Husbands. Part 7

'I was nineteen.'

'So young.'

'I loved that. I loved the idea that we had so much time stretched out in front of us. I was sure we'd last forever.' I pause and think about a time when I believed in forever. It almost hurts. 'We were so in love, it seemed like the obvious thing to do, which seems madness now. Funny how hindsight can completely alter perspective. The decision to marry was spur of the moment. We went to a registry office, still hungover from a wild party the night before. We pulled witnesses off the street. And while Scotland isn't the State of Nevada, we were both over eighteen so it wasn't at all tricky to get married. It seemed romantic. A big adventure.'

'What went wrong?'

'The obvious. We were too young. We were almost instantly ashamed and afraid and we didn't dare tell our parents or anyone what we'd done.'

'You thought they'd be angry?'

I didn't think it was anybody else's business. 'Sort of. We'd cheated Stevie's mum out of the chance to wear a hat. My dad would have been mildly disgruntled at missing out on a valid reason to have a drink although he'd have been relieved not to have had to pay for a bash.' I shrug apologetically, I'm apologizing for my youthful mistake. 'I thought marrying would make me feel independent but it didn't. I just felt daft. We knew everyone would dismiss our hasty ceremony as a silly, irresponsible joke because... well, it was, wasn't it? We kept silent because we didn't want to be told what we already knew.'

Amelie dashes to a cupboard, locates the biscuit barrel and then sits down again. She offers me a chocolate digestive; normally I'm partial but I shake my head. Amelie eats the biscuit in just two bites and then starts on another.

'Things were fine while we were at university. In a way we relished our wee secret. In halls of residence, we had no real responsibilities. We were two big kids playing house, playing grown-ups. The reality didn't hit until we graduated. We moved to Edinburgh and found it expensive. We had no money and no jobs and when we finally got jobs, c.r.a.p ones, still had no money because we were paying rent.'

As I tell the story of this time in my life, the warmth drains out of my fingers and toes. I was always cold in our draughty flat. Cold and anxious. It wasn't different enough from Kirkspey.

'Stevie kept saying he wanted to be a musician but there weren't many opportunities in Edinburgh. Everyone said we needed to move south or even abroad. But Stevie didn't want to. He thought his talent would be revealed while he hummed and served chips in McDonald's. I started to hate him for that. It seemed so infantile, believing that one day someone would shout, "Hey, you with the salt shaker! I've been waiting to discover you." But things turned from dreadful to dire when he gave up on his dreams of entertaining with his own songs and style and fell into the Elvis tribute thing.'

'Fell into?'

'He'd done the Elvis gigs since he was a kid. His mother used to trail him round working men's clubs. I've seen the photos; you wouldn't believe it, Amelie. What sort of mother dresses her ten-year-old up in blue flares and gets him to perform to a room full of boozy strangers?'

'Did he hate it?' she asks with concern.

'No, he loved it.'

'Well, if he loved it his mother wasn't being cruel, was she?' I find Amelie's reasonableness infuriating.

'But what a seed of a dream to sow. A useless, tatty dream. Couldn't she have encouraged his talent in another direction?'

'She was probably doing her best.'

'Yes,' I nod but I'm distraught at the memory. I never understood. 'When money got tight in Edinburgh, he got this crazy idea that he could start doing the circuit again. He was actually very good, more's the pity. We spent night after night in squalid dives; Stevie in fancy dress, belting out someone else's tunes. I couldn't see myself spending the rest of my life trailing around filthy pubs.' I sigh.

'Your loathing of Elvis impersonators makes more sense now,' says Amelie.

'But, then, my career prospects weren't much better. I had no idea what I wanted to do with myself and so I sat in our dingy flat, getting depressed. I wanted to move away but felt trapped by the marriage. Then some people started to ask if we were going to get married; we couldn't find a way to tell them that we already were. Other people, more perceptive people, started to ask why we were still together, when we clearly had different agendas now. It was impossible to explain ourselves to anyone. Our juicy secret became a sword hanging over us.'

I wish I smoked. This would be a good point to light a cigarette. Except that I hate the habit in others and have never dreamt of it for myself. Instead I take a swig of the whisky-coffee.

'It wasn't long before the bickering set in. Then we progressed to full-scale rows. We nosedived from love's young dream to a ghoulish nightmare with indecent haste. So I left.'

'Just like that?'

'Just like that.'

'Why didn't you get divorced?'

'We never got round to it.'

'You never-' Amelie is too incredulous to complete the sentence. 'How could you be so nonchalant? So irresponsible? People marry young, mistakes are made. Choosing who you want to spend the rest of your life with is a tricky one, lots of people get it wrong first time. But you should have got divorced.'

I nod. I've always known what I should have done, but doing the right thing is often hard. I'd wanted to pretend the whole thing had never happened.

'What the h.e.l.l made you accept Philip's proposal? Why didn't you say something then?' she demands.

This is possibly the hardest question she could have asked. I gather my courage. 'He asked me minutes after I'd heard that Ben was dead. Before I'd even had time to tell him Ben was dead. I was scared. You must-'

I daren't finish my sentence. She must understand that. She must realize that I wanted to cling to life and that nothing seemed especially real or clear-cut, except that I loved Philip and he'd asked me to marry him. I wanted to feel safe and so I said yes.

It wasn't just the ISAs and the DIY that made me feel safe. It was something else. It was something I find difficult to put into words. Maybe something to do with his flat. Specifically, the thick creamy carpets, which were deeper and more luxurious than anything I'd ever come across. Or the large number of photographs in silver frames that showed Philip knew countless beautiful people who seemed devoted to having a great life. At least, that's what the numerous photos of friends and family said to me. Even the oldies in his pictures looked impossibly glamorous. Grandmas with silver bobs, black trouser suits and chic diamonds. Not a curler or saggy stocking in sight.

I was rea.s.sured by the enormous vases of fat, creamy lilies sitting on tables in the dining room and hall and on the shelf in the bathroom. I've always adored fat, creamy lilies, which seem to me the epitome of comfortable living. Somehow, waxy lilies embody summer, they smell s.e.xy and expensive. We had dozens of lilies at our wedding even though everyone complained about the danger of the orange pollen staining their clothes. I ignored them. I wanted my wedding to smell of summer and wealth and s.e.x. And security.

I hardly dare to look at Amelie. I wonder if she is going to be hurt or understanding.

'Are you blaming this on Ben?'

'No, no, Amelie you mustn't think that,' I say. I force myself to meet her eye so she can see I'm genuine. 'I loved Ben. I'd never try to use your tragedy as an excuse for my mess. It is because I loved Ben that I wasn't thinking clearly.'

Amelie seems to accept this. She breathes in deeply and then lets the air tumble out of her nose. 'Wasn't there an opportunity before the wedding to tell him that you were already married?'

'I tried. But you know when you get introduced to someone and you instantly forget their name? But you keep meeting them, and each time you mumble something barely audible, rather than admit that you have forgotten their name. It goes past the point when you can ask.'

'Yes.'

'Well, my situation was like that, only about a million times more difficult and more horrendous. When could I say, "By the way, Philip, did I not mention that I'm already married?" I wanted to say something, I really did. But, once the plans started to take shape, I got carried away-' I clamp my mouth shut. There is no explanation other than that I am a coward. A hopeful coward who thought I might get away with it.

Philip and I married in a hurry but in style. We had a great big do with over two hundred guests. I wanted to make a splash. Ben dying had left me feeling terrified and vulnerable. It wasn't just that I was scared that if I didn't grab at life and hold it really tightly, then the bus might get me next time although that was certainly part of it. But the bigger thing was that I was also sick with the sense that if I died tomorrow I would die without making my mark.

Ben was a reasonably successful playwright. His works had been regularly performed on the local rep circuit for years, the critics had greeted his plays with considerable respect and there were always discussions about one of them making it to the West End. Ben had died there was no doubt about it on the cusp of huge financial and critical success. But he had always lived there was no doubt about it in the midst of huge emotional success. He was loved by Amelie, with an unequivocal and relentless love that I'd always found encouraging. He was an involved and inspiring father and an adored and respected partner. This made his death shattering but his life worthwhile.

That's what I wanted. A worthwhile life.

I couldn't write plays so I did the next best thing; I bought a wedding dress from Vera w.a.n.g and had a reception at a smart London hotel. Don't laugh. I felt it was a start. Like I said, grief doesn't make sense.

It's not true that a big wedding takes several years to plan and prepare for. In my experience it took exactly four months, one week, two days. Of course, I was in a fortunate position that my newly acquired status as Philip's fiancee meant that I was able to throw money at any potential hiccups. The harpist, the caterers and the vicar all insisted that they could not take any bookings at such short notice, until I offered to pay above the going rate and to make a sizeable donation to the church roof fund, at which point miracles occurred. My dress was stunningly simple and simply stunning. I had it all: Jimmy Choo shoes and Agent Provocateur underwear. My hair was teased into fat luxurious curls by one of London's top stylists. It was a very different affair to my hasty dash into the registry office with Stevie.

'The last I'd heard of Stevie was that he was back in Aberdeen. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, I never expected him to turn up on my doorstep. Worse still, on my friend's doorstep. What am I going to do?'

'I wonder what Stevie's line is on all of this?' muses Amelie.

'Oh my G.o.d.'

The full awfulness of my situation hits me and I think I might throw up. Laura, one of my best friends, is possibly sleeping with my husband. One of my husbands, that is.

'We have to expect her to mention you to him,' points out Amelie. 'I wonder if he'll say, "Small world. The funny thing about your friend is that she's my wife."'

My mind is whirling so quickly that I almost miss Amelie's sarcastic tone, almost. I try to stay focused. 'No, we'll be fine. She'll call me Bella.'

'Yes, she will,' says Amelie carefully. 'That is, after all, your name.'

'Not then. Back then I was Belinda. That might buy me some time.'

'You changed your name?'

'I never liked Belinda, it's so-' I don't bother to finish.

'So Bella is a nickname?'

'No, I did it by deed poll. Bella is my name.'

'My G.o.d, you are a dark horse. I always thought you were one of those people who struggled to keep secrets about contents of Christmas stockings and all along you are an expert at being mendacious. I wish Ben was alive, he'd love this.'

I, on the other hand, am not loving this. I think I'm going to cry.

16. Is It So Strange?.

Tuesday 25th May 2004.

Laura.

Since the breakdown of my marriage it is not uncommon for me to wake up and wonder why anybody chooses to live in London. I have no choice in the matter. I live in London because Eddie needs to see his father regularly and I doubt that would happen if I moved further afield. If I try, it is easy to spread and blur my loathing of Oscar so that I can find a way to blame pretty much everything that is uncomfortable in my life on him. My lack of money, decent career and self-respect are just the obvious ones. I can spend hours connecting Oscar's inadequacies with those of London's underground, London's lack of private gardens (or even parks that are dog-p.o.o.p free), the cost of childcare, parking, council tax and housing.

Sometimes, I am clearsighted enough to see that there are many things that I adore about London and to remember that I spent half of my childhood dreaming of living here. I never link Oscar with these aspects of city life.

I love the fact that it is always possible to buy a loaf of bread, even at midnight, and the choice stretches between panini, bruschetta, cinnamon, cracked wheat, German pumpernickel and rye. I love that Eddie is surrounded by cultural diversity and won't grow up thinking anyone is different or odd. It's great that there is always something to do or somewhere to go and that most of the museums are free.

Invariably, I have a flare-up of resentment at living in London as I stand on a platform waiting for an overpriced, overpacked and already very late train to take me to work in Shepherd's Bush. Not today. This Tuesday morning as I head off to work at the surgery I'm amazed to discover that I don't find the crowded tubes particularly galling. Instead, I step back and let everyone off the tube before I rush forwards to try to secure, if not a seat, at least some floor s.p.a.ce. I smile at... well, everyone. I don't even care that they don't smile back.

I arrive at the surgery before 9 a.m. and I am not churlish when I see that Sally, the colleague with whom I job-share, has once again left all the filing for me to do and I stay calm even though she has double-booked the first hour of appointments and the patients are all glaring at me. I work with unprecedented efficiency and pleasantness until lunchtime when I choose not to skulk around the pharmacy cupboard, eating my home-packed ham sandwich as usual, but I decide to get a breath of fresh air and wander along the high street. I might even treat myself to a sandwich from the little Italian cafe on the corner, Cafe Bianchi. It is a fabulously grubby, authentic Italian cafe run by an old couple and their innumerable, hot sons. They used to sell only cappuccino and espres...o...b..t a few months ago they branched out and started to serve panini. I could have a mozzarella and basil panini; the thought is exotic.

Shepherd's Bush is buzzing. I spot a nun, builders, grandparents, new mothers, posers and a gaggle of smokers. I'm stunned by the size of the world. It's so obvious, but it's as though I'm just noticing, that people all around me are living lives. They are doing ordinary things, drinking coffee, chatting, buying stamps and rocking prams, feeling losses, concern, outrage, kindness, love, friendship, exhaustion and exhilaration and none of them are connected to Oscar or my heartache. The realization hits me like a brick but feels like a release. It excites me. Oscar and my heartache are not perennial.

When I was a teenager and just discovering my love of a good novel I used to visit bookshops and stare for hours at the rows and rows of books on the shelves. I'd feel an excitement that threatened to overwhelm me, but never quite did. I always left the bookstore with another 'life' tucked under my arm, something else to grapple with, to empathize or repudiate. Books nurtured my longing to travel as they showed me that there was so much living being done. People were living spectacular, enchanting and amusing lives. And when I left to travel the world I did exactly that for quite some time; I lived a full and curious life.

I hadn't realized that heartbreak had scared me off and I'd started to live my life in tickover. Until now, now I feel that I might just be on the cusp of edging back up to full throttle. I feel as I did when I left Australia; excited, stretched and challenged. Shepherd's Bush is not the most salubrious part of town but it's interesting. There are shops, bars, cafes, hotels, even a trendy spa, a theatre, a gig venue. There is a green, a station, roadworks, skiving kids, overly industrious traffic wardens and police horses. Is there always so much going on? Have I been asleep? I look at all the people hurrying about their day and I don't feel pa.s.sed by, superfluous or insignificant. The opposite. Because I am going about my day too. I am buying exotic sandwiches.

And sending flirty texts to Stevie.

Stevie is fun and reminds me that I am too. His witty, dry comments litter our conversations, as does his humming and singing. He listens. He seems to think everything I say is important or funny. Stevie, Eddie and I have enjoyed three glorious days together. I had no idea that the Science Museum was so fascinating. Obviously, there's a lot to learn about Newton's law, s.p.a.ce travel, ecology etc. Fascinating, clearly. But I didn't realize the Science Museum had so much to teach me about the 'phwoar' factor.

For example, the tiny hairs on Stevie's forearms under the blue light of one of the more spectacular foyers in the museum look irresistible. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to reach out and stroke those hairs. The Science Museum taught me a lot about bone structure too, because while Stevie and Eddie spent an age looking at model rockets I gazed at Stevie's jawline and cheekbones. Without the costume he doesn't look much like Elvis. He wears his hair scruffy and longish, more like Noel Gallagher, and his jaw is much leaner than the King's. When he's Elvis he's enigmatic. Stevie is more straightforward. As Elvis he is a performer. Stevie is one hundred per cent 'what you see is what you get', a square-shooter. And I like that.

On Sunday we drifted around the lock and market stalls at Camden. The arty-crafty objects mostly useless, and often verging on tatty took on a charming quality. Vases, pictures, furniture and jewellery gleamed in the sunshine and with Stevie holding my hand I was tempted into several impulse purchases that I couldn't afford. I'm still trying to find a place in my kitchen for a large lavender-coloured wine rack. The candle (a sculptured couple pre-copulation) looks OK in the bathroom window. The thing is, being with Stevie makes me feel like I'm gleaming in sunshine too. A couple of celebratory impulse purchases doesn't seem too wild, under the circ.u.mstances.

The only fly in the ointment is Bella. She is sulking with me for not following her last Friday. That, or she's at death's door. I'm not sure which I'd prefer. I certainly don't like to be on the receiving end of Bella's strops. One of my biggest pleasures in life is calling her for a daily chat. Now, when I'm bursting at the seams with news, she's not returning my calls. She cancelled our Monday coffee date. The silent treatment is like water torture. A week ago I'd have sat this out until she called me: I hadn't the required confidence for confrontation. Now I decide to take action, even if it is only in the form of calling Amelie to see if she can throw any light on the situation. I reach for my mobile.

'G'day, Amelie, it's Laura.'

'h.e.l.lo, Laura,' says Amelie, as ever her voice oozes warmth. 'How are you?'

'Sweet as. Things are as good as gold,' I giggle.

'Still getting on with Stevie, I take it?'

'Too right.' I force myself not to gush. 'Have you heard from Bella, recently?' I ask, hoping to sound nonchalant.

'I haven't seen her since Sat.u.r.day.'

Bella had breakfasted with Amelie on Sat.u.r.day morning but Stevie and I missed her when we collected Eddie. We must have missed her by a matter of moments because Eddie seemed to think she was still there. Ridiculous, of course, because there was no sign of her. She'd have had to be hiding in the shed.

'She blew me out yesterday, with no explanation. She hasn't returned my calls. Do you think she's ill?' I ask.

'Possibly very sick,' says Amelie but she doesn't sound unduly concerned.

'I wanted to tell her that Stevie isn't a busker, he's a teacher. She was so worried I was mixing with someone inappropriate. I just wanted to put her mind at rest.'

'Leave it with me. You get back to work. I'll call her and see if everything's OK,' says Amelie.

I thank Amelie and hang up. I'm happy to leave the situation with her. Without either of us having to say anything outright I sensed Amelie understood my belief that Bella has gone to ground because she's never liked Elvis impersonators. And she seems to have an almost pathological dislike of Stevie Jones.

17. It's Now Or Never.

Thursday 27th May 2004.

Bella.

It was Amelie's idea that we should all meet for lunch. I'm torn. It's impossible to imagine ignoring Laura for the rest of my days, not least because she's rung me about ten times since Friday night. Initially, I let the answering machine pick up. The messages were as I expected: garbled apologies because she didn't follow me out of the pub and lots of giggling as she begged me to call her as she had 'so much news'. I do feel a bit guilty that she's sorry about Friday night, when it was me who did the runner, yet I could cheerfully wring her neck when I hear her schoolgirlish giggle. Doesn't she understand that Stevie was put on this earth to make me feel schoolgirlish, not her, not anyone else? Oh G.o.d, I'm married to one man and jealous about another. Another who I'm married to. How can I pick up the phone?

Laura must have called Amelie because Amelie rang me to say it wasn't fair to ignore Laura any longer, as she was beginning to imagine that I was ill.

'Laura has done nothing wrong,' said Amelie. She didn't need to complete the sentence, pointing out who has done something wrong. 'You have to face this Bella; it's not going to go away.'

But I want it to go away. Nothing material has changed. I am in exactly the same position I was in last week. Last week I was married to two men but I never gave it a thought. For years I have worked, with a steely determination, at ignoring this pertinent fact. It hasn't been easy and it has required sacrifices but I've managed it this far.

I told Amelie that one day I'd got up and left Stevie, which is true. 'One day' was a very particular day: the day of the final of the Greatest European Tribute Artist Convention and Compet.i.tion allegedly. A compet.i.tion that was held in Blackpool, which in my book cast doubts on the claims 'greatest' and 'European'. As Stevie was born and bred there he was delighted with the idea of romping home to win the t.i.tle of Greatest European Tribute Artist, King of Kings 1996.