by Adele Parks
The words are out. They sit between Amelie and me for a silent and endless fraction of time.
She doesn’t move and then, slowly, she asks, ‘You’re kidding, right?’
Her tone is cautious as though she is addressing an adolescent with a fresh outbreak of acne who has said she’d rather kill herself than go to school. I’m insulted but simultaneously understanding of her reaction.
‘I wish I was,’ I mutter. ‘I’m married to Stevie Jones.’
‘Elvis?’ Amelie asks, with tangible disbelief. I nod. ‘Laura’s Elvis?’
‘Mine, actually.’ And the worst bit is, I am indignant that she described Stevie like that.
12. I Got Lucky
Stevie
I wake up before eight even though it’s a Saturday and even though Laura and I were gassing till the small hours. I usually sleep late after a gig, rarely bothering to rouse myself before the big match is on TV but today is different. I’m full of energy. I have that feeling you get when you’re a kid and you wake up on Saturday, knowing it’s pocket-money day and there’s no school and the world promises to offer unlimited, untold delights. A few of which are even legal.
I wander through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I open the fridge and discover what I expected: nothing much. There is about a quarter of an inch of milk still in the carton but a quick sniff confirms it’s no use to anyone other than a biologist. I pull on jeans, T-shirt and socks – I never bother with boxers at the weekend – I force my feet into my trainers, I grab a set of keys and set off to the shops.
It’s only when I’m halfway there that I realize I should have left a note for Laura. There’s a reasonable chance that when she wakes up she’ll have no idea where she is. She was hammered last night when we staggered back to my place. She told me repeatedly that she’d never been to Highgate before and I told her repeatedly that she still hadn’t, as I live in West Hampstead. I feel crap about not leaving a note. There is nothing worse than uncertainty. Personal bugbear of mine. Ancient thing. I resolve to hurry back as soon as poss.
‘Morning, mate.’ I nod to Mr Patel.
He smiles and nods back. He recognizes me from the countless midnight dashes I’ve made to his shop for bread, milk, cheese, frozen chips etc. He’s unilaterally friendly – amazing considering that every day he has to deal with hordes of shoplifting teenagers, stinky winos and tight-fisted bastards who complain about his mark-up.
His mark-up is a disgrace, but I stomach it without murmur for a number of reasons. First, I’m not certain what anything does/should cost. When I do venture into a supermarket I rarely check the price tags. It’s not that I’m loaded, far from it, but I can’t see the point in getting worked up that a bag of crisps used to cost twelve pence and now they cost forty-five. I mean, Brigitte Bar-dot used to be a fox and now she’s, well, not. That’s life. Second, you pay for convenience and I have never found Mr Patel’s doors closed, not even on Christmas Day in 2002 when I felt a desperate need for brandy butter. Third, I don’t want to be grouped with complaining bastards who harass Mr Patel and similar. Once you start behaving like this you’re only a step away from going out with your mates and splitting the pizza restaurant bill according to who ate what rather than in equal shares. It’s not nice.
I pick up a basket and throw in a carton of orange juice, a loaf of bread, two cartons of milk (one tasty, the other skimmed, cos women like that). I can’t decide whether to buy croissants or bacon, eggs and sausage. I have a feeling that Laura is a cooked-breakfast girl but I’m not sure if she’ll admit as much to me at this early stage. Women always try to pretend to men that they eat less than they do. Which is ridiculous: we don’t give a toss what they eat.
I decide to buy the lot and throw in a tin of beans and some fresh-ish mushrooms, which will probably look OK once they are cooked. Mr Patel has clearly seen this type of basket on countless Saturday mornings: he points out the fresh orange juice in the fridge which is tastier than the stuff I’ve picked up. I swap the carton for the tiny bottle of freshly squeezed chilled juice. Hesitate again, then grab another couple. I’m expecting Laura to be in dire need of vitamin C.
It’s a beautiful spring morning. The air is cold but the sky is a calm, bold blue. A pleasantly high proportion of the wide undulating streets of West Hampstead are framed with fat, established cherry blossom trees that have started to shed their petals. Cars parked overnight under them look like they’re dressed for a Hindu wedding. I have an almost girlish delight in the pink carpet (which I am, naturally, embarrassed by). It’s disconcerting that I only just resist picking up a handful of windfall petals and chucking them into the air, just for the pleasure of seeing them flutter to the ground again. I content myself with banging into trees and hoping to dislodge a few petals. I’ve got to keep this impulse under wraps when I go out with the lads for a bevvy tonight or else I’ll be ostracized from the darts team.
Laura is lovely.
Laura who kisses buskers, or at least let me kiss her when I was busking, is lovely.
I’m not a busker. By day I’m a music teacher at a local state secondary school. I like my job but it’s not always easy. I seldom come across talent and confidence. It’s not generally a good idea to show that you are a talented child in the state school system and if you do shine, it’s cooler on the football pitch or in the end-of-term drama production. Passing grade seven violin is considered sad. Largely, the kids I teach have opted to take music because it’s seen as a skive; there’s no hint of verbs to be conjugated or algebra to be calculated.
I used to do the Elvis tribute thing more or less full time. I thought I’d make a career of it; lots of people earn a decent living that way. But it wasn’t to be. Now I am Elvis from time to time because I like to see people enjoying music and that’s not a sight I’m treated to when I’m teaching year ten and upwards. I limit myself to a few weddings and birthday parties and now I have this monthly gig at The Bell and Long Wheat.
The happy consequence of my gigs is that the extra cash comes in useful and the kids at school have developed a grudging respect for me since I turned up as the entertainment at Mark Barker’s aunt’s wedding. Mark Barker is as hard as nails and somewhat less pleasant than a bleeding, pus-oozing acne pock. Yet, while hating ourselves for doing so, staff and pupils alike court his good opinion. I’m lucky because Mark has never entirely despised me, as he does many other teachers; I haven’t committed the cardinal sin of being post thirty-five (Mark doesn’t deign to talk to coffin dodgers). Nor do I wear socks and sandals whatever the season. I believe that secretly Mark has always thought I’m a bit cool but he’s never been quite able to forgive me for being a teacher. If I worked in web design or even ad sales Mark would have admitted I’m all right. Turning up as Elvis at his aunt’s wedding could have gone either way.
Clearly the kids felt compelled to rip the piss out of me when they first heard I had a night job but I teach music, for God’s sake, I couldn’t have gone down in their estimation. For some time, my eardrums were assaulted with countless tuneless renditions of ‘Jailhouse Rock’ as I walked through the grey corridors and I’d accepted that I’d hear bastardized versions of ‘Return to Sender’ until I received my golden wristwatch. Kids are very consistent but not that imaginative when it comes to taking the mick. Then Mark Barker suggested I bring my guitar into his GCSE class. I’d been resisting turning into Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society because it all ends in tears, doesn’t it? But I did relish hosting an impromptu and low-key jamming session.
Word soon got round that I ‘wasn’t completely crap’ and my lessons became notably more animated, meaningful and, frankly, better attended. It was a thrill when the class discussed music with an enthusiasm and vigour that had previously been notably absent.
The kids seemed to view Elvis as the missing link between Beethoven and the hip-hop stuff they listened to. The misconception that anything with blaspheming and cursing in the lyrics was hot, and anything else was not, slowly e
roded. We talked about the importance of music, the possibility of making a living from music and the value modern society placed on music. One of these discussions led to the bet/social experiment/barefaced dare that I could make money from busking. Mark Barker made the challenge, I couldn’t pass it up.
So that was why the day I met Laura I was pretending to be a busker. But I guess pretending to be a busker makes you a busker, even if it is only for a couple of free periods and a lunchtime break. The same as, say, if you were pretending to be a hairdresser and you actually cut someone’s hair, then you would be a hairdresser for that moment in time. Which I think is a great thought, as it gives us freedom to be many things.
When I met Laura I thought, quirky, which I always find attractive despite my experiences repeatedly demonstrating that quirky women ought to be avoided (quirky is one small step away from barking). I thought, pretty and nice accent. I like Aussie girls: they can throw frisbees. And when she kissed me, or at least let me kiss her I was like, yeah, cool. But I didn’t expect to see her again. Three million people travel on the tube every day, it wasn’t even my usual line but as my old grandad used to say, ‘Never underestimate the lengths a woman will go to, to get what she wants.’ And Laura, it seemed, wanted me.
This thought inspires me to do a little jump and click my heels mid-air. I make a mental note to execute this manoeuvre in front of Laura, if the opportunity arises or can be orchestrated. Women love it when you play around like a kid. I wonder if today I’ll get to show her that I can walk on my hands.
I know she said her mate had tracked me down and she’d been bullied along to the gig but that was rubbish. Where was the said mate, if that was the case? She was on her own last night. Not that I’m complaining. I think she’s all the more gutsy and rare because of her sleuth work.
I put the key in the lock of my block of flats and bound up the stairs. I push open the door of my apartment quietly – I don’t want to wake Laura if she’s still asleep, with her young lad it’s unlikely she often gets the chance for a lie-in – but my caution is unnecessary. Instantly, I’m ambushed by signs of activity.
The shower is gushing and Laura has found the MTV channel; she has the volume up far too high for this time of the morning – the bloke in the flat below mine will no doubt knock on the ceiling with a broom soon, as he does when I play MTV. I smile to myself. Further proof that Laura is a top lass.
I start to cook breakfast. I warm the croissants in the oven and fling everything else into a pan with a glob of oil. I’m ridiculously nervous. I say ‘ridiculously’ because I’m reasonably used to entertaining ladies, and breakfast is the meal I most often prepare. I’m not being pathetically braggie when I say that, if I wanted to, I could bed a babe (or at least a non-moose) after every gig. The women in my audience rarely present much of a challenge. And if there is nothing that takes my fancy I have actual groupies as a back-up. Groupies are girls who sleep with me while pretending that they are sleeping with Elvis Presley. Obviously, a bit weird but some of them are very cute and humming a couple of lines of ‘Love Me Tender’ is a small price to pay in return for enthusiastic and no-strings-attached sex with a cutie. It’s not that I’m a bastard. It’s biology. Few men would find it in their hearts (or their trousers) to say no.
But Laura is different.
Laura is a woman, not a girl. She knows how to have a laugh and yet after talking to her it is clear that her life is extremely serious. She’s like a mate but sexy too. A sexy mate. I’m already looking forward to introducing her to my mates because John will make her laugh (and last night I discovered just how cool it is when Laura laughs) and Dave will reflect well on me, he’s into the environment and saving whales and stuff, girls are impressed by blokes like that (they don’t go out with them, though). And the lads will be impressed with Laura. They’ll think she is funny and bright and cute. They’re bound to.
‘Hi.’ Laura interrupts my thoughts of her. I jump as though she’d caught me looking through some hardcore porn. The knock-on effect is that I almost drop the frying pan.
‘Hi,’ I manage, sounding a bit lame. I cough and wave a tea towel over the pan to give the vague impression that the fumes have affected my vocal chords. I try again and hope my voice doesn’t sound like a boy who is enduring his scrotum dropping. ‘Did you sleep well?’ I ask.
Laura blushes. Honestly, she’s gorgeous. She puts me in mind of all those olde-worlde poems I read when I was studying English literature highers. Poems about coy mistresses who permanently wore the blush of a rose on their cheek. I used to think it was sloppy bollocks but now I see the attraction of shyness mixed with an almost imperceptible hint of wantonness.
‘Did we have sex?’ asks Laura. Hearing her say ‘sex’ causes my penis to shudder a fraction. This feels nice but vaguely inappropriate.
‘Regrettably no,’ I admit honestly.
Laura looks relieved. ‘That’s good.’ She catches sight of my disappointed face. I make a point of blatantly wearing my disappointment, as experience has shown that wanting a woman is the best way to get one. ‘I mean, I’d like to have remembered it if we had,’ she adds.
I grin. ‘You would have, I promise.’
She blushes again and grabs at the neckline of her robe, which is actually my robe. It feels good to see her wrapped in my robe. She thinks about it for a moment and then puts her hands at her sides, trying not to let me see that she opened the neckline a fraction while doing so in order to flash some cleavage. I really want her.
‘We talked,’ I add.
‘I remember that,’ she grins. ‘Most of it. Was I talking absolute bollocks?’
‘No. You were fascinating,’ I tell her and we both know this isn’t a line.
‘What’s for breakfast?’
‘Sausage, bacon, eggs, beans, the works; even some dodgy mushrooms.’
‘Great.’ Laura grins.
‘Great,’ I confirm.
13. Girl of Mine
Philip
I surface from a peculiar dream about being at a race track and betting on a dog, who – happily – won. But then I noticed that it had the body of a dachshund and my head, which was somewhat disconcerting, even for the most rational type of guy who doesn’t pay any attention to dreams; no one likes to see themselves as a mutant. I stretch out my hand and feel for Bella. She likes to know my every thought, both conscious and unconscious, so she likes me to tell her my dreams. She thinks they’re significant and applies poppycock amateur psychoanalysis to them. Total nonsense, of course, but if it makes her happy then who am I to object? Besides, she sees the ones about Naomi Watts as a direct challenge and more often than not insists that we reenact whatever I’ve dreamt. A man can’t lose.
We had good sex last night. Unexpected. Charged. Youthful. I love my wife.
I slowly stretch, wondering how it can possibly be the case that I notice when I feel youthful; is it the exception rather than the rule? I am much nearer fifty than twenty-one; a sobering thought. Not one I share with Bella, despite her longing to always know what’s on my mind.
Her side of the bed is cold, suggesting she was up and about some time ago. I pull myself out of bed and wander downstairs, hoping she’ll be in the kitchen or the conservatory. Both rooms are empty and a cursory search of the house tells me that she’s gone out. I check the calendar, which hangs in the pantry, and I scan the breakfast bar for a note. I’m not too surprised that I don’t find either source at all fruitful; Bella is not the sort of woman to leave reassuring or even informative notes detailing her whereabouts. Sometimes she seems perpetually stuck in her rebellious teenage years. It’s one of the things I find attractive about her.
I brew some coffee and consider breakfast. Bella would prefer it if I ate half a grapefruit and some of the muesli she prepares each Monday, with precise quantities of oats, nuts, raisins and stuff, to last the week; she’ll know if I skip it. She won’t hear of shop-bought muesli – too much salt and sugar. She worries about cholesterol
(mine) and body fat (mine and hers).
The concern is at first glance endearingly mature but on closer inspection could be seen as a succinct embodiment of her almost split personality. A concern about fat intake is clearly very responsible, the fact that it was precipitated by an article in a women’s monthly magazine that said 70% of all married couples put on over half a stone in the first year of their married life, is less mature. I begged her not to believe the statistic. I made her laugh by telling her that 87% of statistics are made up on the spot. Still, we lived on salads for weeks.
It concerns me how seriously Bella takes advice from not particularly legitimate sources. She is unlikely ever to read a pamphlet from the doctor’s surgery. On the other hand she avidly reads article after article in tabloid papers on the latest food combination diet, ways to decorate your home, ways to interpret dreams, ways to impress your boss (particularly irrelevant when you consider she rarely has one). She’ll also take the word of the woman at the dry-cleaner’s, her friend’s brother-in-law’s dad, or the pleasant man who read the gas meter, as gospel. Bella, it seems to me, is always looking for answers. Often to questions other people don’t even bother to ask. I often wonder if she would have been different if she’d had a mother. I think Bella losing her mother when she was so young has left her permanently lonely and a little bit lost, although she’d never admit it.
I choose the grapefruit and muesli because thinking of Bella’s dead mother saddens me and I want to do something nice for her. Not that Bella would thank me for my disquiet, which she’d see as pity. Bella is, in many ways, fiercely independent. When I met her I wondered if I’d ever be able to chisel through her steely self-reliance and convince her that it is possible to be autonomous within a relationship. Once I saw her, I knew I had to have her. Not just for sex but for keeps. It was one of those big romantic falling-in-love moments that I’d never considered, let alone expected. At first, I thought she didn’t want me. Or anyone for that matter. The shop was closed. I became driven by the desire to make her understand how fantastic it is to want and need someone, to be wanted and needed in return. I think I’ve succeeded. It’s so clear that Bella, like most of us, needs looking after. Not all the time, not always by the same person but she does need a bit of help from time to time.
