Husbands. Part 27

I emerge from the bathroom a dripping cloud of love with a towel wrapped around my waist. I've caught a few rays and Bella loves to see me wet and freshly shaved, she's told me so on a number of occasions. I stride to the bed and then carefully lean in to kiss the top of her head. To think this woman is carrying my child! This amazing, beautiful, interesting woman is going to be the mother of my babies. I think I might explode with pride. I hover above her, waiting for her to turn away from the TV, and towards me, so that I can kiss her on the lips.

'You're making the bed wet,' she mumbles, without taking her eyes off the screen. I look up to see what's captivating her. A minute-long advert for kitchen knives? I pick up the remote and press the 'off' b.u.t.ton.

'I was watching that,' she grumbles with undisguised irritation. She turns to stare at me crossly, which gives me the opportunity to plant a smacker on her lips. Bella allows the kiss but keeps her mouth firmly closed, which inhibits my seduction plans.

'If you were drinking alcohol, I'd say this was a champagne moment, wouldn't you, gorgeous?' I ask. Then I grin and add, 'But if you were drinking, it probably wouldn't be a champagne moment.'

'What are you talking about?' asks Bella. She squeezes her hand into the tin of jelly beans and scratches around for another large handful. 'I don't know why I keep eating these. They're making me feel sick.'

She feels sick! I could kiss her. I lie down beside her and prop myself up on one elbow, facing her. 'I have something really funny to tell you,' I say.

'I could do with a laugh,' replies Bella. But she doesn't let me tell her the funny thing, instead she says, 'I'm really tired, do you think there's any way we could give tonight a miss?'

She stares at me. Her enormous brown eyes, framed with thick, long lashes, have never looked more beautifully Bambi-like. She's exhausted. Confirmation of everything I've been hoping for. It's as though she's shown me the funny white stick with the blue line. A family is just what I want. What we want. I'm so thrilled, I could burst. Knowing her secret is enough to make me explode.

'We can't miss the show unless we have a really good excuse,' I reply. 'After all, the main reason we're here is to support Stevie. We're his guests. We can't fail to show up at the dress rehearsal. Tonight will be important for his morale and confidence.' I pause dramatically, 'We'd need a really, really excellent reason to miss it.'

Like my wife is feeling nauseous carrying our first baby! I wait for her to confirm my suspicions but she doesn't. Bella sighs and mutters something about the best reason in the world. 'What is it?' I almost yell my question as excitement has made it impossible for me to control my voice. Bella looks startled.

She doesn't answer, she just rolls off the bed and opens her wardrobe door. She pulls out a top the first one that comes to hand. It's unlike her not to spend hours agonizing over what to wear. Maybe she already knows that some of her clingy numbers won't fit any more. Has she changed shape yet? Not to my eye, but then I'm not really sure when women start to 'show'. Oh h.e.l.l, this is exciting. My wife is going to bloom. I'm certain that she's going to be one of those beautiful and serene mothers-to-be. I imagine she'll glow rather than puke. But if she does puke I'll be right by her side holding her hair. I want to be with her every step of the way. I want to ma.s.sage her achy back and I definitely want to be at the birth. But most of all I want her to tell me she's pregnant! I can't wait another second. I want to start our future now.

'Bella.'

She pauses at the bathroom door. 'If we have to go to this thing I need to get ready.'

'Bella, are you pregnant?'

'What?'

I sit up on the bed and grin helplessly, waiting for her to make all my dreams come true.

'I'm right, aren't I? You're pregnant. The tiredness, the dizziness, the moods. Not that I mind you being moody. I mean, I understand. It must be hormones.' I'm gabbling because I'm deliriously excited but I don't want to upset her, she has been very irritable recently, so I tread carefully. 'And it's extremely n.o.ble of you to wait until after the compet.i.tion to make the announcement, rather than stealing Stevie's thunder. But, sweetheart, you can tell me! I'm so thrilled.' I stop gabbling.

Bella is silent. She's frozen, one hand on the bathroom door handle. She's looking at the floor. 'You're mad, Philip. Insane.'

She pops my dreams. Like balloons jabbed with a pin, they bang and disappear.

'You're not then,' I mutter, sadly.

'No, of course I'm not. Whatever gave you that idea?'

I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. Of course Bella isn't pregnant. She'd have told me if she was. She wouldn't have cared about Stevie's compet.i.tion. In fact, I don't think there is anything on this earth she cares less about than Stevie's compet.i.tion. How could I have allowed myself to get so carried away? How could I have imagined something so important to be fact, based on nothing other than flimsy hypothesis and conjecture?

Because I wanted to believe it. I want us to be a family so much more than anything. More than common sense, or caution, can control.

Besides, if Bella isn't pregnant then I am once again face-to-face with a number of very worrying issues. The alternative to pregnancy appals me.

I lie in silence except for the sound of running water as Bella showers. I hear her dry her hair and listen to the familiar sounds of her rattling around in her vanity case. I sit on the edge of the bed waiting for her. The sun is setting so the room is washed in a warm golden glow. The occasional reflection from the neon lights in the street darts crazily around the room, ricocheting off the furniture. The warm glow and the coloured lights suggest we ought to be having a better time than we are.

It takes Bella longer than usual to apply her make-up, more than enough time for me to pull on some chinos and a s.h.i.+rt. When she emerges from the bathroom I see that the extra effort has been worthwhile.

I'm always proud of my wife. She's strong, funny and gorgeous. But tonight she is something more; tonight she is dazzling. She's wearing a casual enough get-up. A red, funky sheer top and a beige skirt. I bought both garments for her from Diesel one Sat.u.r.day afternoon when we were killing some time in Covent Garden. I've seen her wear the outfit two or three times already and it's 'reluctantly s.e.xy' it allows a flash of taut stomach rather than anything obvious plus, she's wearing high strappy shoes, always a winner. Her hair is glossy and straight, like a sheet of ice, and her fingernails are freshly painted a very obvious scarlet that she normally confines to her toes.

I know a lot of 'stuff' about Bella. Our friends often joke that we'd be really great candidates for that old show Mr and Mrs. We know all the trivia about each other, trivia that holds lives together and gives them some form.

She takes skimmed milk in her tea, semi on her cereal and the full-fat stuff in coffee. She wears a Jo Malone perfume, except it's very trendy so it's called cologne, not perfume. She uses Jurlique skincare products. Her favourite smell is basil. Her favourite cheese is Gorgon-zola. Her favourite dessert is a bowl of strawberries and melted chocolate. Whenever she buys a new outfit she absolutely has to wear it that night, even if she is just sat at home, with me, watching a DVD. She likes the feeling of warm sand between her toes when she's walking on a beach but prefers to sunbathe by a pool. She often laughs so hard that she is helpless and feels sick although not that often, not recently. She loves being met at stations or airports. She gets a kick out of sticking her knife into a new jar of honey and eating from the blade, even though she knows she shouldn't. She prefers instant coffee to filter because she loves to 'pop' the seal on a new jar of coffee. She could recite a similar list of my preferences too. I know she could, because the fridge always boasts my favourite foodstuffs, her a.r.s.e is often to be found in the lingerie that I find s.e.xiest. She buys me video games I haven't got but do covet, she can choose me a book or a tie and knows all the names, ages and birthdays of my nieces, nephews and G.o.dchildren.

But suddenly, I'm paralyzed with fear because I wonder is this all I know? 'Stuff?'

I'm not so sure I know any of the big things about Bella, the things that give a life meaning. We have form but no meaning. How does she vote? Would she even get off her backside to cast a vote? Probably, for general elections but maybe not for local ones. How shocking. Does she want four kids? Does she want one? Why can't she figure out what she wants to do from nine till five? Is it really that hard? What's making her sad at the moment? How is it possible to know so much about a person and yet know nothing at all?

She's made an effort with her make-up. I know that because I know she doesn't normally wear eyeshadow, but today she is wearing two colours, carefully blended together and the liner stuff, and mascara. I know that she's wearing Perfect Pout gloss on her lips and Eyeko bronzer on her cheeks. I've been with her when she's scoured shelves for these products. I know so much. I know nothing at all. Because, the question that I cannot answer is whether the make-up is a mask to hide her? Armour to protect her? Camouflage to disguise her? Or is she painted like a flower to attract a pa.s.sing bee?

I don't know my wife and the pain of admitting such a thing is almost beyond my capacity. I'm struggling to behave with a semblance of rationalism.

'Do we have to go to the show?' she asks again.

'You're all dressed up,' I point out.

'We could go somewhere else.'

I ignore her and pick up the door key and my wallet. 'Bella?'

'What?'

'Are you having an affair?'

'No.' She stares at my left ear, for about a minute, then she looks me straight in the eye and repeats, 'No.'

But I don't believe her.

41. One Night.

Bella.

We arrive at the hotel hosting the gig at 8.45 p.m. I have done my best to delay the inevitable I've never taken so long to get ready for something, not even on my wedding days. However, Phil's beautiful manners mean that my death warrant is signed. I swear I can hear the blade of the guillotine being sharpened. I thought that looking s.e.xy might distract him and that he'd pounce on me, putting all thoughts of supporting Stevie out of his mind. But the conversation about my phantom pregnancy well and truly ruined the mood. Where the h.e.l.l had that ludicrous idea come from?

In the taxi I said I was feeling dizzy again. He grunted that he was sure it was nothing a stiff drink wouldn't cure. It seems he is all out of consideration and thoughtful-ness as far as I'm concerned. Understandable, I suppose, but lousy timing. If ever I needed Phil to be dependable, solicitous and kind, it's tonight. Bad luck. Bad timing. Very Vegas.

Neil Curran will expose Stevie and me tonight. Besides the imminent exposure too terrible and traumatic to contemplate there'll also be a certain amount of torture beforehand. A little like bad foreplay before miserable s.e.x, only hundreds of times worse. I am going to have to sit through fifteen Elvis tribute acts. I am about to be hauled las.h.i.+ng and biting down memory lane. It's almost enough to make me want to confess all to Philip right now. Why put myself through the horror of drawing out the experience?

Survival instinct, I suppose.

Despite the odds, a tiny defiant (deluded?) part of me wonders if it is possible that I'll get away with this. I'm hoping that somehow Neil Curran won't spot me in the crowd, or if he does, he might not want to mention his ancient a.s.sociation with Stevie, in case it's viewed as nepotism. I still hope against hope that I'll leave tonight's gig as Phil's wife.

The hotel is as flashy and gaudy as all the others I've seen on this trip, they're beginning to blur into one h.o.m.ogeneous ma.s.s of neon. We flash our VIP tickets to an earnest and efficient member of the waiting staff and we're swiftly ushered through a series of dark corridors and back doors, until double doors are pushed open and we are in a lavish and remarkable concert room.

The carpets are plush. The flowers, lights, candles and glittering backdrop on the stage are impressive. The tables and chairs have been set up, in tight cl.u.s.ters around the stage, and stretching as far back into the hall as possible; I'd guess there is a capacity of six hundred. It's a long way from the King's Arms Hotel in Blackpool. Undeniably, it's striking.

We are late so the venue is already heaving. At first glance I think every chair is full but the usher points towards a table near the stage, where Laura is sitting alone, watching a Mediterranean-looking Elvis singing 'Blue Suede Shoes'. He's thras.h.i.+ng manically about the stage and the kindest thing I can say about him is that his costume is very glittery. Laura turns, spots us and then beams and waves enthusiastically. Phil and I thread our way through the tables and join her. She jumps up and kisses us both, giggling with antic.i.p.ation.

'Have we missed much?' asks Phil.

'This is the fourth contestant; he's from Greece.'

'Were any of the others any good?' I ask, more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.

'Good enough but no real compet.i.tion,' says Laura with a grin. '"All Shook Up" has already been done twice. Poor choice because the song has become so recognized that it's difficult to recall or recapture its initial impact. A German contestant did "Wooden Heart", which is a bit predictable, as it was originally a German song for kids. One guy did a neat rendition of "Good Luck Charm" but that's not a crowd-pleaser. It doesn't showcase Elvis's tenderness or the command and control he had over his voice.'

Laura has become quite the expert on Elvis. I never had the same interest.

'When's Stevie appearing?' asks Phil.

'He's tenth.'

I groan inwardly. The row will have erupted way before then. Poor Stevie won't even have the opportunity to perform because it would be very callous to carry on after the revelation that we're married. Looking at it like that it seems all the more stupid that he's insisting on taking part at all.

There are a large number of Elvises in the crowd. Some are supporters and some are performers, who come to the front of house once they have done their spot, to watch the rest of the show and monitor the standard of the compet.i.tion. They congratulate one another on their performance, which is genuine: they all admire Elvis so much that they like to see his work performed well. They also hate each other. Life is complex.

Phil is following my gaze and muses, 'What's the collective noun for a group of Elvises? A gaggle? A gang? A flock? A group?'

'A travesty,' I say firmly.

Phil ignores my comment and suggests ordering a bottle of champagne; Laura agrees. I decide to have a gla.s.s even though I'm not in the mood for celebrating; I hope it will numb the pain. Although the hall is rammed with waiting staff I make a big thing of going to the bar, which is not visible from the stage. I time my exit to coincide with the Greek Elvis finis.h.i.+ng 'Blue Suede Shoes', at least this way I can avoid being spotted by Neil Curran for another act. I wonder how many reasons I can make up for leaving the table. I could buy snacks, reorder drinks, I could go to the loo (my old favourite). Could it possibly work?

I manage my mission of ordering drinks from the bar, even though it means that I have to argue with three waiters who all think I am sabotaging any chance they have at making decent money from tips tonight. The last thing these guys need is customers who are keen to serve themselves. My ploy works for now by the time I return to the table Neil has been and gone, the coast is clear.

I check the commemorative programme (Laura's bought three) and find out that the guy currently performing is Danish. Fair enough, I'm genuinely impressed by the European nature of the compet.i.tion. In Blackpool fourteen of the fifteen 'European' finalists were British. Here in Vegas there are only eight British guys.

The guy on the stage is bald and fat. OK, I accept that Elvis became a bit of a lard boy towards the end of his life but he was never bald. I'm unreasonably offended on Elvis's behalf that this, frankly, plain no, I might as well be honest this ugly guy thinks he's anything like Elvis. Whatever grievances I have against Elvis, everyone knows he was s.e.x on legs.

I close my eyes in frustration a feeble attempt to blank out my surroundings. Then, a funny thing happens, I start to think, maybe just maybe the Danish Elvis is good. His 'Crying in the Chapel' is just like Elvis's. There's something raw and awkward about his performance that has a distinct authenticity. I open my eyes again and this time I don't see a bald, fat guy. I see a talented man who has the audience rapt. He's shaking with nerves, and although I am officially as hard as nails, he affects me by bending down (a struggle, the costume is tight) to shake hands with a wee bairn who is sat by the stage. She can't be more than seven years old and she melts b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l I do too. Towards the end of his second song I rush off to buy plates of pitta bread and hummus, claiming that I'm starving, and from a distance I listen to the explosive applause his act inspires. I find myself clapping too.

Once again I avoid Neil and return to the table to catch the sixth act singing 'GI Blues'. He's wearing a uniform. Good ploy, I concede. He certainly cuts through the clutter of white suits with diamante and feathers. Laura loves this act and claps in time to the music. Then she catches herself and stops abruptly.

'Don't think I'm being disloyal,' she says. 'I'm fully behind Stevie, but this guy is pretty good.'

'They're all good,' I grant. 'The quality of the contestants is really impressive. It's a decent show.'

Laura is delighted that I'm showing any sign of enthusiasm for the event. I have to confess I am surprised. In Blackpool the show was depressingly amateur and I loathed it. Microphones fell apart, the techies b.u.g.g.e.red up the intro of some acts and cut off the final notes of others. Neil Curran drank one too many and p.r.o.nounced the contestants' names incorrectly, even the judges were more worried about getting their next pint in than they were about the acts.

Here in Vegas there is a large orchestra, not a bashed-up beatbox. The audience contains some friends and family but is mostly made up of card-carrying members of the public, who want to be professionally entertained. They number in the hundreds, not an embarra.s.sing fifty or so. The bar sells Moet not Blue Nun. There is a stage, curtains, theatre make-up and backdrops. The performances are convincing. Things have changed.

'I'd hate to judge anything,' Laura says. 'They are all so good and so devoted.'

Whereas I judge all the time.

The GI Elvis must have something special because I forget to dash out of the room as his act closes. I'm left with no alternative but to duck under the table as the compere strides on to the stage.

'What are you doing?' demands Phil.

'I've lost an earring,' I say, swiftly swiping one from my right lobe. Laura and Philip immediately start to hunt for the earring, causing more disruption than I want.

'No, no, you watch the show,' I instruct. But it's too late.

'What's going on over there?' demands the compere. 'Avoiding a debt collector?'

The joke is pretty shoddy and could easily be one of Neil Curran's but the accent's not his. This compere is American. I peep out above the table and almost collapse with relief. He's in his mid-thirties, slim with teeth so white they sparkle. Definitely not Neil Curran.

Where is Neil Curran and his endless pit of dirty jokes? I don't understand. Why the reprieve? I grab the programme and rapidly flick through it until I find the page that lists the personnel involved in the compet.i.tion. Sure enough, in black and white, Neil Curran is billed as the compere. He's almost unrecognizable, billed as a 'stupendous and special guest, the great and the good, Neil Curran, brought over by popular demand' (his, no doubt) and the accompanying photo is at least fifteen years old. Still, despite the generous intro and the old photo, it is Neil. So what's going on?

'It says here that a Neil Curran is compering. Who's the American guy with the smile?' I ask Laura.

'Wow, yes. You missed a full-on drama earlier on. Apparently the billed compere is one hundred per cent mank, p.i.s.sed as a parrot. He's been drinking all day. The compet.i.tion organizers have insisted that he goes to bed and sleeps it off. According to Stevie he's practically under armed guard, because they don't want him to fluff up tomorrow's big show.'

'Stevie told you that?'

'Yes. He popped by the table before the show started. He said you'd be interested. Said you'd think it was bewdy.'

Laura smiles and doesn't understand the magnificent significance of the information she has just imparted to me. Bless her, why would she? And bless Stevie. He must have come by to try to put my mind at rest. I am so relieved, my body melts like warm wax. Neil was a bit merry at lunchtime situation normal. Thank G.o.d, Americans have principles about such things. I don't deserve to be this lucky but I am so, so grateful that I am. I beam at Laura and she smiles back. I beam at Phil, he's cagier.

Oh s.h.i.+t, yes. Philip is suspicious. The question about whether I'm having a baby (way off mark) and the question about whether I'm having an affair (not so way off mark) demand my attention.

I lean towards him and whisper, 'You OK?' He nods but without much enthusiasm. 'I'm sorry you had your hopes up about me being pregnant,' I whisper.

He shrugs but the hurt is visible. I lean close to him and kiss him for the first time since I kissed Stevie. I hope the kiss conveys warmth, promise, an apology and love. I hope he doesn't sense any guilt, fear, deceit or pity. I wait nervously for his response. Under the table Phil squeezes my knee and mouths, 'Love you.'

Relieved, I sit back and decide that since I've been touched by this crazy piece of good fortune, then I might as well try to enjoy the show.

The eighth Elvis appears to be quite the professional. As he walks on to the stage he starts to chat to the audience in role. Something I approve of. I mean, if you are going to do this thing, then you ought to go the whole hog. He swaggers on to the stage in a blur of, 'OK, baby?' and, 'Uh huh.' But, in fact, his performance is not so strong. I can't make out the words he's singing. I think he's saying, 'Mumble, mumble, mumble, murmmmmble.' It is a professional hazard that some Elvises go too far on the low gravelly thing and are barely audible. Still, I find I am tapping my foot and having what must look like a good time, to the outside world.

By the time the ninth Elvis is performing (the Italian who is, as his sister promised, very good) I am genuinely excited about seeing Stevie's act. Laura is giddy with nerves. She wants Stevie's to be the performance of a lifetime. Unsurprisingly, she's not especially bothered about the pinwheel suit (black this year, I'm led to believe) or even the prize money. Nor do I think she's itching for Stevie to become a full-time Elvis tribute act. She just wants him to win because it will make him happy. She wants him to be happy.

And I do too.

Who would have thought it? How can events keep changing, twisting, turning, morphing with such speed, after standing so still for years. Now that I think we have a reasonable chance of remaining undetected this evening, I find myself wanting Stevie to perform brilliantly. Perhaps I can persuade Phil that we don't need to attend tomorrow's show and maybe Stevie will win. Yeah, why not? He wants it enough. He's talented enough. And then after he wins we can all go home to- To what?

To how it was. I finally did it. I've started to think about who I am and what I want. The last couple of months have been a rollercoaster but there has been one constant, and tonight, while I was applying my make-up, I reminded myself of it: I don't want to lose Phil. I don't.

My thoughts are interrupted as the compere announces Stevie Jones.

He's wearing a sky-blue jumpsuit, the most flamboyant costume I have seen tonight. It has a fur and feather collar, the neckline plunges to meet a wide, diamante belt at his waist. I think anyone else would struggle to carry it off but Stevie looks wonderfully s.e.xy. He hesitates as he walks on to the stage but I know that the timidity is fake: he's already in role. Elvis was always endearingly shy. Then he switches on the charm, full beam. He grins at the audience, curls his lip and mutters, 'Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.'

The room erupts into wild applause.