by Adele Parks
‘I think Laura liked the buzz it caused.’
I tut. ‘I think Laura found the constant presence of your groupies a real pain.’ I certainly had. ‘It was you who liked being the centre of attention.’
‘No, really. Unlike you, Laura really digs my Elvis thing. She really gets it. Laura likes me for what I am. She doesn’t care if I’m an Elvis impersonator, a teacher, a tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor. It’s all the same to her.’
I hear the criticism loud and clear and choose not to say anything else on the subject – it would only come out sounding undignified. We pick up the glasses of brandy and wander towards a metal table with two chairs. Without saying anything we’ve tactically agreed on the table furthest away from the few remaining revellers who are noisily gathered around beer bottles and the DJ decks.
We sit under an olive tree. I know olive trees have recently become very fashionable and are found in dozens of trendy bars so it’s just coincidence that we’ve found ourselves sitting under one but I can’t help but think of the symbolic nature and I have to suppress a giggle.
‘What are you grinning at?’ asks Stevie.
‘Nothing,’ I smile and for no reason at all I playfully stick my tongue out at him.
‘You can be so age twelve,’ he says, but he’s smiling too and I know that we’re OK.
‘It’s lovely out here, isn’t it? Such a luxury to sit out in warm air so late at night.’
‘Quite good to be away from the air con and the noise too,’ adds Stevie.
I totally agree with him and find I don’t even have to say so. ‘Have you had a fun day?’ I ask.
‘I liked being with you by the pool this morning,’ he says.
How is it that time after time I can still forget how dangerous it is to have a conversation with Stevie? He always insists on being hideously straightforward.
‘And I liked being by the pool with Laura this afternoon,’ he adds.
As I said, hideously straightforward. I look away so that my eyes don’t betray the hurt I feel. I shouldn’t be hurt. Stevie is supposed to enjoy the company of his girlfriend. That’s a good thing.
For a good thing, it hurts like hell.
‘Did you like playing the casinos?’ I ask.
‘Fantastic laugh,’ he confirms. ‘You?’
‘Hated it,’ I reply frankly. ‘My problem with casinos is that they remind me of amusement arcades – horrible places. Cheap, tatty prizes, the incessant clatter of the machines, lousy music, glowing coloured lights, and chewing gum stuck to the floor that looks like loose change. I hate it when you see drunken people scrabbling around trying to pick it up, thinking they’ve got lucky, but they never have – and they never will. It’s anything but glamorous,’ I mutter.
‘You’re talking about Blackpool,’ says Stevie astutely.
I shuffle uncomfortably. How did he work that out? I don’t want to talk about Blackpool. We never have and that’s fine by me.
‘Vegas is just like Blackpool,’ I grumble.
‘No, it’s not. It’s glamorous here and exciting. No one’s hometown is ever glamorous.’
‘It’s the same hopeless hope,’ I reply definitively.
Stevie sighs and gives up arguing with me. We sit silently until he quietly adds, ‘This evening was difficult, though. The whole situation is killing me.’
Did he feel it too? Was he uncomfortable every time Laura touched or kissed him, the way I was when Phil lavished attention or affection on me? Did he sometimes want to turn to me and share a joke or a thought but knew that he had to gag himself or risk exposure? Did he watch the couples on the dance floor and wonder what it would be like to hold each other? He might have.
‘It’s a hideous, miserable situation and I wish to hell I wasn’t in it. I wish you hadn’t put me in it,’ he clarifies.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say for about the millionth time.
‘So you’ve said, about a million times.’
Inappropriately, I start to giggle.
‘What are you laughing at now?’
‘Just that I was thinking the same thing. I’ve noticed that we often think the same thing.’ I don’t mention or acknowledge that sometimes we disagree over fundamental and petty things too. That’s not so important right now.
Stevie looks up at the black sky and sighs. ‘I’m so confused, Belinda. One moment we’re fine. We’re friends, right?’
‘Right.’ I smile.
‘But then suddenly, without warning, we’re enemies.’ He turns to me now, ‘Which are we? What can we be?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. There is another option, of course, but it’s X-rated and I can’t bring myself to suggest it. I reach out and squeeze Stevie’s arm. But then I can’t seem to move my hand away. I wait for him to pull away from me. He doesn’t.
We fall back into a silence. I hope he believes it’s a comfortable silence. For me, it’s a silence fraught with sexual tension, which I know is wrong but feels a little like something that’s right. I am staring at his mouth and thinking about kissing his lips. I’m not imagining gentle, tender kisses. I want to thrust myself hard against him. I notice that his strong, muscled arms are now tanned from the day in the sun and a bit pink at the crook of the elbow. I want to kiss him there, in the crook, I want to kiss him everywhere.
These brandies have gone to my head; now I remember why I am supposed to be off the booze.
I pull my hand away from his arm, and sit on it. Being here with Stevie is exciting; the warming trickle of brandy in my stomach, which is already melting my brain cells, is delicious and the warm summer night is a delight. It’s a moment in time that, taken in isolation, is perfect. Considered on the grand scale, it’s disastrous.
Time is running out for Stevie and me. This morning was borrowed time, tonight it’s stolen. Somewhere, lodged in a court (whatever that means) back in London, are the papers we signed saying we want to divorce each other. In the same way that, for years, a paper sat in a registry office in Aberdeen saying we once had wanted to be married to each other. Both papers mean nothing and everything, at the same time. In two months’ time a decree absolute will declare that our muddled paths are legally dissolved. And that will be that. Suddenly, I see tonight as my last opportunity to ask the questions that used to keep me awake at night, when I first upped sticks, and ran away to London.
‘What pulled you to it, Stevie? How come you wanted to be an Elvis tribute act so badly?’
‘So badly that I drove you away, you mean?’
He’s right. Without Elvis we might have made it work. That’s why I need an answer to my question. I start to retrace his history, hoping to jog his mind into offering me long overdue insight.
‘You always liked Elvis, even when you were a child. You were a big fan by the time you moved to Kirkspey.’
‘Definitely. Do you remember the hours we spent watching his old movies, listening to his tracks?’
‘Yes.’ Back then Stevie’s near obsessive knowledge of and great love for Elvis had been endearing. ‘You went to university—’
‘Yes, and it was great.’
‘But you didn’t do gigs then.’
‘No. I got to know lots about the Trojan wooden horse and I got to spend lots of time in the Coach and Horses.’
‘Exactly my point, Stevie. I thought you were a Renaissance man. You studied music, you read The Iliad and The Odyssey in your spare time, yet still went to the pub with your mates. You got a really good degree – and then you wanted to be an Elvis impersonator.’ I try, but fail, to hide my exasperation.
Stevie smiles thinly, ‘Tribute act, if you please. Believe me, Belinda—’
‘Bella, if you please,’ I say, playing tit for tat.
‘Bella, believe me, belting out a couple of verses of “Love Me Tender” is far more relevant than most of the stuff I learnt at university. Even if I’m wearing a wig and flares.’
I’m aware that he’s trying to keep things light, but his jokey att
itude towards his career only riles me more. ‘Why can’t you just fulfil your potential, be yourself?’
‘That from a girl who changed her name, her haircut, her accent and home but failed to leave a forwarding address for her husband.’
Suddenly, the night air doesn’t feel quite so warm. I can see his point but it doesn’t stop me staring crossly at him. Indeed, it’s probably because I can see his point that I’m so churlish. I notice my brandy glass is empty so I signal to the bartender, who brings us colourful cocktails. I have no idea what I’m drinking; I should probably have eaten the bread and butter pudding to line my stomach. The bartender must think so too because he places a small bowl of nuts on the table. I scoop a handful into my mouth but know they can’t help me.
I breathe deeply and try to hide my discomposure.
‘Can I ask you something, Belinda?’
‘Anything,’ I agree rashly.
‘If I hadn’t met Laura and stumbled into your life, when would you have got around to contacting me? Or were you hoping the whole messy business would just disappear?’
‘The latter, I suppose.’ I sigh. ‘Although the situation was coming to a head. Time was ticking on.’
‘Biological clock?’ he asks.
I seethe. I hate it when men talk about biological clocks, or hormones, or the time of the month. They wear that supercilious expression and nod as though they understand everything. When in fact the opposite is true.
‘Not mine,’ I snap. ‘Phil’s.’
‘No. You were never maternal,’ mutters Stevie. He sips his cocktail, clearly oblivious to the threat of my blinding him with a colourful, paper umbrella. Our confidence and cosiness is easily threatened. ‘You know nothing about me,’ I bite.
‘I’m your husband,’ he states.
‘Technically. Nothing more.’ Suddenly, I want to pick up my bag and storm out of the garden back up to my room. I want to run away from this horrible creeping intimacy, this straight talking, this dangerously explorative mood. I want to run fast, my feet pounding on the pavement, over and over again, just to put some distance between us. But I stay put.
‘Philip is desperate for children. It was becoming increasingly difficult to explain my reluctance. But how could I have children with him when I’d simply be inviting those new lives to join my old mess. Parents shouldn’t do that. A parent’s role is to sort out the messes. I knew I couldn’t be legally married to you and have a child with Phil. Besides—’ Do I want to go on?
‘What?’
‘Well, even assuming I get this bigamy thing sorted out, I’m still nervous of how adequate I’ll be as a parent. I’m a bit short on role models,’ I confess.
‘You’ll be a great mum, Belinda,’ Stevie assures, with seriousness.
‘Thanks,’ I grin. ‘You’ll be a great dad.’ Obviously my brain hadn’t been consulted before my tongue threw out this rash statement. Stevie is glowing in the light of my compliment.
I snap my mouth shut at just about the exact moment his lips meet mine.
We kiss – for how long? I don’t know – a fraction of a second or several minutes. The kiss is such a delight. It zooms past the last eight years, erasing my history, erasing my responsibilities and, oh God, erasing my morality. He is sex. He always was. I craved him when I was young. Ached for him on warm summer nights when I slept alone in my dad’s home. The window open, letting in the sounds of the evening and the promise of a future. A breeze, that was all about promise and the question, what if? What if?
I’m not going to. I want to. Oh yes, I want to and that’s bad enough, but not as bad as actually doing it. I know how he feels (firm) and how he tastes (salty, sexy). I know every curve, niche and crevice of his lovely, lovely body. And there’s something else. I know that the sex we had – as good as it was – would be even better now. I’ve had other men to practise on, not loads but a few. Way back when… I probably got marks for energy, rather than expertise. I’m more confident about my body now – mystifying, considering my skin is not as soft and my boobs have… what should I say? Relaxed? But at least I now know exactly how to get the right bits to start jumping.
And let’s face it; he’s probably learnt a trick or two.
Oh God, we could have excellent sex. Intense and passionate sex.
‘Phil,’ I say, pushing Stevie away at about the exact same moment I hear him mutter, ‘Laura.’
We separate and I grab my cocktail – better that than Stevie’s body.
‘We can’t, Stevie.’
‘We’re married. Legally we wouldn’t be doing anything wrong,’ he says, articulating the loophole that has occurred to us both.
‘Morally we’d stink,’ I point out.
Stevie sighs. ‘I’m confused about your moral code, Bella. Did you find it easy to stand at an altar and agree to marry Phil? Did you sail through that bit about “if anyone knows of any legal reason why this marriage can’t go ahead” etc etc?’
‘I know I’m confusing you, Stevie. I’m confused too.’
I push back my chair and unsteadily totter to my feet. I sway slightly, Stevie probably assumes that’s the effect of the alcohol which is better than him knowing the truth. His kiss was the most overwhelming of my life and I think it is stamped upon me for ever.
He grabs my hand and our fingers entwine; finding each other swiftly and naturally, as though they had memories of their own.
‘Why are you having such an effect on me, after all these years? If I was truly happy with Philip, you wouldn’t get near me,’ I mutter.
‘I agree.’
‘Why do I want you?’
‘I’m irresistible.’ Stevie wants to appear cocky and confident but it’s an act. I know him: he’s lost and forlorn.
‘I have to go to bed.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Alone, Stevie.’
Stevie squeezes my hand, then kisses it, ‘I shouldn’t be thinking about you either. I should be thinking about Laura – or focusing on the competition – but you plague me. You play me. I wish I hadn’t heard you talking to the barman.’
‘I didn’t know you were listening.’
‘True enough. If you had, the last thing you’d have been was honest.’ His eyes drill through any semblance of sense I possess. ‘Meet me tomorrow, Belinda. We still have so much to deal with. There’s so much I don’t understand.’
‘That’s madness,’ I insist, pulling my hand away from his. This was just a drunken kiss. We’ve overstepped the mark, yes. But it’s a bungle, not a premeditated cruelty. ‘I can’t meet you,’ I say, shaking my head.
‘You owe me, Belinda. This isn’t just about you. I’ll be in reception at nine. I’ll wait for you,’ states Stevie firmly.
36. Any Day Now
Friday 9th July 2004
Stevie
Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.
Could this possibly get any messier? What have I done? What have I said?
‘Morning, gorgeous,’ Laura mutters, as she opens one eye. She doesn’t lift her head – she also drank a shedload last night and she’s only human. She does, however, launch the widest beam and set it sailing in my direction.
I am leaning against the dressing table, as this is the point in the room furthest from the bed. I move my fingers in a feeble wave and say nothing. She widens her grin a fraction, closes her eye and drifts back to sleep. She’ll assume my reticence is because I’m hungover too, or nervous about today’s impending rehearsal, or that I didn’t want to wake her from her drowsy slumber. Whatever conclusion she reaches, it will be generous and I don’t deserve her benevolence.
Nearly every day, for several weeks now, I have been lucky enough to wake up to Laura’s beam. It’s a wide, very even grin and while I’m aware that it’s fashionable to describe desirable women’s smiles as ‘cookie’ or ‘lopsided’, ‘slow’ or ‘reluctant’, Laura’s is an absolutely straight grin that is fast and ready. She has fleshy pink lips and Hollywood-white, uniform teeth. Her pare
nts must have spent a stack of dollars at the dentist. This morning, like all the other mornings, her smile radiates and fills the entire room. That and the blinding sunshine streaming through the window are clearly signs from God that I am a condemned man. I know that, generally speaking, sunshine and a dazzling smile from your girlfriend are seen as fortuitous but in my case I see them for what they are. Aggravators of the world’s most vicious hangover, sent to spitefully suck the last drops of moisture out of my frazzled and parched brain. Timely reminders sent to nip and snarl at my malfunctioning conscience.
I’ve lain awake for practically the entire night when what I needed most was to sleep. Well, I needed sleep about as much as I needed a lobotomy, a kick up the derrière, to turn back time or a life swap. Sleep has to be deemed the most accessible of the above choices, and yet even that eluded me.
All night I lay awake next to beautiful Laura and thought of beautiful Belinda. Laura’s long, lithe limbs were stretched out next to me and I carefully studied the wonder of her – her grace, poise, strength and athleticism. But while I could see her beauty I felt unable to enjoy it. I have betrayed her.
Some would argue that as I’ve failed to mention my secret marriage to Belinda, for the entire duration of our relationship, that I had already betrayed Laura on a number of occasions. Whenever I surreptitiously sneaked off to meet Belinda in some warm old pub or snug thirty-something bar, I betrayed her. Whenever I was vague about the ‘significant others’ in my past, I betrayed her. Whenever I fudged the details of where and when I went to university I was less than honourable. However, in my heart I had not betrayed Laura. Until last night. I believed that I was protecting her. I told myself that I was only involved in this messy subterfuge at Belinda’s insistence and Belinda isn’t some malevolent force – she’s Laura’s best friend. I did a pretty good job of convincing myself that keeping a secret from Laura was for her own good. After all, the secret did not relate to her, directly. And, well, if I was protecting myself a little bit – because once I’d sat through oysters and linguini at Bella’s and stayed schtum, I was involved – then no harm done. What else could I do? I honestly believed that my situation was messy but not irretrievable and, significantly, not of my own making.
