"What?" I answered. Surly. Uninterested.
"Adam has a girlfriend!"
The blood drained from my face and my heart nearly stopped beating. What was she talking about? Had someone found out about me and Adam?
"And wait until you hear!" continued Helen, sounding delighted. "He has a baby!"
I stared at her. Was she serious?
"What kind of baby?" I managed to ask.
"A baby baby, a girl baby," said Helen scornfully. "What did you expect? A giraffe baby? God, sometimes I worry about you!"
My head was spinning. What did this mean? When had all this happened? Why hadn't Adam told me?
"But is it a new baby or what?" I asked. I didn't even try to keep the desolation from my voice, but Helen, with her customary sensitivity, didn't seem to notice.
"No," said Helen. "I don't think so. She doesn't look like Kate. She has hair and she doesn't look like an old man."
"Kate doesn't look like an old man!" I said hotly.
"Yes, she does." Helen laughed. "She's bald and fat and hasn't any teeth."
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"Shut up!" I said viciously. "She'll hear you. Babies can understand these things, you know. She's beautiful."
"Keep your panties on," said Helen mildly. "I don't know what you're so touchy about."
I said nothing.
This was all a terrible shock.
"It was hilarious," continued Helen. "Adam brought the girl and the baby into college and half my class are talking about killing themselves. And he can forget about passing any of Professor Staunton's exams. The look she gave him! I swear to God, she hates him."
"So, um, hadn't you met this girl before now?" I asked, trying to make sense of this. Had he been going out with her while he was leading me on? Well, he must have been. You don't just go out and buy a baby with hair in a supermarket. These things take time.
"No, we hadn't," said Helen. "Apparently they had some big fight ages and ages ago and he hadn't seen her or the baby for a long time. But now they're all reunited."
Helen began singing at the top of her voice. Some awful song about being reunited and it feeling so good. She waltzed up the stairs, still singing.
"Wait!" I wanted to shout after her. "I'm not finished. There's lots more that I want to ask you."
But she went into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her. I could still hear her singing, but it was a bit fainter now.
I stood in the hall, feeling desolate.
"I can't think about it now," I told myself. "I must forget it. I'll think about it some other time when everything is different. When I'm happy and things are worked out. But not now."
I forced myself to stop thinking about it. I went to the room in my brain where all my thoughts about Adam lived and disconnected the electricity and boarded up all the doors and windows, so nothing could get in or out.
Obviously it was very unsightly. There were bound to be complaints from the neighboring thoughts. But I had no choice. I was trying to sort out my marriage, one way or the other, and I could do without any distrac- tions.
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Mum eventually found the keys to the car. Kate, Mum and I piled in and we drove to the airport. We didn't speak. I could tell that Mum was itching to ask me what was going on. But thankfully she kept her mouth shut.
It was miraculous, but I really did stop thinking about Adam. I was so upset and angry about James that I suppose there just wasn't any room in my head left to worry about anything else. My worry arena was packed to capacity with thousands and thousands of thoughts worrying about James. And there wasn't even standing room left for any thoughts that might have hoped to get in and worry about Adam.
Unfair, perhaps. But it was on a first-come, first-served basis.
Leaving Kate was awful, but I had to do it. It wouldn't have been right to bring her. I believe it has a terrible effect on children if they happen to witness their mother murdering their father.
I kissed Kate good-bye at the departure area. "See you soon, darling," I said.
I hugged Mum.
"Can I ask you just one thing?" she said anxiously, inspecting my face for any imminent explosions of rage.
"Go on," I said, trying to sound nice.
"Has James gone back to that Denise woman?" she asked.
"Not that I know of." I smiled bitter reassurance at her.
"Thank God," she said, breathing out with relief.
Oh dear. Poor Mum. If only she knew. Denise wasn't a problem. But there was a problem. A problem that was much bigger than Denise. And, hey, that was really saying something.
Honestly, wouldn't you think that by now I might have begun to forgive and forget? Wasn't it time that I stopped being nasty about Denise?
It's just that it was so easy.
I turned on my sexy high heels and tried to march purposefully across the departure area. It wasn't easy to be purposeful when I kept colliding with all kinds of easygoing people who stood around chatting, surrounded by suitcases and bags, rest-
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ing their elbows on their carts, as if they had all the time in the world. As if this wasn't an airport at all and nobody had a flight to catch. Certainly not one departing in the next decade or so.
I tried briskly to reserve a flight to London.
But it wasn't possible.
The pleasant, laid-back Aer Lingus rep would only allow me to make my reservation in a relaxed, easygoing fashion.
In between a discussion on the Russian presidency (isn't the drink a scourge?) and a chat about the weather (let's hope the dry spell lasts), I just happened to get myself a standby on a flight leaving shortly for London.
There were no problems at all. Which I thought was an awful waste be- cause it wasn't often that I was in a filthy mood and able to stand up for myself and insist on my rights and cause trouble and all that and today would have been just ideal to do it.
I was all fired up for a good fight.
But everybody was so decent and accommodating and it all went beau- tifully.
Damn it.
It was ten minutes past five.
The flight was uneventful.
It would have been great if the important-looking business-man beside me had tried to talk to me, or even better, tried to flirt with me, just so that I could take full advantage of my bad mood.