by Adele Parks
‘Why would he be nervous?’ snaps Bella.
‘Well, it’s never easy meeting your partner’s old friends and we’re all protective of Laura. It must be the equivalent of meeting the parents.’
‘Oh.’
‘Did you like him?’ I pursue.
‘Didn’t really get a chance to talk to him.’
‘He mentioned that he went to university in Scotland. Do you—’
‘There are lots of universities in Scotland. What makes you think he went to mine?’
‘Darling, I know Scotland’s a big place, not a village. I was just going to ask whether you’d discovered which one.’
Bella can be very tetchy about English ignorance of all things Scottish, and the general assumption that everyone in Scotland must know everyone else as it’s such a parochial place. I change the subject. ‘Good-looking chap.’
‘Is he?’
‘Come on, you must have noticed.’ I squeeze her bum playfully. I have no problem with her noticing good-looking men, any more than she has with me noticing cute ladies. We’re married, which means we’re bound but not blind. ‘Laura certainly thinks so. She’s ga-ga about him.’
‘Well, that’s what counts.’
Bella still has her back to me and it seems that, despite my best efforts, she is not going to enter into a conversation. I could ask her outright what is bothering her but I know that the one thing guaranteed to make Bella close down is confrontation. Instead, I pursue a more convoluted route. ‘I wonder if he plays golf.’
‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I… don’t. I’m guessing. He doesn’t look the golfing type.’
‘He lived in Scotland for a while, there’s a better than average chance that he plays. I’ll ask him if he wants a round at my club.’
‘Why?’
‘To be friendly. You and Laura could go shopping one Saturday afternoon, like you used to, and Stevie and I could play golf.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘They may not last.’
‘Well, if they don’t I won’t be heartbroken if I lose a new golf pal, and if they do last it would be nice to know him better.’
‘Just leave it, Philip,’ snips Bella, and she turns to me. ‘Just leave it.’ Her face, normally so composed, is sizzling with irritation.
‘Why don’t you like him?’ I ask.
‘I don’t dislike him.’ Bella stretches across me and turns off the bedside light. ‘I have a headache. Can we just go to sleep now?’
I lie in the darkness counting on my fingers how far away from Bella’s period we are. Never before have I encountered such a ferocious bout of PMT.
22. Love Me Tender
Laura
Stevie and I put Amelie into the first cab that comes along, then flag down a second one, only minutes later. We sit in the darkness and silence and, while I can’t quite put my finger on why, I know that the dinner party was not a success. Bella had made a huge effort, there’s no denying that. The menu was exquisite, as were the floral arrangements and her new dress. Perhaps that was what had caused the tension. Stevie must think my friends are completely ra-ra. I wish she’d opted for fish and chips or an Indian takeaway. I don’t want to be ungrateful but her full-on ‘hostess with the mostest’ act rarely makes for a convivial evening.
Amelie wasn’t herself either. She’s been a real doll to me lately but there’s friction between her and Bella. Twice tonight I saw Bella flash daggers at her and Amelie was really niggly and nit-picking with Bella. They are usually bosom buddies. Only Philip was his usual warm and relaxed self.
I steal a glance at Stevie and sigh inwardly. That was the worst of it. Stevie clearly didn’t enjoy himself much. He drank too much and was monosyllabic most of the evening. I’m partly disappointed for him, that he didn’t click with my mates, and partly irritated with him, for not understanding that Bella was trying her hardest. Couldn’t he be a bit more perceptive? Couldn’t he have told some of his funny tales or blue jokes and broken the ice?
He’s leaning his head against the cab window, he appears mesmerized by the lights of London whizzing by. Is he bored, exhausted or just pissed? I wish I didn’t care as much as I do. I should hold back and be all calm, cool and collected, sophisticated to the point of quasi-indifference. But then, it’s a bit late for all that. I’ve slept with him. Last night I screamed and moaned enough to wake the dead and I didn’t even have to fake it. It’s unlikely that I can conjure up indifference now.
I’d waited so long for that first lip-kiss. I’d waited since he kissed me on the cheek on Hammersmith platform and I’d waited for thirty years before that. A kiss can mean so much or nothing at all. It amazes me that they are so varied and important. A kiss can be a way to say hello or goodbye. It can be an act of devotion or deceit. It can calm, comfort or arouse. The gentle kiss delivered on Hammersmith platform, a phut sound of his plump lips touching my cheek, was alarmingly ambiguous. Was the kiss one that meant the world to me but little to him? Or was it an opener? The phut sound had stayed with me and buoyed me up for three barren weeks, when sometimes I was afraid that our relationship would never be anything more than that damning epitaph of ‘just good friends’. On Friday night, when he finally kissed me on the lips, the gentle phut sound was blasted away by the non-ambiguous force of a long, passionate, involved kiss.
His kisses were soft and careful. I responded eagerly; gently but decisively taking the kiss up a gear, I chewed and nibbled his lips and probed with my tongue. He softly kissed my jaw, my neck and my ears, which made me feel like a teenager, never a bad thing. It’s surprising how, generally, men neglect kissing and yet it can be the most charged and erotic preamble. Stevie intuitively knew this; his kisses were diverse in intensity, he moved through the spectrum of polite to powerful, teasing to tenacious. I pushed my body close in to his. With my boobs squashed against his chest, I wondered if he could feel my hard nipples through my bra and clothes. I wondered if I dared lunge for his dick. Surprisingly, I did not feel nervous, anxious or inadequate – a state in which I’d existed more-or-less permanently since I split from Oscar – I felt charged, excited and curious.
He stroked my hair, he ran his fingers down my outer thighs and up my inner, pausing, hovering above my rudest bits. Drawing out the pleasure. He trailed his fingers down my shoulders and the length of my arms. He ran his touch over my ribs, my arse, my hip bone. His touch invited my confidence, stoked my desire and left me dizzy and energized with lust. His touch mended, calmed and reassured me. Then suddenly, he changed pace. He darted for my shirt and swiftly popped the buttons; one, two, three, four. I remember thinking it was a practised thumb and forefinger that managed such a swift disrobing but the thought didn’t alarm me, it sparked more longing. I wanted his expert thumbs and fingers all over me. He sprang the buttons on my jeans with similar speed and confidence and I willingly slithered out of them. Within seconds he whipped his T-shirt over his head and his jeans were around his ankles.
He pulled me to my feet and hurriedly edged me towards the living-room wall. Passively I allowed him to lead me, enjoying the sensation of someone else taking control for a while. His fingers edged my tarty knickers to one side and slipped inside my body. His cool fingers chilled my hot flesh and for one crazy moment he seemed to be part of me. A missing part that my body had secretly craved forever. The pleasure was astounding. I came almost instantly.
I grabbed, kissed and licked wherever I could reach. His lips, his hair, his shoulders. My fingers shot towards his dick which was now standing proud and magnificent. I slipped out of my knickers as he slipped into a condom, and then I guided him into me. I stared into his eyes and he stared back, never losing me. Not for a moment. It felt incredible. It felt imperative. It felt perfect.
We did it again, after food, this time in the comfort of my bed. A bed that I’d once slept in with Oscar but I’ve buried his ghost
as it’s taken me twenty-four hours to stumble upon this realization. We had fierce and fast sex. We had ambling and lingering sex. I came again and then again. He seemed to adore me. His kisses felt like worship on my sexy bits and he kissed my untoned bits and my saggy bits with the same enthusiasm. He also delighted in the squeaky sounds that escaped my mouth when I was overcome with pleasure. He laughed at the squelchy sounds our bodies made as they bashed up against one another in sticky wantonness.
When we were both completely wasted, spent and sore, we nuzzled into one another allowing our bodies to mesh and melt. Despite the heat we did not want to be apart. Stevie grinned and gazed at me. His eyes were unfocused, a consequence of passion and tiredness.
‘Laura, I am so lucky I found you. So, so, so lucky,’ he laughed in a whisper. They were the last words I heard before I fell asleep.
That was yesterday.
This is today. Today, the best I can hope for is keeping my desperation at bay. I want to retain my independence and allure. The cab pulls up outside my flat. I gather up my bag and take an extraordinarily long time zipping up my hoody. Stevie doesn’t look as though he’s going to budge.
‘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 shit? 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 shit? 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 scrapes 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-shirt 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 shiny 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 ch
osen,’ 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 Coke. Under normal circumstances 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.’
