Husbands

by Adele Parks

  ‘It’s funny how smells are so evocative,’ I comment. ‘Your house always used to smell of Pledge.’ I laughed.

  ‘And yours always smelt of—’

  ‘Stale fags and dogs,’ I interrupted hurriedly.

  ‘I was going to say oil. Do you remember Martin used to keep his motorbike in the sitting room?’

  I shifted uncomfortably. Why couldn’t we have had a coffee table, like anyone else?

  Stevie saw that I was uncomfortable. He leaned forward and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture was corny and obvious. But try telling my nipples that. They’d gone hard with desire.

  ‘It wasn’t all bad, Belinda,’ he said.

  ‘Bella.’

  ‘Bella, whatever. Christ, it doesn’t matter what I call you or what you call yourself. I know you. Your childhood wasn’t all bad. There must be something you remember fondly about it.’

  I thought about this. ‘I do miss some things.’

  ‘Such as?’ Stevie was grinning like a madman, thrilled that I was prepared to engage.

  ‘Do you remember the old cinema?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I miss the women who sold ice cream in the aisle.’

  ‘Usherettes?’

  ‘Yes. They were charming in an antiquated sort of way. Buying a tub of Häagen-Dazs in the foyer by no way compares,’ I pointed out.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Big Wagon Wheels. They used to be massive and they’re diddy now. It’s impossible to buy them without feeling cheated.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I miss fighting with my brothers over the Christmas edition of the Radio Times. We only got it once a year and it was a big treat. We used to love marking what we wanted to watch over the holidays.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Getting the bus into Newburgh and buying a new outfit every Saturday from the market, to wear at the local disco.’

  ‘You bought some lovely outfits.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Short skirts, skimpy tops. I was a class act.’

  ‘You were young. That’s how young girls dress. It’s called fun.’

  I stopped there and offered to buy another drink. I dared not say any more because I knew the next sentence would be the one where I admitted that I miss feeling OK. I want a clean palate. I want not to have made this terrible mistake. Which mistake am I referring to? Marrying Stevie? Leaving Stevie? Marrying Philip?

  I became frightened as unformed thoughts drifted into my mind; thoughts about destiny, suggestions of ‘the one’, hints about the sanctity of marriage. I tried to cast aside the shadowy feelings and refused to examine them thoroughly. Do I even believe in destiny? I decided I don’t disbelieve. It’s spiky on the fence.

  I’m not in the habit of going out in the evening and getting lashed: those days are long gone. Philip and I enjoy the odd glass of wine through the week and get gently sloshed together most Saturday evenings; still I have to lie to my doctor to come in under fifteen units a week. But when I’m with Stevie, it seems the most natural thing in the world to get right royally pissed. Together we feel childishly irresponsible. We always did. It’s easy to slip back into old habits, to imagine that we’re sparky students full of ill-defined arguments and glorious intentions. We ramble through a vast array of topics – the filthiness of religious wars, the frustration of driving in London, the unflattering nature of boob tubes. Throughout these evenings I reminded myself that the feelings of youth, buoyancy, sparkiness are probably alcohol-induced and that the next day I’d probably feel wretched with a stinking hangover. The day after our meetings I did feel miserable – totally, sickeningly miserable – except when I felt glorious.

  I feel miserable when I’m not with him and I feel miserable admitting that. I feel glorious when I am with him or thinking about him. And I feel miserable about that too. My feelings for Stevie are perilous. Illegal. To all intents and purposes, I’m having an affair, but without sex and with my husband. It’s off-the-scale confusing. The problem is that besides missing usherettes, Wagon Wheels and giddy shopping trips, I miss Stevie. I miss Stevie so much.

  On the flight Philip and I sit behind Stevie and Laura. Stevie is following my instructions to the letter. He’s being distant and seems like a different person from the one I have secretly met up with on a number of occasions in the recent past. And while I appreciate that he is following the plan we agreed, I find myself irrationally offended by his coolness towards me and genuinely hurt by his warmth towards Laura. Which makes me a wretched bitch. I watch as they clink glasses, feed one another cashew nuts and watch the same movie as one another – even though they have individual screens and headsets. They choose a romantic comedy, bile rises in my throat. When Philip asks which film I want to watch I tell him I’m going to sleep. He asks if I want a glass of champagne first and, although I never, ever turn down champagne I snap that I’m tired and I can’t sleep after alcohol. He’s decent enough not to point out the countless occasions I’ve done exactly that.

  Philip is a clever man. He chooses his battles and therefore always lives to fight another day. Recently, he’s adopted the strategy of ignoring me. Not ignoring me per se but ignoring the argumentative, stroppy and sullen version of me. He doesn’t comment when he finds me staring out the window, when I fail to cook dinner or even order a takeaway. He doesn’t yell back when I yell at him for leaving a door open or scattering newspapers around the house. His endless patience shames me and paradoxically goads me on to more and more selfish behaviour. Sometimes, I want him to stand up to me, tell me that my tantrums are insufferable, demand that they stop and demand to know the cause. I want him to force a confession out of me.

  At other times this thought terrifies me so I behave like an angel.

  So far, Philip hasn’t challenged me. But he watches me, all the time: closely, carefully and with eyes that brim concern. He did ask me how I managed at reading group when I’d left my copy of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin on the table in the dining room.

  Fortunately, I find it almost impossible to stay awake when travelling so I sleep for most of the flight to Vegas – welcome rest after weeks staring at my bedroom ceiling. I only wake up when a flight attendant shakes me and asks me to put my chair back into the upright position.

  As we taxi towards the gate the passengers, who have been penned into the cabin for several hours, start to move. Slowly I stretch my legs in front of me and circle my feet, clockwise and anticlockwise, just as the in-flight magazine suggests, in an attempt to reduce the risk of a blood clot. I turn my head right and left and catch a glimpse of the economy passengers already standing, ready to disembark. Before I met Philip I rarely travelled and if I did, I travelled economy class with a cheap, inflexible ticket and often on airlines that think loo roll is an unnecessary luxury. I jostled for my place in the queue; I might have inadvertently banged the legs of fellow passengers when I lugged my suitcase (old-fashioned, no wheels) across the conveyor belt and out of the baggage hall. I thought there was a race to the bus stop (not the taxi rank in those days). I believed that the bus might leave without me because that was what life was like. A whole series of buses leaving without me.

  Getting a job seemed like a major challenge, as was renting a half-decent apartment. I felt that I was on a treadmill, endlessly running and running but never getting ahead, never winning the big prize. My jobs never fed my soul – they hardly allowed me to feed my body. My apartments usually had dry rot and lecherous landlords. When I arrived at the sales, inevitably, the only thing left was the spangled, lurid orange leg warmers. I was never content.

  Philip was the only first prize I’ve ever won. Calm, strong, understanding Phil was a gold medal.

  The aeroplane doors swing open and sunshine floods the cabin. Suddenly things look cleaner and brighter. The passengers in upper class are led politely towards the exit. I stop and turn to Philip.

  ‘I love you, Philip.’

  He smiles. He’s pleased to hear me say it.
I certainly haven’t been showing it recently. ‘I know you do, darling.’ He kisses me on the lips, a quick but warm kiss. ‘Now get a move on, you’re holding everyone up. Let’s just have a bloody good holiday, shall we?’

  As the sunshine and the smell of aviation fuel greet me at the door, I make a decision: after I have divorced Stevie I won’t see him ever again. If that means I can’t see Laura too, then so be it, but I must crush this childish infatuation before it gets out of hand. Again. I can’t indulge these trips down memory lane. Why would I even want to? I hate what I came from, that’s why I left. I have to avoid any potentially explosive situations. For a start I won’t drink – much safer to be abstemious. Many a true word is said in a state of intoxication. Philip is the best thing that ever happened to me and I want to be the best thing that ever happened to him. I want to be a good wife.

  28. Can’t Help Falling in Love

  Laura

  Las Vegas is just as exciting, vibrant, glitzy, crazy and wonderful as I’d hoped and imagined it would be.

  When we pass through the gates into the terminal we spot a guy holding a sign with Stevie’s name on it. The guy is dressed in an old-fashioned chauffeur’s suit, but his flat cap – a symbol of the deferential manners of times gone by – looks at odds with his trendy sunglasses and hip, long ponytail.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ he greets Stevie. ‘I am Adrian and I am delighted to be your chauffeur today. Sir, it is an honour to have such a talented man ride in my limousine. A real honour.’ He shakes Stevie’s hand vigorously. I am worried that it is his strumming hand and Adrian might inflict serious damage. ‘I love a winner, sir. I love that,’ Adrian assures Stevie in his lazy drawl.

  ‘I haven’t won yet, mate,’ says Stevie, who is clearly a bit embarrassed by the fuss his finalist status for the King of Kings competition is bringing him.

  ‘Sir, you’re a winner, I can feel it in my blood. Vegas is a city of winners,’ insists Adrian.

  I feel it would be rude to point out the obvious – that Vegas has far more losers than winners numbering among its visitors and inhabitants and, as there are fifteen ‘Elvises’ competing, for fourteen of them, Vegas will be a city synonymous with losing after Saturday night. Still, I like the chauffeur’s confidence in Stevie and want to believe he really can spot a winner.

  We sit in the back of the limo and drink fizzy wine that is not quite champagne; the not-quite status doesn’t bother anyone except Bella, who says she can’t drink so early in the day anyway, and couldn’t even if it had been Cristal. I know this is a lie but haven’t the heart to point as much out to her. Besides, I have no idea what time of day it is. Here in Las Vegas it may be two thirty in the afternoon, but back in London it’s about ten thirty at night. Surely, that means this is an acceptable time to have a drink.

  As we drive I split my time between reading out bits from my guidebook and staring wide-eyed at the scenery. Not that I’m thinking about the arid landscape, spasmodically punctuated with billboards advertising the biggest, best or cheapest of something or other. Instead, I am falling into delicious daydreams about just how brill it is to be me.

  The last six weeks have been a total shindig, completely golden. I’m so chuffed by the ease with which Stevie has glided into my life. When he and I are alone, or with Eddie, I find myself thinking lame-brained things like I’ve found my soulmate. I mean, that’s just plain dorkish, isn’t it? Soulmates. ‘The one.’ All that stuff. At my age I should know better. But that’s just it, I’ve never known better! He makes me feel as though I have infinite choices, unlimited possibilities. His smile is a door opening. I am confident about myself, him, our relationship, everything really. It’s all effortlessly slipping into place.

  I force myself to stop grinning like some sort of imbo and try to concentrate on the guidebook.

  ‘We could catch a show,’ I suggest, feeling only the tiniest bit self-conscious about using the expression ‘catch’ in this context. My philosophy has always been when in Rome, do as the Romans do. I hadn’t realized how much I missed travelling until I was on the plane, but I love it. I love everything from the funny smell that lingers on your clothes after you’ve been in a plane, to the strange coins and notes, the different languages and accents, the wonderful sense of possibility. I love the thrill of arriving in a new country, grabbing a map and starting an adventure. And while first-class travel is new to me, something I only dreamt of in my backpacking days, the excitement at new smells, faces and climates, is just the same.

  ‘We could do, we’re free tonight and tomorrow,’ says Stevie. ‘I have a dress rehearsal on Friday evening and, of course, the main event on Saturday, but there’s nothing to stop us seeing a show if that’s what you want to do. What were you thinking of?’

  ‘I don’t know – there’s everything. Music, magic, comedy. Hey, this place offers dirty girls and cold beers.’ I point to an advert in the book and giggle at the audacity of such a straightforward appeal.

  ‘There’s no Shakespeare or even Noel Coward, though, is there?’ Bella cuts through my giggling. ‘So there isn’t quite everything.’

  Bella once saw a production of The Doll’s House and has an English Lit degree so she’s a bit painful when it comes to theatre visits.

  ‘Ah, but did you know that Noel Coward once performed here?’ asks Philip.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ admits Bella. I see her struggle to adjust her predetermined view of Vegas as sleezy and cheesy and reconcile it with this new information. I decide to help her out by changing the subject.

  ‘Or, we could go to a nightclub. The choice is huge. Anyone fancy BiKiNiS Beach and Dance Club, a fourteen-thousand-square-foot indoor beach party? The mind boggles. Cleopatra’s Barge, with a floating lounge, would you believe?’

  ‘I’m too old for togas,’ says Philip with a grin.

  ‘Me too,’ I agree.

  ‘You’re a baby,’ he counters, with his usual charm and sincere wish to be kind.

  ‘Sadly, it’s universal law that women should stop showing spare flesh far earlier than men.’

  ‘I disagree,’ chorus Stevie and Philip. We all laugh.

  ‘There’s Club Armadillo, a Texas Station gambling Hall, Club Madrid, Club Rio, Coyote Ugly bar and dance saloon, somewhere called Curve, where fashionable attire is required, apparently.’ Although I am only up to D in the alphabetical listing of the clubs available for us to visit, it’s clear that Las Vegas is a playground for grown-ups. It is a city full of fun and temptations. ‘Dragon, that’s in our hotel. Another one called Drais. The guidebook promises lots of beautiful people at that one.’

  ‘How shallow,’ mutters Bella, and then she grins. ‘We should go.’

  We drive to our hotel, which is simply called THE Hotel. I love the arrogance. THE Hotel is a hotel built within another hotel, the Mandalay Bay – crazy, huh?

  The foyer is a mass of stunning slabs of dark marble, we walk for a hundred miles through it to reach the desk. I’m quite surprised at how tasteful it is. The hotels pictured in the guidebook are chintzy and tacky, although sumptuous. This hotel is much more stylish, yet everything is still vast and opulent. The colours are muted and the materials are leather and walnut rather than Dralon and gold-embossed. The plant pots are about a metre wide and two high. The leather armchairs could comfortably seat entire families. I feel like a shrunken Alice in Wonderland.

  Two beautiful female receptionists greet us with the kind of cool professionalism I would associate with New York, if TV programmes are anything to go by. They direct us to our suites and tell us our luggage will already be there, which I doubt but turns out to be true. The USA certainly is the country where service is taken seriously. The beautiful receptionists wish us a nice day. We return the pleasantry and they chorus, ‘Uh huh.’

  The suite is breathtaking, far more palatial than I could have dreamt of. The main bathroom is bigger than my sitting room. I run around opening cupboards and wardrobes. I gasp at the size of the TV and bath. I marve
l at the variety of beers in the fridge. I bounce on the bed, climb into the bath (fully clothed) and generally run around behaving like a child on Christmas Eve. I only stop now and again to snog the lips off Stevie.

  ‘I know it sounds naff but I want you to know, Stevie, that you’re already the King of Kings in my eyes and you will be no matter what happens on Saturday night,’ I say, as I pull away from a clinch.

  ‘Really?’ he asks, with great seriousness.

  ‘Really,’ I assure him, with a great grin.

  I start to rummage through my case, searching for my cozzie. I want to get to the pool as quickly as possible. I have an appointment with the afternoon sun.

  ‘Give me five minutes and then I’ll be ready for a dip. I told Bella and Philip we’d meet them by the pool.’

  Stevie looks disappointed: clearly after the long lingering kisses, he was imagining we’d christen the suite first. ‘Can’t we just spend some time alone together?’ he asks, as he puts his arms round me and backs me towards the bed.

  ‘No, you randy bugger, we can’t. I want a suntan. And despite it being July, because I live in London I haven’t changed from my pale blue shade yet and I’m striving for a golden bronze colour.’ I gently but firmly push his hands away from my boobs and continue the hunt for my cozzie.

  ‘OK, OK, I know a determined woman when I see one. But I’m too fidgety and excited to sit by the pool. Let’s go sightseeing instead. Alone. Alone is the important bit. Selfishly, I want to keep you to myself.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I do, really. I want to be alone with him too, but it seems a bit rude.

  ‘Come on, Laura, we’ve brought them here, they can look after themselves for a bit. Besides, I bet they fancy a bit of quality couple time too.’

  I allow myself to be persuaded, mostly because what Stevie wants is what I want too.