I was so bloody tired of being strong."
"And I didn't ever call you a boring bastard," I exclaimed suddenly. I knew that something he had said there was wrong.
"It doesn't matter," he said irritably. "You made me feel like one."
"Yes, but you said that I--" I started to protest.
"Oh, for God's sake, Claire," he burst out angrily. "There you go again. Trying to score points. Can't you just let it be? Can't you, for once, just once, accept blame?"
"Yes, but..." I said weakly.
I wasn't even sure what I should accept blame for.
Never mind. I didn't have time to think about it. James drew another breath and was off again. And I had to give what he was saying all my at- tention.
"You just made messes." He sighed. "And I had to clean them up."
"That's not true!" I shouted.
"Well, believe me, that's how it felt," he said unkindly. "You just don't want to admit that it's true. There was always a drama. Or a trauma. And I was always the one who had to deal with it."