However, unpleasant and all as it was, I had to behave like an adult. The days of running crying to my bedroom were long gone. And he wasn't looking too happy himself.
I knew he didn't love me anymore but he was only human. Well, I pre- sumed he was only human. And couldn't help being affected by this mo- mentous occasion. But I knew James. He'd recover his aplomb in no time at all.
That was what I had to do.
I graciously said to him, "Can I take your jacket?" as though he was just someone who had come to try and sell me a central heating system.
"Yes, I suppose so," he said reluctantly, and shrugged out of it and warily handed it over to me, taking what seemed like excessive care to make sure that our hands didn't touch. He looked longingly at the jacket, as though he was never going to see it again and wanted to memorize its every detail. What was he afraid of?
I wasn't going to steal the bloody jacket. It wasn't nice enough.
"I'll put this away," I said, and for the first time our eyes met properly.
He did a quick scan of my face and said levelly, "You're looking well, Claire."
He said it with the enthusiasm an undertaker usually reserves for someone who, against all the odds, survives a terrible car crash. "Yes." He nodded, a tiny bit surprised. "You are looking well."
"Well, why wouldn't I?" I gave him a knowing little smile, conveying--at least I hoped I conveyed--dignity and irony in equal amounts. Letting him know that although he no longer loved me, that although he had hurt and humiliated me, I was a reasonable human being and would get over it. Almost making a joke of the whole sorry mess and practically inviting him, the perpetrator, to join in and laugh along with me.
I couldn't believe that I had managed that.
I felt pretty pleased with myself.
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Because, although I did not feel calm and civilized, as God is my witness, I was going to do a damn good job at acting it.
However, he didn't seem to find it as gently amusing as I managed to pretend I did.
He gave me a wintry look.
More undertakerish vibes.
The miserable fucker.
Since I was prepared to try to be nice and civil about all this, surely, surely, he could too. After all, what had he got to lose?
Maybe he had prepared a beautiful speech about how I would get over him, how he wasn't good enough for me, how we were never really suited, how I was better off without him. Maybe he was disappointed that he wasn't going to get to say it.
He'd probably stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom at the hotel and practiced flinging his arms around me in a beseeching manner while he told me in a voice choked with emotion that, although he still loved me, he was no longer in love with me.
We stood in the hall for a few seconds, James looking as if his entire family had just been wiped out in a machete attack. I'm sure I didn't look much better. The tension was terrible.
"Come on into the dining room," I told him, taking charge. Otherwise we could have stood there all day, white-faced, miserable and paralyzed by nerves. "We won't be disturbed there and we can have the table in case we need to spread out documents or whatever."
He nodded grimly and walked down the hall in front of me.
How dare he! What was he looking so bloody uptight about? Surely I was the one who should be afforded that right?
Kate was waiting in the dining room.
She lay in her crib and looked beautiful.
I picked her up and stood holding her, her face against mine.
"This is Kate," I said simply.
He stared at the two of us, opening and closing his mouth.
He looked a bit like a goldfish. A pale, serious goldfish.
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"She...she's gotten so big, she's grown so much," he finally managed.
"Babies do." I nodded at him sagely.
The subtext being, of course, "If you had stuck around, you bastard, you'd have been there for when she was doing that growing." But I didn't say it.
I didn't need to.
He knew it.
It was written all over his sheepish, shamed face.
"And she's called Kate?" he asked.
The surge of anger was so intense that I thought I would surely kill him.
He hadn't even found out her name, and there were plenty of people he could have asked.
"After Kate Bush?" he asked. Referring to a singer whom, while I certainly liked her, I wouldn't have ever considered calling my firstborn child after.
"Yes," I managed bitterly. "After Kate Bush."
I wasn't going to bother giving him the real reason. What the hell did he care?
"Hey!" he said, the idea obviously just having occured to him. "Can I hold her?" In different circumstances he could have been described as speaking with enthusiasm.
My anger and bitterness had obviously gone right over his neatly combed head.
I wanted to shout at him, "Of course you can hold her, she's waited two months for you to hold her. You're her bloody father!" But I managed not to.
I felt like a traitor, like a third-world mother who is forced by economic circumstances to sell her child to the rich gringo. But I passed her from my arms to his.
And the look on his face.
It was as if he had suddenly become mentally retarded.
All smiles and shining eyes and reverential expression.
Of course he held her all wrong.
Crossways, instead of lengthways.
Horizontal, instead of vertical.
People who know nothing about babies hold them like that.
I know because I did it for the first day or so of Kate's life
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until one of the other mothers, who was sick of hearing Kate roaring, wearily set me right. ("Up, not across!")
But you wouldn't catch me being sympathetic to James for making the same mistake.
Kate started to cry.
Well, of course the poor child did! Being held like a rolled-up carpet by a strange man. Wouldn't you cry? James looked frightened.
"What's wrong with her?" he asked. "How do I make her stop?" The reverential expression disappeared and was replaced by naked fear.
I had known all that mister-nice-guy stuff was too good to be true.
"Here," he said, thrusting her at me. He looked at both of us with an expression of distaste. There was obviously no room for crying women in James's world.
He hadn't always been like that, you know.