Husbands (17 page)

The truth is, I have made an enormous effort with my appearance. Normally if friends are coming to supper, I change my top or I might pop on a pair of slightly smarter jeans. Tonight I am wearing a black Dolce & Gabbana knee-length dress. It has a tight bodice, no sleeves and very thin straps. It’s laced at the back, which gives it low-key dominatrix-meets-shepherdess overtones.
I know I look hot. I want to look hot. I don’t want to consider my motives here.

‘He seems nice. He’s making Laura very happy,’ says Amelie.

‘Have you met him?’ asks Philip.

‘Only briefly. I’d been looking after Eddie and they came together to collect him,’ says Amelie, nonchalantly.

‘You have?’ I can’t hide my surprise. ‘You never said.’

I glare at Amelie but she refuses to look sheepish. Instead she says, ‘Didn’t I? Must have slipped my mind.’

It’s not material but I feel betrayed. I can’t help but think Amelie is trying to teach me a lesson. I want to yell at her that I bloody well know I’ve made a mistake, I don’t need her priggish lessons. But the doorbell rings, saving us both.

‘Damn! They’re early.’ I throw down the knife I’ve been using to chop spring onions and whisk off my apron. I check my reflection in the aluminium fridge door.

‘No need to panic, sweetheart. I’ll let them in,’ says Philip.

‘No, I will,’ I say and push him aside. I charge towards the door, or at least I charge as much as is possible in three-inch-high shoes. It’s important that I greet Stevie and Laura. I don’t want Philip to have made Stevie feel relaxed by getting him a drink and chatting. I need to catch Stevie unawares, when he is most vulnerable and pliable. I just need him to keep silent this evening, and for a very short time afterwards, then everything will be OK. After that I can fix this whole sorry mess and we can carry on as normal.

‘Laura,’ I shout as I open the door. I fling my arms
round her and pull her to me. I look over her shoulder at Stevie. My husband. I can’t deny I’m more than a wee bit curious. He is turned away, checking out Philip’s Jag, which hasn’t been put in the garage yet. Slowly he turns to greet me.

Poor Stevie. What was he expecting? The mate of his new girlfriend. A smart hostess? A former waitress turned housewife? How much had they talked about me? Had he already formed an opinion of Bella Edwards? Did he suspect that she might be a little spoilt, living in her huge home in Wimbledon? Or had Laura loyally retold our friendship? Did he know that I’d paid my dues, that I’m a good mate; that I’ve worked hard and played hard too? Does he know that I married Philip for love and life, not a lifestyle? I don’t know, but whatever he was expecting it was not Belinda McDonnel.

Stevie turns to me and our eyes lock. He falters for a second, recognizing me but not trusting his vision, wanting, no doubt, to be mistaken. I was depending on this moment of shock.

‘And you must be Stevie, I’ve heard so much about you.’

I lean in and hug him with just as much warmth as I hugged Laura. Normally this would be over the top but I’m hoping Laura will think I’m being super-friendly. As my body touches his it softens to merge into his harder, toned physique. He smells the same. He smells of my youth. Not Impulse and cheap hairspray, but that boy smell that he brought to my youth. I’d always assumed it was the scent of boy sweat turning to man sweat, combined with Clearasil and Imperial Leather, but I suspect he has left those brands behind. So, the smell that
comforted me throughout my late teens and early twenties, must have been the smell of his skin. Simply Stevie. And smelling ‘Simply Stevie’ again now, makes me think I’ve missed it for nearly a decade.

I lean a fraction closer, hoping my move is indiscernible, and inhale gently. I’m trembling. And he is too.

Damn.

‘Don’t say a word,’ I whisper into his ear and then slowly – oh God help me – reluctantly, I pull away.

Stevie straightens and stares into my eyes. His gaze gallops past my pupils and explodes into my mind and soul. He looks confused, hurt and cross. Then he looks delighted: the most confusing response. I know how he feels. I’ve lived with this guilty mix of emotions for two weeks now. Something tiny and buried has been unearthed and Stevie is clearly pleased to see me.

‘Come in, come in. Don’t keep them on the doorstep,’ says Philip, behind me.

There is the usual ten minutes of activity as introductions are made, drinks are requested and fetched. Laura hands me an enormous bunch of flowers. She doesn’t normally bring flowers when she comes to us for supper, I suspect they are an acknowledgement that our easy intimacy has slipped. I thank her but don’t really want to go to the kitchen to put them in water. I can’t risk leaving Stevie alone with the others. I ask Amelie to see to them. She obliges without any enthusiasm, clearly she’d prefer to stay in the epicentre of the action. Stevie hands Philip a bottle of wine. He looks bashful. No doubt Philip will attribute this to the fact that he’s a wee bit awkward about meeting Laura’s friends – men rarely enjoy these social
situations – but I know that under normal circumstances, Stevie would be delighted to meet his girlfriend’s pals. He outgrew his teenage shyness and became gregarious and charming a long time ago.

I look at the two men standing side by side and I am struck by their similarities and their differences. They’re approximately the same height, over six foot. Perhaps Stevie is an inch shorter than Philip. They both have dark hair and green eyes. Philip’s hair is sprinkled with grey, which is to be expected – he has eight years on Stevie. Stevie’s eyes flicker with mischief, excitement and anticipation as they always did. Philip’s are calm, they tell the world that he’s capable. Philip is bulkier. They both have big feet. The biggest difference is in the clothes they wear. Stevie is dressed in an up-to-the-minute Diesel T-shirt and low-slung jeans. I can see his underwear.

Which makes my throat dry. I take a large gulp of my drink.

Philip is wearing beige cords and a Gap T-shirt. Until today I’ve always thought that Philip looked smart but modern in that outfit. Now I’m wondering if he could carry off something a bit more cutting-edge. I blush at my shallow thought.

It’s Philip I love.

Stevie is history.

My body is operating in slow motion yet at the same time my heart is racing. I wonder if these two diverging physical responses will tear me in two. Maybe splitting in two would be the perfect answer. I lift my glass to my lips and spill liquid down my dress.

‘Are you OK, gorgeous?’ asks Philip.

‘Fine,’ I mutter, blushing as I rub away the spillage.

‘You don’t want to go spilling things on your new dress.’

‘It’s not new.’

‘Of course it is. I don’t mind. Why don’t you admit it? You look stunning.’

Philip is always OTT with his praise and thinks I’m far lovelier than I am. Normally it’s a misconception I encourage but tonight I just want him to shut up. ‘Doesn’t she look gorgeous, Stevie?’

‘Very nice,’ mutters Stevie. Can everyone else see his embarrassment?

‘Stop it, Philip,’ I warn.

‘You’ve made such a huge effort, why shouldn’t you bask in compliments? And why can’t I ask another chap’s opinion? Laura doesn’t mind.’

Laura grins good-naturedly. She’s never looked better and therefore clearly doesn’t mind her man being asked to compliment another woman. She’s obviously secure. I can guess what’s given her that dewy glow. Philip notices it too. ‘You look stunning tonight, Laura. And you too, of course, Amelie.’

Amelie smiles, not offended that Philip’s compliment to her was clearly an afterthought.

‘Stevie and I are very lucky men to be surrounded by such a bevy of beauties.’

I know Phil is trying to be inclusive and fair but I wish he’d shut up. His excessive compliments sound pompous and insincere.

‘Shall we eat?’ I mutter as I stride towards the dining room.

Stevie

Holy fuck. Holy fuckity fuck. Belinda McDonnel. Belinda bloody McDonnel. My wife, ex-wife, I presume, is serving me… What the fuck is she serving me? I’m jolted out of my immediate shock by a plateful of slimy seashells. It looks a bit like the outflow of a seriously bad cold served up with doll’s forks. Oysters? Belinda McDonnel is serving
oysters
to her mates for supper on a Saturday evening? It’s too much to take in.

At first I thought I was mistaken. This Bella woman didn’t seem to know me from Adam. So I doubted myself. This couldn’t be my long-lost wife. There was a resemblance but then, as I’ve discovered, lots of women resemble Belinda. Over the years I have spotted women with the same gait, height or hair. I’ve heard similar laughs. I’ve chased women down streets and tapped them on the shoulder but when they’ve turned round, the illusion has always been blown apart.

I’ve imagined meeting my wife on countless occasions. I’d always thought we’d bump into each other at a gig or in a public library. Or maybe abroad somewhere, the Parthenon – yeah, that would have been good. Or in a rainstorm, because thunder and lightning are not without dramatic connotations. Despite having approximately a
thousand scenarios filed away, I have never imagined meeting Belinda on the steps of a huge house in Wimbledon, as she welcomed me as a guest to her dinner party. For a start, Belinda McDonnel couldn’t cook.

For a split second I wondered if this elegant lady might be a cousin of my long-lost wife. Because this Bella woman is married to this Philip, a good-looking older bloke, and as far as I know Belinda is still married to me. Oh, my God. Could we be divorced and I’ve never known? I move around a lot, post doesn’t always find me. So, despite imagining this moment for eight years, on a more or less daily basis, when I was actually confronted with my ex-wife, I wasn’t quite sure. For a split second the thing I had been longing for, was the thing I least wanted to believe. But then she hugged me.

She felt exactly the same. Any lingering doubt vanished in that instant. Belinda’s body folded into mine and it fitted. She’s only slight and she slipped under my arm, as though the space had been waiting for her to return, to fill it. I hadn’t realized I was carrying around a gap. Or maybe I had.

She’s changed quite a bit. Her hair used to be a mass of pre-Raphaelite curls but now she wears it straight like a newly polished sheet of glass. It’s darker too – it hasn’t seen a bottle of Sun-In for a while, that’s for sure. Her face is thinner; she’s lost her puppy fat. My Belinda McDonnel was pretty. This Bella, what’s-her-name, is stunning. One of the most beautiful women I’ve seen for a long time.

As I hugged her, I breathed her in, and tried to fill my lungs with the essence of her. She wears a different
perfume – something spicy and sophisticated. It suits her. And as she pulled away from me (why was that such a wrench?) I noticed her clothes. She was not wearing the Doc Martens, the thick woollen tights, baggy jumper, short cord skirt or large hoop earrings she wore in all my imagined reconciliation scenarios. Maybe it was a bit much to expect, it wouldn’t be hygienic, let alone fashionable. She suits the sexy black number, no doubt about it. It’s a posh dress, obviously. The type you buy in the shops I wouldn’t dream of going in. Manned, or rather womanned, by intimidating ladies that look at me as though I’m too rough to even be their bit of rough. I wonder how much it cost as a percentage of my annual salary.

I hadn’t expected her to have moved on quite so much. Moved quite so far away. Away from me. Which is perhaps a bit bloody naive of me, under the circumstances. There are those who would argue that she’d made it extremely clear that moving away from me was exactly what she wanted.

I watch Belinda closely as she fusses and serves up the food.

Belinda used to have a heavy North-East Scotland accent, now she sounds a bit like the queen. ‘Do you think the rolls are the correct temperature to complement the oysters?’ she asks the smiley Amelie lady, who shrugs indifferently – which suggests she’s an OK type of woman. In my book the type of woman who cares if the bread rolls are the correct temperature to complement the oysters is not OK. Belinda can’t be serious, can she?
I’m
sat opposite her. Me, her husband from Christmases
past, here in her house bought with husband of Christmas present and she’s worrying over the temperature of bread rolls!

The more I watch her, the more I think she has changed beyond recognition. It isn’t just her expensive designer dress and haircut that sets her apart from everyone else I know. It isn’t just that she’s curbed her accent, changed her name and the colour of her hair. She is changed in a more fundamental sense. She is as hard as her beautifully manicured nails. I shiver.

The evening is a blur. Someone hands me a drink. Someone else hands me another. At the table I’m placed next to Laura and opposite Belinda. Someone pours me yet another drink. Who the hell is drinking them? This is too much. I’ve found her and lost her all in one night. She’s married to Philip. She’s wearing his diamond-encrusted, platinum wedding band. The simple gold one I gave her is nowhere to be seen. Not that it was constantly in evidence even when we were together. She was forever leaving it in her sock drawer in case we met anyone we knew and betrayed our marital status. When was I divorced?

I realize that I’m not being the entertaining and amusing boyfriend Laura would like me to be, when she digs me in the ribs for the third time. ‘Did you catch that? Philip just asked how you got into doing Elvis gigs.’

Somehow, I mumble a response on automatic pilot. I’m sure lovely Laura will believe I’m nervous around her friends because I don’t know them. Let’s face it, she’s not going to imagine how well I know her best friend, is she?

Lovely Laura. Oh, what a bastard I am. Lovely Laura. I call her that because, really, she is lovely. I adore the word ‘lovely’. It’s such a simple word but it conveys so much. Attractive, delightful, charming, kind. Full of love. Laura is all of those things and I have a history with her best mate and she clearly doesn’t know a thing about it. Laura is sassy and fun and I know she wants me to believe that’s all she is, but I know she’s vulnerable and scared too. I don’t want to hurt her. Should I say something? Should I pick up my fork and tap the glass – bloody crystal by the look of it. Who’d have thought of Belinda McDonnel owning anything more sparkly than a hair clip? Should I say, ‘Sorry to interrupt such a genial evening but, Philip, mate, the thing is I was married to your wife. Just thought you ought to know. That is the case, isn’t it, Belinda? Sorry, Laura. Sorry, everyone. Sorry.’