Husbands (43 page)

I’m not sure where all this resentment has come from. I thought I was angry with Bella for being married to my boyfriend but it appears my irritation and frustration are much more far-reaching. I’m angry with her because she refuses to grow up.

‘What do you want, Bella? I just want a healthy child, to travel a bit, to fall in love. You know, the usual stuff. Not to have an absolutely boring time at work. But you! You want all sorts of ill-defined illusions. Fame, glamour, guarantees, stupendous wealth. I’m not sure they’ll ever add up to happiness. I think that’s why you can’t stick a job for more than five minutes. You want to be running the company before you’ve discovered how to work the photocopier. You want to control everyone and everything but you abdicate all responsibility in your own world.’

It’s a strange beast, female friendship. We are so embroiled in one another we can psychoanalyse with ease but we struggle to be straight with one another. Why, in all our years of friendship, hadn’t I said any of this to Bella before? Had I pussyfooted around her because I was eternally grateful for her friendship and didn’t want
to upset the apple cart? Was I scared of hurting her? Or just scared of her? Did I love her too much? Or not enough?

‘What do you want?’ I yell.

Bella looks wounded and startled but remains silent. For a moment I assume she’s not going to answer. But then she does, and her answer knocks me for six. ‘I just want to feel safe.’

I don’t yell at her any more because fat tears are rolling down her cheeks. I get up and walk away. I’d prefer to spend my last few hours in Vegas at the airport than drown in Bella’s self-pity.

Bella

I splash cold water on my face and stare at myself. Not a pretty sight. My skin is grey and drawn. My eyes are wee, nasty, red slits. My lips are white. I consider hunting for a lipstick in my handbag. I know Phil always likes the fact that I make an effort but I can’t muster the necessary boldness. I’d rather tackle this one barefaced, naked, stripped. It seems more appropriate.

Oh my God, what is Phil going to say to me? Laura has already put me through the emotional mill, justifiably throwing acute observation and brazen home truths. I’m not sure I can take much more.

But wasn’t that her point – I don’t deal with things. Could she be right that I only involve myself with other people’s lives as a sophisticated avoidance technique?

I straighten my shoulders, puff out my chest and exit the cloakroom. I have an appointment to meet Phil in the hotel restaurant at noon. The chosen time puts me in mind of shoot-outs at the High Chaparral. Despite this, I know that I have to keep to the arrangement. I can’t run away this time. Indeed, it is possible that Phil is testing me. I expect he knows it’s fifty-fifty whether I’ll turn up at all, but he’s always been a bit of a gambler. He took me on, didn’t he?

Will Phil press charges? It’s possible; he’s so upstanding and correct about everything. Ironically it’s one of the many things I love about him. I have broken the law, he might feel obliged to turn me in. Oh fuck it. I might as well be in prison if I haven’t got Phil or Laura or Stevie or Amelie.

I tell the maître d’ that I have a reservation under the name of Edwards and that I’m meeting my… who? I think I’m meeting my husband. But he’s not that any more. Strictly speaking he never was. I say I’m meeting a friend. I’m told that I’m the first to arrive and I’m shown to my seat.

The restaurant is already busy as Americans tend to eat lunch earlier than Europeans. I’m grateful for the crowds. I know that Phil won’t want a scene so our discussion will be just that and not a bunfight. I
think
it’s unlikely that Phil will arrive with a gang of police officers because he doesn’t like drama.

I’m grateful he decided that it wasn’t sensible to talk last night. Anything said in haste would, likely as not, be damning. I admired his dignified silence and respect the fact that he needs time to think about our situation. We both needed some thinking time. I used every moment of mine. Last night I wanted to roll into a ball of self-pity, turn out the lights and simply wait until the morning when the maid would knock on my door and announce that the longest night of my life had been endured, but I realized I didn’t have a moment to waste. I had to try to order my thoughts and to understand my actions.

When Phil is fifteen minutes late for our appointment, I start to panic. He prides himself on his punctuality. Does
he want to make me sweat? It would be understandable. I wait another ten minutes. Maybe
he’s
not going to show. He might want to give me a taste of my own medicine. Would he do that? No, it’s not his style, he isn’t vindictive. I pull apart a bread roll and drink two large glasses of iced water but there’s still no sign of him. If we don’t talk soon I’ll implode. Another five minutes later he finally joins me at the table.

‘Oh, thank God. I was imagining something terrible had happened to you,’ I gush.

‘More terrible than my wife being a bigamist?’ asks Phil.

I blush. ‘I was about to start calling hospitals.’

‘I’m not the type to self-harm,’ he observes.

‘No, I didn’t mean that. I thought you might have been run over or something.’

‘Life isn’t that convenient, Bella,’ states Phil. He sits down and carefully lays his napkin on his knee.

This conversation definitely hasn’t got off to the start I was hoping for.

The waiter appears, he gives us our menus and runs through the specials. I have no idea what is on offer, although Phil asks what the vegetables of the day are. I marvel at his presence of mind. He says no to the wine menu, and when I order a gin and tonic he asks for lemonade. I change my order to a tomato juice.

‘Drink what you like, Bella,’ he says. ‘It’s all the same to me.’

Is it? How depressing. ‘I owe you a clear head,’ I mutter.

Phil orders two courses, for which I’m grateful. It
appears that he intends to hear me out. Of course he does. Phil is a gentleman. I tell the waiter to bring me whatever Phil’s ordered, until Phil points out that I don’t like bean sprouts. Embarrassed, I scan the menu and select something else, I have no idea what.

‘Do you want to lay out the facts for me, Bella?’ asks Phil.

I do exactly that. I resist justifications, excuses, defences, apologies or pleas. I stick to dates, times and geography. I tell him when and where I got married and how far along I am in the process of getting divorced. I tell him about all the meetings I had with Stevie and, although it is an uncomfortable confession, I tell him that I let Stevie kiss me once.

When Phil is in possession of the facts, he asks, ‘And why do you think you got yourself into this mess?’

I’m taken aback. I hadn’t ever considered that I’d actively got myself into this mess. ‘I didn’t choose it. It happened to me,’ I say.

‘That’s not true, is it?’ He forks a pile of bean sprouts into his mouth and chews.

‘I’m not great at dealing with trials and tribulations, I see that now. Laura said I dodge them and Stevie…’ I steal a glance at Phil. He doesn’t falter but continues chewing. I can’t decide if his cool, calm and collected response is good news or dire. Is he jealous, or angry, or just curious about my muddled life? I plough on. ‘Stevie thinks I have a lot of unresolved issues with regard to my mum’s death and my home life.’ I choose formal distancing words but Phil sees through my ploy.

‘What do
you
think?’ he asks.

‘It’s possible.’ I pick up my tomato juice and sip.

‘Has it ever crossed your mind that the thing that attracts you to Stevie is that he is a little piece of your home?’

‘Way off mark,’ I say dismissively. ‘There’s not a single thing I like about my home and—’

‘And you like Stevie?’

‘Yes.’ It’s difficult to admit but impossible to deny.

‘How much do you like him, Bella?’ Phil has asked this question without skipping a beat but there’s something about the area below his eye that gives him away. It contracts a fraction, betraying that my answer is important to him.

‘I know that I felt comfortable exploring my past with someone who knew who I’d been before. You don’t know me, Phil. I didn’t even want you to know me.’ This confession costs.

‘Are you so terrible?’ Phil tries to grin but since he thinks I am pretty terrible, his grin is weak.

So I tell him. I tell him everything. I tell him that my dad thinks I’m unlucky to the point of doomed. I tell him that as a child I thought he was perhaps right – maybe my misdemeanour of combing my hair when the boat was at sea did have something to do with my mother’s death.

‘You don’t believe that now, do you?’ he asks.

‘No. I’d have to be certifiable. But I felt sad and guilty for the longest time.’

I tell him about the outside khazi and my brother’s criminal record. I tell him that I resent everyone in Kirkspey for their lack of ambition and I hate myself for being
no different – I’m just as unfocused, only I wear designer clothes. I tell him that I have no sense of self. I’m not even sure if I have opinions because that would mean I had beliefs and, most importantly, that I had self-belief.

‘I disagree, Bella. You are extremely opinionated about a number of subjects.’

‘Name one.’

‘You think smoking should be banned in public areas.’

I do. But would I tell a cab driver this if he asked me? Not if I thought he was a smoker. I wouldn’t want to offend him.

I notice that Philip has stopped eating. He lays his knife and fork neatly across his plate and gives me his undivided attention. It takes hours to recount the lost memories, the buried embarrassments and my countless failures and disappointments. I describe jobs I walked away from, was sent away from and the interviews I forgot to turn up for.

‘I’m not very good with numbers or deadlines, people management, customer complaints or schedules,’ I admit, with a sigh.

Phil waves his hand with a dismissive air. ‘Schedules are for those who can’t handle spontaneity. You might appear to be a flake, but really, you’re multitasking at levels that most people don’t notice,’ he says kindly. How is it possible he thinks that there’s anything good about me under the circumstances?

I keep talking but pause, several times, to check if he’s bored. He always shakes his head and urges me to carry on. At first, the recounting is awkward and self-conscious. I struggle with chronology and self-pity but, in a peculiar
way, talking is a relief. I’m exhausted with pretending to be something and someone I’m not. The waiter clears away our plates and we order coffees, but I don’t stop talking. He wanders by with a heavily stacked dessert trolley, we wave it away and I’m still talking. The truth of me, unabridged and with gory detail, spills out on to the table between us.

Eventually, I run out of relevant anecdotes, I take a deep breath and ask, ‘I bet you’re glad you’re not married to me, now you know I’m not what you thought I was.’

‘You’re exactly what I thought you were, Bella, except that there’s more of you,’ replies Phil. ‘I can’t see what has made you so sad and ashamed. So your family was strapped. So what? Lots of people are poor, Bella. It’s not a crime. It’s just a shame. You’ve got to roll with the punches and accept that some hands that are dealt are pretty miserable. You know, all low numbers from different sets.’

‘Which only works if you are playing Twenty-one,’ I say, picking up on his gambling analogy.

‘See, that’s a good attitude,’ he smiles. He seems pleased with me, which is of course impossible. ‘That hand wouldn’t win if you were playing poker but it would if you were playing Twenty-one. It depends on your game.’

‘It wasn’t just that they were poor. My father and brothers loathed me. I was just a scruffy nuisance, who was forever in the way. My father’s greatest filial ambition for me was that I’d get out the road or disappear altogether.’

‘Which you did, when you married Stevie.’

‘The funny thing is my father liked Stevie. He’d have approved of the marriage, if he’d known.’

‘Did you keep the wedding quiet to punish him?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ I sigh. This is hard, sorry work. Yet I know that I can’t quit, not this time. I take a deep breath and then galvanize. ‘I think it’s more complicated than that. My father’s approval of Stevie might have been a tiny part of why I married him in the first place. Maybe there was a time when I still wanted my father’s approval, I really don’t know. All I know is that I soon knew it was a mistake. I didn’t want my father’s approval and I didn’t want to be part of their world, which Stevie certainly was. And I’m sorry if that makes me a terrible person but that’s the truth of it.’

‘That doesn’t make you a terrible person, not in my book,’ says Phil. I beam at him until he adds, ‘Failing to divorce Stevie is what makes you a terrible person. Marrying me in front of all our friends and family while you were married to someone else makes you a horrendous person.’

It’s true, then, what I’ve long suspected: I am worthless. Kind, generous, intelligent, thoughtful Phil thinks I’m horrendous.

‘Why didn’t you divorce?’ he asks. His voice is a pitiful groan and I long to put my arms around him and comfort him. More, I long to turn back the hands of time and divorce Stevie before I marry Phil. Both wishes are impossible.

There are a myriad of answers to that question. Are any of them good enough?

‘I didn’t know how to do it. I was scared of the cost
of a lawyer. I had no one to advise me. It was easier not to,’ I reply simply. They are all true and were all factors, to a greater or lesser extent.

Phil looks bitterly disappointed. Had he been expecting something that would absolve me, paint me in a fairer light?

There’s nothing more that Phil wants to hear. He signals to the waiter for the bill. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to report me to the police. But, I’m equally sure, he never wants to see me again and that’s penalty enough. I’ve had two great chances in my life, with two great men, more than most women get and I’ve fucked them both up. Circumstances have not conspired against me. I’ve been responsible for my own downfall.