"Must try harder," he said with a little laugh. "Isn't that right?"
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"Um, yes, I suppose so. Good news, James," I said, getting to the point of my phone call.
"What's that?" he asked. He sounded pleased and indulgent.
"The documents have arrived!" I said triumphantly. "I could hardly be- lieve it. It must be a first for the Irish postal system."
"So?" he asked sharply.
Oh God, I thought, I've annoyed him again. I see what he means. I seem to do it without even realizing it.
"So, it's good..." I said limply. "We needn't waste any more time. We can start sorting things out immediately."
"Oh." He sounded a bit dazed. A bit stupid.
"Oh," he said again. "Right. Fine."
"Why don't you come over here?" I suggested. "No boiling oil, I promise you."
I forced myself to laugh in a gently humoring way.
As though the very suggestion that he might suffer any kind of injury at my hands or at the hands of my family was ludicrous.
"Fine," he said shortly. "I'll be with you in an hour."
And he hung up! Just like that.
A brief thought flickered across my brain.
Was James schizophrenic?
Or was there any history of madness in his family?
I was as sure as hell finding it difficult to keep up with all these mood changes.
Something had to be causing it.
Maybe I'd find out when he arrived. Meanwhile I was going to have a sneak preview of the deeds just to see if I actually had any rights at all.
Precisely one hour later, the doorbell rang. It was James.
He greeted me with a little smile and an inquiry after Kate's health.
"Well, why don't you ask her yourself?" I asked him.
"Oh, um, fine then," he said.
We went into the dining room, where Kate was. James hesitantly tickled her. I went to the kitchen to make coffee.
I reappeared with the coffee and turned to James with a smile. "Right then," I said pleasantly. "Shall we start?"
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I gestured to the documents, which were spread out on the table.
We both sat down.
"I thought it would be best if we started with the deed to the apartment first," I said.
"Okay," he said faintly.
"Now, if you look at this clause here," I said, pointing to one that referred to selling the apartment before the mortgage was paid off, "you'll see that..."
I launched into explanations and suggestions, peppered with the odd bit of legalese. I was proud of myself. I sounded as if I knew exactly what I was talking about. Absently, I hoped that I was impressing him. Even though we had split up it was important to me that he started to think of me as a capable woman and not some spoiled, dizzy, bimbo.
After a while I noticed that he wasn't paying any attention to what I was saying.
He just sat back in his chair and looked at my face, not at the document that I was so painstakingly explaining to him.
I stopped mid-disclaimer clause and said, "James, what's wrong? Why aren't you paying attention?"
He ruffled my hair affectionately--which came as quite a surprise, let me tell you--and said with a little smile, "You can stop now, Claire. I'm convinced."
"Convinced about what?" I asked him.
What the hell was he talking about now?
"I'm convinced that you've changed. You don't have to keep up this act."
"What act?" I asked blankly.
"You know," he said, smiling into my eyes. "This pretense that we're going to sell the apartment and settle on child support for Kate. You can stop now."
I didn't say anything. What on earth could I say?
"It's not an act," I squeaked.
"Claire," he said, smiling indulgently, "stop it! I must admit you really had me going at one stage. I nearly believed that you were serious. Did you really have to go through the charade of getting the deed sent over? Wasn't that a bit over the top?"
"James," I said faintly.
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He seemed to take this as some kind of capitulation. He put his arms around me and pulled me to him. I sat there with my head poised stiffly on his shoulder.
"Look, I know you've been very difficult. Bloody difficult," he said. I could hear the rueful smile in his voice. "But I can see that you're making an effort. I can see how hard you're trying to convince me that you're re- sponsible and grown-up and considerate now."
"I am?" I asked.
"Yes," he said kindly. He pulled away from me and looked into my eyes. "You are."
"So, we can get rid of these for a start." He rustled the papers on the table and pushed them all into an untidy pile.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because we won't be selling the apartment." He smiled.
He looked a bit more carefully at my white, shocked face.
"Oh God." He slapped his hand dramatically to his forehead. "You haven't realized, have you?"
"No," I said.
He grabbed me forcefully by the shoulders and put his face close to mine. "I love you," he said with a little laugh. "You little silly girl, hadn't you realized?"
"No," I said, feeling as if I might burst into tears.
Isn't it odd how relief can sometimes feel very much like dread?
How happiness can feel like disappointment?
"Why did you think I came to Dublin?" He shook me gently by the shoulders and gave me that same indulgent smile.
"I don't know," I faltered. "Maybe to clean up loose ends."
"I suppose you thought I'd never forgive you for the way you behaved?"
Actually, no, I wasn't thinking anything of the sort, I thought.
"But I have forgiven you," he told me nicely. "I'm prepared to make a go of things in the future. I'm sure things will be very different because you've grown up so much."
I nodded mutely.
Why wasn't I happy?
He still loved me.
He had never stopped loving me.
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I had driven him away.
But I was different now and things could be fixed.
Wasn't that what I wanted?
Well, wasn't it?
He looked at my silent, shocked face and chucked me under the chin.