Husbands (41 page)

‘Patchy,’ I point out because someone has to.

We were making real progress along the road of ‘tell it how it is’, up until a moment ago. I feel duty bound to shove her a few more steps along the path. I’m bound through love. I’m not sure I can categorize the love I feel for Belinda, this mixed-up beauty. I’m not sure if love ought ever to be labelled and put in tidy boxes. I might love Belinda because she is an old flame and we have so much shared history. My love might be attributable to friendship. Or she might just appeal to the macho bit in me, the bit that wants to help out a confused but attractive woman. I don’t know. Right now, it hardly matters. Belinda, the vulnerable, neglected, grief-stricken girl floats in front of me. Bella the woman, the survivor and product of all that has gone before, is sitting with me too. I like them both. It’s a revelation.

It’s almost indiscernible – something in the eyes, perhaps, or a shift in the demeanour – but slowly the woman starts to emerge and grow in front of me and the girl is fading away. This is the natural order of things.

‘Come on, Belinda, you’re kidding yourself. Philip doesn’t know anything about you. Your entire relationship is based on a huge lie.’

‘And good intention,’ she defends.

‘It doesn’t cut it. You don’t cut it as his wife.’ I’m being cruel to be kind and she seems to understand this.

‘I will, though, Stevie. If I get the chance.’

I look at my wife across the table, nervously sipping champagne to buy time – time that is priceless to her – and I see that she means this with every fibre of her soul. She means it so much that in that instant my wife vanishes and my ex-wife – with all the closeness and distance that that implies – shrugs at me.

‘You have to tell him about your past, Bella. About me and about your dad. You have to talk to him about how much you miss your mum and why you’re scared of having babies. You have to tell him that as a young kid you were bullied at school. You have to tell him everything and give him the chance and honour of knowing you in your entirety. Because, if you don’t, none of this makes any sense at all and the pair of you won’t make it.’

Bella

Stevie’s right, of course. Despite the fact that this salient piece of advice is delivered to me by a man wearing a flared, beaded catsuit and stick-on sideburns, I recognize that it’s the best advice I’ve had for a long time. I determine to do exactly as he suggests – and I would have if, at that moment, our table hadn’t been invaded by my worst nightmare. In a rush – similar to that of the opening of the doors to Harrods on sale day – we are suddenly deluged with company.

Laura and Phil have come back. Laura is holding her wrap and Phil a glass of whisky, a double by the looks of it. And Neil Curran is holding court.

‘Bloody cheek of them! Said I was pissed. Put me under lock and key, they did. That’s an infringement of my human rights, that is. I’ll bloody sue. Every bugger is suing every other bugger over here, aren’t they? Well, I’ll bloody sue them.’ Neil’s indignation dissolves when he lays eyes on Laura. He always was a dirty old flirt with a keen eye for a pretty lady. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely friend, Bel-Girl?’ he asks me.

I struggle to find words because I know that everything is now out of my hands. I sink back into my chair and
watch in amazed horror; aware that the situation is past rescue.

Laura beams at Neil and says, ‘I’m Laura Ingalls. Hold the name jokes.’ She puts up her pretty hands and metaphorically brushes away the expected jokes. She’s obviously got Neil’s number and knows he’ll tease her mercilessly about her name. ‘You, on the other hand, don’t need any introduction.’ She knows instinctively that the compère is someone an Elvis-wife/girlfriend ought to befriend. Funny, as I’d always found it easier to be rude to Neil Curran. ‘You are the infamous compère, Neil Curran,’ she says with her widest beam.

‘Not so infamous, darlin’. Just a bit fond of the bottle. But, bloody hell, lassie, I’m on holiday. Well, as near as damn it.’ He plonks himself into a chair next to mine, then asks Laura the question I’m dreading: ‘So, how do you know this lovely couple?’

Laura looks a wee bit confused that Neil has referred to Stevie and me as a couple. In the longest moment of my life I see her decide that the drunken compère has jumped to a conclusion, then she strives for what she believes is clarity. ‘Bella’s my best friend and I’m Stevie’s girlfriend.’

‘Fucking hell. Pardon my French,’ says Neil, spluttering. ‘That’s all a bit cosy, isn’t it?’

‘Philip Edwards,’ says Phil, holding out his hand for Neil to shake. ‘Bella’s husband.’

Weakly, Neil shakes it and turns to stare at Stevie and me. ‘Who the hell is Bella?’

I think he knows.

‘I am,’ I mutter. Choiceless.

‘But you’re married to Stevie,’ says Neil, ‘not this one.’ He points at Phil.

‘No, no,’ giggles Laura. ‘Stevie and Bella have just met through me. Bella is with Phil, I’m with Stevie.’

I can see her trying to be patient – she thinks he’s still under the influence. Sadly, I know that Neil Curran has never been more sober. I daren’t look at Stevie but I sense movement. I think he is dropping his head into his hands, adopting the pose common to utterly and completely fucked members of mankind.

‘Er lass. I don’t know what’s the do ’ere, but as true as I’m standing in front of you, I can tell you Belinda McDonnel and Stevie Jones are married. They told me so. We’re old mates, you see. We go back over a decade.’ Maybe Neil thinks Laura is trying to pull his leg and while Neil likes to dish out the gags, he doesn’t like to be the butt of others’ jokes. He becomes more adamant. ‘Couple of lovebirds these two. Even after all these years. I caught them canoodling in the diner next to the Elvis-A-Rama Museum, just today.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Laura throws the question at Stevie and me. ‘Tell me he’s wrong. Tell me he’s lying. He’s drunk, isn’t he?’

‘I’m sorry, I—’ I stop. I can’t very well say, ‘I’m sorry, I can explain.’ My actions are beyond explanation.

‘You are married to my boyfriend?’ asks Laura, incredulous.

I nod my head, too ashamed to speak.

As it happens, Laura doesn’t require me to say anything more, she flings the contents of the nearest glass over me and charges out of the room, sobbing. Stevie follows her.

‘There’s never a dull moment around you two, I’ll say that for you,’ says Neil. His eyes are twinkling. ‘I best be on my way. Likely as not, you’ve a bit of explaining to do, Bel-Girl.’

And so he shuffles off, leaving me alone with Philip.

Philip

I’d guessed. About eighteen minutes before the brassy compère confirmed the status quo, I’d guessed that there was something between Bella and Stevie. I hadn’t thought they were married. No. No, that was too much for my imagination to conjure. But as I’d watched Bella watch Stevie sing ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ I’d reached the conclusion that they were probably going at it like rabbits behind Laura’s and my backs.

Sorry to be vulgar. But it throws a man, somewhat, hearing that his wife is a bigamist. Quite an assault on my dignity, I think most would agree. And needless to say there’s the little fact that my life has been snatched away. My being crushed.

‘Get your wrap, Bella,’ I instruct. She does so without argument or attempting an explanation. For this, at least, I’m grateful. I’d rather we played out the rest of our drama in private. I wait for her to return to the table with her wrap. For a fleeting moment I consider there’s a real possibility that she won’t return. Bella has a history of walking away from problems. An extensive history, from what I can gather. She does, however, reappear at my side. She looks tiny and transparent as she hovers waiting to catch my attention. Which is ironic, no? The one thing
she’s definitely not, is transparent. I finish my whisky, as I anticipate a need to fortify myself, and then we thread our way through the tables to the exit and catch a cab back to the hotel.

Stevie

Laura can really move. She’d slipped through the crowds and outside into a waiting taxi within moments of Neil Curran’s horrendous revelation. I try, but miserably fail, to keep up with her. What is it with me and women slipping from my grasp at the final of the annual European King of Kings Tribute Artist Convention and Competition? Except, this time, I know that Laura didn’t so much slip from my grasp. The most charitable description is that I carelessly dropped her – some would say I flung her away. I tell myself not to make flip comments about déjà vu, not even to myself, it’s mindless and disrespectful. I deserve this lousy predicament but Laura doesn’t.

I run back to the hotel – I might move faster on foot than she will in a cab and maybe I can head her off, although I’m not sure what I can say or do to fix this situation. Belinda was right – she’s finally started to talk some sense – this whole crazy episode has been a diversion but it’s not real. When I said that stuff to Belinda in the diner I was talking idiotic, indulgent crap. It’s not as though I thought of her every day for years and years. If we hadn’t come on this holiday together I wouldn’t have thought of kissing her and I wouldn’t have missed kissing her. But I’m missing Laura already.

Laura’s taxi beats me back to the hotel and by the time I push open the door to our suite, she’s packing.

‘Don’t go,’ I plead.

‘Fuck off,’ she says. Neat, succinct, to the point. ‘You miserable, lying bastard,’ she adds, in case there was any need for clarity.

‘Laura, please. I am so sorry.’ I rush towards her, but she backs away, glaring.

Her patent disgust turns me to stone. I decide against trying to put my arms around her, instead I drop into a chair in the corner of the bedroom. For some minutes I am silent, trying to gather my thoughts. In the meantime she dashes around the room, grabbing knickers off the floor and tiny tops from drawers. She bundles them into her case, not giving a thought to creasing. At this rate she might have moved out before I’ve built a compelling defence. What am I talking about? She might have married someone she hasn’t even met yet before I build a
reasonable
defence. I start blathering, all I have as a vindication might not be too compelling or reasonable, because even the truth exposes me as an arse, but I have to try.

‘I am so, so sorry.’ I sound like Bella. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ That old cliché. ‘I didn’t plan any of this. It just sort of happened.’ I sound pathetic to me too.

‘
What
sort of happened?’ screams Laura. ‘You stupid wanker. Are you saying you sort of married my best mate? I’m right, aren’t I? You are married to my best friend?’

‘Technically,’ I admit.

‘A bona fide, full on, one hundred bloody per cent commitment.’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck! It’s one up on an affair. You almost make Oscar look like a good guy.’

‘Sorry.’

‘But Bella is married to Philip.’ The good news is Laura has stopped packing. Her outrage at the complex state of affairs has, at least, distracted her from that.

‘Not technically.’

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Erm, eleven years, I suppose.’

‘Holy fuck. An eternity. But it was one of those passport marriages or something, right?’

I can hear the hope in her voice. I wish I could justify it. ‘No.’

‘You bastard. Are you saying it’s a love match?’

‘Yes.
Was
. It was.’

‘I hate you,’ she says. Simple enough.

‘Please, please let me explain, Laura.’ I jump up from my seat and move towards her. ‘This is why you and I had such a slow start. I was trying to find a way to describe my weird marital status. I wanted to tell you on the very first night. I tried to but you didn’t let me – you rushed ahead with your own assumptions.’

‘Don’t you dare try to blame this on me, you twat.’

‘No, no, I’m not trying to blame you. Of course I’m not.’

I can’t help but notice how determined and confident Laura is. I’ve seen flashes of this in her before and I’ve always found it attractive. I know it’s an inapt thought but I find I’m turned on by the fact that she’s giving me a hard time and fighting her corner with such steely fortitude. I can’t help but admire her. Not that it will do
me any good. I realize the time for my cashing in on admiration for Laura is long gone. I’ve blown this. I have no chance of winning her back. I daren’t even hope for that. Right now, I just want to apologize.

‘And that bogan drongo said you were acting like a couple of lovebirds today. What did he mean?’

‘We bumped into him at a diner.’

‘You’ve been rooting us both all along?’ Her disgust whips me.

‘No! For a time I got muddled and last night I kissed Belinda. We needed to talk about it so we met up today.’

‘You’ve been kissing who?’

‘Bella. She was called Belinda when I knew her. She changed her name.’

‘That scheming bitch.’

‘Please let me explain,’ I implore. I don’t know how it happened but I’m on my knees, prostrate in front of Laura, literally begging for a chance. This might seem ridiculous considering I’m wearing a skin-tight, sky-blue, catsuit, but I don’t have much right to dignity at this precise moment in time.

‘Explain,’ instructs Laura.

It’s the first time, since Neil Curran’s revelation, that she’s said something to me without feeling the need to cuss or yell. I see this as progress of sorts. Laura flops on the edge of the bed. She looks so miserable, lost and wounded. Again this is something I have caught a glimpse of in the past. Occasionally, when Laura has talked about Oscar and how badly he let her down I’ve seen the same expression of sorrow flicker across her face. I used to burn with fury against a man I’d never met because he’d
hurt Laura. Watching her pain now is about a million times worse because I know I caused this. More than anything I want her pain to stop.

I present the facts of Belinda’s and my story as fairly and honestly as I can. I take care not to imply that the entire sorry mess is Bella’s fault and take full responsibility for my part in it. I make a big blunder when I point out that I’ve always been uncomfortable with the situation and only backed Bella’s plan because Laura had begged me to give her friend a chance.