by Adele Parks
‘Frankly, I’m in awe.’
I unbutton my shirt and fold it carefully before placing it into the laundry bag at the bottom of the wardrobe. Our suite is so stunning that I don’t want to mess it up. Bella doesn’t have the same scruples; I wander into the bathroom where I’m assaulted by countless lotions and potions that appear to be positively scrambling to make an escape bid from their jars and packaging. It would never cross Bella’s mind to put a lid back on a bottle. I reunite various tubes and tubs with their tops, I then wipe away the messy gunk smeared around the jars and start humming ‘The Wonder of You’ that Stevie sang in the bar. I can’t get the tune out of my head. I can’t remember the words exactly, something about her love being everything to him, making him feel like a king. Good words. Simple, straightforward, effective.
Stevie is talented, far better than I had anticipated. Not that I’m in any way a connoisseur of Elvis tribute acts but I have seen two or three in my time: one at university, another at a corporate do, and most memorably a cluster of Chinese Elvises – guys who double as waiters at a very trendy (in a kitsch sort of way) restaurant in Clapham. But Stevie is something else, far better than anything I’ve ever seen, even on TV.
The funny thing is Stevie doesn’t even look much like Elvis but when he got hold of the mic tonight, there were moments when I really thought I was in the presence of the King. How crazy is that? He captured the exact melodious tone that Elvis was famous for. A tone that conveyed a blend of sweet, deferential pleading and soulful sincerity. I don’t think it was just champers, I felt a huge lump in my throat and for a short time I found that I couldn’t swallow, not even alcohol.
‘La, la. Laah. La,’ I hum.
‘Give it a rest, Phil,’ says Bella, joining me in the bathroom. It’s clear she means the humming rather than my cleaning-up efforts so I stop, except in my head. It’s an enormous bathroom with two basins and two mirrors. We stand side by side, her cleaning her teeth, me clearing up her mess. I love the way Bella cleans her teeth. It’s so precise, so deliberate and thorough. She always brushes for three whole minutes and she flosses twice a day, unbelievable. I like her purposeful, painstaking approach to cleaning her teeth because it shows she has the ability to be dedicated to something. She may not be dedicated to a career or even to keeping her wardrobe and make-up tidy but she has a high level of personal hygiene and would never go out without lipstick. She’s conscientious that way.
‘I’m going to have a quick shower,’ she says. ‘I’m surprised that there’s so much smoking allowed. I thought it was outlawed in the US.’
Bella can’t stand the smell of smoke and won’t be able to sleep unless she’s washed the stale lingering smell off her body and hair. I wait for her in bed.
Fifteen minutes later she joins me. She’s wearing a matching vest and pants set in a lilac colour. It’s cute rather than sexy. She rarely comes to bed naked nowadays. I tell myself that it would be unreasonable to expect it here as the air con is ferocious: she wouldn’t want to catch a chill. I put down the guide to Las Vegas and ask, ‘Did you have a nice night?’
‘Good, thanks. Yes.’ She’s rubbing cream into her hands.
‘Even though you missed out on the champagne?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you have a glass?’
‘Didn’t feel like it.’
‘Still got a headache?’
‘Something like that.’
I consider leaving my line of questioning. It’s possible, likely even, that Bella does have a headache. She’s complained about the constant jangle of slot machines and the tinny music from the casinos. But why do I get the feeling that something more than a headache is bothering her?
Of late she’s veered – almost hysterically – from shrill and nagging, to silent and uncooperative, from delightful to tearful, then back again. Bella is normally so level, so together, but at the moment I feel I’m married to two women: reliable, kind, calm, even-tempered Bella and the hysterical, cutting, complaining banshee, who jumps when the phone rings and sometimes refuses to answer the door. She’s not sleeping well and has got into the habit of skipping meals – and sex too, sadly. Giving up alcohol follows a number of evenings on which she has staggered home seriously drunk.
I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought and the only possible explanation is that she does not like being idle. Bella may not have ever enjoyed career progression as such, but she has a strong work ethic and had never had a day of unemployment in her life, until we married. I persuaded her to take some time to consider what it is that she wants to do with her life. I’m beginning to think that was a mistake. It pains and worries me to say it, but recently Bella has been showing some of the classic signs of depression, sometimes manic, sometimes lethargic, sometimes ecstatic and other times tearful.
A friend of mine, Bob, is one of those life coach gurus. He worked with me in the City and then when he became a father, he did the standard reevaluation of his life thingy. He came to the conclusion that his life was lacking in some of the essentials; time with family, a sense of pride or fulfilment in his career and a day-to-day sense of meaning. Serious stuff. So he chucked it all in and retrained as a life coach in the hope that he could help other people reach similar conclusions about their lives. I wasn’t particularly supportive of his career choice and commented that I hoped everyone he advised had already paid off their mortgage on the six-bedroom pile in Notting Hill before throwing in their lucrative professions, just as he had. Frankly, I’ve always thought that life coaching was a bit of nonsense. For God’s sake, what’s the world come to if you need a life coach to help you make every decision – from whom to marry to how you take your tea?
I think it’s obvious: this sense of displacement and uselessness that people claim to feel is symptomatic of our hurried and disposable lifestyle and the fact that we don’t live near our families any more. The art of good old-fashioned chatting is dying out. You don’t need an expert to tell you that much. Or maybe you do, as no one talks any more. Anyway, we’re blokes so Bob didn’t take offence when I said as much.
Frustratingly, it turns out that I was right about one thing, the art of good old-fashioned chatting is dying out – at least, it is between me and my wife. Despite repeated enquiries as to what’s bothering her, I keep banging up against a fat wall of silence. But it turns out I was wrong about the other thing – a life coach does have his uses.
I found it was helpful to call Bob and tell him about Bella’s mood swings. He suggested she might be depressed. I’d never have contemplated depression; she doesn’t seem the type. But Bob told me there isn’t a type. It’s bollocks thinking you have to behave like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest if you suffer from depression. He said her symptoms were typical of someone anxious about their identity. Apparently, newly-weds are vulnerable to this: they struggle to hold on to their identity as they become half of a couple. The other group who are vulnerable to identity issues are the unemployed. My persuading Bella to pack in her waitressing work, just after we married, might have exacerbated the situation. I only wanted to help. Bob said there wasn’t much I could do except encourage Bella to draw her own conclusions, and support her all the way. He started talking about love and stuff, the kind of topic blokes normally avoid while enjoying a pint. I appreciated his sacrifice.
I search for ways to support her. ‘What’s wrong, Bella?’
‘Wrong? Nothing.’ She smiles at me. ‘Why should anything be wrong?’
‘I don’t know, but I get the feeling something’s worrying you? Whatever it is, I’ll help. You know that, don’t you? Just tell me and I’ll help.’
‘You’re very sweet.’ She kisses me on the cheek.
I feel like a Chelsea Pensioner who has just offered to escort her across the road. I sigh and change the subject. ‘Laura seems very happy.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s clearly besotted with Stevie.’
‘Yes.’
‘And wh
ile, as a rule, I don’t go in for monitoring the love lives of my friends – woman’s work – I’m pleased to note that it’s obvious Stevie feels the same about her too. Wouldn’t you say so?’
‘Do you know, Phil, I’m really sleepy. I’d like to turn the lights out now. A good night’s sleep will be the best thing for my headache, don’t you think?’
It clearly doesn’t matter what I think because Bella gives me another peck on the cheek and flicks out the lights. I’m left staring into the dark.
Ho hum. While it is obvious that Laura is besotted with Stevie, it is just as clear that Bella can’t stand the man. She has managed to hide as much from most people, but to me, it’s patent. The only thing that is unclear is why. Bella vetoed my suggestion of playing a round of golf with him; I only suggested the game to allow her and Laura some girly time. I thought it would cheer her up but she was totally against it. She didn’t really want to come on this holiday either. She came up with a number of weak and implausible excuses to get out of it but I’d already accepted Laura’s kind invitation. It’s obvious to me she needed a break. She’s stuck in a rut and doesn’t know which way to turn. Bob agreed that a new environment might help her make a decision about her career or, at the very least, stop her being so bloody moody.
Bella’s ferocious dislike of Stevie is a mystery to me. He seems like a decent enough bloke to me, even if he has a penchant for wearing silver and white Lycra costumes that are so tight you can see his goosebumps. Gyrating in front of a live audience dressed this way does at least go to prove he has a sense of humour.
‘Do you know what I found out tonight?’ I ask the hump under the duvet that is Bella feigning sleep.
‘What?’ she mumbles.
‘Stevie went to Aberdeen University too. He is one of your fellow alumni.’ Bella doesn’t comment. ‘How old is he, do you know?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she mumbles.
‘About your age, I’d have said.’
‘I think he might be younger than me. He certainly acts it,’ she snaps.
‘I wonder what he studied. Do you think your paths might have crossed? You must at least know people in common.’ I’m trying to find mutual ground between Stevie and Bella; it’s in short supply.
Bella is reticent about her past, if you judge her against other women who seem to like nothing better than to talk about themselves – except perhaps to talk about their exes. Bella has the good sense to know that I could not be less interested in her previous sexual encounters; I am distinctly incurious. On the other hand, I would like to meet more of her old friends. They’d interest me.
‘I imagine he studied music. That lot kept themselves to themselves. I’m sure I’d have remembered if our paths had crossed.’
‘Especially if he was wearing sideburns and gold glasses,’ I joke.
‘Especially then,’ agrees Bella.
And then she surprises me. I suddenly feel her warmth next to my lips. The breath that is escaping from her body is mingling with the breath escaping from mine. She starts to kiss me. Slow, long, probing kisses. In one deft move she wriggles on top of me. Bella is so slight I sometimes barely register her weight but tonight she is pushing down on me, pushing her whole self into me. I can feel her nipples harden under her top, I’m sure she can feel my cock harden and press against her. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her closer to me. Her fingers are running through my hair and mine are searching for her flesh. She starts to trail kisses down from my lips, past my ear, my neck, my chest, and then her fingers race ahead. She guides my cock into her target and we don’t chatter any more. Even if I had the will, her mouth is full.
31. My Happiness
Thursday 8th July 2004
Bella
Stevie has won a seriously amazing prize. Never in a million years would I have imagined that being an Elvis tribute act could be so profitable. I have to admit the hotel is scrumptious; I admit this to no one other than myself, as I stare with amazement around the luxurious, tropically themed out-of-this-world resort.
The Mandalay Bay Hotel has been built around a ‘lagoon’, it has its own rum distillery (go figure), a couple of pools plus a sandy beach. The beach is swept by waves from a machine that can generate breakers big enough for people to surf. It’s all very convincing. I find myself a sunbed, apply sun factor a squillion and settle down to enjoy the rays. I listen to children, screaming and laughing while they play in the pool, and overhear the occasional conversation between dudes who have been catching some waves, and I make-believe that I’m on a real beach.
I concentrate on relaxing, a contradiction I suppose. I will not think about the following: my marital status and the conversation I had the night before with Phil – frankly terrifying. He wanted to know what was wrong with me. I thought I was doing quite well in giving the impression that nothing is wrong with me. Clearly not. He asked if anything was worrying me and said whatever it was, he’d help. Nice sentiment but not one I’m prepared to put to the test. I wish he could help. There is nothing I want more than to curl up in his strong arms, and lay my head on his broad chest, and sob. If only he could sort everything out. But he can’t. It’s not like writing a cheque for a parking fine or telling me that my thighs look positively svelte in the ridiculously expensive pair of leather trousers I impulse-purchased from Joseph and regret doing so. The only person Philip can’t save me from is myself.
Oh God. It would be so terrible if he ever got the slightest hint of what’s worrying me. How could he begin to understand, forgive or help? The conversation, already difficult, plunged into something far more appalling, when I found myself telling outright lies. So far, I’d been careful to avoid the truth, omit certain details – big details, like marriage ceremonies admittedly – but, until yesterday, I’d never told downright lies. Yesterday I categorically denied that I’d ever known Stevie. Then I initiated sex. Guilty sex, silencing sex. And while Phil was aware only that it was good sex (scared, desperate sex does have a certain edge) he’d hate me if he knew why I was keen to distract him last night. He’d hate me even more if he knew who I was thinking of when I climaxed.
What am I doing thinking about this? I will not think about this.
Other things I will not think about include the fact that Laura and Stevie are clearly getting along like a house on fire. What was it that Philip said? That they were besotted with one another. They must be if Phil has noticed. And that’s a good thing. Isn’t it?
Finally, I will not think about Stevie.
‘Hi.’
I recognize his voice instantly, even though my eyes are closed against the sun. ‘Hi,’ I mutter. I sit up and pop on my sunglasses. I can’t risk my eyes being the window to my soul. Even through rose-tinted glasses Stevie looks a bit pale, but that would be my only criticism. Other than that, he is lean and fit. Gorgeous, frankly. He stands over me holding a towel and suncream. I glance around the poolside and am panicked to observe that the only free sunbed appears to be the one next to mine.
‘I didn’t realize you were out here,’ he mutters, grumpily.
I didn’t realize that I had to give him a schedule of my movements. ‘Well, yes I am.’
‘I can see that.’ We both pause. We’re unable to grab to mind even the most miniature version of small talk.
‘Would you prefer it if I went and sunbathed elsewhere?’ I ask eventually.
‘Well, you would prefer that, wouldn’t you?’ His tone is a combination of sharp and sulky.
‘We can’t sunbathe together,’ I point out.
‘No, I suppose not.’ Stevie looks around and discerns what I already know about the scarcity of sunbeds. ‘But then again, what harm will it do?’ He shrugs.
It smarts that he is totally apathetic towards my presence. I get the distinct impression that it makes no difference to him whether I sunbathe next to him or on the other side of the globe. What can I say? ‘Sorry, babe, you can’t lie down next to me as you are almost naked and I’m already enter
taining inappropriate thoughts about you, I’m not sure I’ll be able to control myself.’ No. Of course not. The only dignified thing to do is give the impression that I’m as unaffected by him as he is by me.
‘No harm at all. We only have to avoid each other in front of Laura and Philip. Anything that goes on between the two of us is our little secret, hey?’
How did such an unfortunate sentence form in my brain, never mind struggle into existence? That sounded one hundred per cent come-on. I’m wrestling with playing by the rules I set, within the game I created. I know that I ought to just pick up my towel and go and track down Phil in the gambling hall, but something glues me to the sunbed. I blush furiously. Stevie looks momentarily bemused, then dismisses me. He places his towel on the bed next to mine and sits down. I pick up my novel. He picks up his suncream. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as he rubs lotion on his thighs, arms, face and stomach. It’s quite a show.
‘God, I could never imagine you using suncream,’ I blurt.
Wrong, wrong, wrong! That sentence was, once again, totally unsuitable. For a start, it implied criticism – the Stevie Jones I knew and loved was too ridiculously macho for anything as sensible as sun protection. For a second, it alluded to the fact there once was a Stevie Jones that I knew. And loved.
‘What do you mean? That I’m too thick to take on board government warnings about global warming and skin cancer?’ asks Stevie snidely.
‘No, not that. It just… Well… It just wasn’t something we ever thought about when we were kids, was it?’ I’m beginning to wonder if there are any ‘safe’ topics of conversation for us or if we are wading through the verbal equivalent of a crocodile-infested swamp. ‘I mean too much sun wasn’t something that kept anyone awake at night in Kirkspey, was it?’ I grin, hoping that Stevie realizes I’m not sarcastic or critical. I’m nothing other than nervous.
He looks at me for a long time, about two hours or maybe thirty seconds. ‘Suppose not. Will you do my back?’ He offers me the sun lotion as though his request is a reasonable one.
