Husbands

by Adele Parks

  I follow Stevie through to the sitting room and stare at my feet, not quite brave enough to meet his eye as he confronts the music and more candles than Westminster Abbey burns at Christmas. Still, there’s no place for last-minute nerves now. I collapse on to the settee, pat the cushion next to me and I wave the empty wine glasses I’m carrying. ‘Come over here with that wine, I’m parched.’

  Stevie obliges, sits next to me and pours the wine.

  ‘What shall we toast?’ I ask.

  If that’s not an all-time great opener I’m going to retire from this game, because while I haven’t been dating for, well… too long, I remember endless occasions when I’d ask some guy that question, and he’d say, ‘Us.’ That’s the script. It never failed. And, after the clink, he would lean in to kiss me. ‘Us.’ Clink. Kiss. Every time.

  I carefully glance at my watch. The steak needs to marinate for another forty-five minutes. It is possible that we’ll have got down and dirty before we even eat, which is favourite because my stomach will be flatter.

  ‘Elvis,’ says Stevie.

  ‘What?’ I gasp my disbelief. I start up from my slouched recline. That’s it, I’m out of here. I am going to retire from the game. I am wearing red lacy underwear and shiny red lipgloss. I’m fluttering my eyelashes enough to cause a serious draught and I’m flashing a healthy dose of cleavage and he wants to toast Elvis.

  ‘Let’s toast Elvis.’ Stevie has a huge grin on his face and if I wasn’t choking on disappointment I might concede that he has never looked cuter. ‘I’ve been dying to tell you. There’s this annual competition. An Elvis Tribute Convention and Competition to find the King of Kings in Europe. I’ve already got through the UK heats. Babe, you might not have known it but I am the UK King.’ His words are tumbling out in an excited cascade. I grin manically, trying to take it all in. ‘But I never expected this. I’m in the final! And it’s taking place in Las Vegas.’ I smile and nod but can’t get a word in edgeways. ‘Vegas – can you believe it? Normally the convention is held somewhere like Blackpool or Newquay. But as it’s the anniversary of what would have been Elvis’s sixty-ninth birthday, there’s been all this special sponsorship money thrown at it.’

  ‘Why not wait until the seventieth anniversary, more of a round number?’ I ask.

  ‘To avoid confusion, because next year there will be a global event and the European one would be swallowed.’

  ‘I didn’t realize it was such a serious business.’

  ‘But the very best bit is I get to take three other people with me. All expenses paid for a long weekend. Can you believe it? Dave and John are well up for it. What do you say?’

  ‘That’s fantastic.’ It would be impossible not to be pleased for him. ‘Is your mum chuffed?’ I ask.

  ‘My mum?’ Stevie pulls away from me. In all the excitement I hadn’t realized just how close his face was to mine. Just millimetres away. ‘I haven’t called her. Yeah, she’ll be chuffed.’ He sounds a bit confused.

  ‘Has she travelled much?’ I doubted it. Stevie comes from a background where there isn’t much money spare for things like foreign holidays.

  ‘God, I feel like an absolute shit,’ says Stevie; his excited face folds like a pack of cards.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of taking my mum. Isn’t that terrible of me? I was hoping you’d come.’

  ‘Me?’ I grin, astonished.

  ‘But if you think I should take my mum…’

  ‘Oh, no. Well, yes. Obviously, if you want to.’ I try to swallow back my disappointment. Why couldn’t I have kept my big mouth shut? I steal a glance at Stevie, he’s grinning.

  ‘Actually, she isn’t too keen on long-haul travel. She thinks a train trip to the nearest market town is a major expedition and needs several weeks to prepare. Nor does she like the sun. Whereas I imagine you’d feel great stretching out by the pool, soaking up some rays.’

  ‘Oh, I would, I would.’ I laugh. ‘But what about Eddie?’

  ‘Couldn’t his dad look after him? They’d have a bit of boy-to-boy bonding time. Or one of your mates – Amelie? Bella? They’d help out. You deserve a holiday.’

  I do deserve a holiday. Or at least I want one so very much that I’m prepared to justify it on just about any grounds. I’m sure Oscar would have Eddie for a few days, Amelie would certainly pitch in. Bella too, of course. Probably. Besides, this isn’t any old holiday. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It’s free and it’s with Stevie. He’s inviting me on holiday. He wants me there to support him in this competition.

  ‘I’d love to go.’ I grin, ‘If you are sure.’

  ‘I’m positive. Is that a deal then?’

  ‘It’s a deal. Shake on it.’ I hold out my hand for Stevie to shake.

  He takes hold but doesn’t shake. He turns it over, then carefully traces one of the lines on my palm that curves around the fleshy bit underneath the thumb and then slowly up my forearm.

  ‘The thing is, Laura, I was hoping we could seal the deal with something a little more intimate than a handshake.’

  Yesssssss.

  19. Baby, I Don’t Care

  Saturday 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 Sex 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 tête-à-tête 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-assessment 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 hell 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 snob? 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 circumstances.

  ‘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 soufflé,’ observes Philip. ‘And you, my darling, look fantastic. Is that dress new?’

  I blush. ‘I bought it ages ago,’ I lie, wishing 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 bloody well know I’ve made a mistake, I don’t need her priggish lessons. But the doorbell rings, saving us both.

  ‘Damn! They’re early.’ I throw down the knife I’ve been using to chop spring onions and whisk off my apron. 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 friendship? 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 assumed 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.

  Damn.

  ‘Don’t say a word,’ I whisper into his ear and then slowly – oh God 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 circumstances, 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 anticipation 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-shirt 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-shirt. 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 glass to my lips and spill liquid down my dress.

  ‘Are you OK, gorgeous?’ asks Philip.

  ‘Fine,’ I mutter, blushing 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 embarrassment?

  ‘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 fuck. Holy fuckity fuck. Belinda McDonnel. Belinda bloody McDonnel. My wife, ex-wife, I presume, is serving me… What the fuck is she serving me? I’m jolted out of my immediate shock by a plateful of slimy seashells. 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 Saturday 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.