But he was kind. I liked him, and his wife, Aisling, was a good laugh. We had all got drunk together on many an occasion.
"Hello, George," I said, feeling a bit embarrassed.
This was the first time that I had spoken to him since the breakup and I found that I didn't know what to say. Should I refer to it or not?
Should I pretend that nothing at all had happened? That everything was fine?
Or maybe I should just brazen it out. Deal with it head-on, as it were, by trying to turn it into some kind of joke, with rueful, self-deprecating re- marks? Perhaps say "Hi, this is Claire. But you can call me Denise if it's easier to remember."
I realized that I was going to find myself in this kind of situation very often for the first couple of weeks after I returned to London.
God, it was going to be humiliating.
But George rescued me by launching straight into it.
"So, you're coming back to him." George laughed. "Well, thank God for that. We might get a decent day's work out of him now."
"Oh," I said politely.
"Yes," continued George with great joviality and bonhomie. Which made me suspect that he had had a long and liquid lunch. Well, let's be fair. It was Friday, after all. "How can I put it, Claire? Let's just say that it hasn't been easy. I mean, you know what he's like. Finds it hard to talk about his feelings--well, don't we all, I suppose--and too proud for his own good. But a blind man can see how much he loves you. And it's been obvious just from looking at him that he's been devastated without you. Devastated! What! Don't talk to me about it! All I can say is it's a blessing that you took him back. We'd
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have had to fire him otherwise." Big bellow of Three Beers at Lunchtime laughter from George.
What on earth was George saying?
He wasn't...he couldn't be...surely he wasn't laughing at me, was he?
Hot angry ashamed tears filled my eyes.
Had I become a public laughingstock?
Was everyone having a good laugh at my expense?
Yes, yes, okay, to be honest, I admit that in different circumstances I'd have been the first one to laugh at a deserted wife welcoming her errant husband back into the fold with such grateful haste. And I would be a fool if I thought that people wouldn't privately snigger at how pathetic I was being by taking James back so blithely.
But I couldn't believe that George was being so openly mocking. I was well aware that James hadn't been devastated without me. And George was aware that I was aware. Well, he must have been. I knew that they were both men, but surely they must occasionally have discussed something other than football and cars.
But George was usually so nice. I didn't understand why he was joking about what had happened between James and me. Why was he being so cruel?
I felt so hurt. But I couldn't cry. I had to stand up for myself. Nip this in the bud. Because if I didn't everyone would think they had the right to make fun of me.
"Really?" I said with thick sarcasm to George.
Trying to convey in one word that, although James might have treated me with a total lack of respect, it didn't make me some kind of public target. James could treat me badly--well, he couldn't but you know what I mean--but it didn't give anyone else the right to make fun of me.
The nerve of George! And to think that I had always liked him.
But George didn't respond to my "Really?"
Well, he certainly didn't seem to take any offense.
Because he continued good-naturedly. "I'm no expert on relationships, but I'm so glad that the two of you have sorted this whole sorry mess out. All I can say to you is fair play for forgiving him. It must have been awful for you. But I suppose
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when you saw the state of him--a bit like the living dead, wasn't he?--you realized just how sorry he was."
My head felt as if it was growing tighter with confusion.
What was going on?
Was George making fun of me?
I wasn't so sure that he was. He sounded sincere.
But if he wasn't mocking me, then what the hell was he talking about?
What did he mean "living dead"? Were we talking about the same James? The same sanctimonious, judgmental James who came to see me in Dublin?
But before I could gather together my confused thoughts, George was off again.
He was in the mood to talk. Friday afternoon boredom and three beers at lunchtime had obviously loosened his tongue.
"Now, Claire," he said, mock stern, "I hope you were a sensible girl and didn't forgive him straightaway. I hop you held out for at least a couple of serious pieces of jewelry and a holiday in the Maldives."
"Are you joking?" I thought in bewilderment. "I was lucky that he took me back at all. I nearly had to promise him the jewelry and the holiday."
"Um..." I said.
But George kept talking.
"He loves you so much and he thought he had no hope at all, do you know? He thought that you wouldn't have anything further to do with him. And, in a way, who could blame you?"
"George!" I interjected forcefully. I had to establish just what was going on! "What are you talking about?"
"About James," he said in surprise.
"You're saying that he was sorry that he and I split up?" I asked.
"Well, `sorry' is one way of putting it," said George with a little laugh. "Devastated would be a better word in my opinion."
"But how do you know?" I asked faintly, wondering where George was getting his information from. Because it was obvious that he had been sorely misled.
"James told me," he said. "We do talk now and again, you
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know. It's not just women who have the monopoly on frank and open discussions!"
"Yes, but...I mean, are you sure?"
"Of course I am," said George indignantly. "He was tortured by the thought of being without you. Tortured! He kept saying to me, `George, I love her so much. How can I get her back?' and I just said to him, `James, tell her the truth. Tell her you're sorry.' He was driving me crazy!"
"Is that right?" I stammered.
That was all I could manage to say. My head was spinning. This was nothing like what had actually happened.
So what was going on?
"And Claire," said George in a sympathetic tone, "I know it must have been very hard for you. But I'm sure it was very hard for James also. Because you know how he hates to be wrong. Let's face it, he very rarely is. So for him to admit that he'd made a terrible mistake, and then to apologize for it, must have been damn near impossible for him. Although, having said that, I'm sure you feel that if you hear the word sorry ever again you'll puke. You must be sick of hearing it!"