Husbands (46 page)

The mother opens an endless stream of Tupperware boxes, and dishes out food to her family while breastfeeding. She looks frazzled. The father appears to be equally irritated. He keeps insisting that the children ought to sit down and shut up but he’s ignored. His broadsheet is flapping in the wind and several pages escape. He chases them, muttering obscenities. The family is boisterous and fraught. But I still know why Laura envies them.

‘They weren’t having an affair, Laura. They had a flirtation with their past. Not even with their present. I don’t believe either of them is attracted to what and who they are now. They fell, briefly, for the sixteen-year-old versions of each other.’

‘Nice theory,’ says Laura, sarcastically. ‘Very convenient.’

‘It’s what I believe,’ I reply.

‘So, they’re not together now?’

‘No.’

‘I take it you’ve forgiven her then?’ asks Laura. I can almost smell her disapproval, it’s so raw and unmanageable.

‘The thing is, Laura, not many people have me down as a romantic. It’s one of the drawbacks of being practical when it comes to DIY,’ I say, trying to make light of
seriously heavy subject matter. ‘But I am a romantic. I loved Bella from first sight and I still love her.’

‘Well then, I’m sorry for you.’

‘Don’t be.’

I wonder how far I want to involve myself in this. Should I just leave Laura to her own savage pit of despair or should I try to get her out of there? Over the last month I’ve got pretty good at these big emotional talks, but hell, they are draining and not what you’d call second nature to me. I decide I’m prepared to give it one more push.

‘I know you’re hurt because you feel betrayed by Stevie.’

‘And Bella.’

Women!

‘And Bella,’ I add carefully, in an effort to placate. ‘And I know you’re scared. Damn, Laura, believe me, there’s nothing you can tell me about fear. When I remember Bella and I are not husband and wife, I think I might stop breathing. Understanding that fact might make my lungs collapse. I don’t want to lose her. I understand scared.’

Laura shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Lucky, bloody Bella. She always falls on her feet. Before she met you she stumbled into opportunity after opportunity, even though she always blew it. Then she met you and you adore her. But does she appreciate you? No, she pisses you about to the extent of marrying you while she’s married to
my
boyfriend and you still don’t think that’s a sacking offence. Astounding. Just thinking about it makes me want to spit chips.’

‘Stop ranting, Laura.’ I’ve had my fill of hysterical
women for the moment. ‘Love is more important than anything, more important than a marriage certificate for a dead marriage or an absent decree absolute. Love is the only thing that counts and I love Bella.’

How embarrassing is this? What happened in my life that it seems to be a sensible thing that I am sat on a park bench in a botanical garden and instead of discussing the seasonal blooms and asking for advice on invaluable gap fillers for my borders, I am talking about love. The answer is patent: Bella happened.

Since Bella opened up that lunchtime in THE Hotel in Las Vegas we have had countless ‘long chats’. I have spent an inordinate amount of the past month talking about feelings, thoughts, beliefs and, well, love, essentially. It’s not too awful, I suppose. But I hope to draw a line under the entire exercise as soon as possible. It’s women’s work. The thing I need to say to Laura is very straightforward.

‘Being with Bella makes me happy. She wants to be with me, I want to be with her. I’m going to find a way to make that happen.’

‘Are you going to get married again?’ asks Laura. From her tone, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to be bridesmaid.

‘When the decree absolute comes through, I’ll ask her to marry me again.’

Laura glares at me. ‘Sucker,’ she snarls.

‘Laura, happiness or unhappiness is a choice and I’m far too sensible to choose unhappiness.’

Laura looks as though I have slapped her face. ‘You think this is my fault.’

‘Not at all.’

‘You do. You think I’m sulking, unnecessarily.’

‘No, Laura, I think you’re scared senseless.’

‘You’re on her side.’

‘There are no sides. I’m Switzerland, totally neutral about everything and quite keen on peace and trade treaties.’ Laura looks infuriated. I’m sorry I always resort to joking when I’m agitated, especially as they are never remarkably spectacular jokes. ‘I can love Bella and like you too, you know.’

‘I do know. Stevie set the precedent for that.’

‘Laura, you’re not thinking clearly. You’re angry with Bella for not sorting out her past and getting everything muddled, but you’re guilty of the same thing. You were hurt so badly by Oscar that now you’re pulling out of anything you and Stevie might have going because you’re scared of being hurt again.’

‘Stevie pulled out of that by lying to me. By kissing my best friend and—’ Laura stumbles to a halt.

If she accepts that Stevie and Bella weren’t having an affair, which I think she might now, Stevie’s misdemeanours are significantly less appalling.

‘What are you saying?’ she asks.

‘It might not be a bad idea to have a think about whether Stevie made you happy.’

‘You know he did.’

‘And ask yourself whether you really have to throw that away.’

After a few moments Laura says, ‘OK, I’ll think about what you’ve said. I’m not promising anything.’

‘It would make me very happy if you did think it over.’
I push my luck and add, ‘It would make Bella happy too. She’s worried about you. That thing you accused her of, the displacement compassion – when you said she was only bothered about people as a way to avoid sorting out her own mess – it can’t be true. She’s sorting out her problems but still worries about you.’

There are tears in Laura’s eyes. Anger? Frustration? Indignation? Sadness? I’m clueless. ‘I was a bit harsh,’ she acknowledges. ‘I was so angry.’

‘With good reason. And shocked,’ I add.

‘Yes.’

‘But?’

‘But, I know she’s not as horrible as I want her to be. I almost wish she was. I know she was very good to me, when it mattered. A total beaut. I wish I could see it all just the way you do. So simply.’

‘Everyone deserves a second chance, Laura. Bella, me, Stevie and you – most of all you.’

‘I’m not even sure Stevie wants a second chance,’ says Laura.

A comment on this is beyond my remit, so instead I suggest we go to the Orangerie café and buy cake. Laura agrees, and Eddie takes no persuading either.

Friday 22nd October 2004

Stevie

I am a single man. I am a free man. I am an uncomplicated soul. I know what to write in the box when marital status is requested on some or other red-tape form. I am no longer lying to my employers, my friends, my family or myself. And it feels good. I am in possession of one bona fide decree absolute.

If only I’d thought to get it a year ago.

Or even five months and two days ago, which was the day before I met Laura. Not that I’ve had that calculation readily to hand, I hasten to add. I’m not turning into a girl or a lunatic, I’ve just sat and calculated the exact date on a calendar. Just over a month and a half of which was spent with Laura. Three and a half without. That last bit is quite girly. I’ll have to watch that tendency.

Bella and Philip seem to be doing OK now. They’ve managed to put the whole rotten mess behind them, which is admirable. I’m chuffed for Bella. There’s no denying that she means a lot to me, and always will, so I’m glad she’s happy. But equally, in the cold light of day, away from all the energy and razzmatazz and emotions of Las Vegas, I’m sure she’s not the girl for me. I could
sit here and list the reasons we’re incompatible but it’s all old news, not interesting to me or anyone else. Except Laura perhaps. Maybe, if I’m truly, thoroughly, especially lucky, she’ll give me the chance to tell her why Bella and I are incompatible.

Or, more importantly, a chance to tell her why she and I
are
compatible.

Or, more potently, why we ought never to be apart again. Well, except for work, meeting our mates, going to the loo and things like that. But in a more general sense, we should never be apart again. I’m sure of it.

Way back in 1996, when Bella split, I did all the despairing stuff that the unceremoniously dumped tend to indulge in. I endlessly recounted every moment spent together. I reran every row, obsessing about how they could have been played out in a way that would have altered the outcome. When Bella left I was heartbroken, sick to the pit of my existence. It was a big deal and I’m not going to pretend otherwise now, even after so much water has passed under the bridge.
Especially
after so much water has passed under the bridge.

In some ways, it has been just the same since Laura binned me, but in other ways it’s completely different. I have recounted every moment, time and time again. But this time the memories don’t slash me to the core, they don’t make me recoil and cringe. I actually take pleasure in them. I haven’t been replaying every row, because there was only ever one row. The final, unyielding, definitive row. Admittedly, I have been doing a fair bit of obsessing about how that could have been played out differently but, it pains me to admit, I haven’t
the imagination to conjure up a scenario with a happy ending.

Whenever I think of my time with Laura, or Laura and Eddie, I feel fantastic. I feel one hundred per cent hero – totally happy in my own life and skin. I’m proud, buoyant and jaunty. And then reality crashes in blasting apart soothing memories, forcing me to confront the fact that I have only
memories
– and not enough of those: memories that will undoubtedly fade and ultimately disappear altogether. I haven’t got the girl. The misery gets pretty vivid at that point.

The circumstances of the two monumental dumpings are totally dissimilar. Laura dumping me was not only justifiable, but understandable. I’d almost go as far as to say she was without choice in the matter. I know what I did was twatish. What would Laura call it? Bogan. That’s it, I was totally bogan. I should never have agreed to keep Bella’s secret. I should have blurted out our history all over her and Phil’s pure wool rug, the moment I was invited into their sitting room way back in June. I should not have been intimidated by a plate of oysters.

Should have, what ifs, could have, would do if I had my time over… all the old excuses. But I didn’t, did I? And that is the salient fact as far as Laura’s concerned.

I wrote to her and laid my cards on the table. I told her I loved her. Big news. I should have told her a long time ago (should have, what ifs, could have, blah, blah). By the time I told her I had nothing to lose, now I’d lost everything. Hardly romantic or positive, I know. Why didn’t I tell her one night when we lay in a post-coital glow, or when we were flying to Vegas, or even that
final night as she was packing? Would it have made any difference?

In the letter I told her exactly how I feel about her, why I thought we were so good together and why I thought we deserved another chance etc etc. I threw away all semblance of pride and just begged. Sod it, pride doesn’t keep you warm at night.

I tried hard to see it from her point of view and to do what was best for her. I realized that I’d put her through a shocking time and so in the letter I made it clear that I’d leave her alone until the divorce was complete. Then, and only then, I would present myself to her as a single man, a free agent, so to speak. I told her I knew she needed time to consider everything, that she wouldn’t want me to bombard her with loads of irritating texts, calls, letters, visits and stuff. I promised her that I wouldn’t do any of that. I did weaken, just a smidgen. At the bottom of the letter, by way of a P.S. I wrote that if she
ever
wanted to contact me, day or night, I’d be at her side faster than she could say ‘All Shook Up’.

It appears she never felt the urge.

It took me over twelve attempts to get that letter into a fit state to post.

I stood by the bit about giving her space. It wasn’t easy. Daily, I’ve had to fight the impulse to haul my arse round to her flat, kick the door down and demand she take me back. But, I decided that macho crap is the last thing a woman wants in a situation like this. It’s imperative that I show her I can be considerate, careful and sympathetic because there hasn’t been much evidence of that of late. So, with amazing acts of restraint (Dave and John
have to confiscate my phone every time we go out on the lash, to avoid my making drunken, heartfelt but annoying calls) I have managed to stick by my promise and I have not pestered her.

But today’s the day.

I get a bus to Shepherd’s Bush. I’m going to the surgery to see her. At least there she can’t ignore me. If I went to her home she might just refuse to answer the door. I’m timing my visit so that I arrive just before her lunch-break. She won’t want to discuss her private life in public so maybe she’ll agree to have a sandwich with me.

I just need fifteen minutes. I just need a lifetime.

I hate visiting doctors. I’m always certain I’m going to leave with a more dreadful disease than the one I arrived with. Sure enough, the moment I step inside the tiny reception, someone coughs. It’s a nasty, wracking, rattling cough and I feel their germs winging their way towards me, rushing up my nostrils and down my throat. It’s disgusting. I don’t know how Laura does the job she does. Still, faint heart never won fair maid. I galvanize.

Laura is on the phone, booking an appointment. I’d like to say she looks wonderful but she doesn’t. She looks tired and drawn. I’m not sure if she’s suffering from a late summer cold or an early winter one (hazard of the job) but I am sure that she could do with some chicken soup. I’d like to be the one to bring it to her, on a tray, up to her bedroom. Her nose is red and her skin is sallow. She’s wearing a nice top, though. I haven’t seen it before. I feel mildly alarmed by this. New clothes are insurmountable proof that her life has gone on without me. Of course I knew this but I’m terrified. I wanted her to be
frozen in time until I’d sorted out my messy life. What if she’s not only got a new top but a new bloke as well? It’s possible. It’s horrible. Bugger, did I ever balls this up.