Husbands

by Adele Parks

  I am so glad that Bella hasn’t had anything to drink. If she had, she would not be behaving quite so reasonably by now, she might have flung a glass of wine or at least a tantrum.

  ‘My love, the reason Laura didn’t recognize this type of woman is because they are very different from you two. You are the new breed of pleasers. You please yourselves, and in doing so, please your men. The new breed is a sassier, more hip type of girl who still visits the hairdresser with indecent frequency but carries slightly more body fat and is likely to have floppier boobs. She likes to look adorable for herself and her mates; what her guy thinks is a lower priority. On the whole I prefer this type of woman, she’s more fun in a heated debate and less likely to cry if you don’t buy her the latest six-grand handbag, as seen in Vogue.’

  Phil leans forward on his barstool and kisses Bella again. This time it’s a long, intimate kiss and I feel distinctly uncomfortable and closed out.

  ‘I know you better than you think, Bella,’ I hear him mutter. ‘Better than you know yourself sometimes.’ Then he turns to me and says, ‘I don’t think PBs are Stevie’s cup of tea either, Laura. You are. Now, shall we go and rescue him and find somewhere to eat?’

  35. Always On My Mind

  Bella

  Suddenly, it is two in the morning. Time has sped away. Most of the evening has been spent on an exhausting quest for food. Phil and Stevie concocted a bizarre plan to eat at three different venues. It was partially inspired by Phil’s obsession with recommended eateries and partially an attempt to shake Stevie’s groupies. Phil’s guidebook recommends where to eat by course, so he thought it would be a good idea if we managed to sample three of the recommended specialities in one night, therefore three restaurants. He argued that as we are not staying here very long we should try to pack as much in as possible. It seemed something like sense. I agreed because this plan means there’s little chance of conversation running dry or deep, both terrifying prospects. Instead, most of the evening was passed making comments about the decor of a venue, the distance to the next venue or asking for directions. All of which was innocuous enough.

  We had our appetizers at Delmonico Steakhouse, apparently famous for rock shrimp salad dusted with Parmesan cheese and served with truffle potato chips. It looked delicious; I managed a couple of mouthfuls. Then we moved to Nobu, in the Hard Rock Hotel, for sushi. They had my favourite black cod marinated in white miso but I didn’t have a hunger. The sushi actually was a poor call all round. It turns out Stevie’s dislike of oysters stretches to a dislike of all fish other than battered cod. It’s funny that his tastes haven’t particularly developed in over eight years; I love sushi. Plus Laura commented that it was impossible to feel satiated after a sushi meal. Her mentioning appetites that are in need of meeting was no doubt an innocent comment but I couldn’t take it as such. I kept imagining the cravings Stevie is gratifying for her and felt sick, with jealousy and pain.

  We finished our gourmet tour at the MGM Grand, with satiny bread and butter pudding; even that didn’t tempt me. Phil and Laura who had been drinking steadily all night devoured my portion between them. The MGM Grand Hotel offers a wide range of entertainment – anything from live lions in the reception to showgirls on the stage (who look more ferocious than the lions in many cases) but at 1 a.m. we agreed that it’s time to turn in and head back to the hotel. Our motivations for this decision are diverse.

  Stevie has the dress rehearsal gig tomorrow night and had started to obsess that he hadn’t been conscientious like the Italian contestant. Phil wanted to go back to our room because he was drunk and woozy and hoping to get lucky again tonight. He has no idea what made me jump him last night. The unexpected nature of the encounter, which defied probability or recent patterns, has encouraged him to hope that he might get a chance to do it again. He’s definitely a glass-half-full sort of guy.

  Laura was clearly thinking along the same lines. I constantly caught her staring adoringly at Stevie. I don’t know which bothers me most: the idea of making love with Phil or the idea of Stevie making love with Laura. Both acts ought to be part of the proper order of things. Neither ought to bother me at all. But they do. Filthy as it is to admit to myself, Stevie having groupies is annoying, Stevie having Laura is devastating.

  Sex is becoming an increasingly sticky area for me, no pun intended – not at all. I’m barely having any with Phil, as I keep finding myself thinking about Stevie, and I feel like a miserable, treacherous cow for doing so. Feeling like a miserable, treacherous cow tends to ruin the mood. Obviously I’m not having any with Stevie because, what can I say? Because he’s with Laura, because I’m with Phil, because the opportunity hasn’t arisen? I’m beginning to hate myself as it dawns on me that the real reason is the latter.

  For me, sex has always been hand in glove with love. Of course, I’ve had two or three loveless fucks in my time but that can be attributed to my eternal optimism overriding the blatant evidence. It’s my rule, I don’t go to bed with men I’m not in love with, or on the way to being in love with, or at least expect to be in love with by the time we share breakfast. It was important to have criteria while I was working in bars and dives otherwise there was the temptation to take home a different cute smile every time I felt lonely. I’ve never had sex just because I feel like sex. It’s not like hunger, thirst or tiredness, it’s not an appetite that demands instant gratification; not in my book.

  So, I must be falling back in love with Stevie, mustn’t I? Because all I think about is sex and him. Having sex with him. How it was and how it could be. Last night I had this amazing, pretty filthy dream about us doing it up against a wall. Predictably, when the dream started out it was the wall in the gymnasium at school. The sex was frantic, hurried and amazing. His kisses were strong and dark. Engulfing. His lips meshed into mine and we were kissing with such power and conviction I felt bruised. He scrabbled with his flies and then he sank into me. He was staring into my eyes, never losing me. Not for a second. It felt incredible, essential and right. By then the wall had changed to one here, in the hotel reception, and somewhere in my consciousness I realized that my erotic dream wasn’t just a trip down memory dirty back alley, I was dreaming about doing it with him now. I woke myself up and Phil too as he was concerned that I was sweating and panting and looking so scared.

  I’ve always had quite a respect for the subconscious.

  I spent most of this evening trying not to think about sex with Stevie. God, you’d think it would be easy, with him dressed as Elvis.

  When we got back to the hotel I told Phil I wasn’t tired and I wanted to stretch my legs before going up. He looked disappointed but agreed.

  After an evening spent in noisy, garish, blaring casinos, restaurants and the Strip, the sanctuary of the hotel’s gardens is a relief. I amble around the modern sculptured bushes for a while, vaguely admiring the black bamboo and the slate pathways, but it only takes a couple of minutes before I stumble across an outside bar. In Las Vegas there isn’t an opportunity missed to make money, to intoxicate, to entertain, entice and excite. I’d wanted to clear my head and get away from all the garish and ghastly glitter, so it doesn’t make sense that I flop on to a barstool as soon as I see one.

  I am all out of willpower and ask the barman for a brandy. I never drink brandy but it seems like the sort of drink you order while wandering around a Vegas hotel garden in the small hours of the morning. The bartender pours me a generous measure; generous measures are a Vegas trademark.

  ‘Had a busy night?’ I ask him. I know that right now what I need, more than anything, is to spend some time alone, with nothing other than my thoughts for company. The idea appals me, so instead I choose to trill pointlessly to a complete stranger. Hardly improving, and that’s probably the attraction.

  It goes two ways when talking to bar and waiting staff in the USA and part of the fun is you never know which one it will be. They will either act as though you are their long-lost sibling, who has been tragically separate
d at birth, and they then warmly rush to fill you in on their life story. Or, they will treat you like something smelly that they’ve stepped in by accident. I’m gratified that this bartender is the first type. I don’t think I could have coped with someone confirming what I suspect about myself.

  ‘Not so busy, just three wedding parties in here tonight.’

  ‘Three?’ I ask, surprised. ‘Seems a lot to me.’

  ‘At weekends we sometimes have five or six. Midweek, things are quieter. It was pleasant this evening. One of them was very touching – the bride and groom actually knew each other quite well.’ The bartender gives a sort of smile that turns into a shrug.

  ‘Right,’ I reply, although clearly things are not particularly right, if the only qualifier for a ‘touching’ wedding is that the bride and groom know each other ‘quite well’. But then, who am I to talk? I’m hardly the gold standard.

  ‘It’s not always the case, believe me,’ says the bartender in a conspiratorial tone. ‘Vegas has about fifty chapels, most of which are open daily from eight in the morning to midnight and twenty-four hours on legal holidays,’ he tuts. ‘The invitation to impulsiveness is too much for so many weak or thoughtless people. Do you know that on average three hundred and seventy-seven couples marry in Vegas every day? On Valentine’s Day you can’t move for white frocks. I wonder how many of them last.’

  ‘Impossible to say or judge,’ I comment.

  ‘With respect, ma’am, that’s bull.’

  I don’t see anything respectful about a bartender who says bull, but the guy is probably tired after a long shift.

  ‘It’s easy to judge. The majority of couples who want a quickie wedding aren’t serious about each other or the commitment of holy matrimony. There’s one chapel that offers rooms themed with headstone headboards and coffin bathtubs. Now what does that tell you about the sort of people who marry in Vegas?’

  ‘Great if you’re a Goth,’ I point out, suddenly feeling defensive for all the Goths on earth who love each other dearly but don’t want to marry in a church. An odd response because, up until this moment, I’d always thought Goths were slightly mad and a bit unhygienic.

  ‘In the same chapel there is an Al Capone room, with an image of a bound and gagged bellboy inside a closet. Who is that appropriate for? America’s would-be murderers and masters of organized crime?’

  I find the Al Capone room harder to defend so I silently sip my brandy.

  ‘I bet a classy broad like you did it properly, surrounded by friends and family, flowers and confetti. I bet you married in a church and had a sit-down meal in a marquee. Right?’

  The bartender is describing my wedding to Phil, to the letter. I could add that I glided down the aisle to Wagner’s Bridal Chorus and back up it to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, with church bells pealing in the background. I had confetti and champagne, a sit-down five-course dinner, a band, a string quartet and a guy singing Sinatra tunes. At midnight we had fireworks and bacon butties. It was, in every way, a perfect wedding, a huge celebration and spectacle.

  Normally, when talking to strangers – and, indeed, some of my nearest and dearest – I find the best road to follow is the one that causes the least sensation. When the old dear in the dry-cleaner’s assumed that I was ‘one of those high-flying exec career girls’ I didn’t contradict her. There are cab drivers driving around London who think I agree that every kid needs a ‘thick ear now and again’. I don’t, I am a fully signed-up member to the NSPCC Full Stop campaign, but I didn’t have the courage to say so. I’ve met people at parties who think I’m interested in where to source the most divine piqué waffle bedlinen, that artichoke is an effective natural remedy for bad indigestion, or that vine weevils are a great menace for container gardens, as there are no chemical controls. It’s disgusting. I’m not interested in any of these things. Phil thinks that I agree a minimum of four children would be desirable; in fact I think two would be the ideal number. I wonder how many I’ll end up with?

  I have never examined why I am reticent to share my beliefs and true feelings beyond telling myself that at best I am being polite and at worst I can’t be bothered to explain myself to these people who have, frankly, ludicrous views and interests.

  But I wonder.

  I slip off my shoes and rub the aching arches of my feet. Why do women still wear stilettos? Can’t someone invent something sexy and comfortable?

  The truth is, my opinions are in a constant state of flux – I don’t know what I believe, what I stand for or even who I am – because I am two people.

  I am Belinda McDonnel, a skinny kid from Kirkspey. I wear ugly hand-me-downs or at best cheap slutty fashion clothes bought on market stalls. I live in a two-bedroom house so tiny that the front room, as my mum called it, has been converted into a bedroom for me. It’s our family’s grasp at respectability; the alternative would be sharing a bedroom with my brothers. The TV and the knackered dining table are crammed into the living room with my brother’s bike and a settee – it’s certainly a lived-in room. We don’t have so much as a washing machine, the lino is sticky on the kitchen floor, the carpets threadbare and there is still a working toilet in the yard. Would anyone believe they still exist?

  And I am Bella Edwards, a sophisticated woman dripping in designer labels with a wardrobe just to house my handbags and shoes. I live in an enormous fourteen-room house. The kitchen and utility rooms are fitted out with all the latest state-of-the-art mod cons – waste disposal units, under-floor heating and a fridge that dispenses ice. There are four toilets in my home. All of them are inside. They even have heated seats. Frankly, I’ve always thought heated seats were a step too far when it comes to luxury. It suggests to me that someone has been there just before me and stayed long enough to warm the seat. A truly unpleasant thought. One that puts me in mind of Kirkspey. I didn’t tell Phil that I hated heated loo seats when he was having them installed at great expense. I wish I had.

  How is it possible that I am still Belinda McDonnel? Why can’t the designer labels protect me like a suit of armour, as I had hoped?

  I am not prepared to answer these questions now or maybe ever. But nor am I prepared to let this smug barman make judgements and pronouncements, assumptions and assassinations, without treating him to a real account of my legal marriage.

  I launch into my reply. ‘Actually, this “classy broad” married in a registry office in Aberdeen. That’s Scotland,’ I tell him helpfully. ‘I was wearing second-hand Levi’s. They were turn-ups, very fashionable at the time, and I had Doc Marten boots with tartan laces. I did nod towards tradition in so much as I was wearing a blue blouse. It was sheer and pretty and it had belonged to my mother.’ One of the few pretty things she’d ever owned. ‘I carried a bunch of carnations. Bought, at considerable expense, in relative terms, from a high-street florist – not a garage – but still they were not what you’d describe as a bouquet, definitely more of a bunch. We pulled witnesses off the street. One was on the way to the dentist but said she didn’t mind being late to her appointment. She was in her forties and commented that she’d never liked the dentist and rarely got invited to weddings these days. The other witness was a guy in his thirties. He was unemployed and had nothing better to do. The whole process took about ten minutes. Then we swapped addresses with the witnesses and for a couple of years afterwards we sent them Christmas cards. Our wedding breakfast was in Pizza Hut. Even back then they had an all-you-can-eat salad bar. We were students and such touches were important. We also had sticky toffee pudding. I was nineteen and very much in love.’

  Despite the length of my diatribe, the bartender is rapt. He beams at me, pours two more large glasses of brandy and pushes them towards me.

  ‘Wow, great story, lady. You’ve restored my faith in young and impetuous love. It’s great you guys are together after all these years. Have these drinks on me.’ He wanders away to polish glasses.

  I’m totally bemused until I notice that an arm is round my waist. I
turn, and am face to face with a grinning Stevie.

  ‘Oh, thank God it’s you,’ I say. The relief is violent, I think I might faint. ‘Imagine if Phil had sneaked up on me and heard all that.’

  ‘I didn’t sneak. I couldn’t sleep so I wandered down here. I wasn’t looking for you.’ He says this with too much conviction and so I doubt him. ‘Good story.’

  I blush. ‘I got a bit carried away.’ I rerun in my head all that I’ve just said to the barman. It’s slightly mortifying that Stevie heard me reminisce with such attention to detail. I’ve tried to give him the impression that I hardly remember the day. And if that wasn’t disconcerting enough, his arm is still round my waist.

  It excites me.

  His touch blisters through my dress. I actually flinch. Shaking, I sip my brandy.

  ‘The guy was having a go about people who marry impetuously. It didn’t seem right to let him assume that all these marriages are a complete joke and that they’ll all end in disaster.’

  ‘Oh, but you do think ours was a complete joke and it has ended in disaster.’

  ‘I’ve never said that, exactly.’

  Stevie isn’t going to let me off the hook, ‘So, it’s OK to let him assume we’re still happily married over a decade later.’

  I shrug, realizing that once again I have failed to be totally honest and committed to the reality of a situation. A particularly bitter pill considering I was briefly experimenting with truthful self-expression.

  ‘I only got so far with the story. Every happy ending is dependent on where you close the book,’ I comment breezily. Then I deftly turn the subject, ‘You’ve changed out of your Elvis costume.’

  ‘Yeah, the competition organizers borrowed it from some sponsoring supplier and it had to be returned in pristine condition. I shouldn’t have risked wearing it tonight. It would have been a disaster if I’d spilt anything down it.’

  ‘So why did you wear it?’