Part 15 (1/2)

f.a.n.n.y called everybody angel, but she was the angel.

She helped me get my business going, sent me leads and introduced me to all sorts of people who might give me work, and she generally looked out for me.

If I could stop dreaming about Patrick Riley, if I could stop fantasising about getting Patrick Riley's s.h.i.+rt off then running my hands down Patrick Riley's lovely chest, I thought I might have a chance of getting back to normal.

Of course, I'd probably never be quite back to normal there was all the Charlie stuff and other stuff to sort before I could start thinking about normal. But as October turned into November, I was hopeful I might manage almost-normal soon.

November.

PATRICK.

I checked my inbox daily, hourly, by the minute, hoping for a message, even one as staid and formal as the one she sent when she came back to the UK.

Come November, you'll be back to normal, I a.s.sured myself. But whatever normal might have been, I knew I wasn't it. Unless lying awake all night and wondering what Rosie might be doing, thinking, saying, who she could be seeing and if she might be with some guy and, if this was indeed the case, how I could kill him by just willing him to die, could ever pa.s.s for normal.

By November, far from being back to normal, I was getting desperate.

You could write the girl yourself, perhaps?

But what would I say?

Does it matter, idiot? All you need to do is get in contact and say something anything!

Okay.

I clicked compose.

Now write something casual, informal. But don't be too familiar because she won't like that.

Say hi, how are you doing?

Yeah, but also let her know you're thinking warm, affectionate thoughts. You got it?

Yeah, I got it.

FROM: Patrick M Riley SUBJECT: Missing You TO: Rosie Denham Hi, how are you doing?

I think about you day and night. You're in my head and in my heart.

Rosie, we should be together. It's so bad to be apart.

What the h.e.l.l? Did I just write that piece of rhyming s.h.i.+t? What was wrong with me? Did I need some form of medication?

I clicked delete and opened up an article for which I was doing a review and then I gave the author a hard time.

I felt like I was kind of in a holding pattern.

I went on trying to act normal, or what I hoped was normal.

I headed out to work and came back home to the apartment, which was now a library since Lexie wasn't there to kvetch about the papers, books and magazines. I saw my kids and did a ton of stuff with them. I'd started a new outreach programme on a reservation in Northern Minnesota and it was going well.

But emotionally I felt like I was frozen, that a part of me was in suspended animation in a cryogenic tank. Contrariwise, I also had this feeling it would take one single spark to cause a Three Mile Island-style explosion.

You could say that I was still confused.

Lex had quieted down considerably. Maybe Mr Wonderful was so exciting and inventive that he wore her out? I guess it was a possibility.

The kids had settled into a routine. I read somewhere that kids of separated parents can be quite adaptable. They can learn and grow and love, develop all the social skills that kids whose parents are together do, and it looked like Joe and Polly fit this paradigm.

I adapted and I fit it, too. Monday through Friday, I picked my children up from Angie's, pre-school, school, wherever. I took them back to the apartment, gave them dinner, read to them a while, we watched a DVD or two.

Once or twice a week they helped me cook. Joe showed quite a talent for making chocolate cupcakes and for decorating them. Polly showed a talent for eating decorations. But Polly was a vital member of our team because she was our quality control. Yeah, we had the process all sewn up. Girl Scout cookie makers, give way to the serious contenders in the home baking stakes!

Later, Lex would pick them up and take them back to Mr Wonderful's real house with its real yard. When I saw them on weekends, we did a bunch of stuff I never thought to do before. We glued. We crafted. We made crazy stuff like wizard wands and monster masks. We had no one saying, don't you guys get paint on that new rug, eat up all your carrot sticks and then go take your bath.

The travelling to Europe, Dubai and Singapore had not been mentioned since Lex said she was leaving. So I kind of hoped it wouldn't happen.

Did they get their pa.s.sports?

Yes, and Joe was beyond proud. Lexie let him bring it to show me and The Terminator. As we sat together on the couch and Polly watched a candy-coloured DVD about a fairy princess, he read out all the n.o.ble precepts printed at the top of every page. I have to admit I was impressed. I didn't know George Was.h.i.+ngton said all that stuff about repairing standards, which as you can guess had Joe confused.

He added that he was the only kid in his whole cla.s.s to have a US pa.s.sport. 'So I guess that means I'm kind of special?' he suggested shyly.

'You always were and always will be special.'

'Do you have a pa.s.sport, Dad?'

'No, I never needed one.'

'Mom and Polly, they got pa.s.sports. Maybe you should get a pa.s.sport, too?'

'Yeah, perhaps,' I said. 'Hey, Joe did you see The Terminator savage that zucchini? I swear he ate the whole thing in one bite!'

I should get a pa.s.sport? Why? I didn't think it likely that when Lex and Mr Wonderful went jetting off to Europe or elsewhere, I would be asked along.

So Lex and I, should we be getting a divorce? Lexie didn't mention it these past few weeks and I didn't care to think about it. I had too much work stuff, children stuff and other well-you-know stuff on my mind to sit around in lawyers' offices, chase paperwork, do all the tedious s.h.i.+t you had to do to get divorced.

ROSIE.

My weeks were beyond hectic.

I was still setting up the business, and this meant chasing clients, making phone calls, sorting advertising, chatting up the editors of magazines and newspapers and taking various people out to lunch. I hoped it wouldn't be too long before prospective clients, editors and advertisers wanting me to help promote whatever they were selling started chasing me.

While I'd worked for f.a.n.n.y and while I was in France, a salary had turned up in my account as if by magic. But that wasn't going to happen now. I had joined the ranks of the ridiculous, the stupid, the cross-eyed optimists, the likely bankrupts. I was self-employed.

I worked myself into a stupor. But still I couldn't sleep. Then I couldn't stand it any more. I sent an email.