Where someone asks you to choose between playing with the beautiful princess in the fragrant garden and being eaten by the hideous monster in the foul-smelling pit. Not exactly a difficult one, now, is it? Not something that you would agonize over, or that would make you lose a night's sleep?
Being a victim isn't very nice, but goddammit, it takes a lot of the confu- sion out of things. At least you know you're in the right.
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And I suppose I was disappointed. Very disappointed. I had loved James once. I didn't know whether I did anymore. Or if I did, it wasn't in the same way. But a reconciliation would have been nicer than no reconciliation, if you know what I mean. A reconciliation that worked, that is. Not some kind of useless compromise.
And I was sad. And then I felt angry. And then I felt guilty. And then I felt sad again. It was a bloody nightmare!
One thing stopped me from going totally crazy. I realized that there was nothing stopping me from going back to James. Right then, that minute, I could get off the train and cross the platform and go straight back to the apartment and tell him that I had been wrong and that we should try again.
But I didn't.
And thick and all as I was, confused, bewildered, mixed-up, distraught, that told me something.
If I'd really loved him, really wanted to be with him, I would have gone back.
So I knew I was doing the right thing. I thought.
And off I'd go again.
Heathrow had calmed down a lot. Much quieter. It was lovely. I got on a practically empty flight back to Dublin.
I had a whole row of seats to myself so I was able to sniff and cry in discreet comfort should the urge take me.
The stewardesses were intrigued.
I kept catching little huddles of them looking at me worriedly.
They probably thought that I'd just flown to London for an abortion.
When I got to Dublin it was raining. The runway was slick and shiny in the dark. And the arrivals area was deserted. I walked past the silent carou- sels, my sexy high heels echoing on the tile floors.
I hadn't told anyone that I was coming back, so there was no one to meet me.
There didn't seem to be anyone there to meet anyone.
I spotted a lone porter. He was busy telling some bewildered man that to miss one flight was unfortunate but to miss two was careless.
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I click-clacked past all the shuttered shops, the bureaux de change that stood in darkness, the deserted car rental stands. I finally got as far as the rain-soaked entrance.
There was a single taxi waiting outside in the wet night. The driver was reading a newspaper.
He looked as though he'd been there for several days.
He drove me home in unexpected silence. The only sounds were the swish of the windshield wipers and the noise of the rain drumming on the roof of the car.
We drove through the sleeping suburbs and he eventually deposited me outside my home. It was all in darkness. I civilly thanked him for the journey. He civilly thanked me for the sum of money I handed over. We said good-bye.
It was ten minutes past one.
I let myself in quietly. I didn't want to wake anyone.
Not out of consideration for them, I'm afraid. But because I didn't want to answer any of the inevitable questions.
I was longing to see Kate but she wasn't in my room.
Mum must have thought that I wouldn't be home and moved the crib into her and Dad's room.
But I ached to hold her. I missed her so much.
I tiptoed into Mum's room to take Kate, hoping desperately that I wouldn't wake Mum.
I rustled the child successfully. And then fell into bed, exhausted. Asleep with Kate in my arms.
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thirty-six
When I awoke the next morning, I felt a tiny bit better. Not healed or cured or anything of the sort, but more prepared to wait. To wait for things to get better, to wait for the pain to go.
I had made the decision not to be with James and, being "Instant Grati- fication Girl," I wanted to feel wonderful immediately. I had wanted the fruits of my decision to fall into my impatient lap right now.
I wanted it to be "Out with the old and in with the new!" To throw off the trappings of my previous incarnation, to have not a jot of feeling left for James, not an iota of doubt, not a crumb of indecision. I wanted an im- mediate, miraculous transformation. I wanted the Relationship Fairy to touch me with her magic wand, to sprinkle me with her sparkling recovery dust, and for me to instantly forget everything I ever felt for James, to forget that he even existed.
I wanted to leave my grief under my pillow and for it to be gone in the morning. I wouldn't even have cared if there wasn't any money left in its place.
But there was no magic cure, there was no Relationship Fairy. I'd realized that a long time ago.
I had to get through this on my own. I realized that I had to be patient. Time would let me know if I had made the right decision.
I still didn't know if I had done the right thing by leaving James. But to stay with him would definitely have been the wrong thing.
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See if you can wrap your mind around that one.
And if you get the hang of it, would you mind explaining it to me?
James called at eight o'clock the next morning. I declined to speak to him. And at eight-forty. Ditto. And at ten past nine. And ditto once again. Then came an unexpected lull until almost eleven, when there were three calls in quick succession. Ditto, ditto and ditto. Twelve-fifteen there was another one. Ditto. Five to one, five past one and twenty past one, all saw calls. Ditto, etc. Calls remained steady for most of the afternoon, coming every half hour or so. Then a final flurry came around six o'clock. Ditto re above.
Mum very decently fielded the calls all day. I have to say it, when the chips are down, that woman is worth her weight in Mars Bars.
Dad came home from work at twenty past six and at twenty to seven burst into the room where I was sitting with Kate and all the documents relating to the apartment and roared at me, "Claire, for God's sake, will you go and talk to him!"
"I've nothing to say," I said sweetly.
"I don't care," he bellowed, "this has gone too far. And he says he's going to call all night until you come and talk to him."
"Leave the phone off the hook," I suggested, turning my attention back to the deed of the apartment.
"Claire, we can't do that," he said in exasperation. "Helen keeps hanging the bloody thing back up."
"Yes, why should my social life suffer just because you married a lunat- ic?" came Helen's muffled voice from somewhere outside the door.