Husbands (32 page)

‘Right,’ I reply, although clearly things are not particularly right, if the only qualifier for a ‘touching’ wedding is that the bride and groom know each other ‘quite well’. But then, who am I to talk? I’m hardly the gold standard.

‘It’s not always the case, believe me,’ says the bartender in a conspiratorial tone. ‘Vegas has about fifty chapels, most of which are open daily from eight in the morning to midnight and twenty-four hours on legal holidays,’ he tuts. ‘The invitation to impulsiveness is too much for so many weak or thoughtless people. Do you know that on average three hundred and seventy-seven couples marry in Vegas every day? On Valentine’s Day you can’t move for white frocks. I wonder how many of them last.’

‘Impossible to say or judge,’ I comment.

‘With respect, ma’am, that’s bull.’

I don’t see anything respectful about a bartender who says bull, but the guy is probably tired after a long shift.

‘It’s easy to judge. The majority of couples who want a quickie wedding aren’t serious about each other or the commitment of holy matrimony. There’s one chapel that offers rooms themed with headstone headboards and coffin bathtubs. Now what does that tell you about the sort of people who marry in Vegas?’

‘Great if you’re a Goth,’ I point out, suddenly feeling defensive for all the Goths on earth who love each other dearly but don’t want to marry in a church. An odd response because, up until this moment, I’d always thought Goths were slightly mad and a bit unhygienic.

‘In the same chapel there is an Al Capone room,
with an image of a bound and gagged bellboy inside a closet. Who is that appropriate for? America’s would-be murderers and masters of organized crime?’

I find the Al Capone room harder to defend so I silently sip my brandy.

‘I bet a classy broad like you did it properly, surrounded by friends and family, flowers and confetti. I bet you married in a church and had a sit-down meal in a marquee. Right?’

The bartender is describing my wedding to Phil, to the letter. I could add that I glided down the aisle to Wagner’s Bridal Chorus and back up it to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, with church bells pealing in the background. I had confetti and champagne, a sit-down five-course dinner, a band, a string quartet and a guy singing Sinatra tunes. At midnight we had fireworks and bacon butties. It was, in every way, a perfect wedding, a huge celebration and spectacle.

Normally, when talking to strangers – and, indeed, some of my nearest and dearest – I find the best road to follow is the one that causes the least sensation. When the old dear in the dry-cleaner’s assumed that I was ‘one of those high-flying exec career girls’ I didn’t contradict her. There are cab drivers driving around London who think I agree that every kid needs a ‘thick ear now and again’. I don’t, I am a fully signed-up member to the NSPCC Full Stop campaign, but I didn’t have the courage to say so. I’ve met people at parties who think I’m interested in where to source the most divine piqué waffle bedlinen, that artichoke is an effective natural remedy for bad indigestion, or that vine weevils are a great menace
for container gardens, as there are no chemical controls. It’s disgusting. I’m not interested in any of these things. Phil thinks that I agree a minimum of four children would be desirable; in fact I think two would be the ideal number. I wonder how many I’ll end up with?

I have never examined why I am reticent to share my beliefs and true feelings beyond telling myself that at best I am being polite and at worst I can’t be bothered to explain myself to these people who have, frankly, ludicrous views and interests.

But I wonder.

I slip off my shoes and rub the aching arches of my feet. Why do women still wear stilettos? Can’t someone invent something sexy and comfortable?

The truth is, my opinions are in a constant state of flux – I don’t know what I believe, what I stand for or even who I am – because I am two people.

I am Belinda McDonnel, a skinny kid from Kirkspey. I wear ugly hand-me-downs or at best cheap slutty fashion clothes bought on market stalls. I live in a two-bedroom house so tiny that the front room, as my mum called it, has been converted into a bedroom for me. It’s our family’s grasp at respectability; the alternative would be sharing a bedroom with my brothers. The TV and the knackered dining table are crammed into the living room with my brother’s bike and a settee – it’s certainly a lived-in room. We don’t have so much as a washing machine, the lino is sticky on the kitchen floor, the carpets threadbare and there is still a working toilet in the yard. Would anyone believe they still exist?

And I am Bella Edwards, a sophisticated woman dripping
in designer labels with a wardrobe just to house my handbags and shoes. I live in an enormous fourteen-room house. The kitchen and utility rooms are fitted out with all the latest state-of-the-art mod cons – waste disposal units, under-floor heating and a fridge that dispenses ice. There are four toilets in my home. All of them are inside. They even have heated seats. Frankly, I’ve always thought heated seats were a step too far when it comes to luxury. It suggests to me that someone has been there just before me and stayed long enough to warm the seat. A truly unpleasant thought. One that puts me in mind of Kirkspey. I didn’t tell Phil that I hated heated loo seats when he was having them installed at great expense. I wish I had.

How is it possible that I am still Belinda McDonnel? Why can’t the designer labels protect me like a suit of armour, as I had hoped?

I am not prepared to answer these questions now or maybe ever. But nor am I prepared to let this smug barman make judgements and pronouncements, assumptions and assassinations, without treating him to a real account of my
legal
marriage.

I launch into my reply. ‘Actually, this “classy broad” married in a registry office in Aberdeen. That’s Scotland,’ I tell him helpfully. ‘I was wearing second-hand Levi’s. They were turn-ups, very fashionable at the time, and I had Doc Marten boots with tartan laces. I did nod towards tradition in so much as I was wearing a blue blouse. It was sheer and pretty and it had belonged to my mother.’ One of the few pretty things she’d ever owned. ‘I carried a bunch of carnations. Bought, at considerable expense,
in relative terms, from a high-street florist – not a garage – but still they were not what you’d describe as a bouquet, definitely more of a bunch. We pulled witnesses off the street. One was on the way to the dentist but said she didn’t mind being late to her appointment. She was in her forties and commented that she’d never liked the dentist and rarely got invited to weddings these days. The other witness was a guy in his thirties. He was unemployed and had nothing better to do. The whole process took about ten minutes. Then we swapped addresses with the witnesses and for a couple of years afterwards we sent them Christmas cards. Our wedding breakfast was in Pizza Hut. Even back then they had an all-you-can-eat salad bar. We were students and such touches were important. We also had sticky toffee pudding. I was nineteen and very much in love.’

Despite the length of my diatribe, the bartender is rapt. He beams at me, pours two more large glasses of brandy and pushes them towards me.

‘Wow, great story, lady. You’ve restored my faith in young and impetuous love. It’s great you guys are together after all these years. Have these drinks on me.’ He wanders away to polish glasses.

I’m totally bemused until I notice that an arm is round my waist. I turn, and am face to face with a grinning Stevie.

‘Oh, thank God it’s you,’ I say. The relief is violent, I think I might faint. ‘Imagine if Phil had sneaked up on me and heard all that.’

‘I didn’t sneak. I couldn’t sleep so I wandered down here. I wasn’t looking for you.’ He says this with
too much conviction and so I doubt him. ‘Good story.’

I blush. ‘I got a bit carried away.’ I rerun in my head all that I’ve just said to the barman. It’s slightly mortifying that Stevie heard me reminisce with such attention to detail. I’ve tried to give him the impression that I hardly remember the day.
And
if that wasn’t disconcerting enough, his arm is still round my waist.

It excites me.

His touch blisters through my dress. I actually flinch. Shaking, I sip my brandy.

‘The guy was having a go about people who marry impetuously. It didn’t seem right to let him assume that all these marriages are a complete joke and that they’ll all end in disaster.’

‘Oh, but you do think ours
was
a complete joke and it
has
ended in disaster.’

‘I’ve never said that, exactly.’

Stevie isn’t going to let me off the hook, ‘So, it’s OK to let him assume we’re still happily married over a decade later.’

I shrug, realizing that once again I have failed to be totally honest and committed to the reality of a situation. A particularly bitter pill considering I was briefly experimenting with truthful self-expression.

‘I only got so far with the story. Every happy ending is dependent on where you close the book,’ I comment breezily. Then I deftly turn the subject, ‘You’ve changed out of your Elvis costume.’

‘Yeah, the competition organizers borrowed it from some sponsoring supplier and it had to be returned in pristine condition. I shouldn’t have risked wearing it
tonight. It would have been a disaster if I’d spilt anything down it.’

‘So why did you wear it?’

‘I think Laura liked the buzz it caused.’

I tut. ‘I think Laura found the constant presence of your groupies a real pain.’ I certainly had. ‘It was you who liked being the centre of attention.’

‘No, really. Unlike you, Laura really digs my Elvis thing. She really gets it. Laura likes me for what I am. She doesn’t care if I’m an Elvis impersonator, a teacher, a tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor. It’s all the same to her.’

I hear the criticism loud and clear and choose not to say anything else on the subject – it would only come out sounding undignified. We pick up the glasses of brandy and wander towards a metal table with two chairs. Without saying anything we’ve tactically agreed on the table furthest away from the few remaining revellers who are noisily gathered around beer bottles and the DJ decks.

We sit under an olive tree. I know olive trees have recently become very fashionable and are found in dozens of trendy bars so it’s just coincidence that we’ve found ourselves sitting under one but I can’t help but think of the symbolic nature and I have to suppress a giggle.

‘What are you grinning at?’ asks Stevie.

‘Nothing,’ I smile and for no reason at all I playfully stick my tongue out at him.

‘You can be so age twelve,’ he says, but he’s smiling too and I know that we’re OK.

‘It’s lovely out here, isn’t it? Such a luxury to sit out in warm air so late at night.’

‘Quite good to be away from the air con and the noise too,’ adds Stevie.

I totally agree with him and find I don’t even have to say so. ‘Have you had a fun day?’ I ask.

‘I liked being with you by the pool this morning,’ he says.

How is it that time after time I can still forget how dangerous it is to have a conversation with Stevie? He always insists on being hideously straightforward.

‘And I liked being by the pool with Laura this afternoon,’ he adds.

As I said, hideously straightforward. I look away so that my eyes don’t betray the hurt I feel. I shouldn’t be hurt. Stevie is supposed to enjoy the company of his girlfriend. That’s a good thing.

For a good thing, it hurts like hell.

‘Did you like playing the casinos?’ I ask.

‘Fantastic laugh,’ he confirms. ‘You?’

‘Hated it,’ I reply frankly. ‘My problem with casinos is that they remind me of amusement arcades – horrible places. Cheap, tatty prizes, the incessant clatter of the machines, lousy music, glowing coloured lights, and chewing gum stuck to the floor that looks like loose change. I hate it when you see drunken people scrabbling around trying to pick it up, thinking they’ve got lucky, but they never have – and they never will. It’s anything but glamorous,’ I mutter.

‘You’re talking about Blackpool,’ says Stevie astutely.

I shuffle uncomfortably. How did he work that out? I don’t want to talk about Blackpool. We never have and that’s fine by me.

‘Vegas is just like Blackpool,’ I grumble.

‘No, it’s not. It’s glamorous here and exciting. No one’s hometown is ever glamorous.’

‘It’s the same hopeless hope,’ I reply definitively.

Stevie sighs and gives up arguing with me. We sit silently until he quietly adds, ‘This evening was difficult, though. The whole situation is killing me.’

Did he feel it too? Was he uncomfortable every time Laura touched or kissed him, the way I was when Phil lavished attention or affection on me? Did he sometimes want to turn to me and share a joke or a thought but knew that he had to gag himself or risk exposure? Did he watch the couples on the dance floor and wonder what it would be like to hold each other? He might have.

‘It’s a hideous, miserable situation and I wish to hell I wasn’t in it. I wish you hadn’t put me in it,’ he clarifies.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say for about the millionth time.

‘So you’ve said, about a million times.’

Inappropriately, I start to giggle.

‘What are you laughing at now?’

‘Just that I was thinking the same thing. I’ve noticed that we often think the same thing.’ I don’t mention or acknowledge that sometimes we disagree over fundamental and petty things too. That’s not so important right now.

Stevie looks up at the black sky and sighs. ‘I’m so confused, Belinda. One moment we’re fine. We’re friends, right?’

‘Right.’ I smile.

‘But then suddenly, without warning, we’re enemies.’ He turns to me now, ‘Which
are
we? What can we be?’

‘I don’t know,’ I reply. There is another option, of course, but it’s X-rated and I can’t bring myself to suggest it. I reach out and squeeze Stevie’s arm. But then I can’t seem to move my hand away. I wait for him to pull away from me. He doesn’t.

We fall back into a silence. I hope he believes it’s a comfortable silence. For me, it’s a silence fraught with sexual tension, which I know is wrong but feels a little like something that’s right. I am staring at his mouth and thinking about kissing his lips. I’m not imagining gentle, tender kisses. I want to thrust myself hard against him. I notice that his strong, muscled arms are now tanned from the day in the sun and a bit pink at the crook of the elbow. I want to kiss him there, in the crook, I want to kiss him everywhere.