Husbands Page 8

  After breakfast, I rinse my china, stack the dishwasher, shower, shave and read half of the rainforest that is disguised as my Saturday paper. Bella still hasn’t returned home. I call her mobile. It rings in the kitchen. I call Laura; her phone is switched off. I try Amelie.

  ‘Hello, Amelie.’

  ‘Hello, Philip. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, except I’ve lost my wife.’

  Bugger. What a tactless thing to say to someone who really has lost their partner. Mentally I beat myself soundly, then make matters worse, ‘I mean I’ve mislaid her, not lost her.’ I give up. ‘Is she with you, by any chance?’

  ‘Erm, she is and she isn’t.’ Amelie hesitates, which surprises me. I wait for her to be more specific. She’s the clear thinker in Bella’s group of friends. She’s practical, efficient and easy to deal with. Normally. I wonder if I really have offended her as I can’t see how my question about whether Bella is with her or not can be open to misinterpretation.

  ‘She was here, minutes ago, but she’s gone out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘With the children. Yes. She’s taken Freya and Davey to the park. She wanted to give me a break.’

  ‘Which park?’ I ask. ‘I could catch them up. I’m kicking my heels.’

  ‘Do you know, she didn’t say.’

  ‘Well, it will be your local park, won’t it?’

  ‘Probably, but she might have gone all the way over to Kensington Gardens. Davey likes the Peter Pan play park.’

  ‘Did she say when she’d be back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll pop over to the local park anyway.’

  ‘I wouldn’t waste your time – you know what kids are like, they’ll probably get bored and be back home before you get there. You’d be better off calling one of your friends and seeing if you can get in a round of golf.’

  ‘Maybe. Thanks, Amelie. Get her to give me a call when she gets back, will you?’

  ‘Will do. Goodbye, Philip.’

  I click the red button. How strange. I’m not often accused of having an overactive imagination but I definitely have the feeling Amelie was lying to me. Very odd.

  But, on the other hand, why would she lie to me? No reason on earth. It is a lovely day, shame to waste it. I pick up the phone again, press my brother’s number and arrange a round of golf.

  14. I Just Can’t Help Believin’

  Laura

  ‘That was delicious.’ I smile as I mop up the last smudge of fried egg with a slice of white toast. ‘A cooked brekkie. You’re trying to impress me.’ I smile, hoping I’m coming across as cute and astute. ‘I should have guessed we hadn’t slept with each other, you’re still making an effort,’ I add. Oops. It was supposed to be a joke but I wonder if I sound world-weary? Everyone knows that many a true word is said in jest.

  Stevie looks a bit put out but doesn’t say anything. But then what can he say? If he told me that I can trust him, that he won’t let me down, that all he wants to do is sing to me and make me laugh and that he’d still be interested in me even after we’ve had sex – even if I am a single mum and a divorcee to boot – then I’d think he was pretty weird.

  Yet, this is exactly what I want to hear.

  My innards feel as though they are dancing a jig whenever I look at him, so it’s not unreasonable that I’d like him to tell me that I’m the most interesting woman he’s ever had the pleasure to meet. Or at least, that I’m not actively boring. I’d settle for that. I shake my head, bemused by my own inconsistency and fallibility. No wonder men don’t understand us, I barely understand myself sometimes.

  It’s probably my hangover kicking in that’s stopping me from thinking clearly. I don’t think he thinks I’m boring or bogan. I steal a glance at him from under my eyelashes. I hope I look seductive rather than creating the impression that I have a fly in my eye. Stevie meets my gaze and he’s grinning now, but that could be genuine amusement at me, not with me. He doesn’t look bored, in fact, he looks eager to please. But I’ve been out of this game for a long time; it’s easy to misread situations. I wish I could be the woman I was before I met Oscar, before my confidence and spirit had been trampled underfoot. The old Laura would have been able to make an accurate reading of the situation in a matter of seconds. I turn away, embarrassed at the situation and at the woman I have become.

  I think it would be more productive to concentrate on recalling the events of last night. Hard facts will help me decide whether Stevie went to the effort of making a cooked breakfast because he’s still hoping for a quickie but would then be counting the minutes until I got my jacket, or whether he was doing a nice thing because… well, because… he likes me.

  I sit very quietly for some minutes before I decide that I’m almost certain we had a sweet-as time. And I mean we, not just me. Slowly, specifics come back to me. It seems miraculous that while I had unduly high expectations, the reality defied probability by exceeding them.

  I can’t remember ever being as happy as I was in The Bell and Long Wheat last night. I can’t remember feeling so charged, so alluring, so positively fascinating. Stevie sang to me. The sweet words brushed my consciousness, nearly bringing me to orgasm just as effectively as if it had been his fingers that were caressing my secret bits. He called to me when I was leaving because he didn’t want me to go, he smiled at me, made a fuss of me. Every woman there wanted to be me. It was exhilarating!

  We left the bar just after eleven. I’d already drunk more than was sensible but I’m pleased to say on the list of my talents, ‘cheerful drunk’ is quite high up. Neither of us considered going home, and once we’d made the phone call to Amelie, checking that Eddie could stay the night with her, we were free to go on anywhere we wanted. Of course, I didn’t tell Stevie that Amelie had agreed to look after Eddie all night, I didn’t want him to think I was too available, but I did say that I wasn’t under any time constraint. Available enough.

  Stevie stored his guitar and sound equipment at the pub and got changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that were considerably more of this millennium. We caught a cab into Fulham and chatted all the way. It turned out that he wasn’t a busker, with a breakthrough gig, he’s a teacher and the gigging is a sideline.

  ‘Are you disappointed or pleased?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t mind either way,’ I answered truthfully, although I know Bella will be pleased.

  We called in for a bite to eat at Vingt Quatre on the Fulham Road. I’d never been there before but remember passing it once, late at night, and seeing a queue outside the door. I was trying to flag down a cab to take me home after a dash to Chelsea and Westminster A&E (small piece of Lego up Eddie’s nose, another story). I’d wondered how the restaurant pulled such crowds, it didn’t look that special. It turns out that it has a double whammy of attractive plus-points. First, as the name suggests, Vingt Quatre serves terrific food 24–7 and is therefore a haven for clubbers with the munchies and, the best bit, at the end of the meal they bring a small bowl of Smarties with the bill. Who could resist? Certainly not Stevie or me.

  We were led through the small noisy restaurant to a table at the back. I took in the decor (ubertrendy in a retro, not trying too hard, sort of way) and the clientele (eclectic – anyone from Sloanes sporting pashminas to hardcore cool, Diesel-clad clubbers). What everyone had in common was a surprisingly buoyant mood. Stevie ordered burger and chips. I went for smoked salmon and scrambled eggs on toast, although I seriously doubted my ability to swallow in front of him. I was being entirely a teenager.

  Once the deeply trendy but unexpectedly affable waitress had taken our order I commented, ‘People are champion in here, aren’t they?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you rarely see Sloaney types smile, do you? Although I don’t know why not, from where I’m sitting being beautiful, rich and pampered would seem reason enough to smile. And these trendy clubbers are so relaxed, even before they’ve taken their I-love-the-world drugs.�
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  Stevie had been a gent and taken the seat facing me and the wall so I had the best view of the restaurant. He turned to have a squiz.

  ‘Everyone does look happy,’ he agreed.

  ‘And tonight at your gig, it was as though people had been on laughing gas.’ I was swamped by an overwhelming sense of love. ‘I’ve never seen so many smiley people in one room since I left Australia. It must be you.’

  I’d added this thought before my brain had checked the sentence for coolness. Luckily, before I could drown in my cheesiness, the waitress returned to our table. She chatted about how chockers it was and asked if we were OK sitting so close to the kitchen. She’d brought tap water rather than expensive bottled stuff, which was thoughtful. I stole a glance at Stevie. Miraculously he wasn’t grimacing at my obvious compliment; he was grinning.

  ‘The waitress is gold too.’ I couldn’t hide my astonishment. Stevie shrugged, clearly he hadn’t noticed one way or the other, he would probably only notice the waiting service if the waitress accidentally spilt soup over his head and only then if she failed to offer a cloth to mop it up. Stevie was so laid back he was horizontal. I liked it.

  ‘Aren’t all waiters and waitresses pretty much the same?’

  ‘No. The service and charm are usually inversely proportional to the beauty-slash-handsomeness of the server. The stunning ones know they’re going to get a tip however surly they are, so they’re rarely anything other. Mid-range try quite hard.’ I was talking as an insider, I’d done my fair share of table waiting. ‘This equation, however, has a point of no return. The incredibly ugly ones know that they won’t get a tip no matter how nice they are, so they usually opt to be as unhelpful as the beauties.’

  ‘That’s a very sad theory,’ commented Stevie, but he was grinning again, as though everything I said pleased him.

  ‘Sad but true,’ I assured him grimly.

  ‘Do you really think the world is that superficial?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Lots of it. You must be bloody lovely not to have noticed, especially as you work in a school.’

  Stevie’s eyes widened. ‘Did you just pay me another compliment?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I insulted you. I said you lacked perception.’ I smiled again so that Stevie wouldn’t take offence. He didn’t. He laughed out loud. It was a laugh that came from the belly and rang clearly through the restaurant and all of London town too, I expect.

  We talked, gossiped, told stories, swapped views and barely paused for breath. I got the opportunity to air my theories on the enormous quantities of sugar that builders, ostensibly, have in their tea (they must use it to mix cement or something). I talked about Eddie, a whole heap, so much so that I had to keep asking, ‘Am I boring you?’ Stevie assured me that he wasn’t bored.

  He talked about his work, his mates and his mum’s Sunday roast. I was about to run a mile, I can’t stand men with oedipal complexes and I don’t buy into the theory of watching how a man treats his mum as an indication of how considerate he’ll be as a boyfriend. An exceptionally close mother–son relationship at Stevie’s age could only indicate a lack of proficiency with the washing-machine dial. I was relieved when, instead of telling me how friggn’ A his mother’s roast is, he confessed that she can’t cook and that her gravy is often served with the question, ‘One lump or two?’

  After leaving university Stevie had bummed around Edinburgh for a while, then galvanized and spent three years travelling around the world. I adore meeting other explorers. We talked about all the places we’d visited, and the ones we still wanted to see. Only another traveller can summon the appropriate interest to enthuse about a sunset not personally witnessed. Stevie seemed bright, animated, wise and relaxed. Characteristics that, pre-Oscar, might have been attributable to me.

  It was past four in the morning when we fell out on to the street. We were giggling so much that I was bent double, although I can’t remember what he’d said that was so funny. I was having a fantastic time, and from what I could gather, he was too. It seemed natural when he put his arm round me, and I don’t think it was just to stop me falling over my heels and landing arse-up in the gutter.

  ‘What do you want to do now?’ Stevie asked.

  I glanced along the Fulham Road and saw a cab’s light in the distance.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ I asked, because although we’d discussed pretty much every other area of our lives we had both avoided discussing our love lives. I had done this for two reasons. First, I’m not sure I have a love life to discuss; and second, if I have, then it’s one that has left me not quite bitter and twisted but certainly scared and scarred. Not, I believe, attractive qualities in a date. If we were on a date, and I’m pretty sure we were. It felt date-like.

  What was Stevie’s excuse for his reticence?

  ‘No, the situation is vacant,’ he said, with a broad smile.

  I wanted to ask him if he was waiting for me to apply but, even fortified by a large amount of drink, I didn’t dare be so forward. He doesn’t wear a ring but I thought I ought to check. ‘Are you married?’

  Stevie glanced at his shoes. ‘The thing is—’

  ‘You’re married to your work, right?’ I asked, cutting him off because of course he isn’t married. What a stupid question. It’s insulting to his integrity; I was immediately ashamed.

  ‘I wasn’t going to say that.’

  Suddenly a depressing thought overwhelmed me. ‘Are you gay?’ I asked.

  ‘Not last time I checked. Why? Are you homophobic?’ he asked, mock-serious.

  ‘No, of course not. I just don’t want you to be gay. Even if it means I could say, “Some of my best friends are gay.”’

  ‘Am I going to be one of your best friends?’ asked Stevie.

  Was he flirting? He was. ‘I hope we’re going to be friends,’ I reassured him.

  Friends and a whole lot more but I didn’t add that because just then a cab slowed to a standstill next to the pavement where we were stood.

  ‘Need a ride?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Yes,’ Stevie and I said in unison.

  On our arrival at Stevie’s flat I discovered I was anxious beyond precedent. I continually mixed up West Hamp-stead and Highgate and barely managed to articulate that I took my coffee black, one sugar.

  ‘I’ve kind of forgotten how to do this,’ I confessed.

  ‘Do what?’ asked Stevie.

  ‘Whatever we’re about to do,’ I mumbled, wanting to kick myself. Had I just asked him to sleep with me? I had, hadn’t I? Or as good as.

  Stevie smiled away my nervousness. ‘Well, I’m about to show you my enormous photo collection of my travels in India, Thailand and Malaysia. All you have to do is pretend to be interested. It’s easy,’ he joked. ‘But be warned, if you do a convincing job I’ll make you sit through the really old ones of me in South America too,’ he added, as he rummaged around for packets of photos in an untidy cupboard. So that’s how we passed the time until the sun came up and our eyes were stinging with lack of sleep.

  I remember now that I fell asleep on the floor of his sitting room while he was trying to unearth some chocolate he was sure he had somewhere – maybe in the fridge, maybe in a cupboard, maybe in his sock drawer…

  This morning is peculiar. This morning it is our easy intimacy that unsettles me. I’m almost sure we should be awkward with one another. Are we this comfortable because he doesn’t feel the electricity that I feel, can almost touch and taste? Doesn’t he fancy me? Are we just good friends? That damning, hopeless epitaph. And there is something else bothering me, something related. Have we kissed? Because if we have and he’s this calm, I’m a lousy kisser. But, on the other hand, if we haven’t, why not?

  Maybe I’m out of my depth. Stevie is gorgeous – really, really special – therefore I’m not sure I want to stick around long enough to hear him say he doesn’t think of me in the same way. It would be soul-destroying to discover that I’m a nice girl but not his type. It would be b
etter to leave now with the beautiful memories of my sparkling night intact. I’m just about to say that I have to get dressed and leave because I have an oh-so-busy schedule when Stevie asks, ‘Have you any plans for the rest of the day?’

  ‘None. Well, I have to pick Eddie up but no, after that, we are totally free,’ I blurt, which I realize doesn’t help to create the impression that I am in demand, a girl with a crazily busy and very glamorous schedule.

  ‘Me neither,’ says Stevie. ‘Do you think Eddie would like to go to the Science Museum? I loved that sort of stuff when I was a kid.’

  ‘I think he’d like that very much,’ I assure, nodding and smiling. Relief floods me. Truth is, Eddie would like that nearly as much as his mum would.

  15. Baby, Let’s Play House

  Bella

  ‘Don’t ever, ever make me lie for you again,’ Amelie hisses.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to lie,’ I point out.

  I hate it when my friends go all sanctimonious on me. Hey, like haven’t I told the odd lie for Amelie in the past? I think about this for a moment and realize that, no, I have not. But I would lie if I ever had to, that’s what friends are for. Blow it. This is why I’ve never told anyone my secret.

  ‘You put me in an impossible position. I like Philip.’

  ‘I love him.’

  ‘Of course you do. That’s why you married him while you were secretly married to someone else,’ she snaps.

  ‘But—’

  Amelie holds up her hand to cut me off. She rummages in the drinks cupboard, pulls out a bottle of whisky and pours a generous measure into both our coffee cups, although it’s only just past breakfast time. This gesture saddens me as it’s exactly what I did for her on the countless occasions that we sat and talked about Ben, after his death, back when numbing the pain and shock was the only viable option.