Husbands (23 page)

‘That’s lovely of you, Bella,’ grins Laura, ‘but you know what? I splashed out.’

‘You did?’ I’m amazed.

‘Yep. I hit Mango and Top Shop. You don’t have to spend a fortune. A few T-shirts, a bikini, a little skirt. It’s all in the accessorizing.’ Then, suddenly, her expression changes to one of concern. ‘Isn’t it terrible about poor Freya?’

‘What about her?’ I ask, concerned.

‘I haven’t had chance to tell Bella,’ says Amelie.

‘Tell me what?’

‘Freya is being bullied at school.’

‘She is? By whom? Have you been in to see her teachers? Why didn’t you tell me?’ I’m outraged on Freya’s behalf.

‘You’ve got other things to worry about. Besides, I don’t think it’s a big deal. She’s a strong girl, physically and mentally. I’ll keep an eye on it.’

‘Amelie!’ I’m outraged. Isn’t a mother’s job to fight their child’s battles? How can she be so calm? ‘Tell me the details,’ I demand.

‘One little girl pulls her ponytail and says it looks silly. She’s snapped her pencils, that sort of thing. She’s bitten her too, which is unacceptable at their age. But the teacher is aware of it. Luckily, Freya has no issues about being a grass. Freya was upset but after a day or two, she decided it was best to wear plaits.’

‘Kids can be so cruel, can’t they?’ I mutter. ‘School playgrounds are jungles. I mean, how many adults have bitten you in the last week?’ Laura blushes. ‘I don’t mean in a sexual context,’ I snap. ‘I mean when they bite and tell you that you smell or ask if your clothes were bought from a jumble sale.’

‘Freya has the sense to know this is only about jealousy,’ says Amelie. ‘It’s a storm in a teacup.’

I feel anger sizzling and spitting inside me. Clearly Amelie has never been bullied because if she had she’d want to rip off the head of the ponytail puller.

‘Has this bullying started since Ben died?’ I ask.

‘Why do you think it’s related to losing Ben?’ asks Amelie.

‘Just a guess.’

‘Did things get bad for you after your mother died?’
asks Amelie, who is perceptive to the point of being smug.

‘We’re not talking about me,’ I reply, and we’re not, but it surprises me to note that tears are welling in my eyes.

‘I think we are,’ states Amelie, calmly.

‘I was a popular kid.’ This isn’t strictly true. I wasn’t
always
popular.

‘So you did the bullying?’ asks Amelie. She’s pretending to be nonchalant by stirring sugar into her coffee but I know she doesn’t take sugar.

‘No. Definitely not.’

‘Well then, you must have been bullied. That’s the jungle law, you just about said as much yourself.’

‘I don’t want to talk about my past.’ I glare at Amelie, silently begging her to drop the subject. Why is she pushing this?

‘Did you feel abandoned when your mum died?’

I don’t move. If I so much as nod the tears will overflow. I’m not going to cry about bullying and neglect that happened over twenty years ago. That would be stupid. The pressures in my life, right now, must be making me feel vulnerable.

‘I’m sure your dad and brothers did their best but it must have been difficult growing up in a house full of men.’

Their best was piss-poor actually but I’m not going to say this. The kids used to say I looked like a boy. And I probably did as I wore lots of my brothers’ cast-offs. Money was so tight because Dad couldn’t work after Mum died – not because he was looking after us kids or because he was grief-stricken – he couldn’t work because he was always drunk. The kids said I smelt of dirty boys and beer. They were probably right about that too.

‘Who saved you, Bella?’ asks Amelie.

‘I don’t want to talk about this.’ I force myself to look at Amelie. She does, at least, have the decency to blanch when she meets my gaze but she’s a very determined woman.

‘Why not? In all our conversations about my losing Ben, never once have you said, “I relate to that,” but you must, mustn’t you? On some level? When you lost your mum you must have felt as fucking miserable, angry, and scared as I did when I lost Ben.’

‘I was just a kid.’

‘You must have felt worse because you were just a kid.’

I slowly draw a deep breath. I need to calm down. I need to remain cool. This isn’t the moment to share. I know what Amelie is trying to do and all credit to her for her amateur psychoanalysis. From the things I’ve told her in the past and, more potently, the things I haven’t told her she’s worked out that I had a bloody miserable time as a kid from the day Mum’s cancer was diagnosed. Until then, my childhood was fantastic, because it was average. I had my fair share of triumphs and disappointments, jelly and ice cream, homework and chickenpox. I was the first kid in my village to have a Raleigh bike. And when I was eight I owned a Cabbage Patch Kid doll, with adoption certificate and everything. It’s astounding that you often don’t know how wonderful something is until you lose it.

Then Mum got ill. And then she died. I will not talk about it. I will not dwell. It is enough to say the following seven years were filthily sad. I existed in a state of perpetual misery and I would probably still be drowning
in that isolated hell if Stevie had not moved to our village. Stevie reintroduced me to kindness and happiness. Stevie.

Clearly Amelie has pieced this much together. She’s giving me an opportunity to explain to Laura what I did and why but I wish she’d just back off. Get the hell out of my mess. I don’t want to tell Laura any of it. Or Philip. I’ve been very careful to make light of my father’s drinking habit, never labelling it alcoholism. I’ve kept Philip away from my hometown where all he’d see is poverty, grime and, worst of all, my family’s indifference towards me. I don’t want it revealed, shared or explained. I simply never want to feel scared again.

‘We were talking about Freya.’ I try to sound unruffled.

‘But that’s my point, Bella. We never talk about you.
You
never talk about you. Did you ever come to terms with losing your mum?’

I see Laura squeeze Amelie’s arm. She’s trying to discreetly communicate that it’s best to drop this line of conversation. ‘I think you ought to respect Bella’s right to privacy,’ says Laura.

But Amelie won’t be deflected. ‘Why don’t you ever talk about losing your mum? You never talk about your past at all. It’s as though your life didn’t start until you arrived in London.’

‘Maybe it didn’t, Amelie. Not really.’ I use the voice I normally reserve for bank managers or traffic wardens. Impervious, distant, polite but entirely ‘fuck you’.

‘Er, the kids back home called me Jaws because of my brace.’ Laura throws in this contribution in an attempt to help me. Ironically, Amelie also thinks she’s helping me,
she wants to help both of us. We all mean well but are we close to destroying one another?

‘You went to a local school, didn’t you, Bella? Remind me, what was the name of your village?’

I glare at Amelie, pure toxic. ‘Kirkspey,’ I say eventually. I know if I don’t name it, Amelie will.

‘Really?’ Laura cries, delighted to have chanced upon what she thinks is a digression. ‘That’s where Stevie lived as a teenager.’

‘Is it really? What a small world,’ says Amelie.

‘You must be mistaken,’ I insist. ‘It’s a very small village. How old did you say Stevie is?’

‘Thirty-one.’

‘A year older than me. We’d have known each other. And we don’t, so you must be mistaken.’

‘I’m sure it was Kirkspey.’

‘You should check with Stevie,’ says Amelie.

I wish she’d swallow her tongue. ‘Kirk means church so there are lots of towns with similar names in Scotland,’ I state, coolly. I know Amelie is not going to let this drop so I do the only thing I can. The thing I have always done. I gather up my raincoat and throw a few pounds on to the table and I head for the door. Case closed.

Wednesday 16th June 2004

Stevie

Bella is wearing a beige halter-neck dress and chunky boots. I’m no fashion guru but I can make a wild stab in the dark and guess that her outfit cost the equivalent of what I’d spend on a second-hand Fiat. The worst thing is my first thought: it was worth every penny. She looks sensational. I have a terrible fleeting thought.

I am proud of my wife.

I pull myself up short and remind myself that (a) she didn’t pay for the sexy get-up, her
other
husband did and if anyone should be swelling with pride it’s him and (b) Laura. I have Laura. We are an item and therefore I shouldn’t be noticing the sexiness or otherwise of other women, especially one I am married to.

‘Hi,’ I greet her, with studied nonchalance.

It’s a terrible thing that I have feelings for her, even jumbled ones, but it would be much, much worse if she knew.

I’ve always found it one of life’s huge bonuses that I’ve never fancied nasty women. I’m not one of those men who like high-maintenance bitches who bleed you dry and treat you badly. I simply do not have a masochistic
streak; life’s too bloody short for that sort of effort. Besides, the world is full of decent women who look cute and that is where I like to spend my time. It’s odd then that I should think that Belinda, having been transformed into posh totty Bella, is almost irresistible while she is clearly cruel. I don’t understand myself.

I force myself to remember the moment I agreed to help her, a euphemism for agreeing to divorce her quietly – to shuffle away like a good little man, denied a scene or any fuss. I saw her slump with relief; clearly, she’d been rigid with tension throughout our meeting. How bloody insulting. Not only did she want rid of me but most embarrassingly of all, she wasn’t sure I’d want the same thing. Ha, bloody arrogant bint. Did she think she was such a great catch that I’d break down into an inconsolable heap, that I’d beg her not to divorce me? Did she think that for the last decade I’d been harbouring fantasies about us visiting Ikea together?

I take a macabre pleasure in reminding myself that it is a good thing she has lost her grasp on reality and that she wastes her money on designer clobber and her time at the beauty parlour. It’s a good thing she’s not a worthwhile person, with ambition or even a job, that she treats her friends in underhand ways, and that she can’t offer me anything like a reasonable explanation for her appalling behaviour towards me. This is all to the good because, as Bella Edwards is such a monster, I won’t fall for her. I won’t become sentimental about her not even if she looks delicious.

I’m thinking all these vicious, stay-at-a-distance thoughts, when she disarms me. She leans in to kiss my
cheek. Not two air kisses but a genuine one and all I can see is Belinda McDonnel. Her lips are squashy and smooth. Her cheek soft.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ I offer and rise out of my chair but she puts a gently restraining hand on my shoulder.

‘My shout. What do you want?’

I glance at my bottle. It must have a leak as it is empty, she grins at my evident surprise. ‘Another Beck’s.’

Bella returns to the table with fresh drinks. Other men in the bar are watching her. They are curious but don’t believe they have any real chance of talking to, let alone dating, a woman like Bella Edwards. She’s composed, elegant, refined and aloof. I agree, looking at her now she would appear out of their stratosphere, let alone league, and appearances are all in situations such as these. But the men in this pub are like her father, grandfather, uncles and brothers. The men in this pub are like the sort of man her father expected her to marry. They think they exercise because they play darts and therefore aren’t worried about the pies and pints they consume. They play dominoes and think that will keep them mentally agile – that and reading the
Sun
.

Belinda hates pubs, always did. I bet Bella likes wine bars. As a child she often sat in her dad’s wreck of a car, waiting outside the local, while he had a ‘swift one’ that always turned into a slow several. If she was lucky, and he remembered that she was there, he’d bring out a bottle of Coke and a bag of crisps. If he forgot about her she might have to sit waiting for him until the early hours. Licensing laws were lax; his ability to drink for his country was notorious. He’d find her curled up in the back of the
car, asleep, wrapped in the picnic rug. He’d wake her up and tell her they had to walk the three-and-a-half-mile journey home, he was too drunk to drive. He saw this as responsible parenting. Lots of the other dads tried to negotiate the winding roads despite consuming a skinful. I didn’t know Belinda when she was a kid but she told me these stories.

Looking at Bella Edwards it is hard to imagine the woman has ever felt cold, bored, scared or hungry.

Bella tells me she’s met with a solicitor today and that getting a divorce will be ‘very straightforward’. She’s clearly relieved and not a smidgen of uncertainty or regret darts across her face. She wants to discard me as quickly and effortlessly as she can. I can hardly concentrate on her debrief and instructions, as I keep being distracted by visions of her sorting out her wardrobe and throwing last season’s clothes into large black sacks, marked ‘Charity Shop’. I am last year’s ‘fab handbag’.

‘The courts will recognize an eight-year separation as “irretrievable breakdown”,’ Bella goes on with a bright smile.

‘Who said the law was an ass?’ I ask sarcastically.

‘We have a choice. We could go for mutual consent after a separation of two years.’

I stare at her in disbelief. She sounds as though she’s relaying the agenda for the local residents’ association meeting. Her efficiency and enthusiasm are nauseating.

‘Or you can divorce me and cite desertion. We only needed to be apart for two years for the courts to be convinced that I…’ She trails off.

‘Definitely wanted to desert me and hadn’t just
popped out for a pint of milk and forgotten where we lived.’

‘Yes,’ she says, flushing to crimson. ‘We just have to prove that I haven’t been in touch.’

‘Not tricky.’

‘There’s a bit of paperwork. We need to apply for a decree nisi and then—’

‘What about adultery?’ I ask.

‘Adultery?’ The crimson blush runs from Bella’s face. I look to the floor and expect to see that she is standing in a scarlet pool. Her face is suddenly green.