by Roxie Cooper
‘Don’t worry, mate!’ I reassured him. ‘We’ve only just got here.’
‘I thought you’d both gone to sleep. I was about to turn into the jet-lag police and run up to your room,’ Helen tells them.
‘No way!’ Vicky says, outraged at the mere suggestion, and sitting down. ‘You don’t come to Las Vegas to sleep. Sorry, we just got, erm … distracted.’
She throws a cheeky glance at Cal, who then turns to me and Helen.
‘What?’ he says and laughs. ‘Oh, come on! You’re here without your kid – you’re the same, surely?’
I take a sip of my orange juice to release the awkwardness, knowing Helen feels it too.
There was no suggestion of any of that when we got into our room. We looked around the mini-suite we had, admired the view and Helen unpacked a few of her dresses while I messaged her parents to let them know we had arrived, asking how Seb was. No kissing, no hugging, and definitely no sex. But we were beyond knackered from the jet lag so I thought it would probably take a few days for us to settle in anyway.
Up until I arrived at the airport, I thought Helen and I were going to Rome for a romantic wedding anniversary trip away, the first since Seb was born. She insisted on arranging it all and I was totally confused when we arrived at the airport in the middle of the night to see Cal and Vicky waiting for us.
‘Well, seeing as it’s a big one, I thought we’d celebrate in style and invite Cal and Vicky too!’ Helen squealed to my shocked face.
‘God! Well, I’m thrilled you’re here! Can’t imagine anything better than discovering Rome with you lot!’
‘Well, that’s the last surprise,’ Helen said, proudly. ‘We’re not going to Rome. We’re going to—’
‘Las Vegas!’ they all screamed and whooped.
Twenty-four hours later I’m lying on a sunlounger by a pool, loud music blasting out, surrounded by scantily clad women in bikinis clutching cocktails in plastic cups. The entire scene is sponsored by the faint aroma of sun cream and fries. People wade into the enormous pool to cool off. It’s not a regular pool here; it mimics the sea so you can sit in a few inches of it. Because, of course, there is no sea when you’re in the middle of the Nevada Desert. And it’s hot. I’ve never known a heat like it; it’s all-consuming, oppressive, like being in a cooker. Too hot to walk anywhere, no sea to cool off in. It’s mental when you think about it.
The girls love it all. They spent an age getting ready, running between rooms trying on bikinis, shoes, some kind of over-bikini dress things. I dared to ask if it really mattered at one point, which was met by both of them shooting me incredulous looks. Apparently, when you’re in Vegas, it definitely matters what you wear around the pool.
They finally emerge about an hour later, done up to the nines like something out of Dallas.
‘Bloody hell! Aren’t we the luckiest men here!’ I say to Cal.
Helen and Vicky sashay over to our sunloungers, dumping their day bags on the floor. Christ only knows what’s in them – they look big enough to carry an entire weekend’s worth of clothes and they’re full to the brim. Helen looks different. She’s always veered more towards a tomboy kind of look, or certainly a more masculine vibe. But seeing her today is different to any other time I’ve seen her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear heels like that, certainly not with a swimsuit, and she wears them with a confidence I’ve not seen before. Her long hair hangs down one of her shoulders and has bit of a kink to it in contrast to how straight it usually is. She’s gone all out on the glamour, even wearing more make-up than usual by the look of things. She looks amazing.
‘Whaddya think, fellas?’ Helen says, popping her hands on her hips. ‘Vicky dressed me and gave me a bit of a makeover.’
‘Yeah, I did!’ Vicky beams, like a proud mother, softly clapping her hands. ‘Doesn’t she look fab? Can’t believe you’ve had a baby, sweets.’
Vicky reminds me of a tiny little pixie doll. She wears a sparkly USA flag bikini and aviator sunglasses. Her massive blonde hair partially covers the huge dragon tattoo on her back which is already causing people walking past to admire it.
‘You both look great! You show us up, though,’ I say.
‘Oi! Speak for yourself – I’m always stylish, thank you very much,’ Cal says, laughing, as Vicky skips over and sits on his knee, crossing her legs. He grabs her arse as she wraps her arms around his neck. Leaning in close, she whispers something to him which makes him laugh louder and he kisses her.
‘Do you want a drink, baby?’ I ask Helen, reaching over and running my finger down the outside of her leg.
‘It’s OK,’ she says, heading off towards the bar. ‘I’ll go and get them.’
I thought that having had a baby might prepare me for dealing with jet lag. It did not. By teatime I was desperate to go to sleep, but Cal was forcing me to stay awake by throwing water from the pool on my face and ordering more margaritas. Booze, extreme heat, jet lag – it’s like some kind of mad endurance test you see on TV.
The girls take selfies on their phones, squealing at each one: ‘No! Take another one! Jesus. Not that one. That could be all right if you pop a filter on. Yes. Oh, I don’t know – you’re the bloody designer!’ They force me and Cal take photos of them in the pool, out of the pool, on loungers, by palm trees, looking at the camera, laughing at each other, looking away from the camera – it’s basically turned into a fashion shoot.
At one point when the girls go over to the pool bar to get more drinks, I watch as they strike up conversation with two guys. Everyone at this hotel has perfect bodies. They’re toned, tanned and wear skimpy outfits, even the men. Thank God I’ve been hitting the gym for the last few months. I watch Helen as she talks to them. I don’t feel jealous, it’s not that. Helen has lots of male friends and I’ve never had a problem with it and Vegas is a place where everyone talks to each other. It’s the way she’s smiling, laughing. They’re saying something so funny, she’s proper belly laughing, her smile huge and genuine.
Why can’t I make her smile like that any more?
I used to be able to do that.
They say that having a baby brings you much closer together. Well, yes and no. It strips away everything gluing you together in many ways and forces you to look at who you are, what your relationship really is. Conversations become much more businesslike and transactional. We no longer ask about each other’s day, but discuss whose turn it is to do the nursery run, bath time or the food shop. Everything revolves around the baby, it’s all you talk about. Days which would once be spent wandering around food markets and spontaneous day-drinking have been replaced with baby-friendly days out.
You start to wonder: what did we used to talk about? Stuff we did, places we went, things we saw. But now we don’t do those things, so it’s not an option. It’s stripped back, stripped bare.
Having a baby truly tests whether you’re right for each other, because if you’re not, you’ll find out.
Sink or swim.
Flaws and irritating habits which previously lay dormant for years rise to the surface once you have children. Since having Seb, Helen has identified a host of annoying things I do. We both keep a mental scoreboard of what we’ve done for him and use it against the other whenever rows come up: ‘I got up with him on Saturday morning so you could have a lie in.’ ‘Well I took him out for a few hours on Sunday afternoon so you could go to the gym.’
Nobody tells you about this bit.
Of course, it doesn’t help when you’re also in love with another woman. That also fucks things up a bit, especially when it all goes horribly wrong and ends one freezing cold October night in the middle of the countryside.
Those first few months after she broke it off were really tough. All I could think about was her, and I mean all the time. It affected my work. I’d find myself drifting off thinking about her at school, in assemblies and classes. I kept seeing her face – how angry it was. What a complete bastard I was to be killing these two women si
multaneously, one aware of it, the other oblivious, and I couldn’t decide which was worse. I saw the pain in Stephanie’s eyes that night, the anger, frustration, sadness, resentment and jealousy of knowing she wouldn’t ever have the man she loves. I did that to her. There was no ‘It’s for the best, take care’, or ‘I wish you well’. It was pure, bitter pain which had built up for months, if not years. I’d never led her on, she’d always known the score, always known I was happy with Helen and would never leave her. But I still did that to her.
Then there’s Helen. She has no idea her husband has fucked another woman. Well, except it’s not just ‘fucked’. I love her. My God, she’d never understand that. Why the hell would she? But I didn’t plan it. I didn’t plan any of this. You just can’t help your feelings. Not that this explanation is at all valid in the real world.
But I just had to keep telling myself it was for the best. Perhaps me and Stephanie were just not meant to be. The hurt burned inside me, but it was one I deserved. I simply had to live with it and rebuild my relationship with Helen.
That’s what I intend to do on this trip …
On day three, Helen and I go out for lunch on our own – on our actual anniversary. It’s nice to get her to myself. We order champagne and almost feel carefree again.
‘Who’d have thought we’d last this long!’ Helen exclaims and laughs, guzzling the bubbles out of her glass.
‘I didn’t doubt it.’ I lean over, clinking her champagne flute and admiring the spectacular view. She’s pulled a blinder, but then again, she’s brilliant at finding the best restaurants in town. We sit next to a glass balcony overlooking the Bellagio fountains, which are stunning. As they launch towards the sky with immense force, their gentlest spray blow towards us – a welcome break in the heat.
‘This is lovely,’ I say.
She smiles at me. It’s great to see her like this, relaxing. The bright orange dress she wears brings out her tan.
‘I just can’t believe we’re on our own with no Seb!’ she says, leaning forward excitedly. ‘Obviously, I miss him, but you know …’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I sympathise, reaching out for her hand across the table.
‘You didn’t mind coming here, did you?’ she asks. ‘I know you were really looking forward to visiting Rome and I felt terrible, lying to you!’
‘Don’t be daft!’ I tell her. ‘I’d have loved Rome too, but it’s just nice to spend time on our own together anywhere. It’s been such a long time since we’ve done that.’
She glances over to the fountains, which are dancing about in some kind of musical formation.
‘It’s like going on honeymoon with a couple of newlyweds being with Cal and Vicky, isn’t it?’ she says, with a rather forced, mock laugh.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, they’re all over each other, aren’t they?’ she says, removing her hand from mine and going to take a sip of her champagne. ‘I don’t know where to look half the time.’
‘They’re just in a different place to us, that’s all.’ I shrug. ‘We used to be like that.’
She stops, just before the glass touches her lips. ‘Jamie, you’ve never looked at me the way Cal looks at Vicky.’
I’m not quite sure how to take that.
‘What are you on about?’ I scoff. ‘Of course I did. I do!’
Her eyes stare at me all the way down the champagne flute as she slowly takes a sip out of it. I look away, choosing instead to straighten up the cutlery on the pristine white tablecloth.
‘That’s just what they’re like with each other. Always have been,’ I remind her. ‘Why did you invite them if you didn’t want to be around that?’
‘I’m not saying I don’t want to be around them,’ she says defensively.
‘But we’d talked about going away on our own for our anniversary, somewhere romantic,’ I point out. ‘Then you go and invite Cal and Vicky. I’m having a great time with them, but I’m just not sure why you did it.’
Helen sighs and leans back in her chair. She fiddles with the neck of the champagne flute for a few moments, which suggests she either has no answer, or one she doesn’t want to give.
‘I don’t know. I suppose it just highlights …’
‘What?’
‘Have we become the couple who never has sex and only ever talks about their kid?’
Wow. Well, someone just woke that elephant up.
I guess the day of our tenth wedding anniversary is as good a time as any to broach this issue.
‘Can we not be so hard on ourselves?’ I say. ‘We’re juggling a two-year-old and two careers. It’s been a tough couple of years and we will get through this, if we both want to.’
‘I suppose so. Just … seeing them together makes me wonder if we can ever get that back.’
‘Look, we’ll be OK. We’ve lasted ten years. We can’t give up now,’ I say, reaching over and stroking her cheek.
‘I guess so. It’s just hard. Harder than I thought it’d be, you know? To balance everything.’
‘It certainly would have been better with a handbook.’ I laugh. ‘But we’ll get there.’
We enjoy the rest of the lunch, getting a bit tipsy and talking about when we first met. She remembers how excited she was when I proposed to her on a weekend away in Edinburgh. I remember how thrilled I was when I found out she was pregnant. And all the memories in between.
I’m glad we had the chat. It cements my intentions and priorities to my wife. It also reaffirms that my relationship with Stephanie is over. Well and truly.
Except, whenever I try to do this, it seems like fate, the universe, or some other bastard cosmic force shoves Stephanie in my face. Later on in the day, the girls come back from a wander to tell me and Cal they have a ‘treat’ for us.
‘Guess what we’re doing tonight?’ Helen teases.
‘Going to see a load of strippers?’ Cal replies, excitedly.
‘Ha! Nice try,’ Vicky says. ‘That’s tomorrow, baby!’
‘We’re going to see a musical!’ Helen squeals.
Cal and I couldn’t possibly be less impressed.
‘What? I’m not going to see a musical in Vegas. You two can go,’ he says.
‘I’m with him. I don’t do spontaneous singing or dancing or any of that,’ I say, laying it on the line.
‘Oh, come on! This has famous people in! An ex-Destiny’s Child member and someone from American X Factor,’ Helen points out, as if this would make any difference whatsoever.
‘Jesus Christ. What is it?’ I ask, grimacing.
‘Dreamgirls!’
I’ve never seen this show, I’ve never heard of it. But I know one song from it – the song Stephanie sang to me on that warm October day.
Annoyingly, Cal starts to come around to the idea only because he’s interested from a costume point of view.
I couldn’t be the only one not going, so now here I am, third row in, watching Effie White sing about how she isn’t giving up on the man she loves: ‘And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going’ …
It’s nice to put the song into context. It’s a song of defiance and strength from a woman who’s been through a lot, allowing her vulnerability to pour out of her skin with no shame.
Watching the actress takes me back to that day and I feel a bittersweet smile spread across my face. God, I’d love to know how she is, what she’s doing today. I hope she’s OK.
This woman is incredible. She belts the tune out, hits every single note, and it’s spectacular to watch and hear. But it’s still not as good as the version I heard that night.
Things always happen for a reason, and usually for the best. We are obviously not meant to be together. If I was meant to be with her, I would be.
CHAPTER 20
Saturday 26 October 2013
Stephanie
‘Hang on! Ten more seconds, I swear it’s coming!’ I promise him.
We both go quiet, not moving an inch. His hands, spread out over my huge
bump, waiting for the tidal wave of movement I know is imminent. I’m in the final few weeks of pregnancy now and I love this part; they move, lash out, kick and writhe about, wanting to break free.
As predicted, a limb pokes right out of my belly and jabs Matt’s right hand.
‘Woah!’ he yells. ‘That is some freaky shit!’
‘That freaky shit is your daughter,’ I tell him, protectively placing my hands over my bump. ‘And shhh! She’ll hear you.’
‘And I can’t wait to meet her,’ he says, kissing my forehead. ‘You ready?’
‘Yes, how do I look?’ I ask, peering at myself in the mirror.
‘Lovely!’
‘Thank you!’ I smile gratefully. ‘You sure it’s not, you know, too much?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asks, frowning.
‘This …’ I say, gazing down at the incredible cleavage I’ve spawned in the past few months. It’s just about contained in a crossover black jersey dress tonight, but I’m already looking forward to putting my pyjamas on later.
‘Steph, that is never too much,’ he says and laughs. ‘You’re definitely the sexiest pregnant woman here.’
‘Let’s hope I don’t go into labour – you promised you wouldn’t drink,’ I say seriously. ‘I’m due in two weeks, Matt, it could happen anytime.’
‘Let’s just stuff ourselves with food then!’
It was Matt’s idea to do this. A little night away before the new baby arrives. I arranged it, as I couldn’t chance him booking Heathwood Hall. I’m not sure my hormones could have handled that. Ebony said she’d have Evie so we dropped her off and arrived here at dusk.
We finally go in to eat, which is great; because, being almost nine months pregnant and mother of a two-year-old, I’m absolutely shattered and pretty sure I’ll be in bed by ten o’clock.
Matt mildly irritates me by doing the same thing he does every single time we make it out the house on our own. All he does is criticise everything. Everything. Whether it’s ‘Why would you wear that?’, ‘This food isn’t very good’, or ‘I don’t like the music in here’, everything has to be so negative. It’s draining. Tonight, he’s complaining that the couple on the next table are obviously pissed and being a bit loud. They’re about mid-twenties, I’d say, clearly on some kind of sexy weekend away. They keep hooting with laughter, generally just having a great time.