Husbands. Part 21

'It wouldn't be an affair. I'm married to them both.'

'Think about what you've just said, Bella. For G.o.d's sake, think.'

'Yes, yes,' I mumble. I don't convince myself so I'm certain I haven't persuaded her. 'Got to go.'

I hang up as Phil walks into the room.

34. Shake, Rattle and Roll.

Laura.

When I enter the hotel bar at precisely 8.45 p.m. Bella and Phil are already waiting for me. Phil gives a low wolf whistle and Bella claps.

'You look wonderful,' says Phil.

'Perfect fit. Aren't I clever?' says Bella, smiling. 'You look stunning.'

And they're right. The dress is a winner. It swishes, whooshes and swirls in all the right places. I feel very s.e.xy and very feminine. It's backless and my back is one of my strong points (many a joke has been made about that over the years glad to see the back of you etc etc, ho ho ho). Bella is wearing a black c.o.c.ktail dress, cla.s.sical and understated. I get the feeling she's being deliberately discreet so that I can shine. I'm touched by the completeness of her generosity.

Stevie returns from his photo shoot at exactly nine o'clock, as promised. It's immediately clear that the dress has the desired effect.

'Wow! You are beautiful.'

'Thank you, sir.' I play with an earring and try to act cool, calm and collected.

Stevie swoops in to kiss me on the cheek and whispers, 'One hundred per cent knockout.'

I grin. 'You're looking quite gorgeous yourself.'

Stevie is still wearing his Elvis costume. For the purpose of the PR shoot the contestants were all provided with identical outfits, although I understand that in the actual compet.i.tion they can rediscover a little individuality. No doubt to amuse us, Stevie has met us in the bar wearing his costume.

'Pretty fly for a white guy,' I laugh. And I can't resist flinging my arms around him. Sod cool, calm and collected.

'Are you going to get changed?' asks Bella.

'Don't. We'll get free drinks all night if you wear that get-up,' says Phil, laughing.

'I imagine I'll have to sing for my supper if I do,' says Stevie. 'It might get a bit tedious when we arrive at the third bar of the evening and another bouncer insists I do "Jailhouse Rock" and the guy behind the bar wants "Hound Dog".'

And as if to prove his point we are immediately interrupted.

'Oh. My. G.o.d. You are so the real thing!'

While not strictly accurate, obviously, Stevie is not the real thing Elvis is dead and even if you buy into the conspiracy theories and believe that he's not dead, just living as an obese geriatric on some island somewhere it's patent that Stevie is not your man. Stevie weighs only about a hundred and seventy pounds and there isn't a single indication of rigor mortis.

'Can we have our picture with you?'

The gaggle of tiny, skinny, blonde women hand Bella the camera and barge past me as though I am invisible, despite the designer dress. For all their size, smiles and giggles it's clear that these women are tough. They have hard bodies that have trod mills and partic.i.p.ated in endless aerobic cla.s.ses; their c.u.mulative total of time spent in gyms must be decades. I am somewhat comforted to see that they are not as young as I thought on first impression. The expertly applied make-up, long manicured nails and bleached hair are smoke and mirrors, which means they pa.s.s for late twenties at a distance but up close they have at least ten years on that.

They pout and preen and pose. They kiss Stevie's cheek, take photos and liberties one of them pinches his b.u.t.t, another pinches his crotch. I'd say he enjoyed it up until the crotch pinching then he hurriedly shooed them on their way.

I breezily laugh at the incident, hoping to disguise the fact that I want to drill my stiletto heels into their faces.

Stevie decides to have a drink in his suit but it soon becomes apparent that we aren't going to get much peace. Everyone behaves as though he is G.o.dfather to their child. Some buy drinks and beg him to sing a verse. Others push past us, his girlfriend and friends, and demand photos. One couple has heard about the King of Kings final.

'Really?' says Stevie, clearly awash with pride but trying to look nonchalant. 'So, erm, did you see an advert or a press article? I understand that they are really pushing the event in local papers and radio. I'm not blowing my own trumpet but I do think that the organizers have done a good job with bringing a certain amount of gravitas to the whole event.'

'Actually, we are here with the Italian King,' says the guy.

'He's my brother,' says the girl, smiling. 'We will be supporting him.'

'Oh. Of course,' says Stevie, nodding his head with understanding. Stevie looks around, 'Is he here now? I think I know the guy you mean. I met an Italian at the photo shoot.'

'No, he is not here now. He is resting. Tomorrow is the dress rehearsal show. He does not want a hangover.'

I wonder if Stevie feels chided. 'Erm, tell him good luck.'

'He doesn't need luck. He is very good,' smiles the loyal sister.

I resist challenging her to a duel at dawn as I'm pretty sure that Stevie will hold his own when it comes to the compet.i.tion. Instead I say we have to go: we're keen to get to the casino.

We can't decide which one to visit, we're spoilt for choice. In the end, we opt for Bally's: it isn't a million miles away and Phil wants to see the showgirls. Stevie doesn't seem as interested, but then he's swilling in the attention from the groupies. We decide to walk there rather than take a cab as it's a lovely, mild evening and we all agree a walk would be pleasant. To tell all, I'm enjoying turning heads and I know we are a mesmerizing spectacle. Stevie is Elvis, I am the lady in red (or at least fuchsia pink) and Bella and Phil are just their usual gorgeous selves.

The approach to Bally's is dramatic. We travel up a very long escalator flanked by cascading water, lighted pylons and giant palm trees. It almost bothers me that I am becoming acclimatized to such ostentatious nonsense. As we approach the entrance, a sound and water show involving a wave machine and fountains erupts. No doubt a wonderful spectacle although I imagine it becomes a tiny bit repet.i.tive and annoying if you are staying here.

'Water is very much the flavour here,' comments Bella. 'Apparently, in the multi-million-dollar show Jubilee, the "t.i.tanic" sinks every night on stage.' She is reading this from a poster that depicts scantily clad ladies unsuitable dress for the t.i.tanic, I would have thought.

'What a giggle. We'll have to go,' I say.

'Yes, let's do that later, but where to now?' asks Stevie.

We are faced with the most enormous mash of lights, signs, slot machines, c.r.a.ps tables, roulette wheels and poker games. Everything is reddish-pink: the people playing, the drinks, the walls, the dealers and the machines. I'm not sure if the ruddy complexions are the result of the hue cast by the lights or the possibility of winning cold, hard cash. It's a noisy, rowdy, exciting spectacle.

'Well, not to the baccarat room,' says Phil. 'I've been reading about it and apparently that's where players go if they are willing to wager hundreds of thousands of dollars on a single hand. These guys are called "whales" in gaming parlance.'

We all agree that such high rolling is astounding. Bella looks white with shock: she isn't keen on gambling she won't even buy a lottery ticket.

'That's madness,' she cries. 'No one wins but the house. Gambling is for losers, in the harshest sense of the word.'

'Not the most helpful att.i.tude, darling,' Phil points out. 'Not here, in Las Vegas in the middle of a casino.'

'I can't help myself, I hate these places,' she mutters.

It's clear that Bella is not going to feel comfortable on the green baize map but after some time we collectively persuade her that a hand of blackjack, or twenty-one as it's known to some, is worth a shot. The odds are better. Bella's compet.i.tive spirit kicks in and she starts to enjoy playing against the dealer, particularly when she can set her bet as low as five dollars. I want to try poker but Stevie teases me and says it won't be my game.

'Why not?'

'Well, most people make unconscious revelations through body language tics, twitches, nervous laughs or something that gives them away your face is an open book.'

'I can be deceptive when I want to be,' I argue.

'No, you can't,' smiles Stevie, as he leans in to kiss me. 'Every one of your expressions is there for the world to read.'

I stare up at him and wonder if he is reading my face now. Does he know that I think I'm holding a great hand. A straight flush. Can he read my face and know that it's saying, I love you?

Probably not, because he turns to Bella and says, 'I think you'd be good at poker.' She doesn't appear to hear him.

We each allot ourselves a modest sum of money and then embark on losing it. Stevie sensibly points out that the money we lose is just the fee for this particular form of entertainment and we should view it as we would the entry fee to a theme park. It makes me feel better as I slip my last allotted dollar into the slot machine. At one point I had been seventeen dollars up, but now I'm wiped out. Still, I enjoyed the ride.

Elvis imitators pop up everywhere in Vegas. Just yesterday I spotted an Elvis accompanying two showgirls, another stood outside a chapel (it was unclear whether he was the groom or vicar) and a third was washing cars in the parking lots near the helicopter base. So, I am surprised by how much attention Stevie grabs tonight. We get free throws on the c.r.a.ps although they are not lucky throws plenty of free drinks, and the stream of well-wishers is almost constant. Largely, the interest is great fun. With the exception of the blondes that swamp him. They flirt, flatter, fawn and they f.u.c.k me off.

They are so focused on Stevie that I don't even register on their radar. As they crowd around him I am edged out. Bella scowls; obviously she feels sorry for me and she's noticed that I've all but disappeared. She suggests we retire from the casino and find a bar. She, Phil and I march ahead, Stevie follows, trying to shake off his groupies.

'It must be ace being a man,' I mutter to Phil, as he pa.s.ses me a large martini.

'Why do you say that?' he asks.

'Well, there are so many more attractive women than there are men,' I grumble.

'Do you think you have lesbian tendencies?' Phil asks jokingly, he's looking hopeful and I just know he will offer the use of his videocam.

'I wish I did.' I wonder if it's apparent that I am insecure. How terrible that I'm insecure when I'm wearing this gorgeous dress. I wish Bella would say something rea.s.suring; instead she is watching Stevie being photographed with his arms around another two blondes. She looks worried. Phil follows her gaze.

'Ah, I see. Don't worry, Laura. The women surrounding Stevie are professional blondes, not a threat at all.'

'Professional blondes?' I ask. 'You mean hookers?' I'm horrified and a little curious.

'No,' he grins. 'Not as such. You don't recognize that sort of woman because she's almost extinct in the UK. Or at least in Shepherd's Bush, the surgery and Eddie's nursery where you spend most of your time. Those women devote their entire lives to pleasing men. Or at least, rich or famous men.'

'That's meant to cheer me up?' I ask, glugging back my martini and ordering another. 'Won't Stevie like that? I mean from a guy's point of view, women that devote their entire lives to pleasing men, that sounds like a good thing.'

'In truth, there isn't a man out there who doesn't miss that breed of woman. He might not admit as much, too PC, too afraid of his wife...' He winks at Bella, who is listening intently. 'I should add that professional blondes don't have to be blonde. Brunettes and redheads can apply, but chances are they'll end up blonde, no matter what colour hair they were born with.'

'You're on about dumb blondes then; these girls don't look dumb to me,' I point out.

'The PB isn't stupid. The opposite. She has enough guile and confidence to hide her brains, so as not to appear threatening to any of the rich men she knows or hopes to get to know better. The professional blonde knows that, secretly, we guys are an insecure bunch.'

I wait for Bella to punch Phil playfully and tell him to get off his soapbox but she doesn't. She is more patient than she usually is when he's waxing lyrical with one of his pop-culture-psychoa.n.a.lytical theories. Could be she's genuinely interested. I hope to G.o.d that she doesn't think there's something in it, as I really respect Bella's opinion when it comes to eternal negotiations of the peace treaty between the s.e.xes. The war isn't quite over.

'This woman doesn't work her profession is to look good for her man. PBs are fit, with lean hard bodies and b.o.o.bs bought in Harley Street. They are devoted to their personal trainers, their hairstylist and colourist, their pilates and yoga instructors, their platinum Visa card, their personal shopper and their self-image. But even if a guy is bright enough to work this out, the sad truth is he doesn't much care because his girl looks good. It could be viewed as a fair financial arrangement.'

'Phil, do you think I'm a professional blonde?' asks Bella, unable to conceal her horror.

Phil kisses his wife's lips. 'No, my love. Of course not.'

'But I don't work and I have a trainer and yoga cla.s.ses and all that stuff. I'm not like that, Phil.'

I am so glad that Bella hasn't had anything to drink. If she had, she would not be behaving quite so reasonably by now, she might have flung a gla.s.s of wine or at least a tantrum.

'My love, the reason Laura didn't recognize this type of woman is because they are very different from you two. You are the new breed of pleasers. You please yourselves, and in doing so, please your men. The new breed is a sa.s.sier, more hip type of girl who still visits the hairdresser with indecent frequency but carries slightly more body fat and is likely to have floppier b.o.o.bs. She likes to look adorable for herself and her mates; what her guy thinks is a lower priority. On the whole I prefer this type of woman, she's more fun in a heated debate and less likely to cry if you don't buy her the latest six-grand handbag, as seen in Vogue.'

Phil leans forward on his barstool and kisses Bella again. This time it's a long, intimate kiss and I feel distinctly uncomfortable and closed out.

'I know you better than you think, Bella,' I hear him mutter. 'Better than you know yourself sometimes.' Then he turns to me and says, 'I don't think PBs are Stevie's cup of tea either, Laura. You are. Now, shall we go and rescue him and find somewhere to eat?'

35. Always On My Mind.

Bella.

Suddenly, it is two in the morning. Time has sped away. Most of the evening has been spent on an exhausting quest for food. Phil and Stevie concocted a bizarre plan to eat at three different venues. It was partially inspired by Phil's obsession with recommended eateries and partially an attempt to shake Stevie's groupies. Phil's guidebook recommends where to eat by course, so he thought it would be a good idea if we managed to sample three of the recommended specialities in one night, therefore three restaurants. He argued that as we are not staying here very long we should try to pack as much in as possible. It seemed something like sense. I agreed because this plan means there's little chance of conversation running dry or deep, both terrifying prospects. Instead, most of the evening was pa.s.sed making comments about the decor of a venue, the distance to the next venue or asking for directions. All of which was innocuous enough.

We had our appetizers at Delmonico Steakhouse, apparently famous for rock shrimp salad dusted with Parmesan cheese and served with truffle potato chips. It looked delicious; I managed a couple of mouthfuls. Then we moved to n.o.bu, in the Hard Rock Hotel, for sushi. They had my favourite black cod marinated in white miso but I didn't have a hunger. The sushi actually was a poor call all round. It turns out Stevie's dislike of oysters stretches to a dislike of all fish other than battered cod. It's funny that his tastes haven't particularly developed in over eight years; I love sushi. Plus Laura commented that it was impossible to feel satiated after a sushi meal. Her mentioning appet.i.tes that are in need of meeting was no doubt an innocent comment but I couldn't take it as such. I kept imagining the cravings Stevie is gratifying for her and felt sick, with jealousy and pain.

We finished our gourmet tour at the MGM Grand, with satiny bread and b.u.t.ter pudding; even that didn't tempt me. Phil and Laura who had been drinking steadily all night devoured my portion between them. The MGM Grand Hotel offers a wide range of entertainment anything from live lions in the reception to showgirls on the stage (who look more ferocious than the lions in many cases) but at 1 a.m. we agreed that it's time to turn in and head back to the hotel. Our motivations for this decision are diverse.

Stevie has the dress rehearsal gig tomorrow night and had started to obsess that he hadn't been conscientious like the Italian contestant. Phil wanted to go back to our room because he was drunk and woozy and hoping to get lucky again tonight. He has no idea what made me jump him last night. The unexpected nature of the encounter, which defied probability or recent patterns, has encouraged him to hope that he might get a chance to do it again. He's definitely a gla.s.s-half-full sort of guy.

Laura was clearly thinking along the same lines. I constantly caught her staring adoringly at Stevie. I don't know which bothers me most: the idea of making love with Phil or the idea of Stevie making love with Laura. Both acts ought to be part of the proper order of things. Neither ought to bother me at all. But they do. Filthy as it is to admit to myself, Stevie having groupies is annoying, Stevie having Laura is devastating.

s.e.x is becoming an increasingly sticky area for me, no pun intended not at all. I'm barely having any with Phil, as I keep finding myself thinking about Stevie, and I feel like a miserable, treacherous cow for doing so. Feeling like a miserable, treacherous cow tends to ruin the mood. Obviously I'm not having any with Stevie because, what can I say? Because he's with Laura, because I'm with Phil, because the opportunity hasn't arisen? I'm beginning to hate myself as it dawns on me that the real reason is the latter.

For me, s.e.x has always been hand in glove with love. Of course, I've had two or three loveless f.u.c.ks in my time but that can be attributed to my eternal optimism overriding the blatant evidence. It's my rule, I don't go to bed with men I'm not in love with, or on the way to being in love with, or at least expect to be in love with by the time we share breakfast. It was important to have criteria while I was working in bars and dives otherwise there was the temptation to take home a different cute smile every time I felt lonely. I've never had s.e.x just because I feel like s.e.x. It's not like hunger, thirst or tiredness, it's not an appet.i.te that demands instant gratification; not in my book.

So, I must be falling back in love with Stevie, mustn't I? Because all I think about is s.e.x and him. Having s.e.x with him. How it was and how it could be. Last night I had this amazing, pretty filthy dream about us doing it up against a wall. Predictably, when the dream started out it was the wall in the gymnasium at school. The s.e.x was frantic, hurried and amazing. His kisses were strong and dark. Engulfing. His lips meshed into mine and we were kissing with such power and conviction I felt bruised. He scrabbled with his flies and then he sank into me. He was staring into my eyes, never losing me. Not for a second. It felt incredible, essential and right. By then the wall had changed to one here, in the hotel reception, and somewhere in my consciousness I realized that my erotic dream wasn't just a trip down memory dirty back alley, I was dreaming about doing it with him now. I woke myself up and Phil too as he was concerned that I was sweating and panting and looking so scared.

I've always had quite a respect for the subconscious.

I spent most of this evening trying not to think about s.e.x with Stevie. G.o.d, you'd think it would be easy, with him dressed as Elvis.

When we got back to the hotel I told Phil I wasn't tired and I wanted to stretch my legs before going up. He looked disappointed but agreed.

After an evening spent in noisy, garish, blaring casinos, restaurants and the Strip, the sanctuary of the hotel's gardens is a relief. I amble around the modern sculptured bushes for a while, vaguely admiring the black bamboo and the slate pathways, but it only takes a couple of minutes before I stumble across an outside bar. In Las Vegas there isn't an opportunity missed to make money, to intoxicate, to entertain, entice and excite. I'd wanted to clear my head and get away from all the garish and ghastly glitter, so it doesn't make sense that I flop on to a barstool as soon as I see one.

I am all out of willpower and ask the barman for a brandy. I never drink brandy but it seems like the sort of drink you order while wandering around a Vegas hotel garden in the small hours of the morning. The bartender pours me a generous measure; generous measures are a Vegas trademark.

'Had a busy night?' I ask him. I know that right now what I need, more than anything, is to spend some time alone, with nothing other than my thoughts for company. The idea appals me, so instead I choose to trill pointlessly to a complete stranger. Hardly improving, and that's probably the attraction.

It goes two ways when talking to bar and waiting staff in the USA and part of the fun is you never know which one it will be. They will either act as though you are their long-lost sibling, who has been tragically separated at birth, and they then warmly rush to fill you in on their life story. Or, they will treat you like something smelly that they've stepped in by accident. I'm gratified that this bartender is the first type. I don't think I could have coped with someone confirming what I suspect about myself.

'Not so busy, just three wedding parties in here tonight.'