Husbands

by Adele Parks

  ‘You are a tough woman,’ says Henryk.

  Am I? I’m amazed. I’ve been worrying that I’m a bit of a pushover. Stevie and Bella certainly saw me as a sap.

  ‘You need to talk to him.’

  ‘I’m never going to talk to him again,’ I say categorically.

  ‘Not the boyfriend. The old one. You have to speak to Philip.’

  ‘Oh, Henryk, you haven’t got some half-arsed plan that Phil and I will get it together. Life doesn’t work out like that. He’s a nice guy but I don’t even fancy him. Besides, I’m in—’

  ‘In love with Stevie,’ says Henryk. ‘I know.’ He holds my gaze with his old soul eyes. The guy smells of cement and is wearing a lumberjack shirt yet he has more depth and sensitivity than a nineteenth-century romantic poet. It is a bit of a shame that there aren’t more men like Henryk around. Like him, but in their thirties and without the moustache.

  ‘Jesus H. Christ, of course I don’t think you get romantic with the other husband. This situation is big mess enough. But maybe you help each other.’ Henryk looks at his watch and seems startled. ‘I must get home. It is good to speak with you, Laura, but my wife doesn’t like me late and in truth, I don’t like being late to her. I must go and you must get your son to bed.’

  Henryk leaves my key, tells me he’ll be in touch regarding the invoice but he has a good enough heart not to mention a figure now. I see him to the door and thank him for taking the time to talk to me.

  ‘It is a pleasure. You are good woman and you’ll make good man happy, I know it.’

  Then he rushes away, taking the stairs two at a time, to hurry home to his wife. As his green and purple checked shirt fades into the distance, I decide what I want. I want what Henryk and his wife have. I don’t want to just get old in someone’s company, I want to grow old being adored. I want my husband to rush home to me, long after he’s in his fifties, two stairs at a time.

  Does that mean I still believe it might happen? Damn me, for being an eternal optimist. I have to learn. I must not have these thoughts.

  I drag Eddie out from the makeshift cubby he’s built under the dining table with a picnic rug and an assortment of cushions. I force him to brush his teeth but let him forgo his bath as it is already a quarter to eight. He lugs his little body into his favourite Spider-man jim-jams and unusually, falls into a heavy sleep the moment I ease him into his bed.

  I sit by his side, stroking his dark curls, which defiantly refuse to be tamed, and listen to the sounds that are drifting through the open window. I can hear a neighbour’s TV blaring; someone else is considering lighting a barbie. I’ve got to hand it to the Brits, there’s no holding them back when it comes to making use of every second of summer. It only stopped raining about an hour ago – how can a barbie seem like a reasonable idea? A couple pass by and I listen to them bickering about what to watch on TV tonight. Just as they are moving out of earshot I hear the bloke yell, ‘OK, OK, we’ll watch your crap.’ His words are stroppy but his tone of voice is affectionate.

  And I wonder.

  Is this it for me?

  Am I destined to sit forever on the sidelines, watching my son grow up and listening to my neighbours’ squabbles? Will I get the chance to grow old disgracefully in the arms of someone who adores me? Or is it really two strikes and you’re out?

  Bleak, bleak thought.

  I wander into the kitchen, stick my head in the fridge and consider what I should eat for supper. Nothing looks especially inviting as my appetite is subdued, but my belly is rumbling and thinks my throat has been cut, I need fuel. I settle on a tin of beans. I pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and the beans into a saucepan.

  I scrabble around the kitchen drawer for a box of matches to light the gas ring. Sod’s law springs into action. Of course, I couldn’t stumble across a box of Swan: I had to find the ones from the champagne bar at Paris, Las Vegas.

  I read the quote on the box: ‘Brothers, come quick! I am tasting stars!’ I bitterly regret sneaking these into my pocket. I do not need to be reminded of that wonderful night. I need to forget it. I, too, thought I was tasting stars. I believed that Stevie was a miracle. A stupendous, delicious, bubbly miracle, all mine to enjoy.

  And I thought he felt the same about me.

  But he didn’t.

  So I need to stamp out any latent affection that might be smugly hanging around, waiting to develop into something even more dangerous – longing, for example. Because if Stevie doesn’t adore me and doesn’t want to grow old being adored by me, then bugger him. It would be such a mistake to flog a dead horse. I am not some imbo who is prepared to hang around wanting and waiting for Stevie, since he’s clearly a bastard. Besides, who am I kidding? He’s probably rooting Bella right this moment. They are probably enjoying some amazing date in a fabulous restaurant, bar or club, while I’m here, alone in my kitchen with my tin of beans and box of matches. It’s worth remembering that I couldn’t hang around him, even if I wanted to, as he wants nothing to do with me. Which is a good thing because he’s the lame-brained one. He’s unworthy.

  It would be a big, big mistake to want to be with him. Huge. Catastrophic.

  The only mistake I could think of making that would be quite as catastrophic would be not hanging around Stevie if he did want something to do with me.

  Bugger it, why is it so easy to imagine being adored by him? Growing old with him? That mental picture should have been well and truly shunted from my mind now. It’s over four weeks since we broke up. I sigh.

  Still, since the picture of domestic harmony and ancient dotage is still lodged firmly in my mind, what harm can it do ringing Phil?

  49. Reconsider Baby

  Saturday 14th August 2004

  Philip

  I wasn’t surprised to receive Laura’s call, but then again, little surprises me nowadays. I was pleased she rang. I’ve missed her. She’s a great girl, a decent laugh; you know, fun. Of course, I’m not expecting her to be much fun today. Not under the circumstances.

  She didn’t bother with excuses or a preamble. She barely paused to politely ask after me. She went directly for the jugular and said that she needed to talk to me. I suggested dinner or lunch, she reminded me that she struggles to get childcare cover at the weekend, so I suggested we meet in Kew Gardens, that way she can bring Eddie with her. He can terrorize geese while we talk about life.

  She’s late – situation normal – and I feel strangely comforted by this constant in a world that is in such disarray. Finally, she strides through the gates, a striking silhouette against the rare sunshine this summer. She looks lovely. She’s wearing a dress, a floating, girly thing that is an effective complement to her strong, defined, almost masculine limbs. Eddie is trailing behind her. He looks hot and bothered; stubborn and fed up. I kiss her hello, on the cheek, and offer to buy him an ice cream. It’s like flicking a switch: suddenly, he is wearing the widest, most angelic beam. If only it was so easy to make his mum smile.

  We find a cafeteria, choose an ice each and, thus fortified, Eddie gamely charges in front of us, happy to amuse himself.

  ‘How have you been?’ I ask.

  ‘Miserable,’ replies Laura. She grins, there’s not a jot of self-pity about her, she’s simply stating a fact. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Up and down.’

  ‘I bet,’ she says licking her chocolate ice cream (two scoops and a Flake).

  I take the bull by the horns. We might as well get on with it. ‘I understand you won’t speak to Bella or Stevie.’ I bite into my more modest choice, a fruit-flavoured ice lolly.

  ‘Do you bloody blame me?’ she asks, outraged. ‘You of all people can’t think I owe them a hearing or anything else for that matter.’

  ‘No, but you might owe it to yourself.’

  ‘Fuck ’em, I say. They deserve each other. I don’t want to have to listen to either of them bleating on about how they couldn’t resist each other, or that they were destined for one anothe
r, or that they tried to stop themselves but couldn’t, or some other predictable pig’s arse.’

  Laura says this at reasonably high volume. Even though I’ve sat through, and actively contributed to, some fairly loud debates in the past month, I still shy away from publicity. I take a glance around us and then start to lead her along a less populated walkway.

  ‘Neither of them wants to say any of those things to you, Laura.’

  ‘Yeah. I bet they don’t think they even have to justify it to me,’ she says bitterly. ‘Too busy rooting.’

  ‘They haven’t shagged for many years.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘And you believe them?’

  ‘I do, as it happens.’ Laura flashes me a strange look. It’s hard to decipher. It’s somewhere between incredulous and pitying. ‘I’ve talked to them both at some length over the last month and I think I have a clearer picture of what went on than you have.’

  ‘I suppose Bella managed to convince you that she wasn’t about to run off with Stevie. That she’d made a choice to be with you even before Neil Curran spilt the beans.’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘Ha.’ Pure contempt spurts out of Laura’s mouth.

  ‘Do you want me to tell you what I found out?’

  ‘No,’ she says firmly.

  ‘Then why did you call me?’

  Laura plonks herself on the nearest bench. Eddie runs to us and insists his mum holds his ice cream. She takes it from him and continues to lick her own as she watches him attempt forward rolls, cartwheels and handstands just in front of us. He’s only four, so not in the slightest bit accomplished.

  ‘It’s great being a kid, isn’t it?’ she muses. ‘Look at him, not a thought for injury, mud or goose shit. He’s just having a laugh. I’d give anything to be that carefree.’

  Eddie waves and instructs us to watch him do a forward roll. Which we do; he performs it badly then stands up and beams, ‘I’m brilliant at those, aren’t I?’

  His mother and I laugh and assure him he’s the world champion.

  ‘You’re giving him a lovely childhood, Laura,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks.’ She pauses, then adds, ‘He’s missing Stevie. He was really shattered for days. Even though Stevie was only around for a couple of months, they really liked each other. Did I ever cock that up. I should never have let Stevie get his feet so far under our table. Especially since he was getting other bits of his anatomy up your wife.’

  I swallow. This isn’t an easy conversation to have.

  Laura sees my discomfort. ‘Sorry, mate. This is obviously lousy for you too. You know I’m not delicate.’

  ‘They didn’t have sex,’ I repeat.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ asks Laura. She still sounds doubtful but something in her voice suggests she wants to be convinced.

  ‘I trust Bella on this.’

  ‘Right!’ The word explodes in a derisive and indignant snort.

  ‘I do. I talked and talked to her. She went into detail about their encounters, so much detail that what she said had to be true.’

  Laura seems to consider this. Eddie retrieves his ice cream from her and I think she’s admiring the flower beds but it appears she’s watching the visitors. ‘What a drama. I didn’t want my life to be so full of drama and disappointment. I just want the chance to be normal, like that family over there. Is that so much to ask?’ She points, apparently randomly, to a couple sat on a picnic rug under a large birch tree. They look as though they’ve set up camp for a week. Besides the enormous double buggy and picnic basket, they are weighed down with umbrellas, parasols, suncream, raincoats, spare clothes, three children and a baby.

  The mother opens an endless stream of Tupperware boxes, and dishes out food to her family while breastfeeding. She looks frazzled. The father appears to be equally irritated. He keeps insisting that the children ought to sit down and shut up but he’s ignored. His broadsheet is flapping in the wind and several pages escape. He chases them, muttering obscenities. The family is boisterous and fraught. But I still know why Laura envies them.

  ‘They weren’t having an affair, Laura. They had a flirtation with their past. Not even with their present. I don’t believe either of them is attracted to what and who they are now. They fell, briefly, for the sixteen-year-old versions of each other.’

  ‘Nice theory,’ says Laura, sarcastically. ‘Very convenient.’

  ‘It’s what I believe,’ I reply.

  ‘So, they’re not together now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I take it you’ve forgiven her then?’ asks Laura. I can almost smell her disapproval, it’s so raw and unmanageable.

  ‘The thing is, Laura, not many people have me down as a romantic. It’s one of the drawbacks of being practical when it comes to DIY,’ I say, trying to make light of seriously heavy subject matter. ‘But I am a romantic. I loved Bella from first sight and I still love her.’

  ‘Well then, I’m sorry for you.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  I wonder how far I want to involve myself in this. Should I just leave Laura to her own savage pit of despair or should I try to get her out of there? Over the last month I’ve got pretty good at these big emotional talks, but hell, they are draining and not what you’d call second nature to me. I decide I’m prepared to give it one more push.

  ‘I know you’re hurt because you feel betrayed by Stevie.’

  ‘And Bella.’

  Women!

  ‘And Bella,’ I add carefully, in an effort to placate. ‘And I know you’re scared. Damn, Laura, believe me, there’s nothing you can tell me about fear. When I remember Bella and I are not husband and wife, I think I might stop breathing. Understanding that fact might make my lungs collapse. I don’t want to lose her. I understand scared.’

  Laura shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Lucky, bloody Bella. She always falls on her feet. Before she met you she stumbled into opportunity after opportunity, even though she always blew it. Then she met you and you adore her. But does she appreciate you? No, she pisses you about to the extent of marrying you while she’s married to my boyfriend and you still don’t think that’s a sacking offence. Astounding. Just thinking about it makes me want to spit chips.’

  ‘Stop ranting, Laura.’ I’ve had my fill of hysterical women for the moment. ‘Love is more important than anything, more important than a marriage certificate for a dead marriage or an absent decree absolute. Love is the only thing that counts and I love Bella.’

  How embarrassing is this? What happened in my life that it seems to be a sensible thing that I am sat on a park bench in a botanical garden and instead of discussing the seasonal blooms and asking for advice on invaluable gap fillers for my borders, I am talking about love. The answer is patent: Bella happened.

  Since Bella opened up that lunchtime in THE Hotel in Las Vegas we have had countless ‘long chats’. I have spent an inordinate amount of the past month talking about feelings, thoughts, beliefs and, well, love, essentially. It’s not too awful, I suppose. But I hope to draw a line under the entire exercise as soon as possible. It’s women’s work. The thing I need to say to Laura is very straightforward.

  ‘Being with Bella makes me happy. She wants to be with me, I want to be with her. I’m going to find a way to make that happen.’

  ‘Are you going to get married again?’ asks Laura. From her tone, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to be bridesmaid.

  ‘When the decree absolute comes through, I’ll ask her to marry me again.’

  Laura glares at me. ‘Sucker,’ she snarls.

  ‘Laura, happiness or unhappiness is a choice and I’m far too sensible to choose unhappiness.’

  Laura looks as though I have slapped her face. ‘You think this is my fault.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘You do. You think I’m sulking, unnecessarily.’

  ‘No, Laura, I think you’re scared senseless.’

  ‘You�
��re on her side.’

  ‘There are no sides. I’m Switzerland, totally neutral about everything and quite keen on peace and trade treaties.’ Laura looks infuriated. I’m sorry I always resort to joking when I’m agitated, especially as they are never remarkably spectacular jokes. ‘I can love Bella and like you too, you know.’

  ‘I do know. Stevie set the precedent for that.’

  ‘Laura, you’re not thinking clearly. You’re angry with Bella for not sorting out her past and getting everything muddled, but you’re guilty of the same thing. You were hurt so badly by Oscar that now you’re pulling out of anything you and Stevie might have going because you’re scared of being hurt again.’

  ‘Stevie pulled out of that by lying to me. By kissing my best friend and—’ Laura stumbles to a halt.

  If she accepts that Stevie and Bella weren’t having an affair, which I think she might now, Stevie’s misdemeanours are significantly less appalling.

  ‘What are you saying?’ she asks.

  ‘It might not be a bad idea to have a think about whether Stevie made you happy.’

  ‘You know he did.’

  ‘And ask yourself whether you really have to throw that away.’

  After a few moments Laura says, ‘OK, I’ll think about what you’ve said. I’m not promising anything.’

  ‘It would make me very happy if you did think it over.’ I push my luck and add, ‘It would make Bella happy too. She’s worried about you. That thing you accused her of, the displacement compassion – when you said she was only bothered about people as a way to avoid sorting out her own mess – it can’t be true. She’s sorting out her problems but still worries about you.’

  There are tears in Laura’s eyes. Anger? Frustration? Indignation? Sadness? I’m clueless. ‘I was a bit harsh,’ she acknowledges. ‘I was so angry.’

  ‘With good reason. And shocked,’ I add.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But, I know she’s not as horrible as I want her to be. I almost wish she was. I know she was very good to me, when it mattered. A total beaut. I wish I could see it all just the way you do. So simply.’