Husbands (8 page)

I have the best night, ever. Stevie dedicates tracks to me, he blows kisses to me, he tells the audience that they ought to cheer the wonderfulness of me. And they do. Complete strangers buy me drinks. They clink glasses and yell congratulations although it is unclear what they imagine I have achieved. In the fans’ eyes winning Stevie’s attention deserves extensive praise and I’m inclined to agree with them.

I drink most of the drinks proffered, which certainly helps cement the illusion that I am the most beautiful
woman in the universe and stops me considering that I am potentially making a complete arse of myself.

I ache for the gig to be over. While I’m enjoying watching Stevie perform, I don’t want to have to share him. I hardly give a thought to Bella. And when I do, I reassure myself that she will have got a taxi and besides, she doesn’t like people fussing when she is ill.

Saturday 22nd May 2004

Bella

Amelie rings me at 8.30 a.m. I wonder what took her so long.

‘You’d better have a good reason for running out on Laura,’ she says.

‘I have.’

‘Well?’

I turn to look at Philip sleeping peacefully beside me. He looks almost babyish swaddled in thick white cotton sheets, cushioned by a large amount of pillows. He’s exhausted. He spent yesterday in Switzerland, seeing a client. His plane was delayed and the cab from the airport got snarled up in traffic, we arrived home at approximately the same time. Like Amelie, Philip had been surprised that I had cut short my girls’ night out and wanted to know why.

I told him that I’d felt overwhelmed by a need to be with him and, more than anything in this world, I wanted to be away from the pub, full of fat, blowzy women, cigarette smoke and the smell of booze. I wanted to be in our clean, stylishly decorated, south-west-facing home. I wanted to drape my arms round his neck and squash
myself against his chest. Philip had been delighted with this response and we’d made urgent love on the stairs. For once, our needs overwhelmed our desire for comfort.

‘I just wanted to be with Philip,’ I tell Amelie truthfully.

There is a pause while she considers this. Unlike Philip, there is no probability that Amelie will be flattered into distraction.

‘Why? What’s going on?’ she asks with more perception than I appreciate.

I shiver even though it’s a bright spring day and sunshine is flooding through the bedroom window. I choose not to answer the question and ask, ‘What time did Laura get home?’ Suddenly I’m panicked. ‘She did come home, didn’t she?’

‘Are you worried that she is lying prone in an alley somewhere?’

‘No, I’m worried she slept with Stevie Jones,’ I blurt, with more truth than I intended.

‘What’s going on, Bella? What on earth made you leave her like that?’

I hesitate again. Eleven years of rigorous training battles with fleeting instinct. Can I cast aside the stringent code I’ve put in place? Can I tell her the truth? I touch Philip’s face gently. I trace his eyebrow and cheekbone. I have so much to lose. There’s everything to lose.

Despite the needy and energetic sex last night I had not fallen into my usual deep, contented sleep, whereas Philip could barely drag himself off the landing and into bed before his eyes closed. I tried reading but the words jumped about, spitefully cheating me out of a distraction. I drank a glass of warm milk but it just left a funny cloying
taste in my mouth so I lay awake all night, replaying the past, imagining the future. One was depressing, the other bleak. I last remember looking at the clock at 5.45 a.m. After that, I must have finally fallen asleep. Amelie’s call woke me from a miserable dream where I was being chased by Big Ben and I kept standing in gigantic piles of dog faeces.

‘Amelie, can I come over? I can’t talk about this over the phone.’

‘The coffee’s on,’ she replies, mirroring my ominous tone.

Amelie opens the door to me and is clearly torn between ticking me off and giving me a hug.

‘I guess you’re in some sort of tricky spot?’ she asks.

‘You could say that. I need a coffee.’

Amelie leads me into her kitchen where, as she promised and as is usually the case, a pot of coffee is brewing. She pours me a cup and tops up her own. I reach for the warm croissants without waiting to be offered.

I choose to say nothing because I don’t know how to start. I stare out of the window and watch Freya and Davey who are playing in the garden. They are wearing their pyjamas, under their coats, accessorized with trainers. This sartorial chaos is nothing to do with the fact that Amelie is a grieving widow, although to the uninformed observer this may seem the case. Amelie, Ben and the kids often stayed in their nightwear throughout an entire weekend, unless they ventured out or invited company round. Ben always said that this was to symbolize
a release from the tyranny of a working week. Although in reality, as he worked from home, his working week wasn’t hampered by a dress code. Amelie has continued the bohemian tradition after his death. It strikes me that she has managed to hit the correct balance of changing some things and leaving others well alone.

‘Amelie, what do you think of me?’ I blurt.

Amelie stares at me, probably reflecting that the question is borderline barmy. ‘Where’s this leading?’ she asks cautiously. Of course she’s right not to jump with both feet into a character assassination or even a glowing reference.

‘Well, you’re perceptive. You’ve known me for six years. We’ve seen each other through the good, the bad and the frankly bloody awful times—’ I squeeze her hand. She smiles briefly. Bravely. ‘You probably think you have me pegged, don’t you?’

‘I don’t presume,’ she replies, tactfully. ‘You aren’t easy to peg, as you put it. You’re quite an impulsive woman.’

‘Do you think so? Most people would look at my life and think it a scary amalgamation of clichés.’ Amelie looks puzzled. ‘Well, I am a thoughtless drifter, who can’t make a go of it in any of the numerous industries I’ve had a stab at. I was working as a waitress when I met my husband, a wealthy, older man. I know people think I married Philip to get myself out of a hole.’ I stare at the trail of flakes of croissant that sit on my lap, on the breakfast counter and the floor. I feel truly sorry for myself. I wonder if it’s too early in the day to cry.

‘Which people? Nonsense,’ asserts Amelie. ‘It’s clear that you love him and he loves you. Have you had a row?’

I squeeze her hand again, poor Amelie, I didn’t want to alarm her. ‘No, nothing like that. The people who work with Philip, the other waitresses in the cocktail bar, people like them think I’m a cliché.’

Amelie tuts and waves her hand dismissively, ‘No, they don’t.’ Then she becomes more assertive on my behalf, ‘And even if they do, who cares? They don’t matter to you.’

‘I do love Philip,’ I insist. ‘I didn’t just marry him because I couldn’t face my arse being squeezed by one more randy, drunken customer. But I can see why people are doubtful.’

‘Do you have any doubts?’ she asks.

I take a deep breath and try to be as honest and clear as possible. I know it’s vital that I explain myself to Amelie if she is to help me.

‘The thing is—’

‘I’m starving.’

I turn to see who is the source of the interruption.

‘Morning, Eddie. Gosh, you must have been playing with your Buzz Lightyear late last night.’

Eddie looks wary: he probably thought that using a torch under the covers had fooled Amelie. Amelie doesn’t pursue the issue – she always says the trick to being a calm mum is choosing the battles that are worth fighting; a late night at the weekend clearly doesn’t fall into that category. ‘Freya and Davey were up ages ago,’ she adds.

‘Oh.’ Eddie immediately loses interest in food and runs to the back door. ‘Can I go play too?’

‘Don’t you want some breakfast?’ offers Amelie, far
too much of a professional to insist that Eddie should. He takes the bait.

‘Maybe, OK. Hi, Aunty Belly.’ Eddie smiles at me. Normally, I am unable to resist his smile and the private nickname. Normally, I’d sweep him up in a huge cuddle and plant kisses all over his face. This morning I find it hard to mumble more than, ‘Hi, Eddie.’

Eddie is still here. Eddie spent the night at Amelie’s. That means… I try not to panic. Maybe Laura is here too. Maybe she rang Amelie last night and they agreed not to wake Eddie and so Laura stayed here or just went home alone.
Alone
is the important bit. As though Eddie can sense the question I need answering he asks, ‘Where’s my mum? When will she pick me up?’

Amelie is busy pouring Rice Krispies into a bowl. She falters for a nanosecond, Eddie doesn’t notice but the almost imperceptible hesitation tells me all I need to know.

‘Mummy will pick you up before lunchtime,’ she says.

Eddie nods and accepts his breakfast.

Amelie and I sit in silence as he slowly eats his way through the cereal. Finally, when he has finished it and three pieces of toast (has the kid got worms?), after he has located his coat and trainers and flung himself out of the back door to start his day’s adventures I am alone with Amelie and able to ask, ‘She slept with him?’

‘Well, we can’t know for sure but she called last night and said they were going on some place after the gig. She asked if I’d look after Eddie until morning.’

‘She slept with him,’ I repeat. Saying it for a second time doesn’t make it any easier to believe or accept.

‘She’s over twenty-one,’ says Amelie reasonably. ‘What’s the matter, Bella? This can’t just be about the fact that you don’t like Elvis impersonators.’

I don’t want to lie to her but I certainly don’t want to have to tell her the truth either.

‘I love Philip. I really do. It’s not about the large home, although I do like him having a respectable job, I’m not denying it. Before Philip I had nothing more than a Boots loyalty card so I can barely articulate my joy at having a Selfridges store card. But that’s partly because I like the yellow carrier bags, not because shopping at Selfridges means I’m rich. Of course I love our holidays in exotic places but they’re only fun because we go together and…’ I falter. ‘I love all the add-ons but mostly I love him.’ As the expression ‘the lady doth protest too much’ comes to mind, I snap my mouth shut.

‘What’s the matter?’ demands Amelie again.

‘I have so much to lose.’

‘What are you talking about?’

I can no longer hold back the information that I’ve guarded aggressively for years. I am so lucky that I met Philip. Yeah, he took me away from the grind of a dead-end job and is paying the bills while I make my mind up about what I should do next. He’s doing this patiently and without complaint, even though we both know it could be a long wait; think the siege of Troy. But more than that, I’m lucky because he is charming, funny, interesting, kind. He’s a great husband and I want – wanted – want to be a great wife but I can feel the fates shift. My luck is running out, soon my secret will be exposed. I’m horrified.

‘The thing is. The surprising, non-cliché thing about me, is technically I’m a bigamist.’

The words are out. They sit between Amelie and me for a silent and endless fraction of time.

She doesn’t move and then, slowly, she asks, ‘You’re kidding, right?’

Her tone is cautious as though she is addressing an adolescent with a fresh outbreak of acne who has said she’d rather kill herself than go to school. I’m insulted but simultaneously understanding of her reaction.

‘I wish I was,’ I mutter. ‘I’m married to Stevie Jones.’

‘Elvis?’ Amelie asks, with tangible disbelief. I nod. ‘Laura’s Elvis?’

‘Mine, actually.’ And the worst bit is, I am indignant that she described Stevie like that.

Stevie

I wake up before eight even though it’s a Saturday and even though Laura and I were gassing till the small hours. I usually sleep late after a gig, rarely bothering to rouse myself before the big match is on TV but today is different. I’m full of energy. I have that feeling you get when you’re a kid and you wake up on Saturday, knowing it’s pocket-money day and there’s no school and the world promises to offer unlimited, untold delights. A few of which are even legal.

I wander through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I open the fridge and discover what I expected: nothing much. There is about a quarter of an inch of milk still in the carton but a quick sniff confirms it’s no use to anyone other than a biologist. I pull on jeans, T-shirt and socks – I never bother with boxers at the weekend – I force my feet into my trainers, I grab a set of keys and set off to the shops.

It’s only when I’m halfway there that I realize I should have left a note for Laura. There’s a reasonable chance that when she wakes up she’ll have no idea where she is. She was hammered last night when we staggered back to my place. She told me repeatedly that she’d never been to Highgate before and I told her repeatedly that she still
hadn’t, as I live in West Hampstead. I feel crap about not leaving a note. There is nothing worse than uncertainty. Personal bugbear of mine. Ancient thing. I resolve to hurry back as soon as poss.

‘Morning, mate.’ I nod to Mr Patel.

He smiles and nods back. He recognizes me from the countless midnight dashes I’ve made to his shop for bread, milk, cheese, frozen chips etc. He’s unilaterally friendly – amazing considering that every day he has to deal with hordes of shoplifting teenagers, stinky winos and tight-fisted bastards who complain about his mark-up.

His mark-up is a disgrace, but I stomach it without murmur for a number of reasons. First, I’m not certain what anything does/should cost. When I do venture into a supermarket I rarely check the price tags. It’s not that I’m loaded, far from it, but I can’t see the point in getting worked up that a bag of crisps used to cost twelve pence and now they cost forty-five. I mean, Brigitte Bar-dot used to be a fox and now she’s, well, not. That’s life. Second, you pay for convenience and I have never found Mr Patel’s doors closed, not even on Christmas Day in 2002 when I felt a desperate need for brandy butter. Third, I don’t want to be grouped with complaining bastards who harass Mr Patel and similar. Once you start behaving like this you’re only a step away from going out with your mates and splitting the pizza restaurant bill according to who ate what rather than in equal shares. It’s not nice.