Husbands (11 page)

‘I wasn’t going to say that.’

Suddenly a depressing thought overwhelmed me. ‘Are you gay?’ I asked.

‘Not last time I checked. Why? Are you homophobic?’ he asked, mock-serious.

‘No, of course not. I just don’t want you to be gay. Even if it means I could say, “Some of my best friends are gay.”’

‘Am I going to be one of your best friends?’ asked Stevie.

Was he flirting? He was. ‘I hope we’re going to be friends,’ I reassured him.

Friends and a whole lot more but I didn’t add that because just then a cab slowed to a standstill next to the pavement where we were stood.

‘Need a ride?’ asked the driver.

‘Yes,’ Stevie and I said in unison.

On our arrival at Stevie’s flat I discovered I was anxious beyond precedent. I continually mixed up West Hamp-stead and Highgate and barely managed to articulate that I took my coffee black, one sugar.

‘I’ve kind of forgotten how to do this,’ I confessed.

‘Do what?’ asked Stevie.

‘Whatever we’re about to do,’ I mumbled, wanting to kick myself. Had I just asked him to sleep with me? I had, hadn’t I? Or as good as.

Stevie smiled away my nervousness. ‘Well, I’m about to show you my enormous photo collection of my travels in India, Thailand and Malaysia. All you have to do is pretend to be interested. It’s easy,’ he joked. ‘But be warned, if you do a convincing job I’ll make you sit through the really old ones of me in South America too,’ he added, as he rummaged around for packets of photos in an untidy cupboard. So that’s how we passed the time until the sun came up and our eyes were stinging with lack of sleep.

I remember now that I fell asleep on the floor of his sitting room while he was trying to unearth some chocolate he was sure he had somewhere – maybe in the fridge, maybe in a cupboard, maybe in his sock drawer…

This morning is peculiar. This morning it is our easy intimacy that unsettles me. I’m almost sure we should be awkward with one another. Are we this comfortable because he doesn’t feel the electricity that I feel, can almost touch and taste? Doesn’t he fancy me? Are we just good friends? That damning, hopeless epitaph. And there is something else bothering me, something related. Have we kissed? Because if we have and he’s this calm, I’m a lousy kisser. But, on the other hand, if we haven’t, why not?

Maybe I’m out of my depth. Stevie is gorgeous – really, really special – therefore I’m not sure I want to stick
around long enough to hear him say he doesn’t think of me in the same way. It would be soul-destroying to discover that I’m a nice girl but not his type. It would be better to leave now with the beautiful memories of my sparkling night intact. I’m just about to say that I have to get dressed and leave because I have an oh-so-busy schedule when Stevie asks, ‘Have you any plans for the rest of the day?’

‘None. Well, I have to pick Eddie up but no, after that, we are totally free,’ I blurt, which I realize doesn’t help to create the impression that I am in demand, a girl with a crazily busy and very glamorous schedule.

‘Me neither,’ says Stevie. ‘Do you think Eddie would like to go to the Science Museum? I loved that sort of stuff when I was a kid.’

‘I think he’d like that very much,’ I assure, nodding and smiling. Relief floods me. Truth is, Eddie would like that nearly as much as his mum would.

Bella

‘Don’t ever, ever make me lie for you again,’ Amelie hisses.

‘I didn’t ask you to lie,’ I point out.

I hate it when my friends go all sanctimonious on me. Hey, like haven’t I told the odd lie for Amelie in the past? I think about this for a moment and realize that, no, I have not. But I
would
lie if I ever had to, that’s what friends are for. Blow it. This is why I’ve never told anyone my secret.

‘You put me in an impossible position. I like Philip.’

‘I love him.’

‘Of course you do. That’s why you married him while you were secretly married to someone else,’ she snaps.

‘But—’

Amelie holds up her hand to cut me off. She rummages in the drinks cupboard, pulls out a bottle of whisky and pours a generous measure into both our coffee cups, although it’s only just past breakfast time. This gesture saddens me as it’s exactly what I did for her on the countless occasions that we sat and talked about Ben, after his death, back when numbing the pain and shock was the only viable option.

‘Well…’ Amelie stutters to a stop before she starts, clearly she’s unsure what to say.

I take a deep breath and tell my story. ‘Stevie was my first love. He moved into our village when I was sixteen. He was like a glistening light in my humdrum existence. Unlike most of the other girls I’d never fancied the local boys I went to school with. Our village was so small that everyone knew each other since the day we were born so they had the familiarity of brothers. On the day I went into fifth form my only thought was which subjects I should take.’

Amelie, who is terrifically academic, is shocked into interrupting me. ‘You hadn’t chosen your subjects even though it was the beginning of term?’

‘No. Amelie, I’m not like you or Ben. I don’t have a particular talent or vocation. I never did. I was waiting to see which teacher was assigned to each subject then I’d choose according to who was the easiest about wearing make-up and who would set the least homework. But then Stevie Jones arrived at the school gate and all I could think of was how to get near him. I found out he was planning on taking literature, politics, music and history so I followed suit.’

‘The work of the feminist movement has been so worthwhile,’ murmurs Amelie.

‘I didn’t think it mattered, although, all these years later I can’t help but think that I’d have done better if I’d picked geography and sociology instead of politics and music,’ I admit. ‘Anyway, aren’t we getting off the point here?’ Amelie nods tightly. ‘Stevie was the talk of the school. He was a year older than everyone else because
he’d had a year out, travelling around South America. Age sixteen. Can you imagine the cred that gave him? He’d travelled with relatives – cousins – and he seemed so sophisticated compared to the other boys. So knowledgeable. He was dark and moody and brooding. All the girls fancied him and all the boys wanted to be him. Three girls asked him out on the first day of term.’

‘Not backward in coming forward at your school,’ observes Amelie.

‘We lived in a small town, you had to make your own entertainment,’ I say. ‘Luckily, he lived very near me and at the end of the day we found ourselves walking home together. It was a lovely early-September afternoon. Bright skies, leaves just turning to gold, there was a low sun glowing and throwing long shadows. We ambled along and I can still smell the sweet, wild grass and the hedgerow.’

It’s a unique meteorological memory because, more often than not, the walk home from school was bleak and gloomy at best, or demanded an athletic feat of running while being stung mercilessly by lacerating rains.

‘You know something, Amelie? Since Stevie I’ve had countless romantic evenings with a varied cross section of the male population. I’ve been courted, flattered, pursued, call it what you will, in the finest restaurants, on boats, beaches and even in front of two of the seven wonders of the modern world.’

‘Really, which ones?’ Amelie can’t help her inquisitive mind.

‘The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco and the Eurotunnel.’

‘Is the Eurotunnel
really
classed as one of the seven wonders of the modern world? How marvellous.’

I stare at her and hope she can sense my exasperation. Our conversations habitually ebb and flow. Often, on leaving Amelie’s house I think, ‘Oh, I never told her…’ or, ‘I never finished the story about…’ Today, I’m not in the mood for chit chat.

‘Yes, I read about it on a website. Do you want the full account of those intrigues?’ I snap, barely disguising my impatience.

Amelie considers for a moment. ‘No, stick to your story. Keep the bridge and tunnel stories for another time.’

‘I was just saying, nothing has ever been as romantic as that walk home with Stevie.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Except for Philip’s proposal,’ prompts Amelie.

‘Not really,’ I admit, refusing to comfort her with a lie. ‘It turned out that Stevie wasn’t dark, moody and brooding, just boyishly shy, but so clever and funny when you got chatting to him. He walked right past his house to mine, because he didn’t want to leave me, and then I walked him back to his, and then—’

‘He walked you back to yours.’

‘Yes.’ I grin, despite the seriousness of my situation. It’s a wonderful, innocent memory. ‘We did this from four o’clock until seven, when my dad got home and told me to stop messing around and come inside for tea. And then, in front of my dad and everything, Stevie kissed my cheek.’

‘That seems to be his signature move,’ observes Amelie.

I glare at her. ‘So that was it. We were an item. He came in, had some tea with my dad and brothers and then we played Connect 4. I thrashed him,’ I add proudly.

Until that night our house had existed in a bleak silence, punctuated by clocks ticking, coals sizzling and settling on the living-room fire and the occasional angry or drunken outburst. I think back to the cold, grey landscapes and seascapes of my childhood and fail to see their famed beauty but think of them as eerie and depressing. Stevie warmed the room with his irreverent chatter, even my father liked him and answered his questions about fishing with more patience than I’d ever enjoyed. Stevie was a sunrise on the horizon after a long, dark night. I thought he was the answer. To every question.

‘We were inseparable all of fifth and sixth form. We were so in love, the way only teenagers can be. We studied together, read poetry, he sang and played his guitar. It seemed obvious that we would go to university together. I’d always thought Stevie would take me away from it all. His otherness was the main reason I was attracted to him. I waited until Stevie had made his choices, then I applied for the same unis. We ended up at Aberdeen, a great university, but even then I was a little disappointed that we weren’t going somewhere further afield.’

‘Where did he originate from, this knight in shining armour?’

‘Blackpool.’

‘Blackpool?’ asks Amelie with understandable incredulity.

‘I had only left Scotland twice in my life, both times
on school trips, one to the Lake District, the other to Whitby. Blackpool seemed exotic.’ I blush at my naivety. Was there ever such an innocent?

‘Didn’t your father object to you going away together? Most parents encourage their children to try pastures new.’

‘He never got involved in my private life.’ Or any other part of it. ‘I think he was just pleased that I was going away to study, not staying to kick my heels in the village.’

I’m glossing. I don’t think Amelie would understand if I told her my father was glad to see the back of me and couldn’t have cared less what I did with myself, as long as I didn’t hang around him, being unlucky. He once muttered that a university education would do me no good, ‘Being a lassie an’ all, nae point.’ And he told Stevie that he’d be better off getting a trade, ‘Stick in at the skill, laddie, else ye’ll end up wi’ the rest of them, measuring the length of yer spit on the street corner.’ I wonder what he’d say if he knew Stevie had stuck to his skill and was now a fully bona fide Elvis impersonator. I think my father was recommending a life as a fisherman or a roof tiler.

‘Maybe it would have been different if Mum had still been with us.’ I battle to keep the self-pity out of my voice.

Where do I start in explaining to Amelie? I bet if she was playing word association the word ‘childhood’ would provoke carefree responses such as ‘summertime’, ‘TV’ or ‘pick ’n’ mix sweets’. I’d say ‘misery’, ‘fear’, ‘guilt’. My father thought confectionery, central heating and even smiling were indulgences we could do without. He believed that a north-eastern Scottish life was one in
which hardship was inescapable, almost preferred. He liked firm chairs, cold winds and winter, but his biggest peculiarity was his distrust of me.

My father was a commercial fisherman. They’re a superstitious lot. It goes back for centuries, and maybe it is understandable given that, before the advent of sophisticated navigational and fish-finding electronics, catching fish was in part good luck. It never hurts to hedge your bets.

The superstitions my father believed in and abided by were unending. Superstitions dictated what we wore, ate and said. It was considered bad luck to end a boat’s name with a vowel, to paint a boat blue, to leave port on a Friday, to have a minister on your boat, to whistle on your boat. Rabbits were considered unlucky, as were pigs, salmon and women – especially women. I imagine this deep-seated distrust of women could be traced back to the myth of sirens luring boats to their doom or maybe it was just vicious misogyny. We weren’t allowed near the boats and there were rules about how and when a woman should wash, do her household chores, bake and even brush her hair.

Having sired four sons my father considered himself especially fortuitous, but the day I was born he lost a man overboard. He blamed me. He didn’t think of blaming the lousy weather and the high seas.

Victorian, isn’t it? Laughable, really.

As a small child I was desperate to fish with my father and my brothers. Their lives seemed exciting and vigorous. Besides, nothing at all happened in Kirkspey except fishing and I didn’t want to be left out. One day, I
clambered aboard and tried to hide. I thought I’d stow away until we were at sea, then I’d reveal myself and join the boys with their on-board chores. A completely childish fantasy, of course, which was brought to an abrupt halt when I was discovered even before they set sail. Unfortunately that day my father slipped and broke his leg. Again I was blamed.

Proof positive that I was the devil in a skirt came when he caught me combing my hair when my brothers were at sea. He yelled at me, saying I was a curse, did I want to see them all ruined? My mum died that night; for a time he even had me believing in my ability to cause disaster. ‘Nae whip cuts sae deep as the lash of guilt.’ This superstitious claptrap seems total nonsense to me now as I’m sat in Amelie’s clean, warm kitchen. I can’t possibly explain it to her.