Husbands. Part 14

'Who are you going to ask instead?'

'No idea.'

'You must have other friends. People at school.'

'They're not the type you'd invite to support you as you conquer the world at an Elvis Presley tribute compet.i.tion. It's such a b.l.o.o.d.y waste of two tickets and a hotel room,' says Stevie.

I sympathize with his predicament. If I had won a prize to take three friends on an all-expenses-paid trip to Las Vegas I'd ask Bella and Amelie. If they couldn't make it, I'd be struggling. I'm not close enough to Sally or any of the doctors at the surgery to want to dress up in a spangly outfit and sing my guts out in front of them, even if I was talented that way.

I blame TV. We live in a hyperreality. TV has become more real than reality. We all feel we should be living a life like Monica, Rachel or Ross. A life where having cool friends who hang out in coffee bars is the norm. My friends don't have time to live in coffee bars well, Bella has, recently, but she didn't always live her life that way. If we believed TV (which we do) it would appear that friends who would give their kidneys, as though they were offering a toffee, are queuing at the door. It's not like that in the real world. True friends are harder to come by. I want to a.s.sure Stevie that we'll have a wonderful time in Las Vegas alone, but I'm nervous that I'll sound either insensitive or full of bull.

The truth is, I'm not absolutely sure we will have a cheer'n time alone. I hope we will but it's all so intense, all very fast forward. Something scary is happening here. And I can't decide if it's the best thing ever or the worst.

I'm falling in love with Stevie.

I know, I know, it's stupidly early to say such a big, out-there thing but how else do I explain the fact that today I caught myself singing, out loud, on the tube. I'm almost unhappy with the situation. Almost. Part of me wants to kick, scramble, b.o.l.l.o.c.ks out of here. I want to sit Stevie down and explain, in words of one syllable, I've closed off that side of me. I no longer trust. I think men are b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. The odd individual might be able to hide it for a while give you the impression that they're different from other testosterone-driven f.u.c.kwits but, in the end, they are all the same and they are all b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. I believe this with every rational bone in my body because the evidence is there, isn't it?

But, the thing is, I'm the last of the great romantics.

The irrational bits, my heart and my soul, keep nagging at me. The squishy bits seem to be insisting that not all men are b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. My dad's a nice bloke. Eddie's still cute. And Stevie... Stevie seems fine.

I believe in love. The forever kind. It's an enormous inconvenience and you'd think I'd have wised up after the Oscar debacle but I haven't. Stevie is easy and fun. The things that should bother us, don't. Tonight, for instance, he's caught me waist-high in washing, no makeup, hair pulled into an untidy ponytail and he should be put off, but I know he's not. The intimacy is disarmingly easy.

I'd be happier if John and Dave could have made it.

'Eddie's nearly asleep,' says Stevie. 'Why don't you pop him into bed while I scrounge around in your fridge and see if I can rustle up anything that will pa.s.s as supper?'

'Deal,' I smile.

After we've had scrambled eggs on toast and a bottle of wine, Stevie and I return to the settee, with a can of beer apiece.

'I like your flat, Laura. I feel happy here.'

'Do you?' I'm particularly open to this line of compliment because Henryk's oft-shared opinion that my entire flat could do with a major overhaul has started to grind me down. I've stopped noticing that my flat is actually kind of cool.

'I like the colours.'

It is colourful. Pretty much every wall is painted differently. This is partly a creative statement and partly the result of watching the pennies. I often buy pots of emulsion that are on the sale rack in B&Q. The paints that people have had mixed up and then backed out of buying because they're too bright, garish or vulgar.

'It's very vibrant,' adds Stevie tactfully.

'I'm lucky that I was able to use up the half or quarter tins that Bella discarded when she decorated her home. Having the odd wall painted in a muted blue or a taupe has helped the overall effect. Calmed it down a bit.'

'I like the bright colours best,' said Stevie. 'I also like your pictures and fairy lights.'

I have pictures all over my home. Posters, bought from markets or galleries, and postcards tucked behind every ornament, book or mug as I keep every single postcard that is sent to me. There are photographs too, mostly of Eddie but quite a few of my family, Bella and other friends. I read in a feng shui book that it's good chi to have pictures of loved ones all around you. Hey, why not? There are times when we need every bit of help that we can get.

I've hung strings of fairy lights everywhere they're too pretty to keep in a box until Christmas round doorways and window sills, they decorate vases, frames and shelves. I hang on to things. I find throwing things away, even useless or ugly things, a very difficult exercise (think Oscar). I'm aware that this att.i.tude isn't particularly good for chi. According to Eastern philosophy you are not meant to keep anything in your house that isn't either useful or beautiful, unless it's a ceramic frog.

I've come to regard the overall effect as chaotic certainly that was Oscar's view. I don't think Henryk approves of my aesthetic choices either, although, to be fair, he limits his criticism to badly hung doors and smelly damp patches. Undeniably, my place is not as cosy and comfy as Amelie's home nor as chic and cla.s.sy as Bella's. But the effect might be regarded as bohemian. Following Stevie's approving comments I'm more inclined to see that it has a certain lived-in quality.

'When Oscar left, I was determined to hold on to the apartment, mostly because the thought of moving terrified me,' I blurt. I haven't said much about Oscar to Stevie. It's too easy for me to be angry and people like their lemons bitter, not their ladies.

'Why was that?'

'I don't like legal doc.u.ments, not to mention the scary language exclusive to surveyors and I couldn't face trotting around other people's homes trying to find somewhere suitable for Eddie and me.' Stevie stays silent, which is all the encouragement I need. 'I've house-hunted in the past and the vendors always make an unnatural effort to present their homes and families as perfect.'

'What do you mean?'

'They brew Brazilian coffee, bake bread and give an extra squirt of the potpourri-scented air-freshener. They have vases of freshly cut flowers on every surface. The wives try to be smiley and accommodating, the husbands strive to be at their most witty and affable. I couldn't face it.'

I draw up short of blurting that Eddie and I didn't seem to add up to much of a family without Oscar. Obliterated, we couldn't take on the smell of baked bread and the show of family perfection.

'How did you manage?'

'I bought Oscar out of his share of the apartment by begging the bank to give me a bigger mortgage. We halved our savings, which turned out to be embarra.s.singly modest, and called it a day.'

'Did you have a good solicitor?'

'I didn't use one. I wanted to make as swift and dignified an exit as possible.'

At the time I'd said there was no point in going to a solicitor because I didn't care about money. Six months later, I realized that it's only people with loads of money who can say that they don't care about it. Anyway, even if I don't care about money, the gas, water and electricity boards do, the council tax collector does and Visa card do, to name but a few. While it is possible that money doesn't buy happiness, it definitely pays for decent subst.i.tutes. I don't say any of this to Stevie, all I mutter is, 'Thank G.o.d for Bella.'

'Why do you say that?'

'She helped me out so much.'

She made me get a haircut and buy new clothes; again I keep this information sacrosanct. I don't want to leave Stevie with the impression that I was a smelly, self-neglecting trollop, however accurate. Bella listened to me churn, over and over again, the details of my split from Oscar. She allowed me to rant, weep and despair. Then she encouraged, cajoled and reasoned with me for endless hours. I was a stranger to her and definitely not at my best but she didn't seem to care or even notice. Her heart had room for me. She helped me to find some sort of a sense of humour and sense of self. I limit my explanation to, 'She helped me get my finances in order. She worked out how much I owed and how much money I had coming in, then helped me find a job that covered the shortfall but worked around childcare. Most of which she did anyway.'

'She looked after Eddie?'

'Yes. You sound surprised.'

'She just didn't come across as the kid-loving type.'

'Oh, she is. She's great with kids. Eddie adores her.' I want to explain that I adore her too. Everyone does. Stevie would, if only he knew her. 'You definitely didn't see her at her best on Sat.u.r.day night. I can't tell you how fabulous she is. I really want you to get to know her better.'

Stevie looks away. Despite agreeing to give Bella a chance, I don't get the impression he's totally convinced. Suddenly, I have the most amazing idea.

'Let's ask Bella and Phil to come to Las Vegas with us.'

'What?'

'You said yourself that the tickets and the hotel room would just go to waste and I can't tell you how much it would mean to me to do something nice for Bella. She's always buying such extravagant gifts for Eddie and my drinks and paying restaurant bills.'

'She can afford to, by the looks of it.'

'But even before she married Philip she was incredibly generous. Not just with cash but with her time. I never have the means or opportunity to pay her back and this would be perfect.'

I'm so excited by the perfectness of the plan that I barely consider how forward I'm being in asking Stevie to give his prize to my friends. In a split second I reason that they will soon be his friends; all the sooner, if we go away together and have a gas. It's my hospitable Aussie spirit taking control; it's ebullient and extends to being hospitable with other people's treats.

'Besides, most importantly you'd have a chance to get to know them better,' I plead.

'I don't know,' says Stevie slowly.

'Can you think of one good reason why not?'

Stevie looks blank, almost scared. For goodness' sake, my friends aren't scary. But he doesn't answer me. I take his silence to mean that he's agreed to my plan and then I pull him towards me and kiss his lips.

Enough talking for one night.

25. Trouble.

Tuesday 15th June 2004.

Bella.

'Going away with him is a ridiculous idea,' says Amelie. We are in my local Costa Coffee. I've called an emergency meeting. I gaze out of the window: rain is lashing down and a.s.saulting pedestrians as they scuttle to find shelter. A depressing state of affairs in January, let alone June. Last week I was wearing a T-shirt and contemplating shorts, albeit long ones, and this week I can't leave the house without an umbrella and a raincoat. This tedious situation is only somewhat relieved by the fact that my raincoat is a Burberry raincoat. Christmas 2003's 'must-have' fashion item. I might be cold and wet but I look chic.

Amelie is right, of course, going away with Stevie is a ludicrous idea.

'I know, but I wasn't given any choice in the matter. Laura called and spoke to Philip who, naturally, thought it was a brilliant idea that we join them on an all-expenses-paid trip to Las Vegas. He accepted before I was even consulted.'

'Didn't you try to get out of it?'

'Of course, but he said I've been tetchy for the last three or four weeks and a break would do me good.'

'He knows you well,' observes Amelie.

I scowl. I have been tetchy and both Philip and Amelie have repeatedly commented on it, which naturally has done nothing to alleviate the feelings of irritability. Of course I'm p.r.i.c.kly. Who wouldn't be when they are married to two men who are mixing in the same social circles and a disastrous exposure seems at every moment probable? No doubt Laura has noticed that I'm being grumpy too, but she has tactfully opted not to discuss the matter with me. I know she's reached her own conclusion i.e. that I don't like Stevie and therefore I am being difficult. She is one hundred per cent correct and one hundred per cent wrong at the same time.

'If you have any suggestions as to how I get out of the trip I'd love to hear them,' I mumble.

'Tell the truth.'

'Any realistic, likely or at least non-suicidal suggestions,' I clarify.

'No.'

'Well, maybe you should keep out of this, Amelie. This isn't a game. This is serious.'

'You've noticed.' Amelie holds my glare longer than I'm comfortable with; I break first and look away.

I wouldn't normally dream of speaking to Amelie so rudely but I'm at snapping point. It's over a week since I met Stevie. Since then, with his agreement, I have made an appointment with a solicitor, which is a step forwards, and I have been roped into spending four days away in Las Vegas with my best friend and both my husbands, which is a step backwards. A whole quantum leap backwards, actually. I'm terrified by the prospect.

'I wonder what on earth made Stevie agree to you and Philip joining the Vegas trip,' muses Amelie.

'He was probably railroaded by Laura.'

'That, or he wants to make you sweat,' points out Amelie.

'No, he wouldn't do that. Why would he do that?' I ask.

'Because you've treated him terribly. You secretly married him, you deserted him and now you want to divorce him. Besides this, you are insisting that he lies to his girlfriend and becomes embroiled in all sorts of potentially explosive skulduggery,' states Amelie.

I'm really beginning to dislike her. I realize that this dislike is fuelled entirely by my own inadequacies, which simply makes it more intense. Her goodness makes me feel like the devil has bought my soul. The thing about goodness is that it is only nice to be around if you are good. If you are not good, and right now I'm not, then it's just b.l.o.o.d.y infuriating.

'I'll ask him what the h.e.l.l he's playing at when I see him tomorrow,' I say.

'Tomorrow?'

'Yes, we're meeting up again.'

'Why?'

'So I can give him a progress report.'

'I thought you said there hasn't been any progress.'

'Well, there will have been by tomorrow. I'm seeing the solicitor in the morning.'

'Couldn't you send him an e-mail with an update?'

'Too risky.'

'Why? Don't you trust him?'

'No, it's not that. He said he'd help me, so he will. Stevie's a man of his word. But e-mails can be seen by the wrong people.'

'You might be seen meeting him, surely that's more risky,' argues Amelie.

'No, we've picked a venue off the beaten track. Neither of us is in any danger of being spotted.'

'How very clandestine,' she mutters, raising an eyebrow to effectively communicate her distrust and displeasure.

'I'm not enjoying this, Amelie.'

'Make sure you don't. Another coffee?'

I agree, mostly because I want Amelie to leave me alone for a while even if it's only for the few minutes it takes her to order and collect two lattes. I'm beginning to regret confessing my awful predicament to her. She's behaving like my own personal Jiminy Cricket.

I glance around the coffee house. Normally I love it here. Often, I wander down the high street at about noon and find myself ambling into Costa. Their sandwiches are yummy and I prefer to buy one here than eat alone at home. Usually, I stretch out on one of the big brown leather sofas and sip my coffee while reading a novel. Having been a waitress for more years than I care to add up, there is no other single pleasure quite so great as putting your feet up and taking your time over a cup of coffee. I like to dip amaretti biscuits into my latte. They are expensive and some would argue that they taste like cardboard but I still consider them to be symbolic of urban living and that alone has an overwhelming pull for me.

Only a month ago I remember popping in here for a spot of lunch following a fairly rigorous exercise cla.s.s and thinking to myself that my life was d.a.m.n perfect, utterly, totally enviable. My body felt nicely stretched from my visit to the gym. My stomach felt a little stretched too (skinny cafe latte and a mozzarella, sun-dried tomatoes and pesto sandwich, tasted all right, a wee bit too salty). I had nowhere I needed to be. No one I owed money, apologies or a time sheet to. I remember thinking that life could not get more ideal. Now, I think my lot is on a par with Job's and Amelie is macabrely expert as Job's comforter. As if to underline my point Amelie returns to the table with three lattes and a smiling Laura.