Husbands (37 page)

Laura

‘Can I get you another drink, Laura?’

‘No, I’m all right, ta, Phil. I don’t want to start on the turps just yet.’

‘So what was that vodka and tomato juice?’ He points to the empty glass on the table next to me.

‘Hair of the dog.’

‘Fair enough.’ He lies back on his sun lounger, clearly unprepared to drink alone but I can’t keep him company today, even to be polite.

‘Just how much did I drink last night?’ I ask Philip, as I reach for my sun lotion and slap a dollop of factor fifteen on to my thighs. It’s the third time I’ve reapplied cream in about half an hour. I’m not thinking clearly.

‘About as much as me.’ He grimaces.

‘So, too much is the easy answer then.’

Normally I can hold my own against Phil and I never have to drive the porcelain bus. But Lord knows, I’m thirty-two not twenty-two and I really think I’m getting a tiny bit long in the tooth for experimenting with cocktails that are the same colour as my mouthwash.

Philip and I pass a comfortable couple of hours lolling next to the pool, having a bit of a yarn about various hangover cures. He favours a large breakfast, I prefer
popping a couple of painkillers. We give both methods a go as desperate times call for desperate measures. We also try hair of the dog, sleep and lots of good old-fashioned glugging of mineral water. By three o’clock I can give a reasonable impression of a fully functioning human being. I put down my novel and announce as much to Philip.

‘I’m feeling better too,’ he confirms. ‘Which is bad news, really, because by tonight I’ll have forgotten how awful I felt this morning and I’ll do the whole thing all over again.’

‘Not me. I’m taking it easy tonight. I want to feel tip-top tomorrow for Stevie.’ I beam at Philip. I love the role of supporting girlfriend; it’s a novelty.

‘Do you think he has a good chance of winning the title?’

‘Of course,’ I say instantly and loyally. Then I pause to consider a more reasoned response. ‘Well, I haven’t seen any of the other competitors perform, but he’s brilliant – you’ve seen him.’

‘I was very impressed,’ smiles Phil. ‘But they all must be good for them to have got this far,’ he adds cautiously. I know he’s trying to temper my expectations.

‘I know the standard of entertainment must be high. They are charging thirty bucks entry just for the dress rehearsal tonight.’

‘What’s the difference between tonight’s show and the final tomorrow?’

‘None as far as the contestants are concerned. They have to sing the same two songs at both shows. But tomorrow there will be warm-up acts, showgirls and judges.’

Phil is squinting against the sun. ‘Being part of something so big is impressive, isn’t it?’

‘What is?’ asks Bella, interrupting our conversation. She’s suddenly hovering in front of our loungers, blocking my sun.

‘Hi,’ Phil and I chorus. ‘We were talking about Stevie and the competition.’

Bella scowls. She is so not impressed with Elvis tribute acts and nothing anyone can say will change her mind.

‘Where have you been all day?’ I ask, changing the subject. I really haven’t the energy to hear her bad-mouth tribute acts, indirectly pouring scorn on Stevie.

‘Shopping.’

‘Where are your bags?’ Phil and I ask in unison again. I’m pretty sure the same reasoning does not motivate our curiosity. I’m keen to see the fabulous stuff she’ll have bought. Phil will be worrying about his credit-card bill.

‘I didn’t find anything I liked,’ says Bella.

‘Nothing?’ I’m stunned.

‘You’ve been shopping all morning and most of the afternoon and you haven’t bought a single thing?’ asks Phil. He can’t believe his ears. Or his luck.

‘That’s right.’ Bella drops into the sun lounger next to him. ‘I think I’ll go and change into my swimsuit and take a dip,’ she says. But she doesn’t make a move. Instead she waves to a waiter and orders an orange juice.

‘Still not drinking?’ I ask.

‘No.’

‘Detoxing?’

‘Hmmm,’ she murmurs but she doesn’t tell me what programme she’s on.

‘Very sensible,’ I comment. ‘I felt as rough as a badger’s arse all morning.’

Actually, I find Bella’s sudden sober behaviour rather irritating. It’s as though she’s determined to have as little fun as possible on this holiday. Also, it’s embarrassing that she can remember more than me about my singing ‘My Way’ in the bar at the MGM Grand last night. What possessed me? Daft question, lots of alcohol possessed me. When I’m sober I can hold a tune; I’m not so confident about my abilities when I’m under the influence.

‘Are you excited for Stevie, Laura?’ asks Phil.

‘Yes, very,’ I pause. ‘Well, mostly. A little bit of me is dreading the shows,’ I confess.

‘Are you worried he’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t win?’ enquires Phil sympathetically.

‘He’ll win,’ I say with a confident grin. I’m a big one for positive thinking. ‘No, it’s not that.’ I sigh and then admit, ‘I’m getting a bit fed up of the groupies. I found their constant presence a little overwhelming last night.’ I’ve been waiting for Bella’s return to air my grievances, but I put on my sunglasses because I’m not sure I can cope with even her seeing my eyes as I say what I need to say. ‘I can’t put my finger on it but last night we had all the ingredients to have a stupendous time and yet the evening was more… fair to middling.’

‘I thought you were having a brilliant time,’ says Phil, clearly hurt.

‘Oh, Phil, don’t get me wrong. I loved the venues you picked, the food was delicious.’ I turn to Bella, ‘And please don’t think I’m undervaluing your generosity because the dress is stunning. I love it.’

Bella waves my comments away and stares back out to the pool. She’s intently watching a group of kids horse about – pushing and splashing one another.

‘But that’s my point. We’re in Vegas, I was with my best mates in all the world, wearing the most gorgeous dress I’ve ever worn…’

‘You did look hot,’ confirms Philip.

That’s the kind of interruption I like. ‘Yet at times I felt Stevie gently drift away from me.’

‘Rubbish,’ says Phil, who knows nothing about these things.

Bella, who knows everything about these things, stays silent. I continue, ‘It felt a bit like discovering your new Louis Vuitton handbag is an imitation. One moment you think it’s the most fab thing on earth, the next it’s slightly shaming. It’s the same bag but you can’t carry it around with the same swagger when you know it’s not the genuine article. Last night Stevie was mostly attentive, kind, funny and considerate but on occasion, without any perceivable provocation, he became distant, distracted, discouraging.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Philip again. ‘If he is at all distracted it’s probably because the big competition is coming up tomorrow. He’s just nervous, right?’

I want to believe this so much. Too much.

The thing is, and there is no way I can say this in front of Phil, last night Stevie did not want to come to bed with me. Despite my peony dress. Hasn’t he read the script? Cinderella gets to go to the ball in a pretty gown, the prince falls in love with her and they live happily ever after. I’d make do with the modern equivalent. Cinderella gets to go to the ball in a pretty gown, the prince falls in
lust and can’t keep his hands off her. After several months of hot sex they move in together because they can share the washing-up and it cuts down on phone bills. Some would think it’s a sad day when even your daydreams take on such a practical skew but I’m more comfortable with realistic aspirations. The days of dizzy dreaming are long gone for me. Either way – Stevie hadn’t read the script. Last night he walked me to our room, came in, changed out of his Elvis costume then made up some story about wanting to clear his head.

Was I born yesterday? I’ve always believed that no man turns down a warm bed unless he has another waiting. Is that very paranoid of me, just a little bit paranoid or sound judgement?

‘Last night he sneaked off at some ridiculously late hour. He said he had this pre-gig lucky-habit thingy to do. He had to have a walk late at night and do some voice exercises. He said I couldn’t go with him because he’d be self-conscious about doing tongue twisters in front of me. I’m not convinced. Could it be true?’

‘Yes!’ says Bella, with huge conviction. ‘Creative types do have their good-luck routines and funny rituals. I once read that Mariah Carey insists on having Labrador puppies in her dressing room before every performance.’

I instantly feel better. For about a moment.

‘Look over there.’ I hiss and nod my head sidewards in the direction of a skinny, toned blonde, one of the groupies who had practically sexually assaulted Stevie last night. Right now, she is massaging sun oil into some other guy who just happens to have a quiff and is wearing large gold sunglasses.

‘She’s one of those hussies from last night. Look at her – she’s as good as having sex on a sun lounger.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ says Bella. But she is straining to see over Phil’s shoulder.

I turn just in time to see the hussy whip off her bikini top. She is uncomplicated sex on a plate. A fabulous dish, most men would agree.

‘That could have been Stevie,’ I screech.

‘But it’s not,’ points out Phil, calmly.

‘Those women don’t even care which Elvis they get to shag!’ I yell indignantly.

‘You don’t have to worry about Stevie.’

‘Of course I do, Philip. He’s a man. Be honest! If you were single and you were offered no-strings-attached sex, would you turn it down?’

‘Stevie is not single,’ says Philip. ‘He’s seeing you. And, for the record, yes, I might turn it down. Men are not all led by their penises, despite what popular culture would have you believe.’

‘Under what circumstances would you say no?’ I ask, wanting to see a glimmer of hope.

‘Well, if the lady in question was nuts or ugly, then I’d pass.’ Philip takes a sip of his water, he clearly thinks he’s being rather noble. I’m not so sure. But then, I’m not thinking straight about anything much.

Am I being ridiculous? This morning I lay pretending to be asleep as my boyfriend sneaked around the bedroom, getting showered and dressed as quietly as possible. At one point it was obvious he had lost something. I guessed it was his wallet and I knew it was in the top
drawer of the dressing table, I’d watched him put it there the night before when he finally returned from his walk and practising his voice projection. I’d pretended to be asleep then too. Stevie searched in his jacket pocket, his jeans pockets and his bedside drawer before he found the wallet. Why didn’t I ask what he was looking for and point him in the right direction to save him several minutes of panic? The answer is: I was scared.

I did not want to talk to Stevie this morning because I am scared of what I think he has to say. I don’t want to hear it.

‘I’m not sure Stevie’s good for me,’ I say.

I don’t mean this. I’m being dramatic. I always feel blue after I have had a skinful. I think Stevie is remarkably good for me. But I care so much that I’m madly jealous.

‘I’ve started to watch other women all the time. I notice how they wear their jeans, if they have jutting-out hip bones, if they have shining hair, clear skin, big tits. I couldn’t admit this to anyone other than you two but I’m almost overcome with curiosity and jealousy. A consequence of my relationship with Oscar, no doubt. It seems foolish to trust a second time but then it would be more foolish never to trust again, wouldn’t it? I’m losing my mind. The truth is I am so head over heels into him, you know? I don’t want to think about ever losing him.’

‘Bella, are you OK, darling?’ asks Philip.

I follow his gaze. Bella is a putrid shade of green.

‘It’s sticky out here,’ she says. She tries to stand up and stumbles. ‘I need shade.’ She straightens up. Philip rises to follow her, but she brushes him aside.

‘Stay with Laura. I’ll be fine, really, it’s nothing.’

He drops back into his sun lounger, defeated, and watches Bella as she heads for the hotel.

‘Do you think—’

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Oh, nothing.’ He waves to a waiter and orders two G&Ts. I don’t object, despite my plans to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tonight. That conversation has left me in need of a drink. We are lost in our own thoughts and say nothing to one another until the drinks arrive. Philip picks up his drink and swizzles the ice around his glass. I know something is bugging him when he fails to say cheers. Philip is a stickler for form and has impeccable manners.

‘Do you think Bella is OK?’ he asks.

I glance in the direction she bolted. ‘Yeah, she’ll be apples. She doesn’t like the sun much. She just needs to cool down, like she said.’

‘You don’t think she’s been behaving oddly recently?’

‘No.’ My answer is automatic and not absolutely honest. She has been behaving like an impossible snob with her loathing of Elvis impersonators and all associated, but that’s not something I’d feel comfortable discussing with Philip.

‘If there was anything wrong and she’d confided in you, would you tell me?’ he asks.

The truthful answer to this question is, ‘No.’ I’m not sure if keeping my best friend’s secrets makes me a terrible person or an excellent one.

‘Of course,’ I lie because Bella hasn’t confided anything in me so this is an academic exercise. It’s on a par with
your boyfriend flipping his lid because you want a free pass to sleep with Robbie Williams or some other A-lister. It’s daft, since there’s no real possibility of it happening.

‘Can I talk to you about something?’ asks Philip.

‘Fire away.’ He doesn’t and I listen to the people around us having a good time, splashing, laughing, chatting. Phil’s stillness is heightened by contrast.

Eventually he says, ‘Look, I don’t want you to think I’m crazy but, well, I wouldn’t have said anything except I thought you might understand.’

‘What?’

‘That thing you said about watching other women all the time… well, I do it.’

‘Philip!’ I’m shocked and don’t bother to hide it.

‘Not other women,’ he adds hastily. ‘Other men.’

‘Philip!’ I’m doubly shocked.