Husbands

by Adele Parks

  But suddenly, I’m paralyzed with fear because I wonder is this all I know? ‘Stuff?’

  I’m not so sure I know any of the big things about Bella, the things that give a life meaning. We have form but no meaning. How does she vote? Would she even get off her backside to cast a vote? Probably, for general elections but maybe not for local ones. How shocking. Does she want four kids? Does she want one? Why can’t she figure out what she wants to do from nine till five? Is it really that hard? What’s making her sad at the moment? How is it possible to know so much about a person and yet know nothing at all?

  She’s made an effort with her make-up. I know that because I know she doesn’t normally wear eyeshadow, but today she is wearing two colours, carefully blended together and the liner stuff, and mascara. I know that she’s wearing Perfect Pout gloss on her lips and Eyeko bronzer on her cheeks. I’ve been with her when she’s scoured shelves for these products. I know so much. I know nothing at all. Because, the question that I cannot answer is whether the make-up is a mask to hide her? Armour to protect her? Camouflage to disguise her? Or is she painted like a flower to attract a passing bee?

  I don’t know my wife and the pain of admitting such a thing is almost beyond my capacity. I’m struggling to behave with a semblance of rationalism.

  ‘Do we have to go to the show?’ she asks again.

  ‘You’re all dressed up,’ I point out.

  ‘We could go somewhere else.’

  I ignore her and pick up the door key and my wallet. ‘Bella?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you having an affair?’

  ‘No.’ She stares at my left ear, for about a minute, then she looks me straight in the eye and repeats, ‘No.’

  But I don’t believe her.

  41. One Night

  Bella

  We arrive at the hotel hosting the gig at 8.45 p.m. I have done my best to delay the inevitable – I’ve never taken so long to get ready for something, not even on my wedding days. However, Phil’s beautiful manners mean that my death warrant is signed. I swear I can hear the blade of the guillotine being sharpened. I thought that looking sexy might distract him and that he’d pounce on me, putting all thoughts of supporting Stevie out of his mind. But the conversation about my phantom pregnancy well and truly ruined the mood. Where the hell had that ludicrous idea come from?

  In the taxi I said I was feeling dizzy again. He grunted that he was sure it was nothing a stiff drink wouldn’t cure. It seems he is all out of consideration and thoughtful-ness as far as I’m concerned. Understandable, I suppose, but lousy timing. If ever I needed Phil to be dependable, solicitous and kind, it’s tonight. Bad luck. Bad timing. Very Vegas.

  Neil Curran will expose Stevie and me tonight. Besides the imminent exposure – too terrible and traumatic to contemplate – there’ll also be a certain amount of torture beforehand. A little like bad foreplay before miserable sex, only hundreds of times worse. I am going to have to sit through fifteen Elvis tribute acts. I am about to be hauled – lashing and biting – down memory lane. It’s almost enough to make me want to confess all to Philip right now. Why put myself through the horror of drawing out the experience?

  Survival instinct, I suppose.

  Despite the odds, a tiny defiant (deluded?) part of me wonders if it is possible that I’ll get away with this. I’m hoping that somehow Neil Curran won’t spot me in the crowd, or if he does, he might not want to mention his ancient association with Stevie, in case it’s viewed as nepotism. I still hope against hope that I’ll leave tonight’s gig as Phil’s wife.

  The hotel is as flashy and gaudy as all the others I’ve seen on this trip, they’re beginning to blur into one homogeneous mass of neon. We flash our VIP tickets to an earnest and efficient member of the waiting staff and we’re swiftly ushered through a series of dark corridors and back doors, until double doors are pushed open and we are in a lavish and remarkable concert room.

  The carpets are plush. The flowers, lights, candles and glittering backdrop on the stage are impressive. The tables and chairs have been set up, in tight clusters around the stage, and stretching as far back into the hall as possible; I’d guess there is a capacity of six hundred. It’s a long way from the King’s Arms Hotel in Blackpool. Undeniably, it’s striking.

  We are late so the venue is already heaving. At first glance I think every chair is full but the usher points towards a table near the stage, where Laura is sitting alone, watching a Mediterranean-looking Elvis singing ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. He’s thrashing manically about the stage and the kindest thing I can say about him is that his costume is very glittery. Laura turns, spots us and then beams and waves enthusiastically. Phil and I thread our way through the tables and join her. She jumps up and kisses us both, giggling with anticipation.

  ‘Have we missed much?’ asks Phil.

  ‘This is the fourth contestant; he’s from Greece.’

  ‘Were any of the others any good?’ I ask, more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.

  ‘Good enough but no real competition,’ says Laura with a grin. ‘“All Shook Up” has already been done twice. Poor choice because the song has become so recognized that it’s difficult to recall or recapture its initial impact. A German contestant did “Wooden Heart”, which is a bit predictable, as it was originally a German song for kids. One guy did a neat rendition of “Good Luck Charm” but that’s not a crowd-pleaser. It doesn’t showcase Elvis’s tenderness or the command and control he had over his voice.’

  Laura has become quite the expert on Elvis. I never had the same interest.

  ‘When’s Stevie appearing?’ asks Phil.

  ‘He’s tenth.’

  I groan inwardly. The row will have erupted way before then. Poor Stevie won’t even have the opportunity to perform because it would be very callous to carry on after the revelation that we’re married. Looking at it like that it seems all the more stupid that he’s insisting on taking part at all.

  There are a large number of Elvises in the crowd. Some are supporters and some are performers, who come to the front of house once they have done their spot, to watch the rest of the show and monitor the standard of the competition. They congratulate one another on their performance, which is genuine: they all admire Elvis so much that they like to see his work performed well. They also hate each other. Life is complex.

  Phil is following my gaze and muses, ‘What’s the collective noun for a group of Elvises? A gaggle? A gang? A flock? A group?’

  ‘A travesty,’ I say firmly.

  Phil ignores my comment and suggests ordering a bottle of champagne; Laura agrees. I decide to have a glass even though I’m not in the mood for celebrating; I hope it will numb the pain. Although the hall is rammed with waiting staff I make a big thing of going to the bar, which is not visible from the stage. I time my exit to coincide with the Greek Elvis finishing ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, at least this way I can avoid being spotted by Neil Curran for another act. I wonder how many reasons I can make up for leaving the table. I could buy snacks, reorder drinks, I could go to the loo (my old favourite). Could it possibly work?

  I manage my mission of ordering drinks from the bar, even though it means that I have to argue with three waiters who all think I am sabotaging any chance they have at making decent money from tips tonight. The last thing these guys need is customers who are keen to serve themselves. My ploy works for now – by the time I return to the table Neil has been and gone, the coast is clear.

  I check the commemorative programme (Laura’s bought three) and find out that the guy currently performing is Danish. Fair enough, I’m genuinely impressed by the European nature of the competition. In Blackpool fourteen of the fifteen ‘European’ finalists were British. Here in Vegas there are only eight British guys.

  The guy on the stage is bald and fat. OK, I accept that Elvis became a bit of a lard boy towards the end of his life but he was never bald. I’m unreasonably offended on Elvis’s behalf that this, frankly,
plain – no, I might as well be honest – this ugly guy thinks he’s anything like Elvis. Whatever grievances I have against Elvis, everyone knows he was sex on legs.

  I close my eyes in frustration – a feeble attempt to blank out my surroundings. Then, a funny thing happens, I start to think, maybe – just maybe – the Danish Elvis is good. His ‘Crying in the Chapel’ is just like Elvis’s. There’s something raw and awkward about his performance that has a distinct authenticity. I open my eyes again and this time I don’t see a bald, fat guy. I see a talented man who has the audience rapt. He’s shaking with nerves, and although I am officially as hard as nails, he affects me by bending down (a struggle, the costume is tight) to shake hands with a wee bairn who is sat by the stage. She can’t be more than seven years old and she melts – bloody hell – I do too. Towards the end of his second song I rush off to buy plates of pitta bread and hummus, claiming that I’m starving, and from a distance I listen to the explosive applause his act inspires. I find myself clapping too.

  Once again I avoid Neil and return to the table to catch the sixth act singing ‘GI Blues’. He’s wearing a uniform. Good ploy, I concede. He certainly cuts through the clutter of white suits with diamanté and feathers. Laura loves this act and claps in time to the music. Then she catches herself and stops abruptly.

  ‘Don’t think I’m being disloyal,’ she says. ‘I’m fully behind Stevie, but this guy is pretty good.’

  ‘They’re all good,’ I grant. ‘The quality of the contestants is really impressive. It’s a decent show.’

  Laura is delighted that I’m showing any sign of enthusiasm for the event. I have to confess I am surprised. In Blackpool the show was depressingly amateur and I loathed it. Microphones fell apart, the techies buggered up the intro of some acts and cut off the final notes of others. Neil Curran drank one too many and pronounced the contestants’ names incorrectly, even the judges were more worried about getting their next pint in than they were about the acts.

  Here in Vegas there is a large orchestra, not a bashed-up beatbox. The audience contains some friends and family but is mostly made up of card-carrying members of the public, who want to be professionally entertained. They number in the hundreds, not an embarrassing fifty or so. The bar sells Moët not Blue Nun. There is a stage, curtains, theatre make-up and backdrops. The performances are convincing. Things have changed.

  ‘I’d hate to judge anything,’ Laura says. ‘They are all so good and so devoted.’

  Whereas I judge all the time.

  The GI Elvis must have something special because I forget to dash out of the room as his act closes. I’m left with no alternative but to duck under the table as the compère strides on to the stage.

  ‘What are you doing?’ demands Phil.

  ‘I’ve lost an earring,’ I say, swiftly swiping one from my right lobe. Laura and Philip immediately start to hunt for the earring, causing more disruption than I want.

  ‘No, no, you watch the show,’ I instruct. But it’s too late.

  ‘What’s going on over there?’ demands the compère. ‘Avoiding a debt collector?’

  The joke is pretty shoddy and could easily be one of Neil Curran’s but the accent’s not his. This compère is American. I peep out above the table and almost collapse with relief. He’s in his mid-thirties, slim with teeth so white they sparkle. Definitely not Neil Curran.

  Where is Neil Curran and his endless pit of dirty jokes? I don’t understand. Why the reprieve? I grab the programme and rapidly flick through it until I find the page that lists the personnel involved in the competition. Sure enough, in black and white, Neil Curran is billed as the compère. He’s almost unrecognizable, billed as a ‘stupendous and special guest, the great and the good, Neil Curran, brought over by popular demand’ (his, no doubt) and the accompanying photo is at least fifteen years old. Still, despite the generous intro and the old photo, it is Neil. So what’s going on?

  ‘It says here that a Neil Curran is compèring. Who’s the American guy with the smile?’ I ask Laura.

  ‘Wow, yes. You missed a full-on drama earlier on. Apparently the billed compère is one hundred per cent mank, pissed as a parrot. He’s been drinking all day. The competition organizers have insisted that he goes to bed and sleeps it off. According to Stevie he’s practically under armed guard, because they don’t want him to fluff up tomorrow’s big show.’

  ‘Stevie told you that?’

  ‘Yes. He popped by the table before the show started. He said you’d be interested. Said you’d think it was bewdy.’

  Laura smiles and doesn’t understand the magnificent significance of the information she has just imparted to me. Bless her, why would she? And bless Stevie. He must have come by to try to put my mind at rest. I am so relieved, my body melts like warm wax. Neil was a bit merry at lunchtime – situation normal. Thank God, Americans have principles about such things. I don’t deserve to be this lucky but I am so, so grateful that I am. I beam at Laura and she smiles back. I beam at Phil, he’s cagier.

  Oh shit, yes. Philip is suspicious. The question about whether I’m having a baby (way off mark) and the question about whether I’m having an affair (not so way off mark) demand my attention.

  I lean towards him and whisper, ‘You OK?’ He nods but without much enthusiasm. ‘I’m sorry you had your hopes up about me being pregnant,’ I whisper.

  He shrugs but the hurt is visible. I lean close to him and kiss him – for the first time since I kissed Stevie. I hope the kiss conveys warmth, promise, an apology and love. I hope he doesn’t sense any guilt, fear, deceit or pity. I wait nervously for his response. Under the table Phil squeezes my knee and mouths, ‘Love you.’

  Relieved, I sit back and decide that since I’ve been touched by this crazy piece of good fortune, then I might as well try to enjoy the show.

  The eighth Elvis appears to be quite the professional. As he walks on to the stage he starts to chat to the audience in role. Something I approve of. I mean, if you are going to do this thing, then you ought to go the whole hog. He swaggers on to the stage in a blur of, ‘OK, baby?’ and, ‘Uh huh.’ But, in fact, his performance is not so strong. I can’t make out the words he’s singing. I think he’s saying, ‘Mumble, mumble, mumble, murmmmmble.’ It is a professional hazard that some Elvises go too far on the low gravelly thing and are barely audible. Still, I find I am tapping my foot and having what must look like a good time, to the outside world.

  By the time the ninth Elvis is performing (the Italian who is, as his sister promised, very good) I am genuinely excited about seeing Stevie’s act. Laura is giddy with nerves. She wants Stevie’s to be the performance of a lifetime. Unsurprisingly, she’s not especially bothered about the pinwheel suit (black this year, I’m led to believe) or even the prize money. Nor do I think she’s itching for Stevie to become a full-time Elvis tribute act. She just wants him to win because it will make him happy. She wants him to be happy.

  And I do too.

  Who would have thought it? How can events keep changing, twisting, turning, morphing with such speed, after standing so still for years. Now that I think we have a reasonable chance of remaining undetected this evening, I find myself wanting Stevie to perform brilliantly. Perhaps I can persuade Phil that we don’t need to attend tomorrow’s show and maybe Stevie will win. Yeah, why not? He wants it enough. He’s talented enough. And then after he wins we can all go home to—

  To what?

  To how it was. I finally did it. I’ve started to think about who I am and what I want. The last couple of months have been a rollercoaster but there has been one constant, and tonight, while I was applying my make-up, I reminded myself of it: I don’t want to lose Phil. I don’t.

  My thoughts are interrupted as the compère announces Stevie Jones.

  He’s wearing a sky-blue jumpsuit, the most flamboyant costume I have seen tonight. It has a fur and feather collar, the neckline plunges to meet a wide, diamanté belt at his waist. I think anyone else would strug
gle to carry it off but Stevie looks wonderfully sexy. He hesitates as he walks on to the stage but I know that the timidity is fake: he’s already in role. Elvis was always endearingly shy. Then he switches on the charm, full beam. He grins at the audience, curls his lip and mutters, ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.’

  The room erupts into wild applause.

  Stevie is fit, tall, dressed to kill, and he’s given the audience what they want: Elvis at his best, Elvis in his heyday and all of this before he even sings a note.

  I find I am on my feet cheering and clapping, I only notice when I realize my hands are stinging.

  Stevie starts with ‘Jailhouse Rock’. It is impossible to resist from the moment the first distinctive lines and chords slam on to the stage. He howls the intricate and complex lyrics with exuberance and sincerity. He is on his toes, moving with confidence and rhythm, flinging his body around the stage in exactly the way Elvis did. When did Stevie become so good? He’s far better than I remembered or imagined. Like the King himself, he gets the crowd hot and bothered and young and old alike swoon. His foray into the audience is the best-received segment of the night so far.