Husbands. Part 12

'Want to pop up for a coffee?' I grin. I wanted to come across as seductive or at least wry, I think I came across as the dreaded needy and helpless.

'It's late. I need to get to bed.'

'I've got a bed.' The chord I struck was fraught.

'I need to sleep.'

'You can sleep at my place.' Quite definitely without allure, simply desperate.

I sigh and am about to give up when Stevie mutters, 'OK then,' and he leans forward to pay the cabby.

I see the babysitter to her car and then I make coffee. I'm not thirsty but it's something to do. Stevie paces the flat like a caged lion. It's not a great thought.

'Have a seat,' I urge.

He chooses a kitchen chair, a chair that does not facilitate cuddling, canoodling or caressing. I hear his message.

A vile thought grips me. Could Stevie be one of those blokes who's nice until you sleep with him, then turns into a complete s.h.i.+t? It's possible. Past experiences, everything I read in the monthly magazines and pretty much all anecdotal evidence suggests the vast percentage of men are this type. It is possible that I've completely miscalculated him. The way he looked at me as he sank deep inside me was, I thought, communicating sincerity and amazement. What if the only thing he was amazed by was my gullibility and my slightly stretched cervix? I am crippled with shame. Only minutes ago I practically begged him to come up to my flat. Clearly, I wasn't even impressive enough for him to want to bother with a repeat performance. The ignominy of the situation is boundless. I feel like a slug that has just been showered in salt.

I muster the tiny crumbs of dignity that are lurking somewhere very deep inside me and mutter, 'You can go if you want to.'

Stevie looks surprised. Which is natural, considering I practically put him under citizen's arrest to get him upstairs in the first place.

'I don't want to go,' he states. 'Do you want me to go?'

'No, no,' I splutter. 'It's just, you didn't enjoy yourself very much tonight, did you?'

'No, not really.'

At least he's honest. I steel myself. I've always been the sort of person that hoes in, faces things full on. 'Are you the sort of man who treats a girl crash hot until you sleep with her, then you turn into a complete s.h.i.+t? Because if you are, I'm cool with that.'

This is a lie, of course, but at least I sound a bit more sophisticated and twenty-first century. Depending on his answer I might throw him out or clobber him with my brand new, very heavy Tefal frying pan.

'No, I'm not.' Stevie grins. 'You call a spade a shovel, don't you?'

'I just want to know where I stand.' I fold my arms. I hope I look defiant and even a little intimidating. The stance also hides my shaking hands.

'I'm the sort of man who knows when he's on to a good thing and feels very deeply for the woman he's just started sleeping with. OK?'

Stevie has turned a very deep purple and even if I were to doubt his words I could not have a heart and misinterpret his demeanour. I grin, relieved. Delighted, actually.

He sc.r.a.pes back his chair and pats his knee, indicating that I should hop on board. I do so and then balance precariously and uncomfortably. I've never liked sitting on a guy's knees. Not even when I was fourteen, which is surely the latest age it is acceptable behaviour. Stevie kisses my neck, which just about makes the whole ordeal bearable.

'I don't like oysters or Roquefort cheese,' he mutters.

'Or my friends,' I add.

'I wouldn't say that, exactly.'

'I know it wasn't a comfortable evening. Bella was being OTT, but honestly she is so lovely when you get to know her. A beaut.'

'Lovely? You say.'

'Yes. And Amelie was being a bit difficult with Bella, they must have had a disagreement.'

'About the temperature of the bread rolls perhaps?' says Stevie with a grin.

'Don't be mean,' I say, hitting him playfully. We kiss. It's a long, slow, lingering kiss.

'Let's go to bed,' he suggests.

'OK.'

I agree without worrying about whether I'm communicating alluring, nonchalant or composed. I suspect I'm communicating gagging for it. I switch out the kitchen light and follow Stevie into the bedroom. He has his back to me and he pulls his T-s.h.i.+rt up over his head. He's beautiful. I want this to work.

'Stevie, don't spit the dummy.'

'What?'

'I mean, don't lose patience. If you could give Bella another chance I know you'd find she's worth it,' I urge.

'You think so.'

'She's my mate.' I don't want to make too big a deal but I do want them to be friends. So it is with quite some relief I hear him say: 'OK, Laura, I'll give her another chance. For you, I'll do that.'

23. How the Web was Woven.

Monday 7th June 2004.

Bella.

'Can I buy you a drink? I think we both need one.'

'It's the least you can do.'

Stevie is right, it is the least I can do but even so I'm not comfortable with him pointing it out. I'm not sure I've handled this correctly, but what's the etiquette for meeting your husband at a dinner party you are hosting with your other husband? I'm not sure if I want to charm him, threaten him or befriend him.

All day I've considered sending someone instead of me to this meeting. But who? Amelie has made it clear that she has no intention of involving herself because I won't take her, frankly, naive advice and 'fess up to Philip. A solicitor is out of the question, since I've broken the law. I don't like handcuffs in the bedroom, not even fur-trimmed ones; the idea of real ones sends me into apoplectic panic. I thought about hiring a private detective but I had visions of a man with a s.h.i.+ny suit, worn through at the knees and elbows, a small, fat man who smokes roll-ups and sprays spittle when he laughs. The vision was so grubby it almost turned my stomach and while this is dirty work to do, Stevie wasn't always a grimy secret. I once loved him very much. The least I can do is turn up in person to offer an explanation.

'I wondered if Laura had spoken about me,' I begin tentatively.

'No. She mentioned her friend Bella Edwards. I know, or knew, a Belinda McDonnel.' He sounds accusing.

'I prefer Bella to Belinda. Bella is just more... appropriate.'

'What was wrong with Belinda? Not posh enough for your new London life?'

I glare at Stevie but I can't think of a quick comeback because he's dead right. In truth, even if I'd been christened Flavia, Camilla or Jemima, I would probably have wanted to change my name when I left Edinburgh. Didn't he get it? I wanted to leave it all behind.

'Nice pub you've chosen,' comments Stevie. 'At least I can see a bit of the old you in here.'

I look around and try to decide if Stevie is being deliberately antagonistic. Surely he's trying to insult me. Yes, this pub is a bit like the one in Kirkspey and it has some resemblance to the ones we frequented in our student days, but surely Stevie can't think this is a desirable place to be.

The pub is filthy. Totally depressing and grimy. I can smell stale alcohol and cigarettes in the air, in the carpets, on the seats. I went to the loo a few minutes ago, to splash water on my face, and the stench of vomit, presumably from last night's excesses, wasn't even masked by cheap disinfectant.

Although it is only half past four in the afternoon the pub has a community. A scattering of old ladies, too fat to be comfortable, sit with their legs akimbo, exposing stockings and veined, plump thighs. Their companions are silent old men who look as though they've never eaten a decent meal in their lives; internalizing a vitamin or mineral would probably send them into medical shock. A couple of blokes in their forties are playing dominoes. They are wearing plaster- gand paint-splattered jeans and, clearly, have come straight from the building site. Everybody (except me) is drinking pints of beer or dark, rich Guinness. I stick with a Diet c.o.ke. Under normal circ.u.mstances I wouldn't be seen dead in here. I chose it because we won't be spotted.

'You could have written,' he says. It appears the small talk has dried up. I don't know how to start to explain myself but I don't insult him by pretending to misunderstand.

'I should have,' I admit.

'Why didn't you?'

'I don't know.'

'Over the years I've sometimes looked back at all that went on and thought it must have been a bad dream.'

'Thanks,' I say, wondering why I sound so huffy. Haven't I had that exact thought?

'I don't mean the marriage, Belinda. I mean the secrecy, then the split not knowing where you'd gone or what had become of you.'

I s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably on my chair. 'It wasn't working.'

'No,' says Stevie. 'It wasn't.'

He doesn't offer any insight into why not. He doesn't utter any regret but then, what was I expecting? It was all a million years ago. I don't want a trip down memory lane. I want a divorce. We have to act as quickly and dispa.s.sionately as possible. We have to sever our past and get on with our future.

'It's a long time ago. We've both moved on,' I say.

'You certainly have.' Stevie takes a gulp of his pint.

He was always painfully honest, verging on tactless. He didn't give a b.u.g.g.e.r what anyone thought of him or his opinions, which, oddly, meant everyone thought well of him. I always found his honesty a turn-on, now I fear it might be a nuisance.

I consider how honest I ought to be. It's not that I'm an evil cesspit of deceit. In an ideal world I'd rather tell the truth than not, it's just that I don't live in an ideal world and so honesty is often a luxury I can't afford.

I have no idea if Stevie hates me or if he'll be prepared to help me. He might turn nasty even try to blackmail me or refuse to give me a quick divorce just to pay me back for leaving him. And who would blame him? G.o.d, if he'd left me so unceremoniously I'd be looking to hurt, even eight years on. I have to be careful. Philip is a rich man, which leaves me open to exploitation from all sorts of bounders or cads, villains or Elvis impersonators. I don't know Stevie, he might be a nasty piece of work now.

He doesn't look it, I admit. He looks just as sweet and kind and gentle as he always looked. The old Stevie would not turn nasty or awkward. Neither blackmail nor revenge would cross his mind. The Stevie I'm looking at looks just like the old Stevie, except he's a tiny bit broader, not fatter, just more of a man. In a breath I make the decision to play it straight; at the very least it will be a novel approach for me.

'I need a divorce, Stevie. Philip doesn't know about you.'

'Ha.' Beer sprays from Stevie's mouth and falls on to the ugly wooden table between us. He narrowly misses the sleeve of my jacket. I'm not sure if the spraying was accidental, although missing almost certainly was. 'I gathered that much last night. What the h.e.l.l were you thinking of, marrying someone when you're already married? Is it a scam? Are you planning on ripping him off? For all you've done, I never had you down as an out-and-out criminal.'

'I'm not,' I shout, outraged.

Half a dozen eyes slowly turn in our direction. The oldies aren't particularly curious; they a.s.sume they've seen everything before (although I bet they haven't seen this). They are staring at us because we are interrupting their quiet afternoon.

I lean closer to Stevie and mutter, 'Well, yes, technically I am a criminal but my marriage to Philip isn't a scam. It's the real thing. It's love.'

'So, why didn't you divorce me?'

'I... I don't know. I didn't know where to find you.' I know it's feeble.

'Did you try looking where you'd left me?'

I won't meet his eyes but I can feel his stare boring into my mind. He's trying to decide if he can trust me and if he wants to help me. Or maybe he'll let me hang.

I wonder how long it took him to get over me. Did he pine for months, or did he go to the pub the very next night and sleep with a random stranger? How long did it take him to fall in love again? Years? Or did he fall for the random stranger? I'm curious; no I am desperate to know. I call upon my honed self-discipline. In this case, there's no such thing as an acceptable amount of delving. If I go down that conversational route I might never be able to clamber back.

Instead I say, 'Laura really likes you.'

As I utter this sentence a slither of shame runs up my spine. It's disloyal to tell a bloke your mate is keen, unless she's expressly asked you to do so, and besides, I know I'm doing it to remind Stevie of what he has to lose. This whole business taints me.

'Is that right?' Stevie feels into his jacket pocket and pulls out a packet of Marlboro Lights. I'm surprised. I know he smoked when we were together, which I hated, but I'd a.s.sumed he'd have kicked the habit by now, as everyone with an ounce of common sense has. As he inhales I pointedly waft the smoke away as it is drifting in my direction.

'It's tricky, isn't it? You dating my best friend,' I add.

'I'm not going to stop seeing Laura.'

'I wouldn't ask you to,' I rush to rea.s.sure him. 'Are you serious about her?'

'I think so.' Then more definitively he adds, 'Yes.'

Even among this chaos I'm happy about that. It's messy but it is good news. I wish I could tell her. My reaction shows that I'm still a decent person, I was beginning to doubt it.

'We've agreed that we are going to date exclusively and I don't do much exclusive dating. You put me off.'

Suddenly, the ice cube melting in my drink is fascinating. I stare at it. I want to say so much. Too much. 'Laura can't know about us,' I state.

'That puts me in a difficult position.'

'I'm sorry.'

'So you keep saying.' Stevie sighs wearily. 'Do you want another drink?'

I nod. I watch him at the bar. He shares a few words with the barman and they laugh. For a moment I see a glimpse of the animated, happy Stevie I once knew. What have I done? What terrible thing have I done? There's such hurt there. Serious damage. This isn't a game but I fear there may be losers.

He returns to the table, lights another cigarette and takes a large gulp of his drink.

'Are you happy?' he asks.

'Very,' I reply without skipping a beat. Or at least, I was until Stevie came back into my world. 'You?'

'Yes.'