Husbands (44 page)

Phil puts his platinum Amex on top of the bill and pushes it towards the waiter. ‘I think we’re all done here,’ he comments.

Almost. But there is one last thing I need to say. I know it can’t make any material difference but it has to be said.

‘Phil, do you remember on our wedding day that my father thanked you for taking me off his hands? As though I’d been some sort of financial drain or sad old spinster?’

‘When really you were a frisky old bigamist.’

I stare at him and try to weigh up the comment. He smiles, helping me decide that he is trying to be kind or at least funny, his smile gives me the courage to plough on.

‘Marrying you has helped. My father is intimidated by your wealth and lifestyle. He thinks I must have some talent – well hidden, admittedly – to land such an eligible man, and I live more comfortably now than I ever
imagined possible. But you need to know, Phil, that neither my father nor my background had any influence on why I married you. I did not marry you to impress or suppress my father. I did not marry you to avoid waiting tables for the rest of my life. I married you because I love you. I’ve always loved you. It’s not even difficult. I was so happy on our wedding day. I am so, so sorry that I’ve caused this terrible mess and that my secret has seeped, leaking insidiously into everyone’s lives, infecting everyone.’ I daren’t pause. If I do I risk him walking away. ‘If there was anything I could do to change things, I’d do it but I don’t think there is so I just need you to know that I love you. I was not planning on hurting you. I might often be confused, lacking in conviction and chaotic but that’s one thing I’m certain of.’

I am sobbing so I hope he understood my enunciation. I hope he understood the sentiment. Despite my resolve to avoid a scene, I think I’ve made one. From out of nowhere, a waiter passes me a clean napkin, presumably so I can blow my nose, and the guy pushing the heaving dessert trolley hands me an enormous slice of chocolate cake. He mouths, ‘On the house,’ and scowls at Phil.

Phil nods curtly, excuses himself from the table and leaves me to cry into my mountain of sticky gateau.

Friday 13th August 2004

Laura

It’s a traditional British August, so today it drizzled from sunup to sundown and yesterday rain poured so heavily there were government warnings about flash floods – again. Unlike everyone else, I like the miserable weather. It’s appropriate. For me, summer was well and truly over by the time my plane from Vegas touched down and there is nothing worse than feeling depressed when you are surrounded by Londoners wearing bikinis in public parks.

How could I have been so stupid? So gormlessly trusting?
Again
. Again is the worst bit. When I split up from Oscar I thought I’d never be fool enough to trust another man. I swore I’d never allow myself to be exposed to such heartache. But Stevie wormed his way into my trust, my consciousness and my heart. Then he unexpectedly blew up; smattering my self-esteem, self-knowledge and my ability to love, across all of America.

After Oscar left I often said I’d never fall in love again. I repeatedly told anyone who would listen (limited audience, Eddie and Bella) that I would
never
love again, that I didn’t even want to.

But I was lying.

I only repeated the mantra to double bluff Fate. I vacillate and can’t decide if fate is a misogynistic bastard or a spiteful cow. Fate is probably female because sometimes the jokes she plays are surprisingly witty, and women, on the whole, have a more creative bent when it comes to revenge.

Anyway, I thought if I said I didn’t believe love was possible, then sly Old Maid Fate might forget about me and somehow then her nemesis, Lady Luck, would sneak into my life again or, better yet, Cupid would get a straight shot and I would find someone new. And it worked, didn’t it? Or at least, for a time I thought it had.

I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world to meet a man like Stevie. But that man never existed. The sexy soulmate with a fondness for my kid was a figment of my imagination. Stevie was as deceitful as Oscar. His infidelity may have varied in the details but was essentially the same. There are a million ways to leave someone but in the end they are all cruel.

This time, when I say enough is enough, I mean it because what
is
the point? If Stevie and Oscar are the same (as different as they appeared to be) then the obvious conclusion to draw is that
all
men are the same. Oh God help me. God help us all. Womankind has nothing to look forward to. The awfulness of this logic sits, like a stone, in my gut. As much as I believe it, I still don’t want to. It’s such a bleak, wretched, dismal, desolate, cheerless, mean thought. It’s up there with four-leaf clovers being nothing but weeds and Santa Claus being nothing other than the fat pervert hired by the local department store. There is no magic.

For a month now, I’ve thought about this all day, every day, which makes me poor company and a lousy receptionist. Incessantly, I mull over, and over, and over Stevie’s betrayal. He is a married man. A
married
man. And if that wasn’t bad enough he is married to my
best friend
. Make that ex-best friend. I could have forgiven the married thing, if he’d told me right at the beginning. He was, after all, separated – that is, if his and Bella’s story can be believed. A big
if
: they’re hardly what you’d call reliable witnesses. I might even have been able to reconcile myself to the fact that he was once married to
Bella
. Maybe, given time and if they had been honest in the first place.

But they weren’t, were they? They both lied to me and made a fool of me. And that leads to the question, why weren’t they honest? And it’s obvious, isn’t it? Because he still loves her. He must, he
must
. There is no other explanation for his loyalty to her. He was shagging me either to annoy her, to stay close to her or as a cover for their affair. I’m not sure which of these dreadful possibilities is correct, but one of them has to be.

If only I was dealing with just
his
betrayal. Then I would, at least, have a survival plan and a way to build up my trampled self-esteem. I’d call Bella and she’d invite me over to her house or she’d rush over to my flat. We’d drink a week’s worth of units in one night, eat pizza and chocolate, call him a faithless, cheating bastard and then I’d break down in tears and sob that I still love him. She’d pop me into bed, smooth my hair and mutter, ‘Of course you do,’ (without sounding patronizing or despairing) because that’s what she did last time. But, now I’ve got
no one to turn to and I’m missing Bella just as much as I’m missing Stevie.

Today, leaving work on the dot doesn’t make me feel guilty, even though I have failed to complete the filing. Sally can do it on Monday. I’m always carrying her and it’s time this job-share was just that. I traipse to the station and follow the hordes underground. We stomp after one another into the greyness, avoiding eye-contact by staring at one another’s shoes. I’m so numb I can’t even feel enthusiastic when I spot a Japanese girl sporting a pair of Jimmy Choos. She’s wearing them with ankle socks, which is a fashion statement that leaves me flabbergasted. Normally, I’d make a mental note to tell Bella about this sighting. It’s the kind of nonsensical chatter we always enjoyed. It’s a bleak day when there’s no one to talk Jimmy Choo to.

I’ve eaten next to nothing all day. Or at least, nothing in the least bit nutritional. I wonder when I had my last packet of wine gums (lunchtime) and I wonder when I can have my next (does four packets of wine gums in one day indicate an addiction, or simply culinary laziness?). I worry over whether you really can get BSE from the gelatin in wine gums. It was a bad day for me when whoever it is that makes these decisions, decided that the vending machines on the London Underground platforms ought to dispense wine gums. Until then I’d resisted chocolate bars (too messy) but I can’t get a fellow commuter gunky with a packet of wine gums and therefore they are irresistible to me.

I put a pound in the vending machine. Only after the coin slips from my grasp do I see the tiny sign advising that no change is available. A pound is a lot to pay for a
tube of sweets. The electronic letters line up to read ‘Sold out, make another selection’. I don’t have the will. How come the little irritations that are part and parcel of life seem insurmountable nowadays?

I get on the train and find standing space at the end of the carriage. Hundreds more passengers follow me. The doors try to close twice. I watch as a busy commuter pushes unreasonably, to squeeze on to the packed carriage. As he jostles he knocks into a middle-aged woman with lots of shopping bags. In turn, she jolts the arm of a girl in a beige raincoat who spills her Diet Coke. While on the one hand I am sympathetic (if ever I do have a light coat I always spill things on it), on the other hand I have a malevolent sense of satisfaction when I consider that someone else is having a difficult day too. Suffering is not making me a nicer person.

I pick Eddie up from kindie and, only just, manage to fake an interest in his latest artistic offering. Today Eddie has spent his time gluing dried pasta to a sheet of paper, his sweatshirt and his hair. My faked enthusiasm (at best lukewarm) is dampened further by Eddie’s opening question.

‘Where’s Stevie?’

He’s asked the same question every time I’ve picked him up since I came back from Vegas: four weeks, six days and about ten hours ago. A lifetime in the world of a four-year-old. I give him the usual answer.

‘We’re back to normal now. Stevie doesn’t pick you up any more. I’ll be picking you up from now on.
Every day
,’ I say firmly.

Before Vegas we had fallen into the habit of Stevie
collecting Eddie whenever he could. It made sense with Stevie’s working hours, it made us seem like a normal family. But we weren’t any kind of a family and I should have remembered that we weren’t, rather than becoming lulled into a false sense of security. Ironic that Bella warned me not to let Stevie get too close to Eddie. Well, clearly she had her reasons.

‘I miss him,’ says Eddie. ‘I don’t like normal.’

I should probably think of something wise and consoling to say to my son right now. Instead I squeak, ‘I miss him too.’ And I don’t risk another word all the way home: it would be unhelpful to sob.

I open the door to my flat and am surprised to see Henryk waiting for me in the kitchen. Surprised and a little bit irritated, I thought he’d cleared out. To his credit, over the last six months he and his team have fixed the proverbial House-That-Jack-Built and transformed it into, if not a sumptuous apartment, then at least a safe, functional, pleasant environment. I may be alone in thinking luxury is level shelves, flushing toilets and windows that open and close.

Henryk’s presence here can only mean one thing – he’s hoping to be paid. Inwardly I cringe. While I have always been aware that Henryk wasn’t renovating my entire flat for the sake of Anglo–Polish relations or indeed as a charitable enterprise, I haven’t quite thought through exactly how I am going to pay him for all he has done. The nearest I’ve ever got to forward financial planning is buying two lottery tickets rather than one.

‘Hiya, Henryk. Do you want a cup of tea?’ I ask, without any real sense of hospitality.

‘No, thank you. I have just come to drop off your key. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.’

‘I’m putting the kettle on.’ It’s all he needs, by way of persuasion.

‘OK, I take it very—’

‘Sweet. I know.’ I smile and accept that maybe it isn’t such a terrible thing to find Henryk in my kitchen. An empty kitchen would mock me more.

Today I haven’t received any personal calls or e-mails. All that was in this morning’s post was a circular addressed to Oscar. Of course, I was hoping for long, heartfelt letters, offering apologies and solutions, from both Stevie and Bella and I was hoping for a string of pleading phone calls. I wasn’t
expecting
either, which was just as well. Today would have been a good day to receive an airmail letter from my folks, or one of those girl-power e-mails that are sometimes forwarded to my mailbox. Nothing. Fate was reminding me how lonely my life was before Stevie and Bella. See, fate’s a bitch.

I spend a few moments settling Eddie in front of the TV, then I throw a couple of fat sausages under the grill. I know that if I don’t eat with Eddie I’ll be eating alone tonight but I can’t bring myself to betray as much to Henryk and so I only cook enough sausages for my son.

‘Did you enjoy your holiday?’ Henryk asks.

‘Not really.’ I don’t see the point in lying.

‘You fall out with your boyfriend?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘You hesitated when cooking sausages, which tells me cosy dinner for two is not on your cards tonight. Besides,
recently you have been listening to lots of slow, sad records by way of making point that you are brokenhearted. I turn on your radio. It is Heart FM. The CDs piled by the side of the stereo: Dido, Ella Fitzgerald and Celine Dion.’

‘Quite the detective, aren’t you?’ I’m not sure whether to feel annoyed by the invasion of privacy, impressed by his perceptiveness or flattered that someone is taking an interest in me.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

It turns out that I do. We share two pots of tea and four beers as I tell Henryk all the gruesome details. In the main he stays quiet, only interrupting to say ‘Jesus H. Christ’ when absolutely necessary. When I reveal my boyfriend’s married status and the fact that my best friend is a bigamist, for example.

‘So why did she marry the old guy when she was married to your guy?’ asks Big H. Despite the serious nature of this question, it makes me smile. The old guy, Philip, is at least ten years younger than Henryk.

‘I don’t know. I don’t think she does. Philip proposed, who’d have thought she’d accept it? What with her talent for evasion. She says she loves him.’

‘Maybe she does.’

‘I think she loves Stevie.’

‘I am confused. She left Stevie.’