by Adele Parks
‘Little House on the Prairie.’
‘Oh.’
‘And as I got off the tube he kissed me.’
‘He kissed you?’ Even Amelie is taken aback but she’s grinning as though this forward, stalking busker is a good thing!
‘When are you going to see him next?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know. That’s the problem. I didn’t take his number.’
‘But you gave him yours,’ said Amelie.
Laura shakes her head. She then retells the story of her brief encounter with gory detail. She goes on about ‘connections’ and feeling ‘something in the air’. I tell her that’s smog. She pretends not to hear me.
‘You are insane,’ I pronounce and then I panic. ‘He could have been insane. Really, I mean.’
‘I thought that at first but he was too cute,’ smiles Laura.
‘Insanity comes in all sorts of guises, even practised flirts,’ I point out. I feel like her mother.
‘I’m so glad I was wearing my new T-shirt,’ she says dreamily.
Visions of the countless eligible guys that I’ve trailed past Laura for her inspection clamber into my head. None of them ever raised an iota of interest. None of them made her so much as twinkle, never mind glow as she is glowing now. She looks fantastic. This brief flirtation, not much more than a fleeting moment, that wouldn’t even have registered on my sexual Richter scale, had clearly sent her into a spin.
‘I wonder how you can track him down,’ muses Amelie.
‘Why would she want to do that?’ I demand.
‘Look at her. She’s all shook up.’
Amelie and Laura collapse into giggles. I pour some more wine and search for something else to talk about. It’s not that I don’t want Laura to be happy – I want her to be very happy – I want her to have everything I have but she is not going to find it by hooking up with an Elvis impersonator. There would be no happiness that way. No stability, no regular income. I didn’t marry Philip for his money but I’m glad he has money. Laura needs someone who can help support Eddie. Or if not that, then at least she needs to avoid anyone who is a bigger financial drain and has a similar income capacity to Eddie’s.
‘I bet we could find out which pub he performs at in Richmond, assuming he got the job,’ suggests Amelie.
‘She can’t just turn up like a groupie,’ I argue.
‘Why not?’ asks Amelie. She smiles at Laura. Laura beams back hopefully.
I make lots of noise clattering plates as I serve up the pizza. I hope my protest is registered. My neck clicks with tension and my stomach seems to be performing a complex crunch that isn’t taught in any gym but has a similar agonizing effect to hundreds of sit-ups. I imagine someone pulling out my guts, putting them in a boxing ring to do a few rounds with Tyson and then shoving them back down my throat. I’ve never liked Elvis.
I take pizza and napkins up to the kids although both the mums warn me that I’ll be scraping tomato sauce off the wool carpet for years to come. I ignore them, partly to show how relaxed and easy-going a host I am, and partly because I don’t care about the carpet.
When I come back downstairs my friends are talking about reruns of Heartbeat but Laura keeps drifting off into a daydream and the smile on her face makes it clear that she is thinking about her busker. I refuse to indulge her and so we stumble through conversations about Delia Smith recipes, TV adaptations of great novels and how Amelie should wear her hair (she’s planning a revamp). At midnight, after we have drunk more than a bottle of wine each, I decide to hit the hay. Both Laura and Amelie insist that they want to stay up and watch some terrible eighties movie. As I close the sitting-room door behind me I hear Amelie ask, ‘So, what was he singing?’
I feel strangely excluded and unreasonably narky, even though I know it is self-inflicted exile and the only person I’m annoyed with is me.
8. If I Can Dream
Tuesday 18th May 2004
Laura
Amelie isn’t really my friend; she’s Bella’s, although I’ve met her on a number of occasions at ‘Bella Parties’ (and more recently ‘Bella Events’ as nowadays she is more likely to host something spectacular that outgrows the party category). Obviously, I know all about Amelie’s tragic loss. I want, if at all possible, to make her life a little more bearable – ideally a little more pleasurable. It’s as good a basis for a friendship as any, probably better than a shared postcode.
In my experience women are generally territorial when it comes to friendships. They don’t like mixing. I think the issue is that loose lips sink ships and invariably Friend A has had a good old gossip with Friend B about Friend C’s boring husband/imminent affair/terrible way with money, therefore can’t possibly let Friend B meet Friend C in case a clanger is dropped. To Bella’s credit, she is always trying to get her friends to mix. Take last Friday for example, it was so sweet of her to invite Amelie and me for supper. The kids all got along brilliantly, and that gave Amelie and me the opportunity to get past ‘nice canapés’ and ‘yummy, champagne, how lovely’ which is as deep as our conversations get at ‘Bella Events’. That said, I’m not sure Bella will be overjoyed with the subject matter that Amelie calls me about today.
‘I’ve found him.’
‘How?’
‘It wasn’t so difficult. I went online and got a list of pubs in Richmond. I called them all and asked if they had an Elvis impersonator performing. I got lucky on the ninth pub. Apparently Stevie Jones has just been employed to be Elvis, on the third Friday of every month at The Bell and Long Wheat. Peculiar name, don’t you think?’
I assume she is referring to the pub. ‘Oh, Amelie, so many calls. What a purler!’
‘Meaning, you’re pleased?’
‘How can I thank you?’
‘I wanted to do it,’ she says firmly.
I didn’t press the point. I figure I must be a pretty desperate case if a friend of a friend thinks I need help with my love life.
‘I could babysit for you, if you like,’ offers Amelie.
‘So you think I should go and see him?’
‘Well, yes, obviously. The landlord of the pub said he’s expecting your Stevie to pull a big crowd. Didn’t you want to see him again?’
Yes. No. Maybe. Suddenly, I am terrified and delighted all at once. Stevie Jones has fallen into my lap.
‘I couldn’t go on my own.’
‘Take Bella,’ suggests Amelie. We both fall silent. ‘No, maybe not.’
Bella has only mentioned Stevie twice since last Friday and both times as the ‘loony, stalking busker’.
‘OK, we’ll get her to babysit and I’ll come with you,’ suggests Amelie. ‘We don’t even have to tell Bella where you’re going if you think it will cause difficulties.’
‘What if he doesn’t remember me?’
‘He’ll remember you.’
‘I’ve nothing to wear.’ The age-old excuse.
‘Nonsense,’ says Amelie, in a tone that suggests she knows nonsense when she hears it and will not be accepting any.
I scramble around my brain for another excuse but the cupboard is bare.
It has been years since I fancied anyone. I hardly dare admit it to myself but the truth is I can’t remember ever fancying anyone as much as I fancy Stevie. I’d been with Oscar forever and while I remember thinking he was a total stud when I first met him that oh-la-la feeling had faded after we’d been together a few years. It was stamped out altogether once I’d got to the stage of searching through his coat pockets for receipts and other incriminating evidence.
After we split I had a brief fling with my osteopath. We rooted energetically every Thursday night. We did not eat together, sleep together or even talk to one another much. I viewed him as a pleasant alternative to Prozac. The affair stopped as abruptly as it started when my backache receded and he got himself a proper girlfriend (someone without a child and a looming divorce case). I don’t believe I ever missed him.
But I miss Stevie already.
For days I’ve thought of nothing and no one else. I’ve found it easy to be pleasant to Big Hand I am patience personified with Eddie. Yesterday, I played Captain Hook and Peter Pan with him for over four consecutive hours. This involves me being endlessly tied up with a soft toy snake, rolling around on the floor until I escape, then being captured again so that I can walk the plank (a line of cushions on the floor). I did it and smiled, so lusted up am I.
I’ve endlessly replayed The Conversation and The Kiss. Stevie Jones thinks Laura Ingalls is a pretty name, which warms me like a cashmere-covered hot water bottle. I think about his smile, his fingers and the tiny hairs on his ear lobes. I am immortalizing him. Bugger. I’ve only just managed to control the situation by reminding myself that Stevie Jones is a fantasy figure: my feelings for him are not dissimilar to those I harbour for Robbie Williams and the chances of it developing into anything real are similar too. Amelie has taken away the safety barrier. She seems hell-bent on making Stevie more than a hazy mess of ill-defined desires and daydreams.
I wonder if I dare go to The Bell and Long Wheat. Amelie makes it sound so easy.
‘Wear your pink floral T-shirt, your Wonderbra and your best smile,’ she insists.
‘What would we talk about?’
‘You’ll think of something,’ she says confidently. ‘Come over to my place at seven thirty. Bring Eddie. I’ll sort out babysitting with Bella.’
9. I Really Don’t Want to Know
Friday 21st May 2004
Bella
I protest at being dragged into this farce. Every sensible bone in my body is screaming objections but it would be infinitely more terrible to be left out.
Amelie rang and nonchalantly asked if I was doing anything this Friday. I said I wasn’t and she asked if I would babysit for her. Delighted to, I said. Then she added that as she and Laura were having a night out could I babysit Eddie too. I was furious. Of course, I couldn’t admit it.
‘Oh, going anywhere nice?’ I squeaked.
‘A pub in Richmond. The Bell and Long Wheat.’
She didn’t have to explain.
‘The loony busker?’ I demanded.
‘The first guy Laura has shown any interest in for as long as I can remember,’ replied Amelie, calmly; her criticism of my standpoint implicit but loud enough. ‘She’s really keen. A bit of fun would be good for her. Life’s too short not to take all your chances.’
I thought the ‘life’s too short’ line was a mean trick but an effective one. I agreed to babysit.
‘You know what would make her most happy?’ asked Amelie.
‘No.’
‘If you went with her, rather than me. It would mean so much to her if she thought you approved.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You’re her friend, I’m a stand-in.’
‘Ohhh,’ I moaned, flattered by Amelie’s assessment of my importance, irritated that I was being manipulated.
At 7.52 p.m. exactly I find myself pushing open the door of The Bell and Long Wheat. I’m overwhelmed by the smell of cigarettes and alcohol and by the profligate confetti of leopard-print tops, huge hooped earrings and sequined Elvis Presley handbags. I didn’t think people still dressed like that, not unless they were starring in sitcoms. The wine bars I frequent are inhabited by people wearing dark suits, smart shirts and discreet ties.
‘Isn’t it fantastic?’ asks Laura.
‘It’s OK as pubs go,’ I mutter ungraciously.
I object, so strongly, to the idea of my best friend falling for a loony busker that I feel miserable about everything associated with him and I’m not going to admit that the pub oozes charm. The windows are original stained glass; the tiny coloured diamonds throw interesting hues around the bar and dance merrily on the optics. There are baroque cherubs climbing the walls, leaving behind them trails of gilded laurels. The chairs are mismatched and worn; the wood has been polished by skittish bottoms and the velvet on the benches is shabby to threadbare. A number of huge ornate mirrors hang on the walls, aged to black in parts. Under any other circumstances this pub would have earned my praise, but I grumble that it is very smoky and it will be difficult to get a seat.
‘How do I look?’ asks Laura. She’s too excited even to be decently nervous.
Despite myself I grin. ‘Amazing, he’s a lucky man.’
We push our way to the bar and order a couple of Pernod and blacks (not our normal tipple but Laura wanted to blend in), then drive our way to the last couple of overlooked seats squashed into the corner of the room.
‘I’m surprised by the crowd in here,’ I comment.
‘You mean the large number of ladies past a certain age?’ asks Laura.
‘No, I expected a fair showing of wrinklies. I’m surprised to see young guys and girls.’
‘I guess they’ve come with their mums to keep them out of trouble,’ giggles Laura.
You can almost taste the anticipation in the air. Some diehards, with their beaded Elvis T-shirts, sit in silence, grimly guarding their table.
Laura and I steal a glance at our watches. The loony busker is due to appear in fifteen minutes.
‘Pop stars never start their gigs on time,’ asserts Laura.
‘He’s hardly a pop star, is he?’ She ignores me and insists on continuing to look expectant and radiant.
I glance around at the women wearing heavy eyeliner and too-red lipstick and I am back in a place I never wanted to revisit. ‘Don’t you think it’s weird and morbid that these women spend their Friday nights idolizing a mimic of a corpse?’ I ask.
‘No. I think it’s romantic that one man affected the lives of so many,’ replies Laura.
‘Jesus,’ I mutter.
‘No, Elvis.’
I am unsure as to whether she deliberately misunderstood my exasperation.
‘Everybody has a face like a slapped arse.’
‘They’re just normal people, Bella. It’s because you’re used to mixing with the beautiful people.’
‘I prefer the beautiful people, call me shallow.’
‘Shallow.’
I glare at her, so she offers to get us both another drink. Laura fights her way to the bar and this time comes back with a couple of vodkas and orange. We drink them far too quickly. Laura is either nervous or excited and I’ve decided this whole evening will be less tedious if I’m drunk.
‘Do you think we’ve got time to get another in?’ I ask.
‘Better had,’ agrees Laura.
It’s my turn to shove my way to the bar. At first I smile flirtatiously as people make way for me, but soon I’m forced to dig my bony elbows into people’s backs. It’s a dog-eat-dog world. Everyone wants to buy their drinks and get back to their seats or viewing point before the loony busker appears. I can smell other people’s perfume and aftershave only just masking the more raw smell of sweat produced by their sense of urgency. My hair starts to curl in the heat, betraying my faux sophistication. The last time I wore my hair curly was on my wedding day when I noticed approx one hundred of my two hundred guests wore theirs straight – the guys were mostly bald.
Just as I pick up our double gins and tonic, the crowd lets out a cheer. I start to inch my way back through the throng. Elvis is in the building. Suddenly, the room is awash with the uptempo beat of ‘Return to Sender’. A good opening number, I suppose, and I know the words – doesn’t everybody? Certainly everybody in The Bell and Long Wheat seems to. The pub is a mass of swaying hips and wide grins, people are singing along, clicking their fingers, tapping their feet. The old grannies smile, showing their dentures, and the girls twirl, showing neat waists and high bums. It’s depressingly familiar.
Slowly, I shuffle forwards. Laura is beaming inanely at the stage. She’s swaying and nodding with more enthusiasm than I was expecting to see for the first track. On the rare occasion that we go to a club Laura forgets she’s an up-for-it Aussie girl. She follows etiquette dictated by British shyness and shuffles on the spot for ten tracks before danc
ing. But tonight she has rediscovered her roots and is refusing to be intimidated. Amelie is right, the girl has got it bad. I turn towards the direction of her stare, to see for myself this object of her adoration. My world screeches to a dangerous halt and I’m viciously whiplashed by bad karma, spiteful fate or simply sod’s rotten law.
Elvis is Stevie Jones.
10. His Latest Flame
Laura
Bella missed the first song as she was at the bar. Which is a total bummer. Stevie Jones is even better than I remembered him. Who would have thought it possible?
Although my fantasies over the last twelve days have been elaborate, I had not considered what he would be wearing at this gig (in most of my fantasies he is naked or on the way). My overwhelming image of him is as a slightly grubby figure, standing on Hammersmith platform. Tonight he is groomed to within an inch of his life and looks even sexier than I remembered. He is wearing high-waisted trousers and a ruffled dress shirt; the style Elvis favoured in his early years. His wide shoulders and trim bum are displayed for optimum impact. His shaggy surfer hair is greased into a quiff and somehow he looks cooler than anyone with a quiff deserves to look. I hadn’t noticed his broad forearms before.
The room is buzzing and yet at the same time everyone is transfixed. All hearts and minds are paying homage to Stevie. He sang and danced his opening number, ‘Return to Sender’, with perfection. In witty, flawless imitation of Elvis, he faithfully mimicked the suggestive hand gestures, the boxer’s shuffle, the self-deprecating shoulder shrugs.
I am in love. The lusty type of love, not the real type. Besides, so is every other woman in the room and some of the boys too. Bella makes it back to the table. She looks anxious.
‘Pisser about the crowds,’ I comment sympathetically, ‘but you can understand it, can’t you? He’s mesmerizing.’
‘I can’t stay here,’ yells Bella.
‘What?’ I am not sure I’ve heard her properly. ‘He’s bloody good, isn’t he?’ It is a rhetorical question although it would give me untold satisfaction if Bella agreed. My man is sex on legs and talented. Women are clambering on to the stage to have their photos taken with him. When I say stage I mean the slightly raised area, about a metre and a half long by a metre wide and thirty centimetres off the ground. Still, some of the fans stumble, or at least pretend to, requiring Stevie to catch them. I glare my hostility.