Husbands. Part 18

'Do you fancy a coffee?' asks Stevie.

'No, something stronger. Let me buy you some champagne. We should celebrate. I'm so thrilled to be here, Stevie.'

We enter Paris, Las Vegas, a hotel casino distinguished by one of the city's more prominent landmarks, a fifty-storey replica of the Eiffel Tower, which thrusts through the roof of the casino and rises 540 ft into the air. We buy a ticket to the eleventh floor where there is a piano bar and a restaurant.

Stevie and I are shown to a window table. It's dark now and we both gaze in amazement at the city below us. The neon city of sin looms below like a large set on a sci-fi movie. It defies belief, an orgy of fantasies made flesh, a place where money is no object but at the same time money is the only object.

'I'm shattered,' I say.

'Still smiling, though?'

'Who wouldn't be? I'm having a blast. I'll work through my tiredness by drinking champagne.'

'I like that sort of stamina,' says Stevie with a grin. I blush as I recall the night before when he and I showcased our stamina in quite a different way. The blush is one of pleasure at the memory, not shyness.

'Do you think we should go back to the hotel and see if we can track down Bella and Philip?' I ask.

'No need to. Let's just enjoy the champers. Do you know what Dom Perignon, the blind, French monk who invented champagne, said on his first tasting?'

'No, I don't.'

'"Brothers, come quick! I am tasting stars!"'

'How did you know that?' I ask, impressed.

'I read it on this matchbox,' Stevie confesses. He shrugs and flicks it towards me. I pick it up and sneakily slip it into my pocket. I already know tonight is the sort of night I want to keep souvenirs from.

I take a sip of the chilled champagne and think how wonderfully accurate the quote is. Life feels so fine. I look at the enormous bags of shopping around us. We've mostly limited ourselves to silly, cheap and cheerful purchases pressies for Eddie, and for Amelie's kids but Stevie did insist on buying me a dress in Armani Exchange. I demurred, insisting that the trip was treat enough and that he didn't need to go buying me designer clothes.

'Hardly designer, it's a diffusion brand, darling,' said Stevie with a grin. He was gently mocking Bella, who had explained what a diffusion brand was only earlier that day. We, the uninitiated into designer wear, were unaware that diffusion brands are the 'more accessible' i.e. cheaper labels within a design house.

'Even so, you can't afford it on your wages,' I insisted.

'The treat will be mine when I see you in it,' insisted Stevie. The dress in question is a backless denim sundress. I couldn't pretend I didn't love it.

The piano tinkles moody lounge music, the neon lights flash below us and Vegas looks like an enormous Santa's grotto. The champagne is cold and Stevie's hot, things could not be more perfect and romantic. Tonight is the type of night when lovers speak of love. I take a deep breath.

'Stevie, I just wanted to say-'

'Hi, guys, how's it going? Of all the bars in all the towns, you had to be in this one.' Philip does a poor Humphrey Bogart but we all understand what he's trying to achieve.

I try to look pleased at the interruption, after all, it was my idea to invite Phil and Bella along on the trip and my main motivation was so that they could bond with Stevie. It would be unfair of me to want to monopolize him now. It's just that we were having such a perfect time. I smile brightly and tell myself we can all have a perfect time now. Philip is grinning too. Bella and Stevie are not.

'Can we join you?' asks Philip. He's already pulling up chairs to our table.

Bella sits next to Stevie. She looks fantastic in another designer dress, there's definitely nothing diffusion about it. She looks like she's spent the day in the spa and hairdresser's. I look like I've spent it trawling around a boiling and clammy city. I lament my lack of lipstick.

'So, what have you guys been up to?' asks Phil brightly.

I briefly fill him in on our day's adventures. 'And you two?' I ask politely.

'Well, I've spent it with my nose in a book by the pool and Bella has spent the day at the spa and the hairdresser's, haven't you, darling?'

Figures.

'I'm so nervous of the sun nowadays. I rarely sit out in it. I'd rather go to a spray booth,' says Bella. I think she knows she sounds lame because she looks nervously at Stevie. 'Besides, I wanted to take it easy. I've had a headache ever since we arrived at the airport. It's the Las Vegas theme tune that is doing it.'

'What are you talking about?' asks Stevie.

'The constant, tuneless chords of money dropping into slot machines. It's everywhere and it's horrid.'

I swig back my champagne and cross my fingers that the conversation is going to improve.

29. The Wonder of You.

Stevie.

I believe there is a G.o.d. But he's not a benevolent old chap, a cross between your favourite uncle and Santa Claus. Of course he isn't. If he was, there wouldn't be war, or famine, or Celine Dion's music, would there? The G.o.d I believe in is more witty than Oscar Wilde and more implacable and unrelenting than Simon Cowell. Philip was right, 'Of all the bars...'

I watch my wife with undeniable fascination. She is a chameleon. One minute she's drinking with me in pubs, treating me to her wit and honesty, trailing me through memories that I'd long ago shut away, allowing me to be delighted by those said memories. The next, she is cold and dull. Or am I being too kind? Calling her a chameleon is too poetic. Is she just a wh.o.r.e?

Obviously, it's unlikely to be a comfortable situation for either of us. But I would understand her better if she stuttered and stammered throughout our meetings. She doesn't. She appears calm, cool and aloof. I'm angry at, and jealous of, her ability to disengage. Am I so disposable? Bella is the ultimate iceberg. When you meet her, you get to see about five per cent of what's available. The rest is submerged in dark, murky waters. I am a fated t.i.tanic.

On the other hand, Laura is an open book. She oozes integrity and sincerity from every pore. She's fun, good in the sack, interesting and no pushover. So why do I find myself continually looking at Belinda's b.o.o.bs throughout dinner (currently strapped up, high and inviting)?

We eat a bit and drink an enormous amount. Or, at least, everyone except Belinda drinks an enormous amount. Laura and Philip are knocking them back because they are on holiday and are carefree. I drink a lot because I'm in the middle of some sort of ghoulish nightmare and haven't the moral fibre or immoral impudence to manage the situation without the aid of alcohol. I imagine Bella because, h.e.l.l, there's no sign of Belinda tonight isn't drinking to demonstrate how much more self-control she has than me.

I'm insulted and furious that she treats me with such contempt in front of her 'husband'. She practically ignores me. She hasn't congratulated me on winning the King of Kings heats, even though she's here as my guest. She doesn't manage so much as a polite good-mannered chuckle when I make a joke. She can't even be bothered to chat. I can see she might not feel comfortable enquiring about my most wild and romantic moments, my marital status or even which woman first broke my heart. Accepted. But she could chat about some of the non-consequential things that mates chat about the weather, football results, how to make a decent whisky sour.

Whisky sour. Good idea. I'll have a double as a chaser to this second bottle of champagne.

What power does Belinda McDonnel wield over me? It was the same way back when... She was playing out some childish romantic notion of eloping and I was just the sap prepared to go the distance. Why did I instantly agree to tell grade A lies to my new girlfriend to help her out? How did I let her trick me into believing that we were back on a path that was developing into something like a genuine friendship? Because here's the thing, this will make you laugh I thought I meant something to her. The other night, when we were sat in All Bar One, the alcoholic equivalent to Starbucks, cookie-cut but reliable, I believed that there was a connection between us. I thought we'd started to weave gossamer-thin threads of deliberation, laughter and trust that amounted to the beginnings of an authentic relationship. But it was nothing. It meant nothing. I was deluded. Bella Edwards is a hard, manipulative, controlling b.i.t.c.h. And I am a weak, f.e.c.kless and gullible idiot.

She's got great legs.

Really fantastic for her age. Like, they've got better. I've always found the back of the knee particularly erotic and Bella's is toned and strong-looking.

The whisky sour has been and gone. I've drunk too much.

'How much have you had to drink?' whispers Bella, as if she's read my mind. I didn't think we could still do that. She's taken the opportunity of Philip chatting to the pianist and Laura visiting the loos, to interrogate me.

'Not enough,' I reply sullenly.

'I think you should go easy.'

'I don't give a f.u.c.k what you think.'

Bella looks astonished, and that's satisfying. Who is she to tell me how much I should drink? I order a beer just to annoy her.

Laura comes back to the table. 'Stevie, baby, you'd better not drink much more. You have the photo shoot tomorrow. You don't want to feel too rough,' she says, with a smile.

'You might be right, gorgeous,' I lean across the table to kiss her. I kiss her in a way that yells randy. I gently bite her lower lip and push my tongue into her mouth. I let the bottom of my beer gla.s.s nudge up against her nipple. I'm not sure who I'm trying to get a reaction from, Laura or Bella. I'm too drunk to care.

Philip rejoins the table. 'Ah, young love.'

'Exactly that,' I agree with a grin.

I still haven't actually told Laura that I love her, not in so many words. I'm not trying to play games. The opposite. I don't want to say anything too definite, with this mess hanging over my head. Laura doesn't play games, she doesn't even want to. It's one of the many great things about her. She's refreshingly uncomplicated.

Women are so unnecessarily complex. I mean besides Belinda who is off the scale when it comes to creating needless difficulties in her life and the lives of those unfortunate enough to come into contact with her other birds are not much better. They lie about their age, the number of men they've slept with and their weight, as a matter of course. They lie about fancying married men, their mates' boyfriends and men with money, without batting an eyelid. They lie about the colour of their hair, their ability to eat chocolate and stay thin and how much exercise they do each week. It's so pointless. We know you lie! Men know women lie!

But Laura is different. She thinks like a guy. That first evening out together, she commented that getting to know someone is complicated enough without pretending to be something you're not. I choked on my beer. She is so right. It's so simple. So obvious. Her doctrine is the polar opposite to the doctrine Bella lives by.

And the one I'm living by. Holy f.u.c.k. Hardly a comforting thought.

'Hey, buddy, I told them who you are,' says Philip and he points towards the pianist.

'Who I am?' I ask. Who the h.e.l.l am I? Laura's boyfriend or Belinda's husband? My head is spinning.

'An Elvis King of Kings finalist. The pianist was really impressed.' I shrug modestly. 'He wants you to get up and sing something.'

'Go on, baby. Go for it,' Laura screeches excitedly.

'No, I'm too p.i.s.sed,' I object.

'I've never heard you perform,' says Philip, 'I'd really like to.'

'Please, please, please,' says Laura, giggling.

Other diners tune into the commotion and start to encourage me. They call out tracks they would like me to sing, and it's a buzz, there's no denying it. I've been in similar situations in the UK, at wedding parties if the guests are drunk enough, which they usually are. At the compet.i.tion heats the crowds get fervent but there's nothing like the enthusiasm of the Yanks. They have no embarra.s.sment about encouraging or complimenting. It's charmingly refreshing. Notably, Bella is not cajoling me on to the stage she never has. It's her reticence as much as everyone else's encouragement that does it for me.

I walk towards the stage, wobbling slightly, it's alcohol, not nerves. I'd only noticed a pianist before I stood up, but in true Vegas style, a small band has materialized where it was needed. Beside the pianist, there is now a drummer and some guys on strings. They all flash me hundred-watt grins and ask what's it to be.

Good question.

Drunk, there's a serious chance that I'll become pathetically slushy, indiscreet or angry. It seems impossible to choose a song without it appearing loaded and especially significant. Outright, I reject 'Love Me Tender', 'Don't Be Cruel' and 'Hard Headed Woman' although just thinking about the last option makes me sn.i.g.g.e.r to myself. And there's the question who am I singing for? Laura or Belinda? Both will a.s.sume I'm singing for them. Whether I belt out a showpiece or croon a ballad, they will layer on tricky significance. As women, they won't be able to help themselves, they will find a deeper meaning where none is intended. So, what I choose matters. I wish I knew the words to 'Old Shep'. That alone would be safe.

I look back at the table. Laura is standing, looking shiny and Amazonian. She grins, waves and then puts her fingers in her mouth to wolf whistle. She looks thrilled for me and thrilled to be with me. I see nothing in her but uncomplicated pleasure. I smile back at her. I turn to Belinda. Bella is looking grave and nervous. She seems to be shrinking before my eyes. She's struggling to meet my stare. I see nothing but regret and mess.

Both women fascinate me.

I start to sing 'The Wonder of You'. I have no idea which one I'm singing to.

30. Good Rocking Tonight.

Philip.

'Wow, can that man hold a tune!'

'He's not bad,' says Bella.

'Frankly, I'm in awe.'

I unb.u.t.ton my shirt and fold it carefully before placing it into the laundry bag at the bottom of the wardrobe. Our suite is so stunning that I don't want to mess it up. Bella doesn't have the same scruples; I wander into the bathroom where I'm a.s.saulted by countless lotions and potions that appear to be positively scrambling to make an escape bid from their jars and packaging. It would never cross Bella's mind to put a lid back on a bottle. I reunite various tubes and tubs with their tops, I then wipe away the messy gunk smeared around the jars and start humming 'The Wonder of You' that Stevie sang in the bar. I can't get the tune out of my head. I can't remember the words exactly, something about her love being everything to him, making him feel like a king. Good words. Simple, straightforward, effective.

Stevie is talented, far better than I had antic.i.p.ated. Not that I'm in any way a connoisseur of Elvis tribute acts but I have seen two or three in my time: one at university, another at a corporate do, and most memorably a cl.u.s.ter of Chinese Elvises guys who double as waiters at a very trendy (in a kitsch sort of way) restaurant in Clapham. But Stevie is something else, far better than anything I've ever seen, even on TV.

The funny thing is Stevie doesn't even look much like Elvis but when he got hold of the mic tonight, there were moments when I really thought I was in the presence of the King. How crazy is that? He captured the exact melodious tone that Elvis was famous for. A tone that conveyed a blend of sweet, deferential pleading and soulful sincerity. I don't think it was just champers, I felt a huge lump in my throat and for a short time I found that I couldn't swallow, not even alcohol.

'La, la. Laah. La,' I hum.

'Give it a rest, Phil,' says Bella, joining me in the bathroom. It's clear she means the humming rather than my cleaning-up efforts so I stop, except in my head. It's an enormous bathroom with two basins and two mirrors. We stand side by side, her cleaning her teeth, me clearing up her mess. I love the way Bella cleans her teeth. It's so precise, so deliberate and thorough. She always brushes for three whole minutes and she flosses twice a day, unbelievable. I like her purposeful, painstaking approach to cleaning her teeth because it shows she has the ability to be dedicated to something. She may not be dedicated to a career or even to keeping her wardrobe and make-up tidy but she has a high level of personal hygiene and would never go out without lipstick. She's conscientious that way.

'I'm going to have a quick shower,' she says. 'I'm surprised that there's so much smoking allowed. I thought it was outlawed in the US.'

Bella can't stand the smell of smoke and won't be able to sleep unless she's washed the stale lingering smell off her body and hair. I wait for her in bed.

Fifteen minutes later she joins me. She's wearing a matching vest and pants set in a lilac colour. It's cute rather than s.e.xy. She rarely comes to bed naked nowadays. I tell myself that it would be unreasonable to expect it here as the air con is ferocious: she wouldn't want to catch a chill. I put down the guide to Las Vegas and ask, 'Did you have a nice night?'

'Good, thanks. Yes.' She's rubbing cream into her hands.

'Even though you missed out on the champagne?'

'Yes.'

'Why didn't you have a gla.s.s?'

'Didn't feel like it.'

'Still got a headache?'

'Something like that.'

I consider leaving my line of questioning. It's possible, likely even, that Bella does have a headache. She's complained about the constant jangle of slot machines and the tinny music from the casinos. But why do I get the feeling that something more than a headache is bothering her?

Of late she's veered almost hysterically from shrill and nagging, to silent and uncooperative, from delightful to tearful, then back again. Bella is normally so level, so together, but at the moment I feel I'm married to two women: reliable, kind, calm, even-tempered Bella and the hysterical, cutting, complaining banshee, who jumps when the phone rings and sometimes refuses to answer the door. She's not sleeping well and has got into the habit of skipping meals and s.e.x too, sadly. Giving up alcohol follows a number of evenings on which she has staggered home seriously drunk.

I've given the matter a great deal of thought and the only possible explanation is that she does not like being idle. Bella may not have ever enjoyed career progression as such, but she has a strong work ethic and had never had a day of unemployment in her life, until we married. I persuaded her to take some time to consider what it is that she wants to do with her life. I'm beginning to think that was a mistake. It pains and worries me to say it, but recently Bella has been showing some of the cla.s.sic signs of depression, sometimes manic, sometimes lethargic, sometimes ecstatic and other times tearful.

A friend of mine, Bob, is one of those life coach gurus. He worked with me in the City and then when he became a father, he did the standard reevaluation of his life thingy. He came to the conclusion that his life was lacking in some of the essentials; time with family, a sense of pride or fulfilment in his career and a day-to-day sense of meaning. Serious stuff. So he chucked it all in and retrained as a life coach in the hope that he could help other people reach similar conclusions about their lives. I wasn't particularly supportive of his career choice and commented that I hoped everyone he advised had already paid off their mortgage on the six-bedroom pile in Notting Hill before throwing in their lucrative professions, just as he had. Frankly, I've always thought that life coaching was a bit of nonsense. For G.o.d's sake, what's the world come to if you need a life coach to help you make every decision from whom to marry to how you take your tea?