Watermelon
Page 37
But instead of feeling triumphant about it, I didn't even feel relieved.
This was no victory.
I wanted James to care about our child.
I wanted my child to have a father.
I would have much preferred for James to bring me to court and indulge in bitter verbal battles and slander me by calling me a lesbian or a woman of low morals (no grounds for slander there, I'm afraid) or whatever. Be- cause, by trying to get custody of Kate by blackening my name, he would at least be caring about her.
I hugged Kate fiercely. I felt so guilty. Because somehow, somewhere, without my even knowing that I was doing it, I had messed up and because of that, poor Kate, innocent little bystander, had to do without her dad.
I just couldn't understand James.
Didn't he have any curiosity at all about Kate?
I couldn't make sense of it.
Was it because Kate is a girl?
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If the baby had been a boy would James have tried to make a go of things with me?
Who knew? I was just trying to make sense of a senseless situation.
And what about our apartment?
We had bought it together and it was in both our names. So what did we do?
Sell it and split the proceeds?
Me buy out his share and live there with Kate?
Me sell James my share and let him live there with Denise?
No way!
Over my dead body.
You know, anytime I'd heard people saying that passionately I just thought that they were being all Mediterranean and hot-blooded. That they were just playing to the camera and overreacting. And I knew that I'd said it myself thousands of times, but I'd never really meant it until that minute. But I meant it, really meant it then.
And what about money? How on earth was I going to manage to support Kate and myself on my salary?
I felt as if I'd wandered out onto a balcony and suddenly realized, to my horror, that there was no ground at all beneath me. Just lots and lots of limitless, empty space for me to fall through.
The thought of being without money was terrifying.
I felt as though I was nothing.
That I was just this faceless woman afloat in a big hostile universe with absolutely nothing to anchor me to anything.
I hated myself for being so insecure and so dependent. I should have been a strong, sassy, independent, nineties woman. The type of woman who has strong views and who goes to the movies on her own and who cares about the environment and can change a fuse and goes for aromather- apy and has an herb garden and can speak fluent Italian and has a session in a flotation tank once a week and doesn't need a man to shore up her fragile sense of self-esteem.
But the fact is, I wasn't.
I was perfectly happy to be a homemaker while my husband went out to earn the loot.
And if my husband was prepared to share the household
128
chores as well as earn the lion's share of the loot, then so much the better.
I suppose I wanted to have my cake and eat it.
But then again, what were you going to do with your cake if not eat it?
Frame it?
Use it as a sachet in your underwear drawer?
How were James and I going to separate the funds from our joint bank account? I would have nearly given up all rights to the money to save all the inevitable wrangling. The only thing that was stopping me was the idea of James's spending it on Denise.
Besides, I'd seen a really nice pair of shoes yesterday in the mall and I wanted them for my own.
I can't describe the feeling of immediate familiarity that rushed between us. The moment I clapped eyes on them I felt like I already owned them. I could only suppose that we were together in a former life. That they were my shoes when I was a serving maid in medieval Britain or when I was a princess in ancient Egypt. Or perhaps they were the princess and I was the shoes. Who's to know? Either way I knew that we were meant to be togeth- er.
And I had no immediate access to funds. Therefore I had to lay claim to my money in England.
Sordid and unpleasant as it might be.
My head swam slightly at all this, kind of like the way it had swum the night before when Mum started her Cher and Ike conversation.
Little did I think, the warm April day three years ago when I married James, that our union would end in such a way. That something that started out as such good fun and so full of hope and excitement could end in heartbreak and legalese.
That I would be dealing in so many clichs.
Arguing about money and possessions.
I'd always thought that James and I would be different. That even though we might be married there was no reason that we had to act it, goddammit!
That fun and love and passion would always be the most important things to us.
I'd vowed that there would never come a day when I would
129
walk into a room and say to James, without even looking at him, "The tiles in the bathroom are coming loose. You'd better take a look at them." Or, again giving him but the most cursory of glances, "I hope you're not thinking of wearing that sweater to the Reynolds' dinner."
Hadn't I realized that thousands of women before me had made a pact with themselves never to lose the magic in their marriages? The same way that they fiercely promised themselves that they would never let their gray hair show, would never let their breasts droop, would never get wrinkles. But it still happened.
Their will wasn't strong enough to fight the inevitable, to reverse the waves of time.
And neither was mine.
I lay Kate back down in her bassinet while I went to take a shower. I was obviously really getting to grips with this living business, I thought to myself proudly.
"Cleanliness," I told Kate, feeling very self-righteous, feeling that I was a Good Mother, "is next to godliness. And I'll tell you what godliness is when you're a bit older."
In the shower, I couldn't stop thinking about James. Not in a maudlin or bitter way. Just remembering how great it had been. Really, even though he had hurt me in a way I never thought he would, I couldn't forget just how great it was with him.
When I first met James and we were out with other people, I would watch him across a room, talking to someone else. I would always think to myself how sexy and handsome he looked. Especially if he was looking all serious and accountantlike. That always made me smile. He looked as if he was no fun at all.
But let me tell you, I knew differently.
And it gave me such a thrill to know that when the party or whatever had ended my man would be coming home with me. I wanted it always to be like that.
This was no victory.
I wanted James to care about our child.
I wanted my child to have a father.
I would have much preferred for James to bring me to court and indulge in bitter verbal battles and slander me by calling me a lesbian or a woman of low morals (no grounds for slander there, I'm afraid) or whatever. Be- cause, by trying to get custody of Kate by blackening my name, he would at least be caring about her.
I hugged Kate fiercely. I felt so guilty. Because somehow, somewhere, without my even knowing that I was doing it, I had messed up and because of that, poor Kate, innocent little bystander, had to do without her dad.
I just couldn't understand James.
Didn't he have any curiosity at all about Kate?
I couldn't make sense of it.
Was it because Kate is a girl?
127
If the baby had been a boy would James have tried to make a go of things with me?
Who knew? I was just trying to make sense of a senseless situation.
And what about our apartment?
We had bought it together and it was in both our names. So what did we do?
Sell it and split the proceeds?
Me buy out his share and live there with Kate?
Me sell James my share and let him live there with Denise?
No way!
Over my dead body.
You know, anytime I'd heard people saying that passionately I just thought that they were being all Mediterranean and hot-blooded. That they were just playing to the camera and overreacting. And I knew that I'd said it myself thousands of times, but I'd never really meant it until that minute. But I meant it, really meant it then.
And what about money? How on earth was I going to manage to support Kate and myself on my salary?
I felt as if I'd wandered out onto a balcony and suddenly realized, to my horror, that there was no ground at all beneath me. Just lots and lots of limitless, empty space for me to fall through.
The thought of being without money was terrifying.
I felt as though I was nothing.
That I was just this faceless woman afloat in a big hostile universe with absolutely nothing to anchor me to anything.
I hated myself for being so insecure and so dependent. I should have been a strong, sassy, independent, nineties woman. The type of woman who has strong views and who goes to the movies on her own and who cares about the environment and can change a fuse and goes for aromather- apy and has an herb garden and can speak fluent Italian and has a session in a flotation tank once a week and doesn't need a man to shore up her fragile sense of self-esteem.
But the fact is, I wasn't.
I was perfectly happy to be a homemaker while my husband went out to earn the loot.
And if my husband was prepared to share the household
128
chores as well as earn the lion's share of the loot, then so much the better.
I suppose I wanted to have my cake and eat it.
But then again, what were you going to do with your cake if not eat it?
Frame it?
Use it as a sachet in your underwear drawer?
How were James and I going to separate the funds from our joint bank account? I would have nearly given up all rights to the money to save all the inevitable wrangling. The only thing that was stopping me was the idea of James's spending it on Denise.
Besides, I'd seen a really nice pair of shoes yesterday in the mall and I wanted them for my own.
I can't describe the feeling of immediate familiarity that rushed between us. The moment I clapped eyes on them I felt like I already owned them. I could only suppose that we were together in a former life. That they were my shoes when I was a serving maid in medieval Britain or when I was a princess in ancient Egypt. Or perhaps they were the princess and I was the shoes. Who's to know? Either way I knew that we were meant to be togeth- er.
And I had no immediate access to funds. Therefore I had to lay claim to my money in England.
Sordid and unpleasant as it might be.
My head swam slightly at all this, kind of like the way it had swum the night before when Mum started her Cher and Ike conversation.
Little did I think, the warm April day three years ago when I married James, that our union would end in such a way. That something that started out as such good fun and so full of hope and excitement could end in heartbreak and legalese.
That I would be dealing in so many clichs.
Arguing about money and possessions.
I'd always thought that James and I would be different. That even though we might be married there was no reason that we had to act it, goddammit!
That fun and love and passion would always be the most important things to us.
I'd vowed that there would never come a day when I would
129
walk into a room and say to James, without even looking at him, "The tiles in the bathroom are coming loose. You'd better take a look at them." Or, again giving him but the most cursory of glances, "I hope you're not thinking of wearing that sweater to the Reynolds' dinner."
Hadn't I realized that thousands of women before me had made a pact with themselves never to lose the magic in their marriages? The same way that they fiercely promised themselves that they would never let their gray hair show, would never let their breasts droop, would never get wrinkles. But it still happened.
Their will wasn't strong enough to fight the inevitable, to reverse the waves of time.
And neither was mine.
I lay Kate back down in her bassinet while I went to take a shower. I was obviously really getting to grips with this living business, I thought to myself proudly.
"Cleanliness," I told Kate, feeling very self-righteous, feeling that I was a Good Mother, "is next to godliness. And I'll tell you what godliness is when you're a bit older."
In the shower, I couldn't stop thinking about James. Not in a maudlin or bitter way. Just remembering how great it had been. Really, even though he had hurt me in a way I never thought he would, I couldn't forget just how great it was with him.
When I first met James and we were out with other people, I would watch him across a room, talking to someone else. I would always think to myself how sexy and handsome he looked. Especially if he was looking all serious and accountantlike. That always made me smile. He looked as if he was no fun at all.
But let me tell you, I knew differently.
And it gave me such a thrill to know that when the party or whatever had ended my man would be coming home with me. I wanted it always to be like that.
