I didn't hear from him again until the next morning, and when he called, he sounded oddly cold. He said he'd had a call from California, and he was leaving that morning. He didn't want me to take him to the airport, and he'd be back in a few days. “Before Christmas,” he said vaguely.

“Is something wrong?” The tone of his voice frightened me. He seemed suddenly very distant.

“No, it's just an emergency meeting. Nothing crucial, but I want to be there.” He offered no further explanation.

“I mean with us.” My voice was trembling as I asked. I had never heard him sound so cold. He sounded like a different person.

“Maybe. We'll talk about it when I get home.”

“I don't want to wait that long.” I could hear it in his voice. The end had come. I suspected he wouldn't even bother to send Paul. Peter sounded as though he were retreating into his own world, and there was no room for me in it.

“I just need some time off,” he explained, but his voice sounded icy, as the snow continued to fall beyond the windows. ‘I'll see you in a few days. Don't worry if I don't call.” I told him I wouldn't, and was crying when I set the phone down. Maybe it was another woman. Maybe that was why he was going back to California. Maybe this time he, instead of Paul, had been recalled, by a blonde in San Francisco. Another Helena. I was deeply worried about it.

I sat alone, in the apartment that afternoon, turning it all over in my mind, wondering what had gone wrong, what I had done, why he seemed so cold and angry. We had been together for exactly five months by then, which seemed like a healthy chunk of time to me, but in the perspective of a lifetime was but a moment. I wondered if I'd hear from him at all, or if he'd even come back for Christmas as he'd promised. And his “We'll talk about it when I get home,” sounded anything but happy. He said he'd call when he got back, and then hung up, without telling me he loved me. I could smell another heartbreak in my future. Perhaps even by Christmas, if I was very unlucky.

The children were due back at five-thirty, and half an hour before that, the doorbell rang. I figured Roger was dropping them off early, and went to open the door, still looking glum. I was very depressed about Peter. And as I pulled open the door, I saw Paul standing there, shaking the snow off his mink coat. He was wearing it over red spandex leggings and a shimmering red Versace sweater, with red alligator cowboy boots. Peter had sent him after all. For a moment, I was relieved. At least I wouldn't be alone now.

“Hi,” I said glumly, as he swept me into his arms and off the floor, and spun me around till I was dizzy. He had on silver mittens with little ermine tails on them, and as he hugged me, he pulled them off and dropped them at my feet like gauntlets. I noticed then for the first time that he had new luggage. The purple alligator Hermes had disappeared, and he had bright red ostrich cases, made by Vuitton, with P.K. emblazoned on them in tiny pave diamonds.

“You don't look happy to see me,” he said, taking his coat off and looking disappointed. The truth was, I wasn't. I just couldn't play the game anymore. I had said my good-byes to him two days before, made my peace with it, knowing it might be the last time we would see each other. And then my heart had turned to Peter. He was all I could think of now, as I looked at Paul, desperately sorry this time that Peter had sent him to me.

“He left,” I said sadly, as twin tears rolled down my cheeks, longing for one of my old flannel nightgowns. I was in no mood for fun, or Paul. It was just too much for me to handle. I felt as though I were living in a revolving door, ricocheting from one to the other. But I knew where my heart had stopped now, and I knew better yet that Peter didn't care, and Paul was unable, or unwilling, to understand it. But at least, for once, I did.

“I know why you're upset,” Paul said happily, grinning as he marched into the kitchen, tracking snow all over my front hall with complete abandon. He opened the cupboard where the bourbon was, and this time pulled out a bottle of vodka. And within seconds had tossed down two shots, and poured himself a third one. It was the first time I'd ever seen him drink vodka, but he seemed to love it. “Peter said you were missing me terribly,” he explained, looking pleased with himself, and tenderly at me, “that's why he sent me.” He was strolling around my kitchen, looking as though he owned it, which annoyed me severely. He was, after all, only a Klone, and he didn't own me.

“I wish he hadn't sent you, Paul,” I said honestly. “I'm not up to it. I don't think you should stay,” I said sadly.

“Don't be silly.” He ignored me, as he sprawled across a chair, and tossed back another shot of vodka. “He's not good for you, Steph. I think he depresses you. It must be the way he dresses.” All I could think of was that Paul looked like a giant strawberry as he sat there in my kitchen in his red spandex leggings. They were blinding.

“I like the way Peter dresses.’ I defended him, and meant it. “He looks wonderful and virile and sexy.”

“You think gray flannel is sexy?” I nodded and he groaned, licking his lips after the vodka. “No, Stephanie, gray flannel is not sexy. It's boring.” He looked completely confident as he said it.

“I love him,” I said from across the room, watching him, wondering why I had ever thought I loved him. Paul was a cartoon, not a person. Actually, he was neither, but we both knew that. It didn't seem to daunt him.

“No, you don't, Steph. You love me, and you know it.”

“I love being with you. I have fun with you. You're wild and funny and sweet and entertaining.”

“And great in bed,” he added, feeling the glow of the vodka. “Don't forget that.”

“You don't have to do acrobatic acts to be great in bed,” I said quietly, I had never wanted to be in the circus.

“Stop making excuses for him. We both know the score. He's pathetic.”

“No,” I said, growing angry suddenly, “you are. You think that you can just swoop in here whenever he leaves and play with me, flip me around in midair, drinking yourself blind, and make a fool out of me with my friends, and I'll be so blown away by you, I'll forget him. Well, I don't. I can't. I never will. I don't even think he loves me, if you want to know the truth. But even if he doesn't, I still love him.”

“You're disgusting.” Paul looked deeply offended, and I was suddenly afraid I had gone too far and really hurt his feelings. His wiring was extremely sensitive, and I knew how easy it was to bruise his ego. “And you're right. He doesn't love you. I don't think he knows how. That's why he built me. He wanted me to do all the fancy footwork. And I do. Let's face it, Steph. I make him look good. Without me, he's nothing.”

“Without him, you are,” I said bluntly, and Paul looked as though I'd hit him. I wanted to stop then, but I couldn't. I knew that for the sake of my own sanity, I had to be honest with him. I was crazy about him. I enjoyed him endlessly. I had never had as much fun before, and I cared about him deeply, but in the past two days I had discovered what I had always suspected secretly. I didn't love him. I loved Peter. Utterly, completely, and truly. Even if Peter never understood it. That still didn't change it.

“You hurt my feelings, Steph,” Paul said, pulling the vodka bottle out again, and taking a long swig from the bottle. And then he burped loudly as he set it back down on the table. It was one of those little things I loved about him.

“I'm sorry, Paul. I had to say it.”

“I don't believe you. And neither does Peter. He knows you love me.”

“What makes you think so?”

“He told me,” Paul said bravely. “He called before he left for San Francisco.”

“What did he say?” I asked, curious about the things they talked about, and what they said about me. Contemplating that was more than a little unnerving. No woman liked to think of both her lovers conferring.

“He just said you'd been depressed ever since he got back, and he needed to get away. He's been getting much too close to you, apparently. He missed you a lot when he was away. And he said he could see when he returned how much you missed me. You did, didn't you?” He grinned victoriously at me.

“I always miss you,” I said honestly. “And I was depressed thinking I might not see you again.”

“Why wouldn't you?” The Klone looked puzzled.

“I wouldn't see you if I left him, Paul. We talked about it.”

“Why would you leave him, if you supposedly love him so much?”

“Because he doesn't love me. And I can't play this game forever, sleeping with both of you. It's not decent, and it's too tough an adjustment. One minute I'm bounding off the walls with you, and trying to keep you from mooning the buses on Fifth Avenue, the next I'm trying to be respectable with him, and adjust to what his needs are. And whatever they are, I'm not sure that they include me at the moment. He barely said goodbye to me when he left for California.”

“Because he knows that we belong together.”

“You belong in the shop, with your head off. And I belong in the nuthouse.” But much more to the point, I knew I belonged with Peter. Forever, if he'd let me. But that seemed unlikely now.

“He doesn't want to stand between us,” Paul said with confidence, as though he knew Peter better than I did, and spoke for him.

“Then he's crazier than you are.” But before I could say more, the children came home from their weekend with Roger and Helena, and wanted to complain about it. They were used to Paul by then, and the exotic outfits he wore, that they scarcely noticed him sitting in the kitchen, and of course they thought it was Peter.

“Nice pants,” Charlotte commented as she helped herself to a Dr Pepper and continued to complain about what a bitch Helena was, and how disgusting she looked with her boobs bigger than ever, while I urged her to be respectful. It was useless. I was still talking to her when Paul disappeared with Sam conspiratorially, and I almost had a heart attack half an hour later, when I went to look for them, and saw Paul hand him a live iguana. He had it in his suitcase.

“Oh my God!” I screamed. “What is that?”

“His name is Iggy,” Sam said proudly. “A friend of Peter's brought him back from Venezuela.”

“Well, tell him to take it back there. You can't have that thing in this house, Sam.” I was panicked.

“Oh, Mom …” Sam turned his huge eyes up to mine and begged me.

“No! Never!” And then I turned to Paul in fury. Not only had he come uninvited as usual, and unwanted this time, but he had brought a monster with him. “You can make a lovely pair of boots out of him, one at least. I'm sure your friend in Venezuela can find you another. You won't even have to dye them. They're green already. Now put that thing back in your suitcase!” Paul picked him up off Sam's head, where he had been resting, and cradled him lovingly, while Sam continued to beg me to keep him. “Forget it, both of you! Get rid of him. Or I'm sending both of you to Venezuela with him. Good-bye, Iggy!” I said pointedly and went back to the kitchen to cook dinner. What was I going to do with him? And with or without Iggy, this time I knew Paul was not going to be staying. I had made a decision.

I was cooking pasta when Paul walked back into the kitchen again, with a serious expression. “I'm disappointed in you, Steph. You've lost your sense of humor.”

“I've grown up. You wouldn't understand. You're not real. You can afford to be Peter Pan forever. I can't. I'm a grown woman, with two children.”

“You sound like Peter. He always says stuff like that. That's why everyone thinks he's so boring.”

“Maybe that's why I love him. Besides, he would never do a thing like that, bring something like that to Sam. A goldfish maybe, or a hamster. Maybe a dog. But not a helio-monster or whatever that thing is.”

“He's an iguana, and he's a beauty. And what makes you think he wouldn't do that? You don't know him.”

“I know him intimately, and believe me, he would not give my son an iguana.”

“Well, pardon me for living,” he said, pulling out the cooking sherry and drinking half the bottle. “Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”

“No,” I said firmly, “and you can't stay here tonight.”

“Why not?” He looked disappointed as he started to hiccup. “That sherry is awful, by the way, you shouldn't use it.”

“You shouldn't drink it.”

“I finished the vodka, and you're out of bourbon.”

“I didn't know you were coming. Peter only drinks martinis.”