by Adele Parks
‘Well, we hadn’t been normal, had we? We’d eloped. And the “normal” I aspire to is hosting dinner parties in Wimbledon, eating meals that require a cluster of knives and forks and discussing current affairs. Not three nights a week in the pub, big night out on Saturday when you get sausage and chips at the chippie and eat them as you stagger home. I didn’t want to spend my life eating fish fingers off a tray on my lap, while watching TV. I didn’t want to wear a nylon tracksuit and look forward to Christmas when you’d buy me a piece of jewellery from the Argos catalogue.’
‘You’re a snob.’
‘Maybe. But I’m thirty years old now and I have to accept myself and my faults or just give up the ghost.’
I could let the discussion drop. Stevie would for evermore think of me as a snooty cow who’s ashamed of her background. He’d probably hate me a little bit more but I wouldn’t have to delve any deeper. Or (the scary alternative) I could push through this awkwardness and try to explain the small print. I could be courageous and tell Stevie that my discontent was not about the lack of money but about something far more obscure and defining.
‘Kirkspey makes me feel limited,’ I explain. ‘Hemmed in. Underused. They don’t expect much from me and when I’m with them I’m not much.’
‘They?’
‘My family, my childhood friends, even the teachers. They didn’t expect much from me or anyone else for that matter. No one from Kirkspey believes anyone from Kirkspey can be anything at all. They are dead before they’ve lived. You didn’t see them as I did. It became impossible for me to imagine our life together.’
‘You saw me as one of them? A deadbeat?’ he asks, with a perception I could have done without.
‘Sometimes.’ He looks hurt and drains his milkshake. ‘Not always. But more and more often towards the end. You ignored my suggestions to move down south.’
‘We couldn’t afford it.’
‘The day you said we could move back to Kirkspey and live with your mum was particularly bleak.’
‘My mum’s a lovely lady,’ said Stevie, understandably defensive.
‘She is, but it would have been such a terrible leap backwards for me.’
‘But there was work there.’
‘In the post office!’
‘A steady income. I thought that was what you wanted.’
‘I still don’t know what I want.’
But even back then I knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want my children to grow up in a house where the white paintwork is yellowed with cigarette smoke and people use the loo as an ashtray so there are always stray fags floating in the water. I didn’t want a household where no one bothers to say ‘excuse me’, ‘pardon’ or ‘what?’, let alone knows whether it’s to negotiate body space, beg forgiveness for an embarrassing bodily function or ask if a question can be repeated in a louder voice. I didn’t want my daughters to be considered unlucky. I didn’t want my sons to feel the need to mindlessly beat other women’s sons, just for something to do on a Friday night. It all seemed pagan. I just wanted things to be different.
‘And now?’ asks Stevie.
‘Now, what?’
‘Now do you see me as one of them? Do you see me as someone who would want to hold you back? Limit your potential?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Stevie, you are an Elvis impersonator. You wear jewellery and flares. What makes you think you could ever show your face in Kirkspey local again? You’re not one of them. I was wrong about that.’
Stevie smiles, a broad forgiving grin. He recognizes my backhanded compliment. His pleasure encourages me to be kinder.
‘You’ve done really well, Stevie. I wish I’d had teachers like you when I was at school. And the Elvis thing’s turned out OK, hasn’t it? Don’t get me wrong, I still fundamentally disbelieve in what you are trying to achieve. Why be an imitation when—’
‘Stop, stop, quit while you’re ahead,’ Stevie laughs. ‘Please don’t pour any cold water on the compliment. Leave me with the warm glow.’
We smile at one another and I feel a great sense of relief. Telling Stevie how I felt, and why I acted as I did, is a stupendous release. I had not realized that I was so burdened by guilt and shame until now. Now I feel a tiny bit calmer. Stevie’s relationship to me is a little bit straighter and clearer: he’s an ex and I’ve just articulated all the reasons why he’s an ex. I feel such a surge of wellbeing that I stretch out my hand and grab his. I squeeze it tightly, hoping he’ll understand how I feel. I hope that somehow he sees that there has been a monumental shift.
‘About last night, Belinda.’
‘Do we have to talk about it?’ I ask. I mean, one step at a time.
‘I think we do,’ says Stevie who is obviously keen for quantum leaps.
‘I’m so sorry, Stevie, but I don’t want to.’ It terrifies me that last night Stevie kissed me, and not only did I kiss a man other than my husband but I kissed a man who is my other husband.
And I liked it.
Very much.
I don’t want to lose Philip but I can’t quite let Stevie go. Of course my actions are stupendously flawed. Kissing Stevie is a direct route to losing Phil, and signing decree absolute papers is the sort of thing you do when you are letting go. I can’t have both men but will one of them ever be enough?
‘I need to, Belinda. I’m totally thrown. Here’s the thing. Last night Laura looked sensational. She looked more—’
‘More beautiful than I did.’ I help him out. Of course she did, that had been my plan. I didn’t want him to notice me because I knew I was unlikely to resist the onslaught of his attention.
‘Different. She always looks lovely but last night she was beautiful. And she’s easier going than you. She’s not married to someone else. She’s not even married to me, for God’s sake. And yet in the garden all I wanted was you.’ Stevie pulls his hand out of mine and his head sinks into his hands. For one really awful minute I think he might cry. ‘I didn’t want to fall in love with you again. But it’s you. It’s always been you. But then… it can’t be you because although we’re married, you’re off limits. We’re getting divorced.’
The pain and pleasure of hearing Stevie say this explodes inside my head and heart simultaneously. It’s a rush of emotions and I’m unable to fathom which is dominant and where the feelings were launched from. Damn, just when I was making some progress. Is it as clear-cut as my head fighting my heart? I don’t think so. I think my heart is fighting a savage civil war and my head is a barbarous, invading foreigner. I rush round the table and bend down to wrap his sad bulk in my arms.
Then, when I think things cannot possibly get any more fraught and confused, I hear a familiar voice boom, ‘Hello, my loves. Who would have bloody believed it? After all these years, who would have thought it?’
38. Devil in Disguise
Stevie
The situation is out of my control and even out of the seemingly all-governing control of Bella Edwards – because the secret is no longer our little secret.
In vivid technicolour he lumbers through the diner towards us. He’s beaming at the serendipity of our meeting; Belinda and I only see the face of the Grim Reaper.
‘Bloody hell, me loves. Stevie, me lad! Belinda! I wouldn’t have known you, lass. You’ve gone skinny. How bloody brilliant to see you both.’
Neil Curran slaps me on the back, hugs Belinda and then, in a rare moment of northern man showing affection, hugs me too. Belinda and I rise from our compromising position and accept the hugs but our tongues freeze. Neil Curran, never the most observant of men, doesn’t notice our silence.
‘How many years must it be now?’ he asks. ‘Six? Seven?’
‘Eight,’ mutters Belinda. I feel very sorry for her. There’s no opportunity to pull on her poker face. The expression she’s wearing shows that she’s completely distraught and out of options.
‘And is that a wedding ring I see?’ laughs Neil, grabbing hold of Belinda’s left hand. ‘Nice.’ He let
s out a low and long whistle, ‘A carat. You must have done well for yourself, Stevie. All of that off an Elvis tribute act’s salary? I’m impressed.’ Neil’s vulgar reference to the cost of Belinda’s ring is not meant to be offensive; it’s supposed to be the opposite. Of course, under the circumstances it’s pretty vile. I thought I’d stopped being bitter a long time ago that Belinda rarely wore my plain gold band.
‘Any kiddies?’
‘No’, Belinda and I chorus quickly. I look at her, waiting for a signal as to what we should do next. She struggles to take control of the situation by turning the conversation away from us and focusing on Neil. I suppose, the less we say about ourselves the fewer lies we’ll have to tell.
‘So, Neil, Neil Curran,’ she repeats his name and – credit where it’s due – she does a plausible impression of being pleased to see him and overwhelmed by the coincidence of meeting him. The latter sentiment requires less acting talent, of course. ‘After all these years you haven’t changed a bit,’ she says, turning on the charm. If I remember correctly, she never actually liked the man. She thought he was a slimy tosser. ‘What are you up to nowadays?’
‘Still the same stuff, Bel-Girl.’ Belinda shrivels a fraction on hearing the nickname he’d given her several years back. I’ve always thought it was rather witty on a number of levels – she always hated it. ‘That’s right, same stuff. It’s in the blood, isn’t it? Elvis, showbiz the whole shebang. It’s in y’ blood. You know that, with your Stevie. Still doing the circuit after a decade. Bet you didn’t imagine that way back when?’
‘No,’ says Belinda, drily. ‘So, are you here for the Greatest European Tribute Artist Convention and Competition?’ Somehow she manages to inject enthusiasm into the question.
‘Of course. I’m the compère. I saw the list of finalists and your name, Stevie. But I wasn’t sure it was you, lad. Common name, Stevie Jones, might have been one of a number,’ says Neil. ‘You haven’t been so big on the UK scene for quite some time now, have you, Stevie? Didn’t know what you were up to. Have you been earning your cash abroad? This your comeback gig?’
‘Something like that,’ I mutter.
‘Very appropriate, lad. The King himself did exactly the same thing in Vegas on July the thirty-first, in nineteen sixty-nine. He performed at the Hilton, an off-Strip hotel that depended on the showroom as its major draw. Hundreds were turned away almost every night, even though there were two shows. One at eight in the evening and another at midnight.’
I know everything Neil is telling me about Elvis and he probably knows that but he likes the sound of his own voice far too much to shut up. Besides, he’s clearly had a few too many already and makes the mistake most drunks make: he thinks what he has to say is fascinating. I tune out and spend a few moments in unprofitable panic worrying about the things I’ve just said to Belinda, the fact that last night we kissed and the fact that someone from our past is here, very much in our present. I look at Belinda and I figure that she’s doing the same. She’s alabaster white.
‘Have you had a flutter?’ he asks.
‘Small one,’ I confirm.
‘What about you, Bel-Girl? I’d have you down as a bit of a secret gambler. The quiet ones are always the worst.’ Neil nudges me in the ribs.
Belinda stares at him, clearly stunned that he has made such an accurate appraisal of her character. She may hate gambling on the tables and slots but he’s right, she’s the biggest risk-taker I know.
‘Have a go on the slots, little lady. That’s my tip. The three-coin jackpot often pays a hundred and fifty per cent of a two-coin win. Theoretically costing a quarter of a dollar per play. The trick is, Bel-Girl, to know that they only pay out substantial sums if two or three coins are deposited instead of one. But, and here’s the rub, less than a quarter of slot players play with more than one coin at a time. That’s knowledge for those in the know, that is.’ He winks at her, she doesn’t respond and I doubt she appreciates the tip. ‘It’s grand bumping into you. It will be just like old times tomorrow. Best of luck to you, Stevie. Best of luck, lad,’ says Neil, who always had a habit of repeating a sentiment several times.
‘Thank you,’ I stutter. If ever a man needed luck…
‘Well, we need to get going,’ says Belinda, signalling frantically to the waitress for the bill. She knows Neil Curran well enough to guess that he could keep chatting all afternoon; our participation in the conversation would not be required. ‘Stevie needs to try his costume on. We don’t want to be late for the dress rehearsal.’
‘Oh, yes. We’re taking it all very seriously. The rehearsal’s an event in itself. Ticketed, you know,’ says Neil, proudly.
‘I guess that’s so the organizers can make twice as much, is it?’ asks Belinda.
‘Aye.’ Neil smiles, ‘My idea.’ He doesn’t seem to hear her dig. She was forever complaining that the organizers of these events were exploitative and the prizes weren’t up to much. She could never see the fun in just being part of it.
‘I helped find a number of the sponsors too, mind,’ adds Neil. A northern man, in his fifties, who isn’t shy about his canniness with money. If he’d been born in the south, as likely as not Neil Curran would have been running a cutting-edge advertising agency or made a fortune as a City trader.
‘This bash has cost a bob or two with every finalist bringing three friends.’ And then he asks the question I didn’t want to answer in this lifetime, ‘Who did you bring with you, if you haven’t bairns?’
I don’t think the truth – my girlfriend and Belinda’s other husband – would make appropriate small talk so I’m grateful that Belinda takes control.
She kisses Neil’s cheek.
‘Really fantastic to see you,’ she lies. ‘We’ll leave you to your lunch and er…’ She glances at the booth that Neil emerged from; it’s littered with empty beer bottles but he’s eating alone. ‘And er… your beer,’ she adds, as she grabs my hand and starts to lead me away. She appears every inch the devoted Elvis-wife, who sees to it that I leave plenty of time to style my quiff before big gigs, sews sequins on my costume, spends hours on the Internet sourcing the most authentic gold glasses available, that sort of thing. Exactly the type of wife Belinda did not want to be. ‘See you at the rehearsals, tonight, I expect,’ she calls over her shoulder.
‘I’ll be there, lass. You can count on me. Goodbye.’
We pay the bill at the counter and then leave the diner. Belinda manages to keep smiling until we are safely in a taxi, then she immediately lets go of my hand as though it is scalding her and rounds on me like Attila the Hun.
‘Fuck, Stevie, what have you done now?’ she spits, in an angry whisper.
‘Me?’ I’m more than surprised.
‘Didn’t you check to see if you knew any of the personnel running the competition?’
I feel stupid. There’s an information pack in my room with brief biographies of the competitors, the other entertainment acts and the compère. I hadn’t read it.
‘This is all your fault,’ says Belinda emphatically and somewhat unfairly.
‘My fault?’
‘It was you who brought us here,’ she snaps angrily.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I mutter sarcastically. ‘But you weren’t forced to accept the freebie holiday, you could have said you had a previous engagement.’
‘I wish I had,’ she barks.
Hell, of course this was always going to go tits up. How could I, of all people, have fallen for the pseudo-sophistication of Bella Edwards when I knew it was just Belinda McDonnel in a posh frock. Belinda never had the luck to get away with anything as conniving as this. Belinda was the kid in class who always got caught when she copied her homework, the kid who missed the hockey goal on an important penalty point, the kid whose mum died of lung cancer. How did she manage to get away with bigamy for this long with luck like hers?
Bickering isn’t going to help.
‘Bloody hell, Belinda, what are we going to do?’ I hav
e no idea why I’ve asked her. She’s hardly been a leading beacon when it comes to good ideas and foolproof plans to date, but then I am struggling for alternatives.
‘You’ll have to pull out of the competition.’
‘What?’ I’m astounded.
‘There’s no alternative. He thinks we’re married.’
‘We are.’
‘Be serious, Stevie.’
Belinda has disappeared. The woman who wrapped her arms around me and wanted to comfort me in the diner, just ten minutes ago, recedes in front of my eyes and instead Bella, the I-will-survive queen, comes to the forefront. In my head she is wearing one of those T-shirts that read ‘It’s All About Me’.
‘If you go ahead with the show, Laura, Phil and I will be in the audience. Neil’s bound to come over to our table after the show and he’ll let the cat out of the bag.’
‘Well, you and Phil don’t have to come to the competition, we might get away with it.’
‘We won’t,’ says Belinda. ‘Things are getting out of hand.’ I’m not sure if she’s referring to the unfortunate meeting with Neil Curran or our snog last night.
‘Promise me you’ll pull out,’ she says.
‘Don’t ask me to do that.’
‘I am asking. I’m pleading.’
‘I can’t do that, Belinda. This means too much to me.’
‘As much as I mean to you?’ she demands. I pause for a moment and wonder how I can explain.
Eventually I mutter, ‘You’re not mine.’
‘Just a few minutes ago you said you were in love with me. Was that just something to say at the time, to increase your chances of getting your hand down my knickers, or did you mean it?’
A number of things go through my mind. Whether I’ve ever had even the slightest chance of getting my hand down her knickers is, I’m ashamed to admit, one of the thoughts. The others are a little more pragmatic as I struggle with the nub of the question. Did I mean it when I said I loved her? And, if I did, how much am I prepared to do in the name of love?
