Read Husbands Online

Authors: Adele Parks

Tags: #Romance, #General, #Fiction

Husbands (5 page)

BOOK: Husbands
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I dash down the first escalator towards the depths of the Piccadilly line. Halfway down my sense of urgency is hijacked by Elvis. Not the real Elvis. I know he’s dead. But someone singing as though he were Elvis. ‘All Shook Up’ bounces up the escalator and I find that I am playfully tapping my toes and gently patting my fingers against my hip. If I’d been in the privacy of my own sitting room I would undoubtedly have been clicking my fingers and shaking my hips with real enthusiasm. Remarkable, when you consider that the sentiment could not be further from my reality. I am not in love and I can’t remember when last someone left me aquiver except with anger or disappointment. Yet, it’s impossible not to smile and sing along. It doesn’t surprise me that Elvis songs are still played at just about every wedding reception even thirty years after his death. Elvis was put on this earth to make it better for all of us. I’m not fanatical. I don’t own a pair of sparkly gold sunglasses, just the CD,
Elvis’ 30 #1 Hits
. Someone bought it for me for Christmas, a few years back, and I played it all Boxing Day, although I think that was the last time I played it.

The music stops abruptly. The busker is being moved
on. Some are supported by London Underground; certain areas of some platforms have been declared official busking sites. I imagine you have to apply to perform there; clearly the Elvis guy hasn’t.

As I mount the second escalator I can see an official insisting that the busker pack up and move on. I notice that the guy has a guitar which surprises me. He really is good; I’d assumed he was singing along to a beatbox. It’s a shame he’s been made to move. He was only brightening commuters’ day.

I flash a sympathetic half-grin/half-shrug at him as I pass and comment, ‘Really cool, thanks,’ and flick a pound coin into his open guitar case. The official stares at me and mutters that busking is illegal. I flash him a look that tells him I don’t care.

The tube arrives within a remarkable three minutes and, more surprising still, there are empty seats. I fling myself into one and rummage in my bag for my novel. Someone sits next to me. This is not a good sign. Only nutters choose to huddle up when there’s plenty of space. I steadfastly refuse to look up.

‘Thanks for your support,’ says the nutter.

I take a sneaky glance around the carriage to see if he might be talking to anyone else. This frail hope disappears when I see that there isn’t anyone else at this end of the carriage. Bad news on two counts. First, the nutter must be addressing me and, second, there’s no one to help me if the situation turns nasty. I’m not a pessimist but if a complete stranger talks to you on the tube the chances are the situation is going to turn nasty. I didn’t always understand this urban law. When I arrived from Oz I
would innocently insist on commenting ‘g’day’ to complete strangers. I noticed that they always changed seats or got off at the next stop. It didn’t take me long to realize that speaking to strangers on tubes wasn’t so much considered a break in etiquette, more like a certifiable act.

‘I feel I owe you a quid, though. You didn’t really get chance to listen. Hardly what you’d call value for money.’

I look up and recognize the guitar case before I recognize the busker, to whom I hadn’t given much more than a cursory grin.

‘That’s OK,’ I reply cautiously. I’m not prepared to be overly friendly. Just because he’s a busker doesn’t exempt him from being mad. In fact, I’d have thought that anyone who was trying to make a living off the charity and generosity of Londoners probably does have a screw loose.

The busker grins and holds out his hand, ‘Stevie Jones, pleased to meet you.’

I decide it would be rude not to shake his hand at exactly the same time that I decide Stevie Jones has the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. His eyes aren’t bad either. The smile breaks across his face creating a similar sensation to that of cracking an egg in a frying pan. I love that moment. The moment when the frail shell snaps under the pressure of my fingers and the egg metamorphoses into something that promises imminent yumminess. It’s a moment of change, expectancy and release. Stevie Jones’s smile is the same.

‘Laura Ingalls,’ I reply. Fireworks explode in my knickers. Wey-hey, sexual attraction. Undeniable. I am completely shocked by this. I am, after all, wearing prosaic
grey/white cotton numbers that were not designed to entertain flutters of any description. More, I’d forgotten that my body was capable of entertaining flutters. I have come to think of it as a vessel for food and something for Eddie to cling to and climb on. How odd.

‘Laura Ingalls? You’re kidding,’ he laughs.

‘No, I’m not. My parents hadn’t seen or heard of
Little House on the Prairie
when they named me. More’s the pity,’ I mumble.

Can people see sexual attraction? Does this man know I’m imagining him naked? I hope not.

‘I bet you hated it when the programme was a hit,’ says Stevie.

‘I did,’ I agree.

Most people assume that
Little House on the Prairie
must have been my favourite programme as I shared my name with the precocious tomboy who was the lead character. It takes unusual insight to guess that I wouldn’t have appreciated sharing my name with a freckly, goofy kid who had a penchant for big bonnets and bloomers.

‘Still, it could have been worse. You could have been called Mary.’

Stevie and I shudder as we consider the full horror. Mary was the prettier character in the show but she was mawkish and irritating too.

‘Back then I hankered after a zappier name. Zara, Zandar or Zuleika were my favourites.’

‘Did this discontent with your identity last long?’

Stevie is smiling his fried-egg smile and the fear that he is a fruitcake recedes at about the same rate as realization dawns that he’s flirting with me.

‘Throughout the seventies and a large proportion of the eighties until I started to accept that being called Zara, Zandar or Zuleika wouldn’t guarantee that I was more popular or the captain of the netball team.’

He laughs. ‘I think Laura is a really pretty name.’

All at once I
love
my name.


Top Cat
was my favourite cartoon as a kid.’ The nonsequential comment makes perfect sense to me.

‘I loved
Wacky Races
,’ I enthuse.

And so we start to chatter about stuff, rather than things. And we just keep on chattering until the train flies through Barons Court. ‘I get off at the next stop,’ I tell him.

What am I saying? Kiss me: this is our brief encounter. Get a grip. His eyes are a bright, clean green that reminds me of jelly: sparkly and rich. I realize I’m describing him as though his face is a plate of food at teatime but it has been a while since I’ve looked at men with any real interest. By contrast, food is an enduring passion.

‘Mine too,’ says Stevie.

‘I change on to the Hammersmith and City line. I live near Ladbroke Road,’ I blather, giving away more than is wise or cool.

‘I’m going to Richmond. I have a sort of job interview.’

‘Really?’

‘The possibility of a regular gig. That’s what I do. I’m an Elvis impersonator, or at least it’s my night job.’

‘Really?’ I smile hoping to show my approval and interest, although I seem incapable of articulating it.

All too soon the tube pulls up in Hammersmith. We both alight and for a moment we hesitate. Clearly, we
both want to say something,
anything
, but nothing groundbreaking comes to mind.

‘Well, good luck with the interview – er, the gig thing,’ I say.

‘Thanks, see you around,’ offers Stevie.

We both know we won’t see each other again. Not if he disappears into the throng getting the District line and I merge with the masses passing through the turnstiles for the Hammersmith and City line. I shouldn’t care. But I do.

‘Bye then,’ I mumble.

Then he kisses me. Stevie Jones leans towards me and after an intimacy of approximately fifteen and a half minutes, he kisses me. Very gently on the cheek, a fraction away from my lips.

A number of possible responses spring to mind. I could slap his face – unlikely as I’m not a star in a black and white, pre-Second World War movie. I could grab his scruffy, scrummy body and pull it close to mine and snog his face off. Also unlikely. Although I have now had chance to notice that he
is
scruffy and scrummy (longish hair, over six foot, broad shoulders, lean – almost lanky – with neat bum). But it isn’t a long enough acquaintance for me to be that forward.

The kiss had been soft and kind. Interested and promising. I am not used to being touched with such tenderness. It was a good kiss.

So good, in fact, that the only response that seems appropriate is for me to run. As fast as I can. Up the stairs and out of his life, not leaving behind so much as a glass slipper.

7. All Shook Up

Friday 14th May 2004

Bella

I have made a special effort for the house to look lovely. Since Philip is paying such an enormous mortgage the least I can do is fill it with friends and buy a few fresh cut flowers now and again.

When we got married I moved out of the trendy Clerkenwell space and Phil sold his flat in Putney. I would happily have moved in there with him but Philip wanted to start afresh. We bought a five-bedroom house in Wimbledon, Philip said it was the perfect home to fill with bonny lasses and strapping lads. Who am I to object? It’s not as though I have to keep it tidy. Gana, our Thai housekeeper, does that.

Despite Philip’s plans for us to build a home together, he decorated the place on his own. It wasn’t supposed to be like that but whenever I brought something home he would shake his head and say that it was lovely but not right for a Victorian family home. I sometimes disagreed but not enough to make an issue of it – and he might have had a point when it came to the glitter ball and the jelly bean loo seat. We both got what we wanted; me, a ready-made, middle-class identity,
him, the knowledge that he’d tried to do the right thing.

Philip surrounded us with antique bureaus, shelves, chests, chairs and tables that needed to be protected with mats or glass. It was the tiny things that told me that I’d grown up. We kept spare loo rolls in the bathroom cupboard and light bulbs in a box in the garage. I had Christmas decorations in the loft. We have a Poggenpohl kitchen that’s packed with gadgets – only a few of which have been taken out of their boxes.

This spring, we made the most of any mild weather and in the evenings Philip and I often sat in the garden to enjoy a drink. We watched as the trees slowly came back to life and as the tiny buds opened out into fleshy leaves. I’m planning on spending most of my summer in the garden. It is so peaceful.

The five bedrooms are going to be put to use tonight. I have made sure that Laura and Amelie’s rooms are aired. I’ve left
Vogue
and
Now
in Laura’s room and
Tatler
and a holiday brochure in Amelie’s. The boys will share a room tonight, which they’ll enjoy, and Freya will get to sleep in a double bed on her own. Also a treat. Although I’m not in a hurry to be called mummy just yet, I adore being the fairy godmother. Whenever Freya, Davey or Eddie visit I make sure that I provide them with all the treats I can. I go to Blockbuster, hire a couple of kids’ movies, buy massive bags of Butterkist and lots of chocolate. I buy comics, glitter glue, micro cars and Coke. Anyone who says money can’t buy happiness is shopping in the wrong place.

Amelie arrives first. She brings with her an air of seriousness and purpose. She had this before Ben died
but I notice it more now as it is no longer balanced with his irreverence and flippancy. Not that Amelie Gordon is dull. She is thoughtful and thought-provoking, she’s simply less silly than any of my other friends. She reads the quality papers. She took a masters degree in religion and philosophy so she knows something about Scientology (beyond the fact that Tom Cruise practises it). Not only has she actually read the Bible but she can talk intelligently about Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism, Shinto, Sikhism and Taoism. In short, she is the type of woman I’d like to be when I grow up; either like Amelie or a Charlie’s Angel.

The children stumble into the house carrying large amounts of luggage. They always bring their own Disney sleeping bags, several spare sets of clothes and a mountain of toys. Amelie is also oblivious to the idea of packing light. She’s arrived with the entire Estée Lauder skin care range, clean clothes for tomorrow (two outfits; one befitting a walk in the park, another an amble down King’s Road), nightwear, flowers (for me), several huge bars of chocolate (for everyone), books, articles cut out from magazines that she thinks are interesting and hopes I might too (Amelie assumes other people find thorny issues appealing and she has a higher opinion of my intellect than anyone I’ve ever met), and a bottle of Chablis (already chilled).

‘I’m thinking of buying some ceramic hair straighteners and thought you might have a set I could try,’ says Amelie, in a timely reminder that she enjoys frivolity too. I confirm that I have the latest type and that they work miracles.

‘Aunty Bella, will you pierce my ears?’ asks Freya who
has watched
Grease
about fifty times and definitely sees herself as Olivia Newton-John.

‘No,’ her mother and I chorus.

The doorbell rings.

‘The oven should be hot now, will you stick the pizzas in?’ I ask Amelie. The kids are already searching through the DVDs and arguing over whether they should watch
Shrek
or
Honey
. Amelie wanders through to the kitchen and I answer the door to Laura and Eddie.

They arrive with similar noise and commotion. Eddie is just in time to cast a deciding vote in favour of
Shrek
. Freya looks crushed but is somewhat comforted when I say there is time for both films. Amelie and Laura stare at me as though I’m insane as they see the chances of getting their offspring in bed before 10 p.m. recede. I shrug off their concerns as I know after they’ve had a couple of glasses of wine, they’ll be less tyrannical.

BOOK: Husbands
6.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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