Marian Keyes - Watermelon (38 page)

"No..." I said weakly. "It's just--"

"You want me to take all the blame, is that it?" he said, raising his voice. "You want me to be the bad guy, the `man you and all your friends love to hate,' is that it? After all I've done for you? Is that what you want?" he ended on a shout, his face close to mine.

"But you are the bad guy," I said, bewildered. "You were the one who had the affair, not me."

"Oh Jesus!" he shouted, really shouted, this time. "You'll never stop harping about that, will you? Trying to make me feel guilty about it. Well, I don't feel guilty, right? I've been so good to you always. Everyone knows that. I am not the bad person here. You are!"

Silence followed. The room reverberated with it.

I sat very still. Feeling shell-shocked.

James exhaled hard, angrily, and started pacing the room. He didn't look at me.

I realized that I was shaking.

Am I a bad person? I asked myself.

Am I really?

A little voice in my head told me not to be ridiculous. This had gone far enough. I had to hold on to what I knew to be the truth. James was the one who had had an affair. Not me. I didn't force James to have an affair. He chose to do it. James told me that I was almost impossible to love, but he told everyone else that he loved me very much.

James wanted me to take the blame for his affair.

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As I sat there trembling, my head swimming, something became very clear to me. Something that I hadn't seen before now. James did not want to admit, would not admit, that he was in the wrong. He could not accept that he had had an affair. Well, obviously, he knew he'd had one--I'd say the memory of Denise wasn't that easy to erase--but he didn't want it to be his fault.

A little time passed. Tension hung heavy in the air.

From James's reaction I realized that he was not going to admit, not in a million years, that he had lied to me and told the truth to George.

And I happened to believe George. I was sure he wasn't making anything up--quite apart from anything else, he was too stupid! And I was sure that James didn't think for one moment that what he said to George would get back to me. He thought he was perfectly safe in telling George that he loved me very much while telling me that it was hard for him to love someone as difficult and selfish as me. I knew James hated to feel insecure about anything. He hated to be vulnerable, even about his work, not to have total control. And he wanted to feel secure around me.

I still intended to get to the bottom of the great George/Claire contradict- ory stories controversy but this time I decided to try a different approach. On the one hand I felt like telling James to fuck off, that he was an irrespons- ible, immature, emotional cripple and that a child could see that he was trying to manipulate me. But on the other hand, it was obvious that he was afraid. Or confused.

Maybe he needed someone to voice his fears, because he was too frightened to do it himself, and then I could try to put his mind at rest.

This was worth one more try.

"James," I said gently, "there's no shame in loving me, you know. It's not a sign of weakness to love someone and sometimes feel insecure. It's human. There's nothing wrong with it. And if you told George that you loved me very much, there's no need to lie to me about it. I'm not going to use it as a weapon against you. And when you came to Dublin there was no need to pretend that you barely loved me. No one's going to condemn you for loving your wife, for God's sake. And as

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for the affair, you made a mistake. [This was extremely hard to say, believe me, but I said it.] No one is perfect," I continued. "We all make mistakes. You can be honest with me, you know. You don't have to play games to protect yourself. We can work all this out and have a real marriage."

I finished speaking. I was exhausted.

There was a pause. I hardly dared to breathe. James sat silently, looking at the floor. Everything hinged on this.

"Claire," he finally said.

"Yes," I said, tense, terrified.

"I don't know what kind of psycho-babble crap you're talking but it makes no sense to me," he said.

So that was it.

I had lost.

"I can't see what the problem is," he continued. "I never said I didn't love you. I just said that you'd have to change for us to go on living together. I said that you'd have to grow up. I said that you were so inconsiderate--"

"I know what you said, James," I interrupted. I decided to stop him before he delivered the entire speech again. He sounded as if he was reading from a script. Or as if he was a robot programmed to say these things--press a button and he was off.

As for me, I'd had enough.

No more humiliation for me, thanks very much. No more swallowing my anger. Honestly, I couldn't manage another mouthful. But it was deli- cious. Did you make it yourself?

"Fine," I said.

"Fine?" he said quizzically.

"Yes, fine," I agreed.

"That's good," he said, sounding paternal and smug, "but is it really? I don't want you bringing this up every couple of months or so and throwing it in my face."

"I won't," I said shortly.

I started to gather up my bag and newspaper with a lot more rustling and fuss than was necessary. I got to my feet and started to put on my jacket.

"What are you doing?" asked James, confusion written on his face.

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I affected a startled and innocent face. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"I'm not sure," he said.

"I'd better tell you then, hadn't I?" I said smoothly.

"Er...well, yes," said James. It gave me a cold thrill to hear him sounding a bit anxious.

"I'm leaving," I said.

"Leaving?" he hooted. "What the hell are you leaving for? We've just worked everything out."

Then he started to laugh in relief. "Oh God, sorry," he said, "for a minute there..." He shook his head at his own silliness. "But of course, you've got to go back. You've got to get your things and bring back Kate. But I must admit that I was kind of hoping that you'd stay the night and we might get...um...reacquainted. Never mind. We can wait a few more days. So what time on Tuesday should I expect you?"

"Oh James," I said with a mock-sympathetic little laugh, "you haven't realized, have you?"

"Realized what?" he asked carefully.

"I won't be here on Tuesday. Or any other day, for that matter," I ex- plained nicely.

"For God's sake, what is it now?" he bellowed. "We've just worked it all out and now you--"

"No, James," I cut in icily. "We've worked nothing out. Nothing at all. You may have worked something out--your image of yourself as a nice guy is good and intact--but I've sorted nothing out."

"But what have we been talking about for the past hour?" he asked bel- ligerently.

"Exactly," I said.

"What?" he barked, looking at me as if I'd gone a bit crazy.

"I said `Exactly.' Just what the hell have we been talking about?" I asked him. "Because for all the good it's done me, I might as well have been talking to the wall."

"Oh, we're back to you again, are we?" asked James nastily. "It's all you care about, you and your feelings and--"

That was it!

"Shut up!" I commanded, my voice coming out much louder than I had expected.

James was so shocked that he actually did shut up.

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"I'm not listening to any more of your crap about what a terrible person I am," I shouted. "I didn't fuck someone else. You did. And you're so im- mature and selfish that you just can't own up to it and take the blame."

"I'm immature and selfish?" said James in astonishment. "Me?" he said, dramatically pointing in disbelief to his chest. "Me?" I think you're slightly confused here."

"No, I'm bloody well not," I shouted. "I know I'm not perfect. But at least I can admit it."

"So why won't you own up to being selfish and inconsiderate in our marriage?" he asked, with an air of triumph.

"Because it's not true!" I said. "I knew it wasn't true, but I loved you and wanted to please you so I convinced myself that it had to be true. I thought if I could fix myself that I could fix our marriage. But there was nothing wrong with me. You were just manipulating me."

"How dare you?" he said, his face red with rage. "After all I've done for you. I've been a perfect husband!"

"James," I said with icy calm, "there is no doubt that you have been very good to me over the years. I think if you look back you'll find that it was mutual. We loved each other, it was part of the deal. But you seem to have started to believe your own publicity. Having an affair with another woman is not being good to me. You cannot justify it." There was a pause. For once James didn't have an indignant answer ready. "But," I continued, "you're not the first person to behave badly, to step out of line. It's not the end of the bloody world. We could have gotten over it. But you're too interested in looking squeaky clean and whiter than white. That's the choice that you've made."

I started toward the door.

"I can't understand why you're leaving," he said.

"I know," I said.

"Tell me why," he said.

"No."

"Why the hell not?" he demanded.

"Because I've tried. And I've tried. Why should you listen now when you haven't any of the other times? I'm not wasting any more time. I'm not trying any more."

"I love you," he said quietly.

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The bastard.

He sounded as if he really meant it.

I bit my lip. This was not the time to weaken.

"No, you don't," I said firmly.

"I do," he protested loudly.

"No, you don't," I told him. "If you had loved me you wouldn't have had an affair--"

"But--" he interrupted.

"And," I continued loudly, before he started his speech again, "if you loved me, you wouldn't have wanted me to change into some wimpy wo- man who was afraid of you. If you loved me you wouldn't have tried to manipulate me or to control me. And most of all, if you loved me, you wouldn't be afraid to admit that you're in the wrong. If you loved me you could rise above yourself and your ego and apologize to me."

"But I do love you," he said, trying to hold my hand, "you've got to be- lieve me!"

"I don't believe you," I told him, shrugging his hand away with disgust. "I don't know who or what it is that you love, but it certainly isn't me."

"It is!"

"No, James, it isn't," I replied, ultracalmly. "You just want some kind of moron you can control. Why don't you go back to Denise?"

"I don't want Denise. I want you," he said.

"Well, that's a pity," I said evenly, "because you can't have me."

The shock was a bit much for him. He looked like he'd been kicked in the stomach. You know--a bit like the way I had looked the day he told me he was leaving me.

Not that I desired anything as crass as vengeance, you understand.

"And do you know what the worst thing of all is?" I asked him.

"What?" he said, white-faced.

"The fact that you made me doubt myself. I was prepared to try and change the way I am, change who I am, just for you. You made me abandon all my integrity. You tried to destroy who I am. And I let you!"

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"It was for your own good," he said, but without conviction.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Choose your next words very carefully, you asshole. They may be your last," I told him.

He went even whiter, if that was possible, and kept his mouth firmly closed.

"I'm never going to let myself be bullied ever again," I said with determ- ination. I like to think that I had some of the grit of Scarlett O'Hara when she gave the "As God is my witness, I'll never be cold or hungry again" speech. "I'll always be true to what I know I am," I continued. "I'm going to be me, whether it's good or bad. And if any man, even Ashley, tries to change me, I'll get rid of them so fast they'll be dizzy."

James totally missed the Gone With the Wind reference. No imagination.

"I never tried to bully you," he said, all indignant.

"James," I said, starting to feel weary, "this discussion is closed."

"Well, never mind the past," he said, sounding anxious and hasty. "But how about--hey...how about if I promise that I won't bully you in the fu- ture?"

He sounded as if he had just hit on the most innovative and novel idea. Archimedes hopping out of the bath naked would have seemed restrained and reserved in comparison.

I looked at him with scornful pity. "Of course you're not going to bully me in the future," I said, "because you won't get the chance."

"You don't mean it," he said. "You'll change your mind."

"I won't," I said with a tinkly little laugh.

"You will," he continued to insist. "You'll never last without me."

Wrong thing to say, I'm afraid.

"Where are you going?" he asked, outraged, when he saw me picking up my bag.

"Home," I said simply. If I left now I'd catch the last plane back to Dublin.

"You can't go," he said, standing up.

"Watch me," I said. And did another one of those swivels that my heels were so handy for.

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"What about the apartment? What about Kate?" he asked.

Well, it was nice to know where his priorities were, the apartment being higher up on his list than Kate.

"I'll be in touch," I promised with a pleasing echo of the words he had uttered to me that awful day in the hospital.

I walked toward the front door.

"You'll be back," he said, following me out to the hall. "You'll never last without me."

"So you keep saying," I said. "But don't hold your breath" were my last words before I pulled the door shut behind me.

I managed to get all the way to the subway station before I started to cry.

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I can't really remember much about the subway journey out to Heathrow.

The whole thing passed in a daze.

I knew I had done the right thing. At least, I thought I had done the right thing. It was just that this was real life and no decision was clearly sign- posted. It's not like you take the right turning and you get everlasting happiness and you take the wrong one and your life's a disaster. In real life it's often almost impossible to tell which decision is the one you should make because what you stand to gain and what you stand to lose are sometimes--often--neck and neck.

How could I really know if I'd done the right thing? I wanted someone to come up to me with a gold cup or a medal and shake my hand and clap me on the back and congratulate me on making the right decision.

I wanted my life to be like a computer game. Make the wrong decision and I lose a life. Make the right one and I gain points. I just wanted to know. I just wanted to be sure.

I kept listing the reasons why there could be no future for me and James. James wanted me to be someone I wasn't. James wasn't happy with me the way I was. And I wouldn't be happy if I changed so that James was happy. And I wasn't happy with James's saint complex. If I took him back James would be happy because then James would think that I condoned everything he did. The way he already condoned everything he did himself. It would probably mean that at the first

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argument I had with James in our new improved marriage everything would split wide-open all over again. James was pompous and sanctimo- nious and James thought that I was flighty and immature. I was sure it was for the best that the marriage really was over now. It was just that there was always room for a little bit of doubt.

You know, I wondered if I had been nicer, if I had been stronger, more gentle, more forceful, more patient, sweeter, kinder, nastier, crueler, if I had laid down the law more, if I had kept my mouth shut more, would I have saved my marriage?

I was torturing myself with these thoughts.

Because, at the end of the day, I was the one who made the decision. I was the one who said that the marriage could no longer work. I knew that James hadn't given me much of an option, much of a choice, but I was still the one who'd pulled the trigger, as it were.

I felt so guilty.

And then I told myself not to be so silly. What James was offering me wasn't worth the paper it wasn't written on. It was only a sham of a rela- tionship and it would have been entirely on his terms and it wouldn't have lasted a week. And if it had lasted, it would have been at the expense of my happiness. It would have just been a Pyrrhic victory.

Around and around went my thoughts as I rocked gently on the train, my head chasing its own tail.

God! I hated this business of being grown-up. I hated having to make decisions where I didn't know what was behind the door. I wanted a world where heroes and villains were clearly labeled. Where ominous music starts playing the minute the villain comes on-screen so you can't possibly mistake him.

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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