Husbands. Part 11

I get to my feet and follow her. I hear Amelie say to Laura, 'Relax. She's going to grill the Roquefort, not Stevie. He's lovely.' Under normal circ.u.mstances I'd be chuffed but my head is too scrambled to care.

Last night I made love to Laura. And I mean made love. We didn't just s.h.a.g or screw or even f.u.c.k or what is that Aussie word she uses? Root. We didn't do any of those things. We really went for it. It was clear that we were both very much into each other. I'd been cautious about starting anything full-on with Laura. She's still reeling from the hurt of her divorce and she's too nice to mess around. Not that I'm keen on messing anyone around; I just mean that some ladies are more emotionally robust than others. Unless you think you might fall in love with a woman like Laura, it's kindest to leave her alone.

Last night I would have sworn I was in love with her.

I nearly did in fact. As we were lying exhausted and satiated in one another's sweat and stickiness I found myself a hair's breadth from muttering those three little words. It wasn't just that she gave the best head that I have ever had the pleasure to receive. It wasn't just because we'd flipped and quipped our way through a fair amount of the Kama Sutra with a confidence and comfortableness normally reserved for established couples. I've spent two weeks with this woman and her son. She's fun and firm, loving and light-hearted. She seems the perfect mum to me and Eddie obviously thinks so too. I've seen her manner with her builders, her neighbours, shop a.s.sistants and mums at the school gate, and she's perfect. She has a laugh but doesn't allow anyone to take the p.i.s.s. I know that sometimes, when she's feeling down, she's p.r.o.ne to seeing herself as a victim but her att.i.tude is entirely victor. It's the mix of inward self-doubt and outward big clout that I admire so much. She even talked a traffic warden out of giving me a ticket. I've never seen that happen before.

Last night I was going to tell her I loved her. Or at least, I might have boy-fudged it and said, if not exactly that, then something like, 'I can see myself falling in love with you.' But one thing stopped me. Not the risk of making a total a.r.s.e of myself and her laughing in my face. And not even the fact that we've only known each other two weeks and I might scare her off. The thing that stopped me was Belinda McDonnel.

How do you tell your girlfriend that you're not exactly sure of your marital status? I dunno. I really don't. And I've thought about this conundrum on and off for several years. My uncertainty about it has meant that it's easier to keep things casual with the ladies and until now, that hasn't been much of a problem. But all last night, today, and even right now, I've been thinking that I might be falling in love with Laura, that she's the ideal girl for me.

So why is it that as I follow Belinda into the kitchen I wonder if, once we are alone, we'll fall into each other's arms?

It's not an absolutely bizarre thought, well, not in the context of the evening. I don't actively want this to happen but as I watch her neat a.r.s.e sway in front of me and recognize the mole on her shoulder, which I have kissed countless times, I feel a shudder in my trousers. I'm ashamed. And angry. Angry that she can still affect me this way. So instead of falling into one another's arms, the moment we're alone, I ensure that we fall into another old habit instead.

'Do you want to tell me what's going on, Belinda?' I snap.

'I can't explain here,' she hisses, casting a furtive glance at the kitchen door.

'You're going to b.l.o.o.d.y have to.'

'Look, I'm sorry.'

'Sorry? Sorry for what exactly? Marrying me? Divorcing me without telling me? When did we get divorced, by the way? Shouldn't I have received a solicitor's letter or something?'

The colour drains from Belinda's face. Her blusher stands out on her ashen cheeks like bruises. Her lips are a slash of bright red lipstick. For a moment her face loses its beauty and she looks like a clown.

'We're not divorced,' she mutters.

'We're we're not?' I blindly feel around me, find a stool and plonk myself on it. Why the f.u.c.k am I pleased? She was mine and then I lost her. This evening I found her, but only briefly because I a.s.sumed, as she was married to Philip, that she was no longer married to me. For a fraction of a second I had felt intense grief as I flushed down the pan any latent fantasies I'd had about our reconciliation. Not that I truly want her, I don't. I've just found Laura. Meeting Belinda today must be viewed as a terrible, horrible inconvenience. So why the f.u.c.k am I feeling pleased?

'But you're married to-'

'Philip, yes.'

'You're a-'

'A bigamist, yes,' whispers Belinda. She sits on the stool next to mine and takes my hand. 'Look at me, Stevie. Please. This is important. We haven't got much time.'

I look at her. The sophisticated woman, who I have just watched calmly swallow oysters, has vanished. For some moments back there in the dining room I had almost hated Bella Edwards; she seemed smug and coldly unconcerned about my turmoil. The turmoil she'd caused. But Bella's grace and self-confidence have dissolved. I'm left with Belinda. I recognize the haunted, unsure look she's wearing now. Something inside me takes the blow and not just inside my trousers. I feel tender towards her, protective. Get me off this G.o.d-awful rollercoaster: I'm not enjoying the ride.

'I'm begging you, don't say anything. Please, give me some time. We'll meet. I'll explain everything. We're in such a mess here.'

'We are not in a mess. You are in a mess,' I point out.

'What about Laura? Don't you care for her?' Once again she is Bella. She is cold and grasping to regain control. She snuffs out my feelings of warmth. She doesn't want me on her side, she wants a defeated opponent. She knows that because I've stayed silent and complicit for this much of the evening I am already in a weak position. It was probably part of her plan. There was always a ruthless side to Belinda.

'I do care for Laura. Maybe I'll just walk out there and tell everyone what you've just told me.'

'You can't do that.'

'Why not?'

'Because Laura would be devastated. Anything you are starting would be shot to pieces.' She could be right about that. Laura is fragile. I don't want to hurt or lose Laura. 'And-'

'Yes?'

'I'm asking you not to.' I stare at her impa.s.sively. 'I'm begging you not to. For old times' sake, give me this one chance to explain,' she adds.

'I don't know what to do,' I say, pulling my hand through my hair.

'Then just write down the address of your school and I'll be at the gate on Monday afternoon at four fifteen.' She points to a pen and pad. There's a long shopping list with groceries whose names I don't even recognize. What the h.e.l.l do you do with calabrese and chayote squash? Bella picks up a large tureen and makes for the kitchen door. She stops and says, 'Look, Stevie. I really am sorry.'

I don't know what to believe.

21. Trying to Get to You.

Philip.

'Did you have a nice evening?' I ask as Bella finally comes to bed. She cleared away the entire dinner party, insisting that she couldn't bear to come down to the smell of stale plates in the morning. She ushered me up to bed, saying that I need to sleep at the weekends because on weekdays I have to get up early, which is true, but I wasn't convinced by her n.o.ble protest that she wanted to do the washing-up to give me a break; I had the feeling that she didn't want me around. When she came to bed and saw that I was still awake, reading Newsweek, her face showed a flicker of disappointment, which she immediately snuffed out with a broad smile.

'Did you have a nice evening?' I ask again.

She doesn't answer the question, just says, 'I have to do my exercises. Should I do them in another room? I don't want to keep you up.'

'Get into bed, Bella. You can't do sit-ups on a full stomach.' I pull back the duvet. Bella sighs and gets into bed. 'Why are you wearing pants?' I ask.

Normally, we sleep naked. I love the intimacy this suggests. It shows we're open to one another and open to s.e.x, of course. Sometimes Bella comes to bed wearing frilly, s.e.xy numbers; panties which clearly tell me she's feeling cheeky. At the moment she's wearing her period pants although I know she is not on her period. I wonder what she's saying.

'Full stomach, as you said. I feel fat,' she explains.

'That's ridiculous. You're beautiful.'

'I'm not,' snaps Bella, turning her back to me. I sigh, put down my book, turn out the light and snuggle up to her. I'm relieved when she pushes her b.u.m into my crotch. This means that although Bella is feeling huffy, I'm not to blame. Next I have to establish who or what is.

'So, did you have a nice evening?' I ask for the third time.

'Yes, it was fine.'

'Just fine?'

'Fine.'

I'm stumped. Normally after our dinner parties she takes ages to wind down. She wants to chatter about who said what, who was wearing what, did they like our food? What did I think of pudding? Haven't we got great friends? Aren't we lucky? Tonight I was expecting a full grilling on my impressions of Stevie and a blow-by-blow a.n.a.lysis on what Bella thought of him and how much chance Laura's relationship has. I'd even practised a response because I often get ticked off for not taking enough interest. I'm a bit peeved not to get the opportunity to showcase my chatter.

'Delicious dinner, my love,' I say to kick-start the conversation.

'Thank you.'

'Shame Stevie wasn't keen on oysters.'

'Yes. What a waste.'

'Nice enough guy, though, wouldn't you say?' Silence. 'A bit shy perhaps, or do you think he was just nervous?'

'Why would he be nervous?' snaps Bella.

'Well, it's never easy meeting your partner's old friends and we're all protective of Laura. It must be the equivalent of meeting the parents.'

'Oh.'

'Did you like him?' I pursue.

'Didn't really get a chance to talk to him.'

'He mentioned that he went to university in Scotland. Do you-'

'There are lots of universities in Scotland. What makes you think he went to mine?'

'Darling, I know Scotland's a big place, not a village. I was just going to ask whether you'd discovered which one.'

Bella can be very tetchy about English ignorance of all things Scottish, and the general a.s.sumption that everyone in Scotland must know everyone else as it's such a parochial place. I change the subject. 'Good-looking chap.'

'Is he?'

'Come on, you must have noticed.' I squeeze her b.u.m playfully. I have no problem with her noticing good-looking men, any more than she has with me noticing cute ladies. We're married, which means we're bound but not blind. 'Laura certainly thinks so. She's ga-ga about him.'

'Well, that's what counts.'

Bella still has her back to me and it seems that, despite my best efforts, she is not going to enter into a conversation. I could ask her outright what is bothering her but I know that the one thing guaranteed to make Bella close down is confrontation. Instead, I pursue a more convoluted route. 'I wonder if he plays golf.'

'No, he doesn't.'

'How do you know?'

'I... don't. I'm guessing. He doesn't look the golfing type.'

'He lived in Scotland for a while, there's a better than average chance that he plays. I'll ask him if he wants a round at my club.'

'Why?'

'To be friendly. You and Laura could go shopping one Sat.u.r.day afternoon, like you used to, and Stevie and I could play golf.'

'I don't think that's a good idea.'

'Why not?'

'They may not last.'

'Well, if they don't I won't be heartbroken if I lose a new golf pal, and if they do last it would be nice to know him better.'

'Just leave it, Philip,' snips Bella, and she turns to me. 'Just leave it.' Her face, normally so composed, is sizzling with irritation.

'Why don't you like him?' I ask.

'I don't dislike him.' Bella stretches across me and turns off the bedside light. 'I have a headache. Can we just go to sleep now?'

I lie in the darkness counting on my fingers how far away from Bella's period we are. Never before have I encountered such a ferocious bout of PMT.

22. Love Me Tender.

Laura.

Stevie and I put Amelie into the first cab that comes along, then flag down a second one, only minutes later. We sit in the darkness and silence and, while I can't quite put my finger on why, I know that the dinner party was not a success. Bella had made a huge effort, there's no denying that. The menu was exquisite, as were the floral arrangements and her new dress. Perhaps that was what had caused the tension. Stevie must think my friends are completely ra-ra. I wish she'd opted for fish and chips or an Indian takeaway. I don't want to be ungrateful but her full-on 'hostess with the mostest' act rarely makes for a convivial evening.

Amelie wasn't herself either. She's been a real doll to me lately but there's friction between her and Bella. Twice tonight I saw Bella flash daggers at her and Amelie was really niggly and nit-picking with Bella. They are usually bosom buddies. Only Philip was his usual warm and relaxed self.

I steal a glance at Stevie and sigh inwardly. That was the worst of it. Stevie clearly didn't enjoy himself much. He drank too much and was monosyllabic most of the evening. I'm partly disappointed for him, that he didn't click with my mates, and partly irritated with him, for not understanding that Bella was trying her hardest. Couldn't he be a bit more perceptive? Couldn't he have told some of his funny tales or blue jokes and broken the ice?

He's leaning his head against the cab window, he appears mesmerized by the lights of London whizzing by. Is he bored, exhausted or just p.i.s.sed? I wish I didn't care as much as I do. I should hold back and be all calm, cool and collected, sophisticated to the point of quasi-indifference. But then, it's a bit late for all that. I've slept with him. Last night I screamed and moaned enough to wake the dead and I didn't even have to fake it. It's unlikely that I can conjure up indifference now.

I'd waited so long for that first lip-kiss. I'd waited since he kissed me on the cheek on Hammersmith platform and I'd waited for thirty years before that. A kiss can mean so much or nothing at all. It amazes me that they are so varied and important. A kiss can be a way to say h.e.l.lo or goodbye. It can be an act of devotion or deceit. It can calm, comfort or arouse. The gentle kiss delivered on Hammersmith platform, a phut sound of his plump lips touching my cheek, was alarmingly ambiguous. Was the kiss one that meant the world to me but little to him? Or was it an opener? The phut sound had stayed with me and buoyed me up for three barren weeks, when sometimes I was afraid that our relationship would never be anything more than that d.a.m.ning epitaph of 'just good friends'. On Friday night, when he finally kissed me on the lips, the gentle phut sound was blasted away by the non-ambiguous force of a long, pa.s.sionate, involved kiss.

His kisses were soft and careful. I responded eagerly; gently but decisively taking the kiss up a gear, I chewed and nibbled his lips and probed with my tongue. He softly kissed my jaw, my neck and my ears, which made me feel like a teenager, never a bad thing. It's surprising how, generally, men neglect kissing and yet it can be the most charged and erotic preamble. Stevie intuitively knew this; his kisses were diverse in intensity, he moved through the spectrum of polite to powerful, teasing to tenacious. I pushed my body close in to his. With my b.o.o.bs squashed against his chest, I wondered if he could feel my hard nipples through my bra and clothes. I wondered if I dared lunge for his d.i.c.k. Surprisingly, I did not feel nervous, anxious or inadequate a state in which I'd existed more-or-less permanently since I split from Oscar I felt charged, excited and curious.

He stroked my hair, he ran his fingers down my outer thighs and up my inner, pausing, hovering above my rudest bits. Drawing out the pleasure. He trailed his fingers down my shoulders and the length of my arms. He ran his touch over my ribs, my a.r.s.e, my hip bone. His touch invited my confidence, stoked my desire and left me dizzy and energized with l.u.s.t. His touch mended, calmed and rea.s.sured me. Then suddenly, he changed pace. He darted for my shirt and swiftly popped the b.u.t.tons; one, two, three, four. I remember thinking it was a practised thumb and forefinger that managed such a swift disrobing but the thought didn't alarm me, it sparked more longing. I wanted his expert thumbs and fingers all over me. He sprang the b.u.t.tons on my jeans with similar speed and confidence and I willingly slithered out of them. Within seconds he whipped his T-shirt over his head and his jeans were around his ankles.

He pulled me to my feet and hurriedly edged me towards the living-room wall. Pa.s.sively I allowed him to lead me, enjoying the sensation of someone else taking control for a while. His fingers edged my tarty knickers to one side and slipped inside my body. His cool fingers chilled my hot flesh and for one crazy moment he seemed to be part of me. A missing part that my body had secretly craved forever. The pleasure was astounding. I came almost instantly.

I grabbed, kissed and licked wherever I could reach. His lips, his hair, his shoulders. My fingers shot towards his d.i.c.k which was now standing proud and magnificent. I slipped out of my knickers as he slipped into a condom, and then I guided him into me. I stared into his eyes and he stared back, never losing me. Not for a moment. It felt incredible. It felt imperative. It felt perfect.

We did it again, after food, this time in the comfort of my bed. A bed that I'd once slept in with Oscar but I've buried his ghost as it's taken me twenty-four hours to stumble upon this realization. We had fierce and fast s.e.x. We had ambling and lingering s.e.x. I came again and then again. He seemed to adore me. His kisses felt like worship on my s.e.xy bits and he kissed my untoned bits and my saggy bits with the same enthusiasm. He also delighted in the squeaky sounds that escaped my mouth when I was overcome with pleasure. He laughed at the squelchy sounds our bodies made as they bashed up against one another in sticky wantonness.

When we were both completely wasted, spent and sore, we nuzzled into one another allowing our bodies to mesh and melt. Despite the heat we did not want to be apart. Stevie grinned and gazed at me. His eyes were unfocused, a consequence of pa.s.sion and tiredness.

'Laura, I am so lucky I found you. So, so, so lucky,' he laughed in a whisper. They were the last words I heard before I fell asleep.

That was yesterday.

This is today. Today, the best I can hope for is keeping my desperation at bay. I want to retain my independence and allure. The cab pulls up outside my flat. I gather up my bag and take an extraordinarily long time zipping up my hoody. Stevie doesn't look as though he's going to budge.