Husbands. Part 10

19. Baby, I Don't Care.

Sat.u.r.day 5th June 2004.

Bella.

'Amelie, do you think this is a stupid thing to do?' I hiss-whisper the question. We are in my kitchen and Philip is in the cellar choosing wine for tonight's supper party, but you can never be too careful. I am of course referring to inviting my ex-husband, or more pertinently my non-ex-husband, around for dinner.

'You've done the stupid thing already, marrying two blokes,' Amelie whispers back, with her signature brutal honesty.

I am disheartened. Doesn't she know that a girlfriend's role in life is to make the other girlfriend feel better, no matter what? Didn't she ever watch s.e.x and the City? She must have noticed that I'm less than happy with the situation because she adds, more sympathetically, 'Oh, Bella, what a mess. Still, at least you're trying to fix things now, aren't you?'

We stare at one another, trying to hide our fear and desperation. Amelie is a big one for fixing things. She's often sending flowers or chocs to cheer people up or to say sorry. Not that she ever has to apologize for anything worse than forgetting someone's birthday. But even Amelie must see that Interflora isn't going to help here.

'Are you sure you don't just want to tell Philip?' she asks.

'Certain,' I reply forcefully. The idea of having a tete-a-tete with Stevie is horrible my stomach has been churning all week but it is nothing in comparison with having to come clean to Philip. He'd never forgive me. He wouldn't, couldn't understand. I don't really understand it myself.

'The man doesn't even cheat in Monopoly. He never returns to the same parking meter within the specified time, he sends his self-a.s.sessment tax return in early. He breaks out in a rash if he doesn't get his DVD back to Blockbuster on time. He is not a man who breaks laws,' I point out. 'He wouldn't take this well. Who would?'

Amelie nods patiently. 'I know but-'

'There are no buts. I got myself into this mess and I'll get myself out of it. I can do it. I have to.'

I realize that I have gone for the high-risk option. When I open the door to Stevie this evening he'll get a h.e.l.l of a bolt. I'm hoping he'll be too shocked to say anything that will give me away until I've had chance to beg him not to. I turn back to the preparation of supper and put my energy into chopping the peppers as finely as possible. I try to blank out everything else after all, I'm practised at that.

I wonder if Stevie will like fresh linguini with Roquefort sauce. When we met, his diet consisted entirely of Findus crispy pancakes, the chicken variety, with baked beans and brown sauce. His tastes weren't much more sophisticated by the time I left him. I wonder if he'll be impressed that I can cook now and that I have a six-ring Aga. Or will he think I'm a sn.o.b? The worst condemnation we lobbed at anyone way back when.

I shake my head and try to banish this thought.

Of course I'm not. I'm sure he'll be pleased I've done so well for myself, or at least I'm sure he would have been, if we'd met under different circ.u.mstances.

'What can I do to help?' asks Philip, as he emerges from the cellar, carrying several bottles of wine. He puts the two white ones in the fridge, then uncorks a red to allow it to breathe.

'You could pour some drinks,' I reply.

He pours me a gin and tonic and Amelie a vodka and cranberry: our preferred tipples.

'So what's this chap of Laura's like?' he asks.

'No idea. I haven't met him,' I say hastily.

'Well, he must be pretty special if we're going to all this effort for him. Oysters, fresh linguini, chocolate and orange souffle,' observes Philip. 'And you, my darling, look fantastic. Is that dress new?'

I blush. 'I bought it ages ago,' I lie, wis.h.i.+ng for the first time that Philip paid me less attention. Right now, I could do with one of those guys who think their wives are invisible.

The truth is, I have made an enormous effort with my appearance. Normally if friends are coming to supper, I change my top or I might pop on a pair of slightly smarter jeans. Tonight I am wearing a black Dolce & Gabbana knee-length dress. It has a tight bodice, no sleeves and very thin straps. It's laced at the back, which gives it low-key dominatrix-meets-shepherdess overtones. I know I look hot. I want to look hot. I don't want to consider my motives here.

'He seems nice. He's making Laura very happy,' says Amelie.

'Have you met him?' asks Philip.

'Only briefly. I'd been looking after Eddie and they came together to collect him,' says Amelie, nonchalantly.

'You have?' I can't hide my surprise. 'You never said.'

I glare at Amelie but she refuses to look sheepish. Instead she says, 'Didn't I? Must have slipped my mind.'

It's not material but I feel betrayed. I can't help but think Amelie is trying to teach me a lesson. I want to yell at her that I b.l.o.o.d.y well know I've made a mistake, I don't need her priggish lessons. But the doorbell rings, saving us both.

'd.a.m.n! They're early.' I throw down the knife I've been using to chop spring onions and whisk off my ap.r.o.n. I check my reflection in the aluminium fridge door.

'No need to panic, sweetheart. I'll let them in,' says Philip.

'No, I will,' I say and push him aside. I charge towards the door, or at least I charge as much as is possible in three-inch-high shoes. It's important that I greet Stevie and Laura. I don't want Philip to have made Stevie feel relaxed by getting him a drink and chatting. I need to catch Stevie unawares, when he is most vulnerable and pliable. I just need him to keep silent this evening, and for a very short time afterwards, then everything will be OK. After that I can fix this whole sorry mess and we can carry on as normal.

'Laura,' I shout as I open the door. I fling my arms round her and pull her to me. I look over her shoulder at Stevie. My husband. I can't deny I'm more than a wee bit curious. He is turned away, checking out Philip's Jag, which hasn't been put in the garage yet. Slowly he turns to greet me.

Poor Stevie. What was he expecting? The mate of his new girlfriend. A smart hostess? A former waitress turned housewife? How much had they talked about me? Had he already formed an opinion of Bella Edwards? Did he suspect that she might be a little spoilt, living in her huge home in Wimbledon? Or had Laura loyally retold our friends.h.i.+p? Did he know that I'd paid my dues, that I'm a good mate; that I've worked hard and played hard too? Does he know that I married Philip for love and life, not a lifestyle? I don't know, but whatever he was expecting it was not Belinda McDonnel.

Stevie turns to me and our eyes lock. He falters for a second, recognizing me but not trusting his vision, wanting, no doubt, to be mistaken. I was depending on this moment of shock.

'And you must be Stevie, I've heard so much about you.'

I lean in and hug him with just as much warmth as I hugged Laura. Normally this would be over the top but I'm hoping Laura will think I'm being super-friendly. As my body touches his it softens to merge into his harder, toned physique. He smells the same. He smells of my youth. Not Impulse and cheap hairspray, but that boy smell that he brought to my youth. I'd always a.s.sumed it was the scent of boy sweat turning to man sweat, combined with Clearasil and Imperial Leather, but I suspect he has left those brands behind. So, the smell that comforted me throughout my late teens and early twenties, must have been the smell of his skin. Simply Stevie. And smelling 'Simply Stevie' again now, makes me think I've missed it for nearly a decade.

I lean a fraction closer, hoping my move is indiscernible, and inhale gently. I'm trembling. And he is too.

d.a.m.n.

'Don't say a word,' I whisper into his ear and then slowly oh G.o.d help me reluctantly, I pull away.

Stevie straightens and stares into my eyes. His gaze gallops past my pupils and explodes into my mind and soul. He looks confused, hurt and cross. Then he looks delighted: the most confusing response. I know how he feels. I've lived with this guilty mix of emotions for two weeks now. Something tiny and buried has been unearthed and Stevie is clearly pleased to see me.

'Come in, come in. Don't keep them on the doorstep,' says Philip, behind me.

There is the usual ten minutes of activity as introductions are made, drinks are requested and fetched. Laura hands me an enormous bunch of flowers. She doesn't normally bring flowers when she comes to us for supper, I suspect they are an acknowledgement that our easy intimacy has slipped. I thank her but don't really want to go to the kitchen to put them in water. I can't risk leaving Stevie alone with the others. I ask Amelie to see to them. She obliges without any enthusiasm, clearly she'd prefer to stay in the epicentre of the action. Stevie hands Philip a bottle of wine. He looks bashful. No doubt Philip will attribute this to the fact that he's a wee bit awkward about meeting Laura's friends men rarely enjoy these social situations but I know that under normal circ.u.mstances, Stevie would be delighted to meet his girlfriend's pals. He outgrew his teenage shyness and became gregarious and charming a long time ago.

I look at the two men standing side by side and I am struck by their similarities and their differences. They're approximately the same height, over six foot. Perhaps Stevie is an inch shorter than Philip. They both have dark hair and green eyes. Philip's hair is sprinkled with grey, which is to be expected he has eight years on Stevie. Stevie's eyes flicker with mischief, excitement and antic.i.p.ation as they always did. Philip's are calm, they tell the world that he's capable. Philip is bulkier. They both have big feet. The biggest difference is in the clothes they wear. Stevie is dressed in an up-to-the-minute Diesel T-s.h.i.+rt and low-slung jeans. I can see his underwear.

Which makes my throat dry. I take a large gulp of my drink.

Philip is wearing beige cords and a Gap T-s.h.i.+rt. Until today I've always thought that Philip looked smart but modern in that outfit. Now I'm wondering if he could carry off something a bit more cutting-edge. I blush at my shallow thought.

It's Philip I love.

Stevie is history.

My body is operating in slow motion yet at the same time my heart is racing. I wonder if these two diverging physical responses will tear me in two. Maybe splitting in two would be the perfect answer. I lift my gla.s.s to my lips and spill liquid down my dress.

'Are you OK, gorgeous?' asks Philip.

'Fine,' I mutter, blus.h.i.+ng as I rub away the spillage.

'You don't want to go spilling things on your new dress.'

'It's not new.'

'Of course it is. I don't mind. Why don't you admit it? You look stunning.'

Philip is always OTT with his praise and thinks I'm far lovelier than I am. Normally it's a misconception I encourage but tonight I just want him to shut up. 'Doesn't she look gorgeous, Stevie?'

'Very nice,' mutters Stevie. Can everyone else see his embarra.s.sment?

'Stop it, Philip,' I warn.

'You've made such a huge effort, why shouldn't you bask in compliments? And why can't I ask another chap's opinion? Laura doesn't mind.'

Laura grins good-naturedly. She's never looked better and therefore clearly doesn't mind her man being asked to compliment another woman. She's obviously secure. I can guess what's given her that dewy glow. Philip notices it too. 'You look stunning tonight, Laura. And you too, of course, Amelie.'

Amelie smiles, not offended that Philip's compliment to her was clearly an afterthought.

'Stevie and I are very lucky men to be surrounded by such a bevy of beauties.'

I know Phil is trying to be inclusive and fair but I wish he'd shut up. His excessive compliments sound pompous and insincere.

'Shall we eat?' I mutter as I stride towards the dining room.

20. You've Lost That Loving Feeling.

Stevie.

Holy f.u.c.k. Holy f.u.c.kity f.u.c.k. Belinda McDonnel. Belinda b.l.o.o.d.y McDonnel. My wife, ex-wife, I presume, is serving me... What the f.u.c.k is she serving me? I'm jolted out of my immediate shock by a plateful of slimy seash.e.l.ls. It looks a bit like the outflow of a seriously bad cold served up with doll's forks. Oysters? Belinda McDonnel is serving oysters to her mates for supper on a Sat.u.r.day evening? It's too much to take in.

At first I thought I was mistaken. This Bella woman didn't seem to know me from Adam. So I doubted myself. This couldn't be my long-lost wife. There was a resemblance but then, as I've discovered, lots of women resemble Belinda. Over the years I have spotted women with the same gait, height or hair. I've heard similar laughs. I've chased women down streets and tapped them on the shoulder but when they've turned round, the illusion has always been blown apart.

I've imagined meeting my wife on countless occasions. I'd always thought we'd b.u.mp 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 G.o.d. 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 s.p.a.ce 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 ma.s.s of pre-Raphaelite curls but now she wears it straight like a newly polished sheet of gla.s.s. 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 fas.h.i.+onable. She suits the s.e.xy 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 b.l.o.o.d.y naive of me, under the circ.u.mstances. 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 s.h.i.+ver.

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 h.e.l.l 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 sa.s.sy 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 gla.s.s b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y... 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 G.o.d, she'd been a pleasure. I can almost smell the suns.h.i.+ne 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 f.u.c.k it, joyful, real, suns.h.i.+ne 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 appet.i.te.'

'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 relations.h.i.+p 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.