Husbands Page 11

  The weekend was the worst of my life.

  Part of Stevie’s attraction was that he was from somewhere other than my hometown. I knew nothing about Blackpool, but had imagined it as far more elegant, sophisticated and promising than Kirkspey. My home, where I’d never felt at home. When we got off the coach at Blackpool and walked along the seafront in search of our B&B, I began to understand why Stevie fitted into Kirkspey so well: Blackpool was just the same.

  Kirkspey was cold, dark, cruel and credulous, full of men who were too keen to hit the bottle and then each other just to ease the boredom. Headbutting was a finessed sport and hangovers were competitive. Slurred threats, irrational recriminations and unseemly brawls were celebrated. It was a poor and destructive place. Blackpool seemed the same but with more flashing lights and topless entertainers. I saw countless groups of men with bad teeth – all gold caps and spaces – modern-day pirates, they hung out on street corners and stared warily at one another, exuding loss and despair.

  The B&B was miles out of town, no doubt that was why it was within our budget, so we caught a tram. It was bitterly cold outside, so the tram was crammed full. I hadn’t considered the season in my fantasy version of our mini-break. Although it was only the afternoon many of the passengers were drunk. In Kirkspey most people were drunk most of the time too, that and/or pregnant, what else was there to do? Beer fumes and condensation blurred my vision. I’ve always hated condensation. To me, it signifies despair – used breath, used life. By the time we arrived at the B&B I knew that my fantasies of a happy mini-break were way off mark. I looked out of the bedroom window towards the cold and bleak coastline, another cold and bleak coastline, different but the same.

  ‘Are the windows frosted?’ asked Stevie.

  ‘No, just filthy,’ I sighed in reply, before curling up on the skinny, hard bed. The pillow smelt of someone else’s hair grease. What attracted Stevie to this life? It was not glam, it was not even clean.

  ‘Want to go for a walk?’

  ‘No, too windy.’ I knew from experience that the wind took the sand everywhere, in your knickers, in your bloodstream, ingrained in lines and wrinkles on your face. Stevie went for a walk on the prom on his own.

  The contest was more horrible than even I’d imagined. It was held in a hotel that, about a million years ago, might have been considered posh. The chandeliers and cornicing were a testament to more elegant days; the modern-day clientele were rougher than high seas.

  The audience was predominantly women – wives, girlfriends and mothers – either blatantly proud or pseudo-coy. They lived a life that I knew well enough not to want. I couldn’t do it. I’d display my despair. I didn’t want to be an Elvis wife. I didn’t want to be an eternal onlooker.

  In Blackpool, plunging necklines were obviously still considered de rigueur even after the menopause. Some of the women sported tattoos, on their breasts, which declared that they were once desirable and fancied, at least by themselves, but their skin now sagged under a forty-a-day habit and an excess of sweet white wine spritzers. The younger women were all yellow-blonde with black roots and perms were very popular. The older women had ‘set’ their hair that day; one was still in curlers and another wore gold sandals over her socks.

  The walls of the room were lined with babies in pushchairs; no one considered the inappropriateness of bringing a bairn to a boozy, smoky bar. Older kids of seven, eight and nine years old ran around cussing and sipping from unguarded pint glasses. There were only a few blokes in the audience, occasional old rockers, fathers of contestants, I supposed. One grandad had a mullet that grew all the way down his back.

  The compère introduced the judges. He was particularly proud and puffed up, as one of the judges was an in-law of a cousin to Elvis Presley. Another was a hairdresser of someone who once played with Elvis. I don’t know who was more depressed, me or the guys who made their careers by being vaguely related to Elvis and were now judging two-bit competitions.

  Stevie changed into his Elvis suit (the makeshift dressing room was an area curtained off, just to the left of the stage) and then he came to sit with me while we watched the other performances. Some contestants were nervous, others cocky, Stevie was quietly confident. I didn’t care. There were nine Elvises waiting in the audience, which created a surreal effect. Everyone was vaguely familiar because they looked not quite like someone they were not, someone none of us had even met.

  It soon became clear that the industry displayed too much charity. Everybody attending the event loved Elvis so much, that they were prepared to be polite and encouraging even towards the really talentless and ugly blokes. These guys inexpertly flung themselves around the stage, often mumbling corny lines and the audience clapped, with what looked like genuine appreciation. In no other industry would such averageness be tolerated, let alone encouraged.

  ‘Superb, brilliant, where do you get the energy from?’ asked Neil Curran, the compère, as he slapped another sticky Elvis on the back, following a piss-poor performance.

  ‘Nice costume.’ He grinned at another. ‘You look bloody brilliant. Tell me, lad, why did you choose that particular track?’

  The Elvis went on to explain it was his dear old, dead, granny’s favourite. The audience gave up a big ‘aahh’ and threw out another round of applause.

  ‘That’s so stupid,’ I muttered to Stevie. ‘Every decision is made on some emotional impulse.’

  ‘It’s an emotional game. Elvis was an emotional man,’ said Stevie. I noticed he’d clapped and whistled and cheered with verve throughout the evening.

  ‘That guy picked his competition track because some old biddy said it was her favourite. Why not pick an entry because it’s the one you sing best?’ I asked. ‘There is no killer instinct.’

  ‘These guys are entertainers, not members of an elite government squad, protecting the crown,’ argued Stevie.

  ‘Well, I’m not entertained. I’m bored,’ I replied. Bored by Stevie. The thought flicked across my mind. I tried to swipe it away but it stubbornly hung around. ‘I think it’s arrogant. No one looks and acts and sings like him, anyway. He was gorgeous.’

  Stevie grinned broadly, ‘I think that’s the first nice thing I’ve ever heard you say about Elvis.’

  And the last.

  I didn’t stay to see Stevie perform. I told him I was going to the Ladies and I never went back to finish my glass of warm Blue Nun.

  Outside the hotel the air was fresh, even though it was drizzling. For once I appreciated a cold coastal breeze although smoke still lingered on my jacket and in my hair. I started to walk back to the B&B. I passed a building boasting a sign that read: ‘Sinless go-go girls, entrance at rear’. Very funny, not. I walked past the hideous amusement arcades and countless stalls selling greasy, almost luminous food. At the guest house I packed the few things I’d brought with me and went to the coach station. I did not leave a note. I did not look back.

  When I left Stevie and jumped on a National Express coach to London I’d expected him to follow me. I half believed he’d track me down and we’d start again. I reasoned that in London Stevie had a chance of becoming a musician, a real musician, not a mimic. And I could be… well, I don’t know, something glamorous too, no doubt. Wasn’t everything in London glamorous? But Stevie didn’t follow me. Not that I gave him any help or opportunity. I didn’t leave forwarding addresses and when I sent him a postcard to say I was all right, I didn’t commit beyond saying I was ‘down south’. I wanted him to discover his own leads, make his own chances. I wanted him to prove to me that he wasn’t the no-hope, no-ambition, no-get-up-and-go kind of bloke that I had come to think of him as. He did nothing to remove my prejudice. He did nothing at all.

  So I started to rebuild my life. I put away the disappointment and heartache of our split and got a job. I can’t remember which one. Maybe as a trainee recruitment consultant, or did I start in telesales and then try the recruitment thing? I honestly can’t remember, neither job was particularl
y thrilling, rather disproving my theory that London was wall-to-wall stunning opportunities; but at the time I was dazzled with hope. At least I was bringing in some reasonable money.

  I made new friends, moved into a cramped, untidy flat which was even more expensive than the one in Edinburgh but I preferred it. I loved everything about London. The things that most newcomers hate or find overwhelming, thrilled and excited me. I liked the size, the noise, the ridiculously complex tube map. I liked the fact that the corner shop never closed, I enjoyed the boisterous melody that makes up the capital’s population. I had patience and goodwill for all; dawdling tourists, the busy, aggressive commuters, the aimless, desperately trendy students, the gangs of schoolboys, the gaggles of schoolgirls. I was fascinated.

  I didn’t tell my new friends that I was married. It was easier not to. I wanted to fit in and confessing to being a twenty-two-year-old runaway bride wasn’t going to do that. My secret was always in the back of my mind but I never allowed it to spill into my consciousness, conscience or – worse still – spill out of my mouth. London was full of things that distracted me. I rushed around taking photos of Trafalgar Square, St Paul’s Cathedral and the Tower of London. I lingered in bars and cafés. I ambled around shops and even spent some time in offices. Months turned into years, and one day I woke up and I realized that I hadn’t thought of Stevie for weeks. Weeks. He was no longer part of my life, despite what a silly piece of paper lodged at a registry office in Aberdeen said to the contrary.

  To keep my secret I had to give up things that other people take for granted. True intimacy was impossible. I held boyfriends at arm’s length; the girls I worked or shared a flat with thought of me as the ultimate commitment-phobe. Until Philip came along.

  Bugger.

  I am not a deliberately cruel person. I didn’t set out to hurt anyone. Falling in love was exactly the complication I had tried to avoid. Even in my worst nightmares, I couldn’t have imagined Stevie reappearing in my life because he’d become involved with one of my best friends. What a nasty twist of fate that is. I can’t begin to imagine the nuclear fallout if Philip ever finds out what I’ve done.

  Amelie isn’t being much help. Her ludicrous suggestion was that I should come clean. Ha, as if! How does that work then? Philip, darling, you know that forty-grand wedding we had six months ago? Well, sweetheart, it doesn’t mean a jot because I’m married to someone else. I don’t think so. Luckily, Philip has had to go away on business this week so he’s not around to witness my nervous catapulting from fear to fury.

  I have a plan of my own.

  Providing Laura isn’t in too deep with Stevie (and she can’t possibly be after just a few days), then I’ll persuade her to ditch him asap. Once he’s out of our lives we can all go on as before. I told Amelie my plan, but she said I’m deluded and arranged for Laura and me to meet for lunch anyway.

  Amelie has booked Palais du Jardin in Covent Garden. Normally it’s one of my favourite places but I’m finding it hard to concentrate on the utterly stylish decor or the tantalizing menu.

  ‘A window seat! Perfect,’ giggles Laura. She probably hasn’t been here before and is feasting her eyes on the luxurious wood and leather, the subtle blends of taupe and browns that abound. She’s paid for Eddie to stay at nursery today and worked an extra shift at the surgery to compensate. Her determination to behave like a normal person rather than a wrung-out dish rag is disconcerting. Delightful. Disastrous.

  ‘Have you slept with him?’ I demand. The question comes out louder than I expected and half of the other diners turn to stare at us.

  ‘I can’t believe you are asking me that before we’ve even looked at the menu,’ she mutters.

  I try to work out if she is being huffy, cagey or indignant and whether this is because she has or has not slept with my husband. One of them.

  I look at Amelie for a steer. She glares at me and then picks up the menu. ‘I think we ought to order champagne,’ she suggests.

  ‘Oh, fantastic,’ agrees Laura, without pausing to worry about the cost as she usually does. Clearly, she’s too happy for that.

  Amelie secures the waiter’s attention and orders champagne and a bottle of spring water. As soon as she has done so I ask again, ‘Well, have you slept with him?’

  ‘Stevie Jones seduced me with words,’ said Laura grandly. I know she’s been practising that opener, which I find a bit annoying. ‘Not just the deep, melodious, soulful words of some of Elvis’s songs and certainly not the silly, predictable, cheesy words of some of Elvis’s other songs. Like that “Surrender” one. I mean – hearts on fire, going on about strange desires – I ask you?’

  At this point Laura rolls her eyes to suggest that such clichéd words are ridiculous and beneath her. But the effect is ruined because if I had to describe Laura right now I’d say she looks just like someone whose heart is on fire, she looks exactly like someone in the grip of a strange desire. In the face of such evidence it’s hard to laugh at the lyrics. I look to Amelie, she looks stunned too, I know she’s seen it – Laura has grown again. She is straighter, stronger and more magnificent than we have ever seen her.

  ‘He seduced me with my own words,’ Laura declares, grinning broadly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asks Amelie.

  ‘Stevie Jones asks me questions, listens to the answers and asks more questions. I have never felt so interesting in my life,’ Laura explains. ‘I know I should be sorry that I stayed in the pub after you split, Bella. Am I off the hook?’ I nod and hope that Amelie notices I have the decency to blush. ‘It was crap of me. I know a good friend should have picked up her handbag and ignored the fact that he was singing to me.’

  ‘He was?’ I mumble.

  ‘Yes,’ Laura beams. ‘I should have run straight out of the bar and chased you down the high street and found out why you’d suddenly turned all zombie on me, but I just couldn’t. Sorry. How are you feeling now, by the way?’

  ‘Still a bit nauseous,’ I mutter, truthfully.

  ‘I thought it must have been something you’d eaten or that we were mixing our drinks. Still, you should probably go to the doc and have it checked out. It’s been hanging around for a while now, hasn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve felt sick for about six days.’

  The waiter places a bottle of water on the table and brings the champagne to us in an ice bucket. No sooner has he poured than I’ve tipped mine down my throat. I pour myself a second.

  ‘Cheers,’ says Laura with a grin. ‘You’ve some thirst on you, girl.’

  I am only seconds away from yelling, ‘Have you slept with him?’ when Laura says, ‘I can’t believe I feel this happy when I still haven’t slept with him.’

  Hallelujah. I nearly punch the air, but such a gesture would certainly draw Laura and Amelie’s attention.

  ‘We’ve seen each other every day for six days and, let me tell you, I’ve been tempted. He’s totally “ooh-ah”.’ Laura makes Meg Ryan-like fake orgasm sounds; under different circumstances I’d be amused. ‘But I’m taking things slowly,’ she declares, with a smile.

  ‘Never a bad approach,’ says Amelie, looking at me meaningfully.

  Phew. Deep breath. At least she’s not in this too deep. Now I know they haven’t done the deed I can relax enough to order sea bass with fries. Amelie orders the same. Laura goes for a prawn salad even though she is rake thin and could do with putting on a pound or two. I doubt she wants to tuck heartily into a plate of carbs, I don’t expect she’s felt much like eating since the fateful busking incident.

  ‘So what have you been doing, if not shagging?’ asks Amelie. A question I find at once astute and helpful, yet a sad testament to the courtship rituals of the twenty-first century.

  ‘On Saturday we took Eddie to the Science Museum.’

  ‘Isn’t it a wee bit early to introduce them?’ I ask. ‘It’ll confuse Eddie if Stevie is a fixture one moment and gone the next.’ Which is my intention.

  ‘We went to investigate gr
avity and locomotion, we did not swing from the chandeliers,’ laughs Laura. What is it with all this laughing and giggling? ‘In fact Stevie was really considerate around Eddie. He didn’t even hold my hand. He just acted like we were mates. He spent most of his time playing with Eddie, not me.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t like holding hands in public,’ I offer. ‘Some men don’t. Usually the shifty ones.’

  ‘Well, when Eddie was at his dad’s on Sunday we went to Camden Market and had lunch in Islington. He held my hand all the time.’

  ‘Is he the right type of guy for you, though?’ I ask. ‘A busker? It’s hardly a settled career.’

  ‘He’s not a busker, he’s a teacher. The busking thing was a bet,’ says Laura with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  I’m relieved. As silly as it sounds, a tiny bit of me was uncomfortable with the fact that one of my husbands was a busker, although obviously, him having a proper job doesn’t help me with my case to Laura.

  ‘He’s so much fun. He has real spirit. You know what I mean?’

  I know what she means.

  ‘He makes me feel like I’m sixteen.’

  I know what she means.

  ‘On Monday he came round after work and we didn’t do much. He helped me bath Eddie. We read him a story together and then tucked him in. After that we just, you know…’ Laura blushes.

  I’m unsure what can be making her blush if they haven’t shagged.

  ‘We just talked. Swapped viewpoints, put the world to rights. On Tuesday evening, after school, we went to a skateboarding exhibition over at Ally Pally.’