We finally agreed that I would wear the leggings and blue silk shirt that I had worn the day Adam came to tea.
Adam, I thought longingly for a moment.
But then I pushed him firmly to the back of my mind.
Not now, I thought grimly.
"You look nice and skinny," said Helen, standing back and looking at me. "Now for your makeup."
Honestly, she was organizing the whole thing like a military campaign.
Anna's eyes lit up at the mention of doing my makeup. She approached with a plastic bag that seemed to be full of crayons and pencils.
"Get away," Helen told her irritably, elbowing her aside. "I'm doing her makeup. You probably want to do face-painting and paint stars and suns and all that new age crap on her."
Anna did look a little bit sheepish.
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"No," Helen explained, a bit more kindly. "She has to look as if she's not wearing any makeup at all. Just naturally beautiful."
"Yes," I said, all excited. "Make me look like that."
Why was Helen being so nice to me, I wondered?
Did she suspect that I was in competition with her for Adam? If I was back with James it would mean that she could have a clear shot at Adam.
Or maybe I was just being totally cynical.
I mean, she was my sister, after all.
And anyway, she probably didn't suspect a thing.
I must say, I did look beautiful by the time Helen was finished with me: Fresh-faced, clear-skinned, bright-eyed, casually dressed.
"Smile," she ordered me.
I did.
They all nodded approvingly.
"Good," said Mum. "Do that a lot."
"What time is it now?" I asked.
"Nearly half past nine," said Mum.
"Half an hour to go," I said, feeling nauseous.
I sat on the bed.
Mum, Anna, Helen and Kate were already on it.
"Move over," I said. I was sitting on Anna's foot.
"Ouch," said Helen, as Anna moved and kind of elbowed her in the face.
We were all huddled on the bed, sort of lying on top of each other.
It was like a vigil, they were going to stay there for me until he called. I felt as if we were a raft full of survivors from a shipwreck. All squashed and uncomfortable and crowded, but there was no suggestion that we leave each other.
"Right," said Mum. "We'll play a game."
"All right," we all said in unison.
Except for Kate, of course.
Mum had great games. Word games that we used to play to pass the time on long car journeys when we were young.
For some reason the game that we were actually playing when he called was one thought up by (who else) Helen. Obviously done with more than a nod to my recent condition. It
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was one in which you have to think of all the different words to describe being pregnant.
I didn't think it was really what Mum had had in mind when she'd en- couraged us to make up our own versions of the games that she had taught us.
"Up the pole," shouted Anna.
"On the bubble," screeched Helen.
"Expecting," muttered Mum, torn between disapproval and the desire to win.
"Your turn, Claire," said Anna.
"No," I said. "Shuusssh, is that the phone?"
The room fell silent.
It was.
"Should I answer it?" asked Mum.
"No. Thanks Mum, but I'll do it," I said.
And I left them.
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twenty-five
"Hello," I said, for lack of anything better to say.
"Claire," said James's voice.
So, it was him.
We finally got to speak to each other.
"James," I replied.
And then I wasn't quite sure what to say.
I wasn't too current on the etiquette of addressing runaway husbands. Especially since I was pretty sure that he wasn't in the process of trying to wheedle his way back into my affections.
We need a book. A book that tells us how to address returning runaway husbands.
You know, the type of book that tells us the correct knife to use to shell a scallop and the proper way to address, say, a bishop, for example (just for the record, "That's a lovely ring you're wearing, Your Grace" is usually regarded as polite enough for a first meeting).
So this book would gently instruct us about the correct number of times the word bastard could be used in any one sentence, and when it is regarded as impolite not to use physical violence, etc.
For example, if your boyfriend/husband/fella has simply disappeared for a couple of days after a particularly important football match and has just returned to the family home looking green, unshaven and disheveled, it would be appropriate to say:
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"Where the fuck have you been for the past three days, you drunken, selfish, louser?"
But as the person out there hadn't written the book yet I had to rely on my own instinct.
"How are you?" he asked.
As if you cared, I thought.
"Very well," I said politely.
A pause.
"Oh!...And how are you?" I asked hurriedly.
Honestly, where were my manners?
Is it any wonder that he'd left me?
"Well," he replied thoughtfully. "Yes, quite well."
Pompous fucker, I thought.
"Claire," he continued smoothly. "I'm in Dublin."
"I know," I said ungraciously. "My mother mentioned that you'd called last night."
"Yes, I don't doubt that she did," he said with faint irony.
You could never say that James was a fool.
A bastard, I grant you. But never a fool.
"Where are you staying?" I asked.
He named some downtown bed and breakfast. On a street that could only be described as On the Front Line. Not James's usual style at all. He was more likely to be found in a plush corporate type of place. All Bureau de Changes and little shops in the hotel lobby. From James's address I de- duced that he was not in Dublin on business. Because if he were, he would be on expenses and staying somewhere a damn slight nicer and more ex- pensive. And if he wasn't in Dublin on business, then just why was he here?
"So what can I do for you?" I asked in a slightly nasty tone. He wasn't the only one around here who could say things with irony.
My tone of voice was intended to convey that I would not, as the saying goes, piss on him if he was on fire.