by Adele Parks
‘Everyone deserves a second chance, Laura. Bella, me, Stevie and you – most of all you.’
‘I’m not even sure Stevie wants a second chance,’ says Laura.
A comment on this is beyond my remit, so instead I suggest we go to the Orangerie café and buy cake. Laura agrees, and Eddie takes no persuading either.
50. You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me
Friday 22nd October 2004
Stevie
I am a single man. I am a free man. I am an uncomplicated soul. I know what to write in the box when marital status is requested on some or other red-tape form. I am no longer lying to my employers, my friends, my family or myself. And it feels good. I am in possession of one bona fide decree absolute.
If only I’d thought to get it a year ago.
Or even five months and two days ago, which was the day before I met Laura. Not that I’ve had that calculation readily to hand, I hasten to add. I’m not turning into a girl or a lunatic, I’ve just sat and calculated the exact date on a calendar. Just over a month and a half of which was spent with Laura. Three and a half without. That last bit is quite girly. I’ll have to watch that tendency.
Bella and Philip seem to be doing OK now. They’ve managed to put the whole rotten mess behind them, which is admirable. I’m chuffed for Bella. There’s no denying that she means a lot to me, and always will, so I’m glad she’s happy. But equally, in the cold light of day, away from all the energy and razzmatazz and emotions of Las Vegas, I’m sure she’s not the girl for me. I could sit here and list the reasons we’re incompatible but it’s all old news, not interesting to me or anyone else. Except Laura perhaps. Maybe, if I’m truly, thoroughly, especially lucky, she’ll give me the chance to tell her why Bella and I are incompatible.
Or, more importantly, a chance to tell her why she and I are compatible.
Or, more potently, why we ought never to be apart again. Well, except for work, meeting our mates, going to the loo and things like that. But in a more general sense, we should never be apart again. I’m sure of it.
Way back in 1996, when Bella split, I did all the despairing stuff that the unceremoniously dumped tend to indulge in. I endlessly recounted every moment spent together. I reran every row, obsessing about how they could have been played out in a way that would have altered the outcome. When Bella left I was heartbroken, sick to the pit of my existence. It was a big deal and I’m not going to pretend otherwise now, even after so much water has passed under the bridge. Especially after so much water has passed under the bridge.
In some ways, it has been just the same since Laura binned me, but in other ways it’s completely different. I have recounted every moment, time and time again. But this time the memories don’t slash me to the core, they don’t make me recoil and cringe. I actually take pleasure in them. I haven’t been replaying every row, because there was only ever one row. The final, unyielding, definitive row. Admittedly, I have been doing a fair bit of obsessing about how that could have been played out differently but, it pains me to admit, I haven’t the imagination to conjure up a scenario with a happy ending.
Whenever I think of my time with Laura, or Laura and Eddie, I feel fantastic. I feel one hundred per cent hero – totally happy in my own life and skin. I’m proud, buoyant and jaunty. And then reality crashes in blasting apart soothing memories, forcing me to confront the fact that I have only memories – and not enough of those: memories that will undoubtedly fade and ultimately disappear altogether. I haven’t got the girl. The misery gets pretty vivid at that point.
The circumstances of the two monumental dumpings are totally dissimilar. Laura dumping me was not only justifiable, but understandable. I’d almost go as far as to say she was without choice in the matter. I know what I did was twatish. What would Laura call it? Bogan. That’s it, I was totally bogan. I should never have agreed to keep Bella’s secret. I should have blurted out our history all over her and Phil’s pure wool rug, the moment I was invited into their sitting room way back in June. I should not have been intimidated by a plate of oysters.
Should have, what ifs, could have, would do if I had my time over… all the old excuses. But I didn’t, did I? And that is the salient fact as far as Laura’s concerned.
I wrote to her and laid my cards on the table. I told her I loved her. Big news. I should have told her a long time ago (should have, what ifs, could have, blah, blah). By the time I told her I had nothing to lose, now I’d lost everything. Hardly romantic or positive, I know. Why didn’t I tell her one night when we lay in a post-coital glow, or when we were flying to Vegas, or even that final night as she was packing? Would it have made any difference?
In the letter I told her exactly how I feel about her, why I thought we were so good together and why I thought we deserved another chance etc etc. I threw away all semblance of pride and just begged. Sod it, pride doesn’t keep you warm at night.
I tried hard to see it from her point of view and to do what was best for her. I realized that I’d put her through a shocking time and so in the letter I made it clear that I’d leave her alone until the divorce was complete. Then, and only then, I would present myself to her as a single man, a free agent, so to speak. I told her I knew she needed time to consider everything, that she wouldn’t want me to bombard her with loads of irritating texts, calls, letters, visits and stuff. I promised her that I wouldn’t do any of that. I did weaken, just a smidgen. At the bottom of the letter, by way of a P.S. I wrote that if she ever wanted to contact me, day or night, I’d be at her side faster than she could say ‘All Shook Up’.
It appears she never felt the urge.
It took me over twelve attempts to get that letter into a fit state to post.
I stood by the bit about giving her space. It wasn’t easy. Daily, I’ve had to fight the impulse to haul my arse round to her flat, kick the door down and demand she take me back. But, I decided that macho crap is the last thing a woman wants in a situation like this. It’s imperative that I show her I can be considerate, careful and sympathetic because there hasn’t been much evidence of that of late. So, with amazing acts of restraint (Dave and John have to confiscate my phone every time we go out on the lash, to avoid my making drunken, heartfelt but annoying calls) I have managed to stick by my promise and I have not pestered her.
But today’s the day.
I get a bus to Shepherd’s Bush. I’m going to the surgery to see her. At least there she can’t ignore me. If I went to her home she might just refuse to answer the door. I’m timing my visit so that I arrive just before her lunch-break. She won’t want to discuss her private life in public so maybe she’ll agree to have a sandwich with me.
I just need fifteen minutes. I just need a lifetime.
I hate visiting doctors. I’m always certain I’m going to leave with a more dreadful disease than the one I arrived with. Sure enough, the moment I step inside the tiny reception, someone coughs. It’s a nasty, wracking, rattling cough and I feel their germs winging their way towards me, rushing up my nostrils and down my throat. It’s disgusting. I don’t know how Laura does the job she does. Still, faint heart never won fair maid. I galvanize.
Laura is on the phone, booking an appointment. I’d like to say she looks wonderful but she doesn’t. She looks tired and drawn. I’m not sure if she’s suffering from a late summer cold or an early winter one (hazard of the job) but I am sure that she could do with some chicken soup. I’d like to be the one to bring it to her, on a tray, up to her bedroom. Her nose is red and her skin is sallow. She’s wearing a nice top, though. I haven’t seen it before. I feel mildly alarmed by this. New clothes are insurmountable proof that her life has gone on without me. Of course I knew this but I’m terrified. I wanted her to be frozen in time until I’d sorted out my messy life. What if she’s not only got a new top but a new bloke as well? It’s possible. It’s horrible. Bugger, did I ever balls this up.
The surgery is fairly quiet, which is a relief. If I am about to endure the
humiliation of a lifetime, it’s a comfort to know that there will be only three independent witnesses, one of whom has a hearing aid.
I walk to the reception desk and wait until Laura finishes her call. She does so, writes something in a diary. Without looking up she asks, ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, but I think you were expecting me,’ I reply.
Her head jerks up. I smile. She scowls. I hold out the flowers I’ve brought. An enormous bunch of sunflowers, with lots of green foliage. They are wrapped in cellophane and tied with string of gigantic, almost rope-like, proportions. They look expensive because they were.
‘I’m not expecting you. If I had been expecting you, and your predictable peace offering, it would have been over three months ago,’ she snaps. She yanks the sunflowers out of my hands and tosses them into the bin under her desk. They don’t fit, so she struggles and violently shoves them for a few moments, some petals fall off. Having dealt with the flowers she turns back to me, ‘Now sling your hook.’
‘But I wrote to you!’ I have so much to explain and seemingly little time to do it. ‘You did get my letter?’
‘I got it. Never read it. Now go.’
‘You never read it?’ I ask in disbelief. Hours of work? Months of hope?
‘No.’ She’s staring at something just past my ear lobe, I turn round to see what’s holding her attention. I can’t see anything obvious. Then I realize, she’s just avoiding my gaze.
‘Why didn’t you read my letter?’ I hope I sound as hurt as I feel.
‘I figured if you had anything you really wanted to say to me you’d say it more than once.’
What sort of woman logic is that? I decide not to spill that exact sentiment. I confine myself to commenting, ‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘If you’d wanted me, Stevie, you would have bombarded me with texts, calls, letters and visits.’ Laura is no longer pale and drawn, she is flushed and furious. ‘You are such an arrogant bloody drongo. A lazy, arrogant, bloody drongo.’
I’m not one hundred per cent sure of the exact nature of the insult, but I get the gist.
‘You sent me one lousy letter and then gave up. Now you have the audacity to swing by three and a half months later with a crappy bunch of flowers, and what? What am I supposed to do? Swoon? Run to you?’
Well, yes.
I need to get a few things straight. First, the flowers are not crappy. I put a lot of thought into those. I avoided anything obvious, like roses, or cheap, like carnations. And I thought I was acting decently by giving her some space.
‘I told you in the letter I wouldn’t pester you.’ I take a quick glance over my shoulder at the waiting patients. I hope Laura sees this as a hint to calm down a bit, or at least wait until we are alone and then she can unleash the full fury. She thinks I’m reminding her that she’s neglecting her duties.
‘Mrs Williams, you can go and see the nurse now,’ she says.
‘No hurry, love,’ says Mrs Williams, who clearly finds the floor show Laura and I are providing is a far better tonic than anything the nurse could provide.
‘Will you come for lunch with me?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Laura.
I shift from foot to foot. That was not the response I was hoping for but it was not totally unexpected. Well, this may not be the most romantic or appropriate place for big declarations, but I’m left with little choice. Laura starts to play with the paperclips and the staple gun on her desk. She’s a little menacing, but even so I lean close to her and whisper, ‘If you’d read the letter you wouldn’t have expected any more correspondence from me. I said I wouldn’t be in touch again until I was a free man.’
I can sense the waiting patients strain to hear my whispers.
‘By a free man, you mean after you’d divorced my best friend?’ asks Laura loudly.
There is an audible intake of breath from our audience.
I nod, slowly, somewhat defeated.
‘Big of you,’ mutters Laura. She’s being sarcastic but I pretend to interpret her comment at face value, at least that gives me the opportunity to be self-effacing.
‘No, Laura. Nothing I’ve done throughout our relationship has been particularly big or grown-up. Except messing up, that was big time. But I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’ asks Laura, cannily.
‘Everything.’
Laura sighs. After some moments of silence she asks, ‘Did you win?’
For a moment I have no idea what she is referring to and then I work it out. ‘No.’
She looks up at me now. There’s real shock in her face, and maybe disappointment too. ‘You didn’t?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ She sounds stunned.
‘I only sang one song, which is against competition rules. I sang “Love Me Tender” instead of “Jailhouse Rock” or “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”, my declared, and therefore billed pieces, so I was disqualified.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Not really.’ When I lost the competition in 1996 I blamed Bella. This time I don’t blame Laura. I don’t even waste time blaming myself. There are more important losses. ‘Anyway, even if I hadn’t been disqualified I wouldn’t have won. “Love Me Tender” on its own doesn’t do enough to showcase a range and, besides, I was under-rehearsed.’ The competition seems light years ago. I’ve barely given it a thought since I left Vegas. My head has been too full of Laura.
‘Why the hell didn’t you sing your rehearsed songs?’ she asks. ‘You were brilliant at performing those. You’d definitely have won.’
‘Thanks.’ The warm glow stretches right through my body and settles in my boxers. It feels good to know Laura admires something, anything about me.
I cough. ‘“Love Me Tender” was for you. I thought there was an outside chance that you might just have been in the audience. And if you were, you might have… I don’t know… been moved or something. Maybe even have forgiven me. It was an appeal.’ I shrug.
It sounds weak and hopeless thousands of miles away from Vegas, months after Neil Curran’s revelation, but at the time I’d been compelled to sing that song and just that song.
‘You prat, Stevie. You threw away the prize.’ She’s shaking her head in amazement.
‘Yes, I did,’ I agree. ‘Because you are the prize, Laura. And I threw you away. After that, losing the competition hardly mattered.’
‘Me and a sixteen-hundred-dollar catsuit. Tough night,’ mumbles Laura but she isn’t quite as biting as before. Always one for surprises, she suddenly demands, ‘Sing it to me now.’
‘What?’
‘Sing it to me now.’
I’d heard correctly the first time, I just hoped I hadn’t. I don’t have any music. Or inclination. For God’s sake, I’m in the reception of a GP surgery. Three old dears and my angry ex are hardly what you’d call an encouraging audience. I haven’t got my guitar or even a background CD. I’m not sure I have the required confidence.
Laura has folded her arms across her chest. Good tits. Inappropriate thought, but honest. I’ve missed them and the heart behind them. Sod it, singing in a doctor’s reception isn’t such a weird request. If singing is what the lady wants.
I clear my throat.
‘Is he going to sing?’ asks a woman with swollen ankles.
‘I think he is,’ says the woman with the hacking cough.
The woman with the hearing aid starts to play with the dial.
I launch into ‘Love Me Tender’.
What choice do I have? Flowers failed, chocolates would be an insult. I owe her this much. There are three simple, four-line verses with a chorus in between each. The ballad is deep, rich and emotional, if you get it right. Or, deconstructed ruthlessly, the lyrics can appear naff. I ask her to love me true. I beg her to love me long. I plead for her to love me dear. On top of that I promise to love her too. I swear I always will.
The song lasts a couple of minutes in real time. In Stevie-time it seems like w
eeks. This is it. This is the performance of my life. It’s imperative that I seduce my audience. Obviously, I’m not focusing on the coffin dodgers, they melt away, they disappear. There is only Laura and me. It’s Laura I have to convince, sway, satisfy and assure. This is all about Laura.
When I finish Laura says, ‘Not as good as “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”’
‘No. Evidently not.’ After all she has not fallen into my arms and she is not applauding riotously the way she did when I performed in Vegas. In fact, to all outward appearances, she is unmoved.
‘What are you doing here, Stevie? What do you want?’ she asks.
I could buy time. I could ask how Eddie is doing because I really miss him and would like to know. I could take a chance and lean across the desk and kiss her, crush her body tightly against mine, remind myself how wonderful it is to feel her against my chest. Or I could tell her I want to be happy again and I need her for that. I don’t do any of this.
Something tells me that the next sentence out of my mouth is the most important I’ll ever utter. The pressure is almost unsustainable. My fear is reaching new levels. I give it my best shot. Because after all, that’s all we can ever do.
‘When you are young, falling in love is more or less random. Who you end up marrying is random. The act means little, the staying is the important thing and Bella and I didn’t stay together. Any history we have is ancient and irrelevant.’
‘But documented,’ she points out, quite correctly.
‘That’s all it is. A couple of pieces of paper.’
‘What changes as you get older?’ she asks.
‘I’m choosing you. I’ve had a look around, a fairly extensive look, actually, and I’m choosing you above all others and I’m asking you to choose me,’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’
Deep breath. ‘I want you to marry me, Laura.’
‘For fuck’s sake, what is it with you two? Why do you have to keep getting married? Why can’t you be like a normal person and just say you want to be with me?’ she demands crossly. Her outrage at my suggestion has at least and at last drawn her from her desk seat. She marches around to my side of the reception desk. She’s within grabbing distance.
