Husbands (30 page)

‘How did you manage?’

‘We had good neighbours. They gave us stuff to tide us over until the boys were old enough to work. I just—’ She can’t finish the sentence. ‘It was pretty miserable.
Things aren’t always what they seem. Not everything is straightforward. That’s all I’m trying to say.’

I have no idea why Bella chooses to confide this in me now, especially after years of being very closed about her childhood but I know it’s important. I also know she’s not prepared to share any more when she says, ‘Anyway, go and get your gladrags on. I need a bath.’

Bella

‘Hi, Amelie, it’s me.’

‘Ermph?’ Amelie makes a sound that isn’t a recognizable word. I check my watch.

‘Oh, shit, sorry. I forgot all about the time difference. It must be… what?’

‘One in the morning,’ she mumbles.

‘Sorry, I’ll go.’

‘Don’t you dare! I want the latest instalment. Wait till I get a glass of water.’ After a minute, she returns to the phone somewhat refreshed. ‘So what’s up? Has it all gone bang yet?’

‘No.’ I can barely disguise my irritation. I wish Amelie wasn’t quite so certain that this situation is going to explode. Why won’t she humour me and let me believe there might be a pain-free exit?

‘So, what have you been doing?’

‘I spent the morning by the pool.’

‘Alone?’ she asks suspiciously. How does she know?

‘With Stevie.’

‘Nice,’ she mutters, with heavy sarcasm.

‘And this afternoon I went shopping for Laura.’

‘A guilt purchase?’

‘No. A thank-you present,’ I insist, huffily.

‘Having a good time then?’

‘Sort of.’ I pause.

Where do I begin? I am so confused. I cannot find any clarity no matter how much I search my head or even my heart. I need to talk to someone about this but my usual options of Phil or Laura are non-starters. I don’t get the feeling that Amelie is going to be especially sympathetic either but I’m so desperate I blurt out what’s in my mind.

‘What if I’ve married the wrong one?’

‘Which one are you talking about? You’re married to both of them,’ replies Amelie flatly.

‘I have feelings for Stevie,’ I confess.

‘What sort of feelings?’

I can’t tell Amelie that I keep stealing glances at Stevie’s muscled arms, chest and shoulders or admit that I find his lean stomach fascinating and the thin line of hair that leads to the contents of his swimwear is as enticing as the Yellow Brick Road. The problem is he’s sexy. Not in an obvious way – well, actually yes, he’s sexy in an obvious way – but he’s also sexy in a funny, quirky way. He’s what he always was. I squirm on my seat and concentrate on the feelings I
can
tell Amelie.

‘He’s easy to talk to. After all, I’ve known him forever.’

‘You haven’t spoken to the man for eight years. You don’t know him. It’s a common desire – endless intimacy. But you haven’t known anyone forever and nor has anyone known you that long.’

‘I think about him all the time,’ I whisper.

‘In what way?’ she asks, seriously.

‘In
that
way. The way women think about men.’ I’m hedging. ‘Being with him feels special. Do you think that’s telling?’

‘What do you want to be told?’ asks Amelie. ‘I can’t answer the question, Bella. I’m as new to this situation as you are. I don’t know how you’re supposed to feel.’

I’m probably not supposed to feel lust, or longing or loyalty, I’m almost certain of that. ‘I don’t want to think about Stevie. I’m trying not to.’

‘But you have to try?’

‘Yes, and even then I fail. I’m really trying to be sensible. I’m not drinking.’

‘Good idea.’

‘Well, at least, not when I’m with Phil.’

‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible not to drink around Stevie?’

‘Maybe.’ I own up. ‘I’m so confused. I’ve changed my mind about five times since I arrived here.’

‘Where does that leave you? Back where you started?’

‘I don’t know. Dizzy. Today, when we were alone together in the pool I found myself employing that trick you taught me for my wedding day.’

‘What?’

‘Preserving two or three unforgettable details that can’t be captured on film.’

‘And what did you capture?’

‘The smell of sunshine and sun lotion on warm flesh and the sunlight on the pool surface.’

‘I meant on your wedding day to Phil,’ clarifies Amelie, starkly.

‘Oh.’ I’m startled. ‘Erm, lilies, I think, and the feel of
Phil’s jacket when he put it round my shoulders in the car as we left the reception.’

‘That’s what you need to be concentrating on,’ advises Amelie sternly.

I rush at the only question I really want an answer to, ‘Do you think it’s possible to be in love with two men at the same time?’

‘No,’ she replies flatly.

‘But people are!’ I insist. ‘That’s why there’s that song, “Torn Between Two Lovers”.’ I start to hum the lines about not knowing who to choose and breaking rules.

Amelie impatiently interrupts me, ‘You asked if
I
believe it’s possible to love two people and I don’t. True love is all-absorbing. It’s possible to be curious, infatuated, wistful maybe…’

I get the point she’s making but I don’t like it much. I try to ignite her sympathies. ‘It must be a truly pitiful position to be in, though, don’t you think? If, say, inadvertently you found yourself in love with two men at the same time. I mean, especially if you were married to both of them as well.’

‘Bella! All I can see here is how awful it is to be Laura or Philip. You’re not in love with Stevie. I don’t even believe you’re particularly well suited. It’s easy to be sentimental when you’re striving for closure.’

‘But he’s really hot!’ I blurt.

‘Closure is always more tricky to attain with sex-god types but don’t get it mixed up, Bella. Don’t risk everything you have with Phil, just for sex.’

‘If it’s only sexual attraction then maybe I should just shag him and be done with it. That would help me put
an end to it, hey?’ I’ve expressed my most secret fantasy in the guise of a jest.

Amelie isn’t fooled. ‘Don’t joke about affairs, Bella.’

‘It wouldn’t be an affair. I’m married to them both.’

‘Think about what you’ve just said, Bella. For God’s sake,
think
.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I mumble. I don’t convince myself so I’m certain I haven’t persuaded her. ‘Got to go.’

I hang up as Phil walks into the room.

Laura

When I enter the hotel bar at precisely 8.45 p.m. Bella and Phil are already waiting for me. Phil gives a low wolf whistle and Bella claps.

‘You look wonderful,’ says Phil.

‘Perfect fit. Aren’t I clever?’ says Bella, smiling. ‘You look stunning.’

And they’re right. The dress is a winner. It swishes, whooshes and swirls in all the right places. I feel very sexy and very feminine. It’s backless and my back is one of my strong points (many a joke has been made about that over the years – glad to see the back of you etc etc, ho ho ho). Bella is wearing a black cocktail dress, classical and understated. I get the feeling she’s being deliberately discreet so that I can shine. I’m touched by the completeness of her generosity.

Stevie returns from his photo shoot at exactly nine o’clock, as promised. It’s immediately clear that the dress has the desired effect.

‘Wow! You are beautiful.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ I play with an earring and try to act cool, calm and collected.

Stevie swoops in to kiss me on the cheek and whispers, ‘One hundred per cent knockout.’

I grin. ‘You’re looking quite gorgeous yourself.’

Stevie is still wearing his Elvis costume. For the purpose of the PR shoot the contestants were all provided with identical outfits, although I understand that in the actual competition they can rediscover a little individuality. No doubt to amuse us, Stevie has met us in the bar wearing his costume.

‘Pretty fly for a white guy,’ I laugh. And I can’t resist flinging my arms around him. Sod cool, calm and collected.

‘Are you going to get changed?’ asks Bella.

‘Don’t. We’ll get free drinks all night if you wear that get-up,’ says Phil, laughing.

‘I imagine I’ll have to sing for my supper if I do,’ says Stevie. ‘It might get a bit tedious when we arrive at the third bar of the evening and another bouncer insists I do “Jailhouse Rock” and the guy behind the bar wants “Hound Dog”.’

And as if to prove his point we are immediately interrupted.

‘Oh. My. God. You are
so
the real thing!’

While not strictly accurate, obviously, Stevie is not the real thing – Elvis is dead and even if you buy into the conspiracy theories and believe that he’s not dead, just living as an obese geriatric on some island somewhere – it’s patent that Stevie is not your man. Stevie weighs only about a hundred and seventy pounds and there isn’t a single indication of rigor mortis.

‘Can we have our picture with you?’

The gaggle of tiny, skinny, blonde women hand Bella the camera and barge past me as though I am invisible,
despite the designer dress. For all their size, smiles and giggles it’s clear that these women are tough. They have hard bodies that have trod mills and participated in endless aerobic classes; their cumulative total of time spent in gyms must be decades. I am somewhat comforted to see that they are not as young as I thought on first impression. The expertly applied make-up, long manicured nails and bleached hair are smoke and mirrors, which means they pass for late twenties at a distance but up close they have at least ten years on that.

They pout and preen and pose. They kiss Stevie’s cheek, take photos and liberties – one of them pinches his butt, another pinches his crotch. I’d say he enjoyed it up until the crotch pinching then he hurriedly shooed them on their way.

I breezily laugh at the incident, hoping to disguise the fact that I want to drill my stiletto heels into their faces.

Stevie decides to have a drink in his suit but it soon becomes apparent that we aren’t going to get much peace. Everyone behaves as though he is godfather to their child. Some buy drinks and beg him to sing a verse. Others push past us, his
girlfriend
and friends, and demand photos. One couple has heard about the King of Kings final.

‘Really?’ says Stevie, clearly awash with pride but trying to look nonchalant. ‘So, erm, did you see an advert or a press article? I understand that they are really pushing the event in local papers and radio. I’m not blowing my own trumpet but I do think that the organizers have done a good job with bringing a certain amount of gravitas to the whole event.’

‘Actually, we are here with the Italian King,’ says the guy.

‘He’s my brother,’ says the girl, smiling. ‘We will be supporting him.’

‘Oh. Of course,’ says Stevie, nodding his head with understanding. Stevie looks around, ‘Is he here now? I think I know the guy you mean. I met an Italian at the photo shoot.’

‘No, he is not here now. He is resting. Tomorrow is the dress rehearsal show. He does not want a hangover.’

I wonder if Stevie feels chided. ‘Erm, tell him good luck.’

‘He doesn’t need luck. He is very good,’ smiles the loyal sister.

I resist challenging her to a duel at dawn as I’m pretty sure that Stevie will hold his own when it comes to the competition. Instead I say we have to go: we’re keen to get to the casino.

We can’t decide which one to visit, we’re spoilt for choice. In the end, we opt for Bally’s: it isn’t a million miles away and Phil wants to see the showgirls. Stevie doesn’t seem as interested, but then he’s swilling in the attention from the groupies. We decide to walk there rather than take a cab as it’s a lovely, mild evening and we all agree a walk would be pleasant. To tell all, I’m enjoying turning heads and I know we are a mesmerizing spectacle. Stevie is Elvis, I am the lady in red (or at least fuchsia pink) and Bella and Phil are just their usual gorgeous selves.

The approach to Bally’s is dramatic. We travel up a very long escalator flanked by cascading water, lighted pylons and giant palm trees. It almost bothers me that I am becoming acclimatized to such ostentatious nonsense.
As we approach the entrance, a sound and water show – involving a wave machine and fountains – erupts. No doubt a wonderful spectacle although I imagine it becomes a tiny bit repetitive and annoying if you are staying here.

‘Water is very much the flavour here,’ comments Bella. ‘Apparently, in the multi-million-dollar show
Jubilee
, the “Titanic” sinks every night on stage.’ She is reading this from a poster that depicts scantily clad ladies – unsuitable dress for the Titanic, I would have thought.

‘What a giggle. We’ll have to go,’ I say.

‘Yes, let’s do that later, but where to now?’ asks Stevie.

We are faced with the most enormous mash of lights, signs, slot machines, craps tables, roulette wheels and poker games. Everything is reddish-pink: the people playing, the drinks, the walls, the dealers and the machines. I’m not sure if the ruddy complexions are the result of the hue cast by the lights or the possibility of winning cold, hard cash. It’s a noisy, rowdy, exciting spectacle.

‘Well, not to the baccarat room,’ says Phil. ‘I’ve been reading about it and apparently that’s where players go if they are willing to wager hundreds of thousands of dollars on a single hand. These guys are called “whales” in gaming parlance.’

We all agree that such high rolling is astounding. Bella looks white with shock: she isn’t keen on gambling – she won’t even buy a lottery ticket.

‘That’s madness,’ she cries. ‘No one wins but the house. Gambling is for losers, in the harshest sense of the word.’

‘Not the most helpful attitude, darling,’ Phil points out. ‘Not here, in Las Vegas – in the middle of a casino.’

‘I can’t help myself, I hate these places,’ she mutters.

It’s clear that Bella is not going to feel comfortable on the green baize map but after some time we collectively persuade her that a hand of blackjack, or twenty-one as it’s known to some, is worth a shot. The odds are better. Bella’s competitive spirit kicks in and she starts to enjoy playing against the dealer, particularly when she can set her bet as low as five dollars. I want to try poker but Stevie teases me and says it won’t be my game.