Husbands (21 page)

I don’t believe him and, worse, I don’t want to believe him.

‘It came in useful when I was looking for you.’

I put my head in my hands and allow the full implication of the situation to engulf me. Over the last few weeks I’ve been so absorbed in my mess and how I can get out of it without affecting my relationship with Philip, only now am I beginning to understand the further consequences of what I did to this man whom I loved and who had loved me. Whose only mistake had been to marry me when we were too young.

‘Tell me about loving Philip,’ says Stevie, looking into his beer glass.

‘You don’t want to hear that.’

‘I do. I want to understand it. I want to understand you.’

Stevie and I were once so close that we thought our souls had been cut from the same part of the sky. I remember him saying that to me. Now I can’t think we have anything in common. I expect he feels the same and wants to reacquaint himself. I’m uneasy but don’t see that I am in a position to negotiate.

‘We’ve been married for—’

‘You’re not married,’ says Stevie grimly.

‘Well, for the sake of argument.’ Stevie shrugs and lets me go ahead. ‘We’ve been married six months.’

‘That’s no time at all.’

I can hear the jeer in his voice. Stevie doesn’t see my marriage to Philip as a real marriage. But he’s wrong. My marriage to him was the farce.

‘I want to get to our ruby wedding anniversary,’ I hiss. I’m irritated. I know I’m on thin ice. Six months
is
no time at all. It’s short enough for Philip to write it off as a ghastly mistake, which I’m sure he would, if he found out about my bigamy.

‘We’d dated for nearly two years before we got married. All our friends think we’re perfect for each other. When we announced our engagement, they asked what had taken us so long.’

‘You could have explained, Belinda. You could have said you weren’t in a position to commit,’ says Stevie sarcastically.

I shift uncomfortably on my chair. ‘It was generally expected that when confronted with Philip-the-obvious-catch, I would snap him up after the first post-coital snooze. I live in London, where suitable bachelors are thin on the ground. At twenty-eight, I felt like a baby but was already being referred to as “Madame” by strangers. Philip was heading for
The Times
rich list
and
he’s kind.’

‘So you didn’t fancy him?’

‘I did. I do,’ I stumble. ‘Very much. I’m not blind. I could see that Phil was eminently eligible. He has sense, looks and money enough but I really wasn’t planning on marrying. I was trying
not
to fall in love with him.’

I look at Stevie, hoping for a reaction. He sneers, which is not the reaction I was looking for. Fuck me, what did I expect? He can’t possibly be understanding.

I hadn’t been waiting for a proposal. I was very aware that I was in no position to accept one. And I was planning to tell Philip about Stevie. Or, at the very least, to track down Stevie and sort out a divorce before I moved things on with Philip. I once went as far as to visit Friends Reunited but Stevie wasn’t registered. I wouldn’t have accepted Phil’s proposal if he hadn’t asked the night Ben was killed. I’m not saying that I didn’t want to marry Phil. I did want to marry Phil. One day.

I can’t articulate any of this accurately so I mutter, ‘There’s no crime in marrying someone who worships you.’

‘There is, if you’re already married,’ points out Stevie.

‘Well, yes,’ I admit with a reluctant grin. I’m surprised that I feel like grinning at all. ‘But if I hadn’t been married then it would have been OK.’ I touch my temples, I’m exhausted. ‘Look, I bath in a loved-up glow and I won’t apologize for that. I didn’t marry Philip for his money, you know, Stevie. I married his gravitas,’ I confess.

I wonder if Stevie will understand this. I wanted to feel safe. Stevie must realize this as he knows me better than anyone else, or at least, used to. He knows where I come from but sadly did not know where I wanted to go.

‘Philip is big and strong and—’

‘Grey?’ says Stevie, rupturing the romantic bubble where he still understands me. I dream of being known and understood, something I’ve made impossible. Is he jealous of Philip?

‘Yes, he is greying but I like that.’

‘Older men tend to be richer.’

‘Maybe, and they tend to be more mature,’ I snap.
Stevie looks offended and I’m glad. ‘I don’t need to explain my love for Philip. I don’t need to explain why I married him. He’s a good husband. An excellent one.’ I catch sight of Stevie’s face. He looks hurt again. I reach out and squeeze his arm, ‘I know you loved me too, but we were—’ I want to say we were too young but Stevie interrupts.

‘We were a mistake. I know, you told me.’

We stay silent for some time as anything I say seems to make matters worse. We drain our drinks and Stevie stubs out his fag. Only as we walk to the pub door dare I ask.

‘Will you help me, Stevie?’ I put my hand on his arm. His skin feels soft, warm, and pleasant. Stevie pauses and then after the longest time he nods.

‘Yes, I will help you, Belinda, because some things never change.’

The relief is enormous, it washes over me although I know I can never be clean again.

‘Stevie, one more thing.’

‘What?’

‘My picture, in your wallet. You have to dump it.’

Stevie nods. ‘It’s lousy anyway. You’re wearing electric-blue mascara.’

Laura

There’s a loud knock at our door.

‘Stevie, Stevie, Stevie, Stevie,’ says Eddie, jumping up from in front of the TV, hopeful and delighted.

I open the door and grin, ‘Hi, we weren’t expecting to see you tonight.’

‘I can leave if you want,’ he says, turning away.

‘No way, babe – you’re here now.’ I pull him into the flat and pretend not to have noticed his tetchiness.

‘Have you brought your guitar? Are you going to sing?’ demands Eddie.

Stevie drops to his knees so that he is at eye level with him, ‘Sorry, mate. I did promise to bring it next time I came round, didn’t I? I wasn’t planning on coming by. It slipped my mind.’ Stevie looks gutted at having let Eddie down. Eddie, on the other hand, isn’t bothered in the slightest and has already moved on to the next thing.

‘Do you like Lego?’

Stevie and Eddie settle down to making Thunderbirds out of Lego and I go back to the ironing. We’d agreed not to meet tonight because following three sleep-deprived nights on the trot, I decided my house needed attention and I needed rest. This was a rational decision made over the phone at lunchtime. However, Stevie’s irrational
appearance is welcome, despite the fact that he’s found me in all my barefaced glory. Then again, he’s seen me in all my bare-arsed glory. It isn’t logical to worry about lack of make-up.

‘Everything OK?’ I ask. Clearly it’s not. This isn’t one of those visits where your new boyfriend tears round to your flat because he can’t wait to rip off your clothes and give you a damn good ravishing. He looks tired and stressed. He’s come to my flat as a sanctuary. I’m stoked. I mean, obviously, I’m sorry that he’s tired and stressed but I can’t help being chuffed that he’s come to me for a bit of TLC.

‘Have those kids been picking on you again?’ I ask, with a smile.

Stevie gets up from the floor where he’s been playing with Eddie, and throws himself on to the settee. It shakes ever so slightly under his weight. Oscar was much shorter and Stevie looks as though he’s going to burst through the ceiling at any moment. All my furniture seems girly and effeminate when he lounges.

He pats the settee. ‘Come and give me a hug, Laura.’

I willingly leave my ironing and oblige. ‘Tough day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Kids? Parents? Paperwork? That old guy who eats all the chocolate biscuits in the staff room?’

‘Nothing like that,’ says Stevie. He’s quiet for a long time and just when I’m giving up hope that he’s going to tell me what’s bugging him, he mutters, ‘Neither John nor Dave can make it to Las Vegas.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Nope. John can’t get time off and Dave has a family party or something that weekend.’

‘Can’t he get out of it?’

‘Sister’s wedding, so no, not easily.’

‘Oh, babe, that’s a shame, I know you wanted them to be there.’

‘Yes, it’s a shame.’

‘Who are you going to ask instead?’

‘No idea.’

‘You must have other friends. People at school.’

‘They’re not the type you’d invite to support you as you conquer the world at an Elvis Presley tribute competition. It’s such a bloody waste of two tickets and a hotel room,’ says Stevie.

I sympathize with his predicament. If I had won a prize to take three friends on an all-expenses-paid trip to Las Vegas I’d ask Bella and Amelie. If they couldn’t make it, I’d be struggling. I’m not close enough to Sally or any of the doctors at the surgery to want to dress up in a spangly outfit and sing my guts out in front of them, even if I was talented that way.

I blame TV. We live in a hyperreality. TV has become more real than reality. We all feel we should be living a life like Monica, Rachel or Ross. A life where having cool friends who hang out in coffee bars is the norm. My friends don’t have time to live in coffee bars – well, Bella has, recently, but she didn’t always live her life that way. If we believed TV (which we do) it would appear that friends who would give their kidneys, as though they were offering a toffee, are queuing at the door. It’s not like that
in the real world. True friends are harder to come by. I want to assure Stevie that we’ll have a wonderful time in Las Vegas alone, but I’m nervous that I’ll sound either insensitive or full of bull.

The truth is, I’m not absolutely sure we
will
have a cheer’n time alone. I hope we will but it’s all so intense, all very fast forward. Something scary is happening here. And I can’t decide if it’s the best thing ever or the worst.

I’m falling in love with Stevie.

I know, I know, it’s stupidly early to say such a big, out-there thing but how else do I explain the fact that today I caught myself singing,
out loud
, on the tube. I’m almost unhappy with the situation.
Almost
. Part of me wants to kick, scramble, bollocks out of here. I want to sit Stevie down and explain, in words of one syllable, I’ve closed off that side of me. I no longer trust. I think men are bastards. The odd individual might be able to hide it for a while – give you the impression that they’re different from other testosterone-driven fuckwits – but, in the end, they are all the same and they
are
all bastards. I believe this with every rational bone in my body because the evidence is there, isn’t it?

But, the thing is, I’m the last of the great romantics.

The irrational bits, my heart and my soul, keep nagging at me. The squishy bits seem to be insisting that
not
all men are bastards. My dad’s a nice bloke. Eddie’s still cute. And Stevie… Stevie seems fine.

I believe in love. The forever kind. It’s an enormous inconvenience and you’d think I’d have wised up after the Oscar debacle but I haven’t. Stevie is easy and fun. The things that should bother us, don’t. Tonight, for
instance, he’s caught me waist-high in washing, no makeup, hair pulled into an untidy ponytail and he should be put off, but I know he’s not. The intimacy is disarmingly easy.

I’d be happier if John and Dave could have made it.

‘Eddie’s nearly asleep,’ says Stevie. ‘Why don’t you pop him into bed while I scrounge around in your fridge and see if I can rustle up anything that will pass as supper?’

‘Deal,’ I smile.

After we’ve had scrambled eggs on toast and a bottle of wine, Stevie and I return to the settee, with a can of beer apiece.

‘I like your flat, Laura. I feel happy here.’

‘Do you?’ I’m particularly open to this line of compliment because Henryk’s oft-shared opinion that my entire flat could do with a major overhaul has started to grind me down. I’ve stopped noticing that my flat is actually kind of cool.

‘I like the colours.’

It is colourful. Pretty much every wall is painted differently. This is partly a creative statement and partly the result of watching the pennies. I often buy pots of emulsion that are on the sale rack in B&Q. The paints that people have had mixed up and then backed out of buying because they’re too bright, garish or vulgar.

‘It’s very vibrant,’ adds Stevie tactfully.

‘I’m lucky that I was able to use up the half or quarter tins that Bella discarded when she decorated her home. Having the odd wall painted in a muted blue or a taupe has helped the overall effect. Calmed it down a bit.’

‘I like the bright colours best,’ said Stevie. ‘I also like your pictures and fairy lights.’

I have pictures all over my home. Posters, bought from markets or galleries, and postcards tucked behind every ornament, book or mug as I keep every single postcard that is sent to me. There are photographs too, mostly of Eddie but quite a few of my family, Bella and other friends. I read in a feng shui book that it’s good chi to have pictures of loved ones all around you. Hey, why not? There are times when we need every bit of help that we can get.

I’ve hung strings of fairy lights everywhere – they’re too pretty to keep in a box until Christmas – round doorways and window sills, they decorate vases, frames and shelves. I hang on to things. I find throwing things away, even useless or ugly things, a very difficult exercise (think Oscar). I’m aware that this attitude isn’t particularly good for chi. According to Eastern philosophy you are not meant to keep anything in your house that isn’t either useful or beautiful, unless it’s a ceramic frog.

I’ve come to regard the overall effect as chaotic – certainly that was Oscar’s view. I don’t think Henryk approves of my aesthetic choices either, although, to be fair, he limits his criticism to badly hung doors and smelly damp patches. Undeniably, my place is not as cosy and comfy as Amelie’s home nor as chic and classy as Bella’s. But the effect might be regarded as bohemian. Following Stevie’s approving comments I’m more inclined to see that it has a certain lived-in quality.