Husbands (47 page)

The surgery is fairly quiet, which is a relief. If I am about to endure the humiliation of a lifetime, it’s a comfort to know that there will be only three independent witnesses, one of whom has a hearing aid.

I walk to the reception desk and wait until Laura finishes her call. She does so, writes something in a diary. Without looking up she asks, ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No, but I think you were expecting me,’ I reply.

Her head jerks up. I smile. She scowls. I hold out the flowers I’ve brought. An enormous bunch of sunflowers, with lots of green foliage. They are wrapped in cellophane and tied with string of gigantic, almost rope-like, proportions. They look expensive because they were.

‘I’m not expecting you. If I had been expecting you, and your predictable peace offering, it would have been over three months ago,’ she snaps. She yanks the sunflowers out of my hands and tosses them into the bin under her desk. They don’t fit, so she struggles and violently shoves them for a few moments, some petals fall off. Having dealt with the flowers she turns back to me, ‘Now sling your hook.’

‘But I wrote to you!’ I have so much to explain and seemingly little time to do it. ‘You did get my letter?’

‘I got it. Never read it. Now go.’

‘You never read it?’ I ask in disbelief. Hours of work? Months of hope?

‘No.’ She’s staring at something just past my ear lobe,
I turn round to see what’s holding her attention. I can’t see anything obvious. Then I realize, she’s just avoiding my gaze.

‘Why didn’t you read my letter?’ I hope I sound as hurt as I feel.

‘I figured if you had anything you really wanted to say to me you’d say it more than once.’

What sort of woman logic is that? I decide not to spill that exact sentiment. I confine myself to commenting, ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘If you’d wanted me, Stevie, you would have bombarded me with texts, calls, letters and visits.’ Laura is no longer pale and drawn, she is flushed and furious. ‘You are such an arrogant bloody drongo. A lazy, arrogant, bloody drongo.’

I’m not one hundred per cent sure of the exact nature of the insult, but I get the gist.

‘You sent me one lousy letter and then gave up. Now you have the audacity to swing by three and a half months later with a crappy bunch of flowers, and what? What am I supposed to do? Swoon? Run to you?’

Well, yes.

I need to get a few things straight. First, the flowers are not crappy. I put a lot of thought into those. I avoided anything obvious, like roses, or cheap, like carnations. And I thought I was acting decently by giving her some space.

‘I told you in the letter I wouldn’t pester you.’ I take a quick glance over my shoulder at the waiting patients. I hope Laura sees this as a hint to calm down a bit, or at least wait until we are alone and then she can unleash
the full fury. She thinks I’m reminding her that she’s neglecting her duties.

‘Mrs Williams, you can go and see the nurse now,’ she says.

‘No hurry, love,’ says Mrs Williams, who clearly finds the floor show Laura and I are providing is a far better tonic than anything the nurse could provide.

‘Will you come for lunch with me?’ I ask.

‘No,’ says Laura.

I shift from foot to foot. That was not the response I was hoping for but it was not totally unexpected. Well, this may not be the most romantic or appropriate place for big declarations, but I’m left with little choice. Laura starts to play with the paperclips and the staple gun on her desk. She’s a little menacing, but even so I lean close to her and whisper, ‘If you’d read the letter you wouldn’t have expected any more correspondence from me. I said I wouldn’t be in touch again until I was a free man.’

I can sense the waiting patients strain to hear my whispers.

‘By a free man, you mean after you’d divorced my best friend?’ asks Laura loudly.

There is an audible intake of breath from our audience.

I nod, slowly, somewhat defeated.

‘Big of you,’ mutters Laura. She’s being sarcastic but I pretend to interpret her comment at face value, at least that gives me the opportunity to be self-effacing.

‘No, Laura. Nothing I’ve done throughout our relationship has been particularly big or grown-up. Except messing up, that was big time. But I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’ asks Laura, cannily.

‘Everything.’

Laura sighs. After some moments of silence she asks, ‘Did you win?’

For a moment I have no idea what she is referring to and then I work it out. ‘No.’

She looks up at me now. There’s real shock in her face, and maybe disappointment too. ‘You didn’t?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’ She sounds stunned.

‘I only sang one song, which is against competition rules. I sang “Love Me Tender” instead of “Jailhouse Rock” or “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”, my declared, and therefore billed pieces, so I was disqualified.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘Not really.’ When I lost the competition in 1996 I blamed Bella. This time I don’t blame Laura. I don’t even waste time blaming myself. There are more important losses. ‘Anyway, even if I hadn’t been disqualified I wouldn’t have won. “Love Me Tender” on its own doesn’t do enough to showcase a range and, besides, I was under-rehearsed.’ The competition seems light years ago. I’ve barely given it a thought since I left Vegas. My head has been too full of Laura.

‘Why the hell didn’t you sing your rehearsed songs?’ she asks. ‘You were brilliant at performing those. You’d definitely have won.’

‘Thanks.’ The warm glow stretches right through my body and settles in my boxers. It feels good to know Laura admires something,
anything
about me.

I cough. ‘“Love Me Tender” was for you. I thought there was an outside chance that you might just have
been in the audience. And if you were, you might have… I don’t know… been moved or something. Maybe even have forgiven me. It was an appeal.’ I shrug.

It sounds weak and hopeless thousands of miles away from Vegas, months after Neil Curran’s revelation, but at the time I’d been compelled to sing that song and just that song.

‘You prat, Stevie. You threw away the prize.’ She’s shaking her head in amazement.

‘Yes, I did,’ I agree. ‘Because you are the prize, Laura. And I threw you away. After that, losing the competition hardly mattered.’

‘Me and a sixteen-hundred-dollar catsuit. Tough night,’ mumbles Laura but she isn’t quite as biting as before. Always one for surprises, she suddenly demands, ‘Sing it to me now.’

‘What?’

‘Sing it to me now.’

I’d heard correctly the first time, I just hoped I hadn’t. I don’t have any music. Or inclination. For God’s sake, I’m in the reception of a GP surgery. Three old dears and my angry ex are hardly what you’d call an encouraging audience. I haven’t got my guitar or even a background CD. I’m not sure I have the required confidence.

Laura has folded her arms across her chest. Good tits. Inappropriate thought, but honest. I’ve missed them and the heart behind them. Sod it, singing in a doctor’s reception isn’t such a weird request. If singing is what the lady wants.

I clear my throat.

‘Is he going to sing?’ asks a woman with swollen ankles.

‘I think he is,’ says the woman with the hacking cough.

The woman with the hearing aid starts to play with the dial.

I launch into ‘Love Me Tender’.

What choice do I have? Flowers failed, chocolates would be an insult. I owe her this much. There are three simple, four-line verses with a chorus in between each. The ballad is deep, rich and emotional, if you get it right. Or, deconstructed ruthlessly, the lyrics can appear naff. I ask her to love me true. I beg her to love me long. I plead for her to love me dear. On top of that I promise to love her too. I swear I always will.

The song lasts a couple of minutes in real time. In Stevie-time it seems like weeks. This is it.
This
is the performance of my life. It’s imperative that I seduce my audience. Obviously, I’m not focusing on the coffin dodgers, they melt away, they disappear. There is only Laura and me. It’s Laura I have to convince, sway, satisfy and assure. This is all about Laura.

When I finish Laura says, ‘Not as good as “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”’

‘No. Evidently not.’ After all she has not fallen into my arms and she is not applauding riotously the way she did when I performed in Vegas. In fact, to all outward appearances, she is unmoved.

‘What are you doing here, Stevie? What do you want?’ she asks.

I could buy time. I could ask how Eddie is doing because I really miss him and would like to know. I could take a chance and lean across the desk and kiss her, crush her body tightly against mine, remind myself how
wonderful it is to feel her against my chest. Or I could tell her I want to be happy again and I need her for that. I don’t do any of this.

Something tells me that the next sentence out of my mouth is the most important I’ll ever utter. The pressure is almost unsustainable. My fear is reaching new levels. I give it my best shot. Because after all, that’s all we can ever do.

‘When you are young, falling in love is more or less random. Who you end up marrying is random. The act means little, the staying is the important thing and Bella and I didn’t stay together. Any history we have is ancient and irrelevant.’

‘But documented,’ she points out, quite correctly.

‘That’s all it is. A couple of pieces of paper.’

‘What changes as you get older?’ she asks.

‘I’m choosing you. I’ve had a look around, a fairly extensive look, actually, and I’m choosing you above all others and I’m asking you to choose me,’ I say.

‘What do you mean?’

Deep breath. ‘I want you to marry me, Laura.’

‘For fuck’s sake, what is it with you two? Why do you have to keep getting married? Why can’t you be like a normal person and just say you want to be with me?’ she demands crossly. Her outrage at my suggestion has at least and at last drawn her from her desk seat. She marches around to my side of the reception desk. She’s within grabbing distance.

‘Do I take that as a no?’ I ask. I hope she can’t hear any self-pity in my voice.

She pauses. ‘No, don’t take that as a no. It’s definitely
not a yes, though. It’s not even a maybe. It’s a…’ She looks around her, perhaps searching for inspiration or clarity. ‘I’ll think about it. Because while part of me hates you and is furious with you, another bit still thinks you’re the best thing ever.’

I’m not sure who’s clapping. It might be any one of the three old dears. It might even be the nurse or the doctor, both of whom have ventured out of their office to discover why their patients have dried up. It might even be me. I pull Laura towards me and kiss her. It’s a good kiss. Strong, certain, passionate. It goes on and on and on. It’s the sort of kiss I want never to end.

Eventually, Laura breaks away and says, ‘I’ll want a copy of the letter, though. And some assurances. A little more detail about the last few months. But yes, OK, you can buy me lunch.’

And I grin at her, helplessly, because I am one hunk of love.

Tuesday 7th December 2004

Bella

I married Phil yesterday. We carried through my initial plan, in so much as we haven’t told anyone that our first marriage wasn’t legal. We’re going to let the vast majority carry on in blissful ignorance. So, it was unlike our first wedding. We did not have two hundred guests; we had two witnesses. Amelie and a guy called Freddie, who is Phil’s solicitor. For the last few months Freddie and Phil have been working on the legalities of my situation. Understandably, Phil was keen to ensure that our marriage was legal this time. Me too. My crime had to be reported but, luckily, neither Phil nor the police wanted to press charges so I don’t have a record.

We married in a registry office, not a church. I wore a red trouser suit. There were no large hats, no morning suits, no confetti, no bridesmaids or pageboys in cute kilts. I did not throw a bouquet. It was a perfunctory affair. It did not have the illicit excitement of my marriage to Stevie, or the splendour and romance of my first ceremony with Phil, yet it felt more serious and important than either of those occasions.

We had a sensational celebratory lunch in Claridges,
just the two of us. Amelie couldn’t join us because she had to collect the kids from school and Freddie had to get back to the office. We drank plenty of champagne and there were big, white lilies on the table. We married for the second time exactly a year after the first. So we’ll have the same anniversary, just a different year, which will hardly matter by the time we reach our ruby wedding anniversary. And we will make our ruby anniversary, I’m sure of it. Because, while all the details are different when comparing our first wedding ceremony to our second, one fundamental thing has not changed. I love Phil. I want to be his wife, more than anything I want that. I love him more than I did before. I value, trust and appreciate him. Also, we both know a lot more about me so our love is deeper and more complete.

Since meeting Phil I’ve suspected that I’m the luckiest woman on the planet and yesterday proved that to be the case.

Laura and Stevie are an item again. I understand from Amelie and Phil that Laura made him sweat for a month but in the end her optimism at life in general and her love for him, specifically, won the day. She lost interest in being peeved; she just wanted to spend some time being happy. In the New Year they are going to Australia together, to live. Oscar got a job in Singapore so Laura is no longer tied to London. She admitted to Stevie that her wanderlust was exhausted and that she was ready for a bit of homespun support and affection from her family. I guess the events of the last few months had taken their toll. According to Amelie, a reliable source, Stevie begged to join her. Laura nearly burst with joy. Apparently, she’d
been thinking about moving back to Oz since July but couldn’t bring herself to go without having sorted things out with Stevie.

It looks like Laura’s got her happy ending, which is good news. And Stevie too, he’s found someone who appreciates him and wants him just the way he is. That person was never going to be me. I’m not the type of girl to share my man’s love with a dead rock ’n’ roller, even the King of rock ’n’ roll.