Husbands Page 14

I’ve imagined meeting my wife on countless occasions. I’d always thought we’d bump into each other at a gig or in a public library. Or maybe abroad somewhere, the Parthenon – yeah, that would have been good. Or in a rainstorm, because thunder and lightning are not without dramatic connotations. Despite having approximately a thousand scenarios filed away, I have never imagined meeting Belinda on the steps of a huge house in Wimbledon, as she welcomed me as a guest to her dinner party. For a start, Belinda McDonnel couldn’t cook.

  For a split second I wondered if this elegant lady might be a cousin of my long-lost wife. Because this Bella woman is married to this Philip, a good-looking older bloke, and as far as I know Belinda is still married to me. Oh, my God. Could we be divorced and I’ve never known? I move around a lot, post doesn’t always find me. So, despite imagining this moment for eight years, on a more or less daily basis, when I was actually confronted with my ex-wife, I wasn’t quite sure. For a split second the thing I had been longing for, was the thing I least wanted to believe. But then she hugged me.

  She felt exactly the same. Any lingering doubt vanished in that instant. Belinda’s body folded into mine and it fitted. She’s only slight and she slipped under my arm, as though the space had been waiting for her to return, to fill it. I hadn’t realized I was carrying around a gap. Or maybe I had.

  She’s changed quite a bit. Her hair used to be a mass of pre-Raphaelite curls but now she wears it straight like a newly polished sheet of glass. It’s darker too – it hasn’t seen a bottle of Sun-In for a while, that’s for sure. Her face is thinner; she’s lost her puppy fat. My Belinda McDonnel was pretty. This Bella, what’s-her-name, is stunning. One of the most beautiful women I’ve seen for a long time.

  As I hugged her, I breathed her in, and tried to fill my lungs with the essence of her. She wears a different perfume – something spicy and sophisticated. It suits her. And as she pulled away from me (why was that such a wrench?) I noticed her clothes. She was not wearing the Doc Martens, the thick woollen tights, baggy jumper, short cord skirt or large hoop earrings she wore in all my imagined reconciliation scenarios. Maybe it was a bit much to expect, it wouldn’t be hygienic, let alone fashionable. She suits the sexy black number, no doubt about it. It’s a posh dress, obviously. The type you buy in the shops I wouldn’t dream of going in. Manned, or rather womanned, by intimidating ladies that look at me as though I’m too rough to even be their bit of rough. I wonder how much it cost as a percentage of my annual salary.

  I hadn’t expected her to have moved on quite so much. Moved quite so far away. Away from me. Which is perhaps a bit bloody naive of me, under the circumstances. There are those who would argue that she’d made it extremely clear that moving away from me was exactly what she wanted.

  I watch Belinda closely as she fusses and serves up the food.

  Belinda used to have a heavy North-East Scotland accent, now she sounds a bit like the queen. ‘Do you think the rolls are the correct temperature to complement the oysters?’ she asks the smiley Amelie lady, who shrugs indifferently – which suggests she’s an OK type of woman. In my book the type of woman who cares if the bread rolls are the correct temperature to complement the oysters is not OK. Belinda can’t be serious, can she? I’m sat opposite her. Me, her husband from Christmases past, here in her house bought with husband of Christmas present and she’s worrying over the temperature of bread rolls!

  The more I watch her, the more I think she has changed beyond recognition. It isn’t just her expensive designer dress and haircut that sets her apart from everyone else I know. It isn’t just that she’s curbed her accent, changed her name and the colour of her hair. She is changed in a more fundamental sense. She is as hard as her beautifully manicured nails. I shiver.

  The evening is a blur. Someone hands me a drink. Someone else hands me another. At the table I’m placed next to Laura and opposite Belinda. Someone pours me yet another drink. Who the hell is drinking them? This is too much. I’ve found her and lost her all in one night. She’s married to Philip. She’s wearing his diamond-encrusted, platinum wedding band. The simple gold one I gave her is nowhere to be seen. Not that it was constantly in evidence even when we were together. She was forever leaving it in her sock drawer in case we met anyone we knew and betrayed our marital status. When was I divorced?

  I realize that I’m not being the entertaining and amusing boyfriend Laura would like me to be, when she digs me in the ribs for the third time. ‘Did you catch that? Philip just asked how you got into doing Elvis gigs.’

  Somehow, I mumble a response on automatic pilot. I’m sure lovely Laura will believe I’m nervous around her friends because I don’t know them. Let’s face it, she’s not going to imagine how well I know her best friend, is she?

  Lovely Laura. Oh, what a bastard I am. Lovely Laura. I call her that because, really, she is lovely. I adore the word ‘lovely’. It’s such a simple word but it conveys so much. Attractive, delightful, charming, kind. Full of love. Laura is all of those things and I have a history with her best mate and she clearly doesn’t know a thing about it. Laura is sassy and fun and I know she wants me to believe that’s all she is, but I know she’s vulnerable and scared too. I don’t want to hurt her. Should I say something? Should I pick up my fork and tap the glass – bloody crystal by the look of it. Who’d have thought of Belinda McDonnel owning anything more sparkly than a hair clip? Should I say, ‘Sorry to interrupt such a genial evening but, Philip, mate, the thing is I was married to your wife. Just thought you ought to know. That is the case, isn’t it, Belinda? Sorry, Laura. Sorry, everyone. Sorry.’

  I reach for my fork.

  ‘Aren’t you keen on oysters?’

  These are the first words that Belinda has spoken directly to me since she told me to keep my mouth shut. Her question coming at that precise moment makes me think she can read my mind. Something we both once believed. The memory of our past closeness sends a jolt through my body and stirs up some buried loyalty. I’ve thought of her over the years, of course I have. For years she was all I thought about, but nowadays I don’t often look back. It’s too confusing, too bloody… sad. Sometimes I’ve wondered what sort of life she was leading but I don’t think about our history, our love. No way. I haven’t allowed myself that—

  Pleasure.

  Because, oh God, she’d been a pleasure. I can almost smell the sunshine when I cast my mind back, so startling are the memories. So joyful, so real.

  I can’t make an announcement when she’s asked me to keep quiet. I have to give her a chance to explain.

  ‘Er, no. Don’t like the texture,’ I say.

  ‘It’s an acquired taste. You have to work at it.’

  ‘But why would I want to?’ I ask.

  Laura nudges my knee. Obviously I sound rude. But fuck it, joyful, real, sunshine memories aside, Belinda is being so patronizing. I remember her using Typex to paint her stiletto heels, who is she to tell me which tastes I ought to acquire? I must stop drinking. I have to get a grip.

  Belinda stretches across the table and takes my plate away. ‘Maybe we can find you something you’d prefer. Eggs? A salad?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ I meet her eye. ‘I haven’t got an appetite.’

  ‘It’s probably the heat,’ says Laura. She picks up a place mat and starts to half-heartedly fan herself. ‘Not that I’m complaining. We don’t get enough decent weather, this is really pleasant for early June.’

  Laura is a little pink. It might be the alcohol, the heat, or it might be that she’s been reduced to making small talk about the weather with her best friends. Poor Laura, clearly she’s tense because she wants us all to get on. On our way over here she hinted that Bella (as she knows Belinda) had been a bit tetchy about our new relationship and Laura was at a loss to understand why. Well, there’s a mystery solved.

  ‘Would you mind giving me a hand in the kitchen, Stevie?’ asks Belinda.

  ‘Don’t ask a guest, darling. I’ll give you a hand,’ says Philip. He
’s a nice enough bloke but clearly under the thumb.

  ‘No, you sit still,’ says Belinda placing a firm hand on his shoulder. I want to laugh that my mental image is not just symbolic but literal. I wonder if Belinda would think my joke was funny. I used to be able to make her laugh all the time.

  I get to my feet and follow her. I hear Amelie say to Laura, ‘Relax. She’s going to grill the Roquefort, not Stevie. He’s lovely.’ Under normal circumstances I’d be chuffed but my head is too scrambled to care.

  Last night I made love to Laura. And I mean made love. We didn’t just shag or screw or even fuck or – what is that Aussie word she uses? Root. We didn’t do any of those things. We really went for it. It was clear that we were both very much into each other. I’d been cautious about starting anything full-on with Laura. She’s still reeling from the hurt of her divorce and she’s too nice to mess around. Not that I’m keen on messing anyone around; I just mean that some ladies are more emotionally robust than others. Unless you think you might fall in love with a woman like Laura, it’s kindest to leave her alone.

  Last night I would have sworn I was in love with her.

  I nearly did in fact. As we were lying exhausted and satiated in one another’s sweat and stickiness I found myself a hair’s breadth from muttering those three little words. It wasn’t just that she gave the best head that I have ever had the pleasure to receive. It wasn’t just because we’d flipped and quipped our way through a fair amount of the Kama Sutra with a confidence and comfortableness normally reserved for established couples. I’ve spent two weeks with this woman and her son. She’s fun and firm, loving and light-hearted. She seems the perfect mum to me and Eddie obviously thinks so too. I’ve seen her manner with her builders, her neighbours, shop assistants and mums at the school gate, and she’s perfect. She has a laugh but doesn’t allow anyone to take the piss. I know that sometimes, when she’s feeling down, she’s prone to seeing herself as a victim but her attitude is entirely victor. It’s the mix of inward self-doubt and outward big clout that I admire so much. She even talked a traffic warden out of giving me a ticket. I’ve never seen that happen before.

  Last night I was going to tell her I loved her. Or at least, I might have boy-fudged it and said, if not exactly that, then something like, ‘I can see myself falling in love with you.’ But one thing stopped me. Not the risk of making a total arse of myself and her laughing in my face. And not even the fact that we’ve only known each other two weeks and I might scare her off. The thing that stopped me was Belinda McDonnel.

  How do you tell your girlfriend that you’re not exactly sure of your marital status? I dunno. I really don’t. And I’ve thought about this conundrum on and off for several years. My uncertainty about it has meant that it’s easier to keep things casual with the ladies and until now, that hasn’t been much of a problem. But all last night, today, and even right now, I’ve been thinking that I might be falling in love with Laura, that she’s the ideal girl for me.

  So why is it that as I follow Belinda into the kitchen I wonder if, once we are alone, we’ll fall into each other’s arms?

  It’s not an absolutely bizarre thought, well, not in the context of the evening. I don’t actively want this to happen but as I watch her neat arse sway in front of me and recognize the mole on her shoulder, which I have kissed countless times, I feel a shudder in my trousers. I’m ashamed. And angry. Angry that she can still affect me this way. So instead of falling into one another’s arms, the moment we’re alone, I ensure that we fall into another old habit instead.

  ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on, Belinda?’ I snap.

  ‘I can’t explain here,’ she hisses, casting a furtive glance at the kitchen door.

  ‘You’re going to bloody have to.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? Sorry for what exactly? Marrying me? Divorcing me without telling me? When did we get divorced, by the way? Shouldn’t I have received a solicitor’s letter or something?’

  The colour drains from Belinda’s face. Her blusher stands out on her ashen cheeks like bruises. Her lips are a slash of bright red lipstick. For a moment her face loses its beauty and she looks like a clown.

  ‘We’re not divorced,’ she mutters.

  ‘We’re – we’re not?’ I blindly feel around me, find a stool and plonk myself on it. Why the fuck am I pleased? She was mine and then I lost her. This evening I found her, but only briefly because I assumed, as she was married to Philip, that she was no longer married to me. For a fraction of a second I had felt intense grief as I flushed down the pan any latent fantasies I’d had about our reconciliation. Not that I truly want her, I don’t. I’ve just found Laura. Meeting Belinda today must be viewed as a terrible, horrible inconvenience. So why the fuck am I feeling pleased?

  ‘But you’re married to—’

  ‘Philip, yes.’

  ‘You’re a—’

  ‘A bigamist, yes,’ whispers Belinda. She sits on the stool next to mine and takes my hand. ‘Look at me, Stevie. Please. This is important. We haven’t got much time.’

  I look at her. The sophisticated woman, who I have just watched calmly swallow oysters, has vanished. For some moments back there in the dining room I had almost hated Bella Edwards; she seemed smug and coldly unconcerned about my turmoil. The turmoil she’d caused. But Bella’s grace and self-confidence have dissolved. I’m left with Belinda. I recognize the haunted, unsure look she’s wearing now. Something inside me takes the blow and not just inside my trousers. I feel tender towards her, protective. Get me off this God-awful rollercoaster: I’m not enjoying the ride.

  ‘I’m begging you, don’t say anything. Please, give me some time. We’ll meet. I’ll explain everything. We’re in such a mess here.’

  ‘We are not in a mess. You are in a mess,’ I point out.

  ‘What about Laura? Don’t you care for her?’ Once again she is Bella. She is cold and grasping to regain control. She snuffs out my feelings of warmth. She doesn’t want me on her side, she wants a defeated opponent. She knows that because I’ve stayed silent and complicit for this much of the evening I am already in a weak position. It was probably part of her plan. There was always a ruthless side to Belinda.

  ‘I do care for Laura. Maybe I’ll just walk out there and tell everyone what you’ve just told me.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Laura would be devastated. Anything you are starting would be shot to pieces.’ She could be right about that. Laura is fragile. I don’t want to hurt or lose Laura. ‘And—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m asking you not to.’ I stare at her impassively. ‘I’m begging you not to. For old times’ sake, give me this one chance to explain,’ she adds.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I say, pulling my hand through my hair.

  ‘Then just write down the address of your school and I’ll be at the gate on Monday afternoon at four fifteen.’ She points to a pen and pad. There’s a long shopping list with groceries whose names I don’t even recognize. What the hell do you do with calabrese and chayote squash? Bella picks up a large tureen and makes for the kitchen door. She stops and says, ‘Look, Stevie. I really am sorry.’

  I don’t know what to believe.

  21. Trying to Get to You

  Philip

  ‘Did you have a nice evening?’ I ask as Bella finally comes to bed. She cleared away the entire dinner party, insisting that she couldn’t bear to come down to the smell of stale plates in the morning. She ushered me up to bed, saying that I need to sleep at the weekends because on weekdays I have to get up early, which is true, but I wasn’t convinced by her noble protest that she wanted to do the washing-up to give me a break; I had the feeling that she didn’t want me around. When she came to bed and saw that I was still awake, reading Newsweek, her face showed a flicker of disappointment, which she immediately snuffed out with a broad smile.

  ‘Did you have
a nice evening?’ I ask again.

  She doesn’t answer the question, just says, ‘I have to do my exercises. Should I do them in another room? I don’t want to keep you up.’

  ‘Get into bed, Bella. You can’t do sit-ups on a full stomach.’ I pull back the duvet. Bella sighs and gets into bed. ‘Why are you wearing pants?’ I ask.

  Normally, we sleep naked. I love the intimacy this suggests. It shows we’re open to one another and open to sex, of course. Sometimes Bella comes to bed wearing frilly, sexy numbers; panties which clearly tell me she’s feeling cheeky. At the moment she’s wearing her period pants although I know she is not on her period. I wonder what she’s saying.

  ‘Full stomach, as you said. I feel fat,’ she explains.

  ‘That’s ridiculous. You’re beautiful.’

  ‘I’m not,’ snaps Bella, turning her back to me. I sigh, put down my book, turn out the light and snuggle up to her. I’m relieved when she pushes her bum into my crotch. This means that although Bella is feeling huffy, I’m not to blame. Next I have to establish who or what is.

  ‘So, did you have a nice evening?’ I ask for the third time.

  ‘Yes, it was fine.’

  ‘Just fine?’

  ‘Fine.’

  I’m stumped. Normally after our dinner parties she takes ages to wind down. She wants to chatter about who said what, who was wearing what, did they like our food? What did I think of pudding? Haven’t we got great friends? Aren’t we lucky? Tonight I was expecting a full grilling on my impressions of Stevie and a blow-by-blow analysis on what Bella thought of him and how much chance Laura’s relationship has. I’d even practised a response because I often get ticked off for not taking enough interest. I’m a bit peeved not to get the opportunity to showcase my chatter.

  ‘Delicious dinner, my love,’ I say to kick-start the conversation.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Shame Stevie wasn’t keen on oysters.’

  ‘Yes. What a waste.’

  ‘Nice enough guy, though, wouldn’t you say?’ Silence. ‘A bit shy perhaps, or do you think he was just nervous?’