by Adele Parks
‘What if I’ve married the wrong one?’
‘Which one are you talking about? You’re married to both of them,’ replies Amelie flatly.
‘I have feelings for Stevie,’ I confess.
‘What sort of feelings?’
I can’t tell Amelie that I keep stealing glances at Stevie’s muscled arms, chest and shoulders or admit that I find his lean stomach fascinating and the thin line of hair that leads to the contents of his swimwear is as enticing as the Yellow Brick Road. The problem is he’s sexy. Not in an obvious way – well, actually yes, he’s sexy in an obvious way – but he’s also sexy in a funny, quirky way. He’s what he always was. I squirm on my seat and concentrate on the feelings I can tell Amelie.
‘He’s easy to talk to. After all, I’ve known him forever.’
‘You haven’t spoken to the man for eight years. You don’t know him. It’s a common desire – endless intimacy. But you haven’t known anyone forever and nor has anyone known you that long.’
‘I think about him all the time,’ I whisper.
‘In what way?’ she asks, seriously.
‘In that way. The way women think about men.’ I’m hedging. ‘Being with him feels special. Do you think that’s telling?’
‘What do you want to be told?’ asks Amelie. ‘I can’t answer the question, Bella. I’m as new to this situation as you are. I don’t know how you’re supposed to feel.’
I’m probably not supposed to feel lust, or longing or loyalty, I’m almost certain of that. ‘I don’t want to think about Stevie. I’m trying not to.’
‘But you have to try?’
‘Yes, and even then I fail. I’m really trying to be sensible. I’m not drinking.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Well, at least, not when I’m with Phil.’
‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible not to drink around Stevie?’
‘Maybe.’ I own up. ‘I’m so confused. I’ve changed my mind about five times since I arrived here.’
‘Where does that leave you? Back where you started?’
‘I don’t know. Dizzy. Today, when we were alone together in the pool I found myself employing that trick you taught me for my wedding day.’
‘What?’
‘Preserving two or three unforgettable details that can’t be captured on film.’
‘And what did you capture?’
‘The smell of sunshine and sun lotion on warm flesh and the sunlight on the pool surface.’
‘I meant on your wedding day to Phil,’ clarifies Amelie, starkly.
‘Oh.’ I’m startled. ‘Erm, lilies, I think, and the feel of Phil’s jacket when he put it round my shoulders in the car as we left the reception.’
‘That’s what you need to be concentrating on,’ advises Amelie sternly.
I rush at the only question I really want an answer to, ‘Do you think it’s possible to be in love with two men at the same time?’
‘No,’ she replies flatly.
‘But people are!’ I insist. ‘That’s why there’s that song, “Torn Between Two Lovers”.’ I start to hum the lines about not knowing who to choose and breaking rules.
Amelie impatiently interrupts me, ‘You asked if I believe it’s possible to love two people and I don’t. True love is all-absorbing. It’s possible to be curious, infatuated, wistful maybe…’
I get the point she’s making but I don’t like it much. I try to ignite her sympathies. ‘It must be a truly pitiful position to be in, though, don’t you think? If, say, inadvertently you found yourself in love with two men at the same time. I mean, especially if you were married to both of them as well.’
‘Bella! All I can see here is how awful it is to be Laura or Philip. You’re not in love with Stevie. I don’t even believe you’re particularly well suited. It’s easy to be sentimental when you’re striving for closure.’
‘But he’s really hot!’ I blurt.
‘Closure is always more tricky to attain with sex-god types but don’t get it mixed up, Bella. Don’t risk everything you have with Phil, just for sex.’
‘If it’s only sexual attraction then maybe I should just shag him and be done with it. That would help me put an end to it, hey?’ I’ve expressed my most secret fantasy in the guise of a jest.
Amelie isn’t fooled. ‘Don’t joke about affairs, Bella.’
‘It wouldn’t be an affair. I’m married to them both.’
‘Think about what you’ve just said, Bella. For God’s sake, think.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I mumble. I don’t convince myself so I’m certain I haven’t persuaded her. ‘Got to go.’
I hang up as Phil walks into the room.
34. Shake, Rattle and Roll
Laura
When I enter the hotel bar at precisely 8.45 p.m. Bella and Phil are already waiting for me. Phil gives a low wolf whistle and Bella claps.
‘You look wonderful,’ says Phil.
‘Perfect fit. Aren’t I clever?’ says Bella, smiling. ‘You look stunning.’
And they’re right. The dress is a winner. It swishes, whooshes and swirls in all the right places. I feel very sexy and very feminine. It’s backless and my back is one of my strong points (many a joke has been made about that over the years – glad to see the back of you etc etc, ho ho ho). Bella is wearing a black cocktail dress, classical and understated. I get the feeling she’s being deliberately discreet so that I can shine. I’m touched by the completeness of her generosity.
Stevie returns from his photo shoot at exactly nine o’clock, as promised. It’s immediately clear that the dress has the desired effect.
‘Wow! You are beautiful.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I play with an earring and try to act cool, calm and collected.
Stevie swoops in to kiss me on the cheek and whispers, ‘One hundred per cent knockout.’
I grin. ‘You’re looking quite gorgeous yourself.’
Stevie is still wearing his Elvis costume. For the purpose of the PR shoot the contestants were all provided with identical outfits, although I understand that in the actual competition they can rediscover a little individuality. No doubt to amuse us, Stevie has met us in the bar wearing his costume.
‘Pretty fly for a white guy,’ I laugh. And I can’t resist flinging my arms around him. Sod cool, calm and collected.
‘Are you going to get changed?’ asks Bella.
‘Don’t. We’ll get free drinks all night if you wear that get-up,’ says Phil, laughing.
‘I imagine I’ll have to sing for my supper if I do,’ says Stevie. ‘It might get a bit tedious when we arrive at the third bar of the evening and another bouncer insists I do “Jailhouse Rock” and the guy behind the bar wants “Hound Dog”.’
And as if to prove his point we are immediately interrupted.
‘Oh. My. God. You are so the real thing!’
While not strictly accurate, obviously, Stevie is not the real thing – Elvis is dead and even if you buy into the conspiracy theories and believe that he’s not dead, just living as an obese geriatric on some island somewhere – it’s patent that Stevie is not your man. Stevie weighs only about a hundred and seventy pounds and there isn’t a single indication of rigor mortis.
‘Can we have our picture with you?’
The gaggle of tiny, skinny, blonde women hand Bella the camera and barge past me as though I am invisible, despite the designer dress. For all their size, smiles and giggles it’s clear that these women are tough. They have hard bodies that have trod mills and participated in endless aerobic classes; their cumulative total of time spent in gyms must be decades. I am somewhat comforted to see that they are not as young as I thought on first impression. The expertly applied make-up, long manicured nails and bleached hair are smoke and mirrors, which means they pass for late twenties at a distance but up close they have at least ten years on that.
They pout and preen and pose. They kiss Stevie’s cheek, take photos and liberties – one of them pinches his but
t, another pinches his crotch. I’d say he enjoyed it up until the crotch pinching then he hurriedly shooed them on their way.
I breezily laugh at the incident, hoping to disguise the fact that I want to drill my stiletto heels into their faces.
Stevie decides to have a drink in his suit but it soon becomes apparent that we aren’t going to get much peace. Everyone behaves as though he is godfather to their child. Some buy drinks and beg him to sing a verse. Others push past us, his girlfriend and friends, and demand photos. One couple has heard about the King of Kings final.
‘Really?’ says Stevie, clearly awash with pride but trying to look nonchalant. ‘So, erm, did you see an advert or a press article? I understand that they are really pushing the event in local papers and radio. I’m not blowing my own trumpet but I do think that the organizers have done a good job with bringing a certain amount of gravitas to the whole event.’
‘Actually, we are here with the Italian King,’ says the guy.
‘He’s my brother,’ says the girl, smiling. ‘We will be supporting him.’
‘Oh. Of course,’ says Stevie, nodding his head with understanding. Stevie looks around, ‘Is he here now? I think I know the guy you mean. I met an Italian at the photo shoot.’
‘No, he is not here now. He is resting. Tomorrow is the dress rehearsal show. He does not want a hangover.’
I wonder if Stevie feels chided. ‘Erm, tell him good luck.’
‘He doesn’t need luck. He is very good,’ smiles the loyal sister.
I resist challenging her to a duel at dawn as I’m pretty sure that Stevie will hold his own when it comes to the competition. Instead I say we have to go: we’re keen to get to the casino.
We can’t decide which one to visit, we’re spoilt for choice. In the end, we opt for Bally’s: it isn’t a million miles away and Phil wants to see the showgirls. Stevie doesn’t seem as interested, but then he’s swilling in the attention from the groupies. We decide to walk there rather than take a cab as it’s a lovely, mild evening and we all agree a walk would be pleasant. To tell all, I’m enjoying turning heads and I know we are a mesmerizing spectacle. Stevie is Elvis, I am the lady in red (or at least fuchsia pink) and Bella and Phil are just their usual gorgeous selves.
The approach to Bally’s is dramatic. We travel up a very long escalator flanked by cascading water, lighted pylons and giant palm trees. It almost bothers me that I am becoming acclimatized to such ostentatious nonsense. As we approach the entrance, a sound and water show – involving a wave machine and fountains – erupts. No doubt a wonderful spectacle although I imagine it becomes a tiny bit repetitive and annoying if you are staying here.
‘Water is very much the flavour here,’ comments Bella. ‘Apparently, in the multi-million-dollar show Jubilee, the “Titanic” sinks every night on stage.’ She is reading this from a poster that depicts scantily clad ladies – unsuitable dress for the Titanic, I would have thought.
‘What a giggle. We’ll have to go,’ I say.
‘Yes, let’s do that later, but where to now?’ asks Stevie.
We are faced with the most enormous mash of lights, signs, slot machines, craps tables, roulette wheels and poker games. Everything is reddish-pink: the people playing, the drinks, the walls, the dealers and the machines. I’m not sure if the ruddy complexions are the result of the hue cast by the lights or the possibility of winning cold, hard cash. It’s a noisy, rowdy, exciting spectacle.
‘Well, not to the baccarat room,’ says Phil. ‘I’ve been reading about it and apparently that’s where players go if they are willing to wager hundreds of thousands of dollars on a single hand. These guys are called “whales” in gaming parlance.’
We all agree that such high rolling is astounding. Bella looks white with shock: she isn’t keen on gambling – she won’t even buy a lottery ticket.
‘That’s madness,’ she cries. ‘No one wins but the house. Gambling is for losers, in the harshest sense of the word.’
‘Not the most helpful attitude, darling,’ Phil points out. ‘Not here, in Las Vegas – in the middle of a casino.’
‘I can’t help myself, I hate these places,’ she mutters.
It’s clear that Bella is not going to feel comfortable on the green baize map but after some time we collectively persuade her that a hand of blackjack, or twenty-one as it’s known to some, is worth a shot. The odds are better. Bella’s competitive spirit kicks in and she starts to enjoy playing against the dealer, particularly when she can set her bet as low as five dollars. I want to try poker but Stevie teases me and says it won’t be my game.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, most people make unconscious revelations through body language – tics, twitches, nervous laughs or something that gives them away – your face is an open book.’
‘I can be deceptive when I want to be,’ I argue.
‘No, you can’t,’ smiles Stevie, as he leans in to kiss me. ‘Every one of your expressions is there for the world to read.’
I stare up at him and wonder if he is reading my face now. Does he know that I think I’m holding a great hand. A straight flush. Can he read my face and know that it’s saying, I love you?
Probably not, because he turns to Bella and says, ‘I think you’d be good at poker.’ She doesn’t appear to hear him.
We each allot ourselves a modest sum of money and then embark on losing it. Stevie sensibly points out that the money we lose is just the fee for this particular form of entertainment and we should view it as we would the entry fee to a theme park. It makes me feel better as I slip my last allotted dollar into the slot machine. At one point I had been seventeen dollars up, but now I’m wiped out. Still, I enjoyed the ride.
Elvis imitators pop up everywhere in Vegas. Just yesterday I spotted an Elvis accompanying two showgirls, another stood outside a chapel (it was unclear whether he was the groom or vicar) and a third was washing cars in the parking lots near the helicopter base. So, I am surprised by how much attention Stevie grabs tonight. We get free throws on the craps – although they are not lucky throws – plenty of free drinks, and the stream of well-wishers is almost constant. Largely, the interest is great fun. With the exception of the blondes that swamp him. They flirt, flatter, fawn and they fuck me off.
They are so focused on Stevie that I don’t even register on their radar. As they crowd around him I am edged out. Bella scowls; obviously she feels sorry for me and she’s noticed that I’ve all but disappeared. She suggests we retire from the casino and find a bar. She, Phil and I march ahead, Stevie follows, trying to shake off his groupies.
‘It must be ace being a man,’ I mutter to Phil, as he passes me a large martini.
‘Why do you say that?’ he asks.
‘Well, there are so many more attractive women than there are men,’ I grumble.
‘Do you think you have lesbian tendencies?’ Phil asks jokingly, he’s looking hopeful and I just know he will offer the use of his videocam.
‘I wish I did.’ I wonder if it’s apparent that I am insecure. How terrible that I’m insecure when I’m wearing this gorgeous dress. I wish Bella would say something reassuring; instead she is watching Stevie being photographed with his arms around another two blondes. She looks worried. Phil follows her gaze.
‘Ah, I see. Don’t worry, Laura. The women surrounding Stevie are professional blondes, not a threat at all.’
‘Professional blondes?’ I ask. ‘You mean hookers?’ I’m horrified and a little curious.
‘No,’ he grins. ‘Not as such. You don’t recognize that sort of woman because she’s almost extinct in the UK. Or at least in Shepherd’s Bush, the surgery and Eddie’s nursery where you spend most of your time. Those women devote their entire lives to pleasing men. Or at least, rich or famous men.’
‘That’s meant to cheer me up?’ I ask, glugging back my martini and ordering another. ‘Won’t Stevie like that? I mean from a guy’s point of view, women that devote their entire lives to pleasing
men, that sounds like a good thing.’
‘In truth, there isn’t a man out there who doesn’t miss that breed of woman. He might not admit as much, too PC, too afraid of his wife…’ He winks at Bella, who is listening intently. ‘I should add that professional blondes don’t have to be blonde. Brunettes and redheads can apply, but chances are they’ll end up blonde, no matter what colour hair they were born with.’
‘You’re on about dumb blondes then; these girls don’t look dumb to me,’ I point out.
‘The PB isn’t stupid. The opposite. She has enough guile and confidence to hide her brains, so as not to appear threatening to any of the rich men she knows or hopes to get to know better. The professional blonde knows that, secretly, we guys are an insecure bunch.’
I wait for Bella to punch Phil playfully and tell him to get off his soapbox but she doesn’t. She is more patient than she usually is when he’s waxing lyrical with one of his pop-culture-psychoanalytical theories. Could be she’s genuinely interested. I hope to God that she doesn’t think there’s something in it, as I really respect Bella’s opinion when it comes to eternal negotiations of the peace treaty between the sexes. The war isn’t quite over.
‘This woman doesn’t work – her profession is to look good for her man. PBs are fit, with lean hard bodies and boobs bought in Harley Street. They are devoted to their personal trainers, their hairstylist and colourist, their pilates and yoga instructors, their platinum Visa card, their personal shopper and their self-image. But even if a guy is bright enough to work this out, the sad truth is he doesn’t much care because his girl looks good. It could be viewed as a fair financial arrangement.’
‘Phil, do you think I’m a professional blonde?’ asks Bella, unable to conceal her horror.
Phil kisses his wife’s lips. ‘No, my love. Of course not.’
‘But I don’t work and I have a trainer and yoga classes and all that stuff. I’m not like that, Phil.’
