Husbands

by Adele Parks

  I take the lotion as I can’t see an alternative. What can I plead? Cramp in my arm? Allergy towards sun lotion? Inability to touch my husband’s back without remembering just how physically attractive I always found him? None of these excuses seem quite right, especially not the truth.

  Stevie flips on to his stomach. I hover above him. What to do? What I want to do is straddle him. Gently lower my crotch on to his bum, one leg dangling on either side of him so that he sees my neatly manicured, scarlet toenails and my smooth, bronzed legs. I want to rub lotion up and down his taut, muscled back – gratuitously massaging the cream until he’s fighting an erection. Ideally, I’d like to take off my bikini top and lean into him allowing my breasts to push against his back and shoulders, I’d like us to be upstairs in the privacy of a suite.

  Obviously I’ve had too much sun.

  I shake my head and try to dislodge the disgusting fantasy. Then I slap a bit of lotion on his back and shoulders. I hope he doesn’t get burnt because I hardly did what you’d call a thorough job and even then I had to force myself to think of cleaning underneath the fridge and behind the loo. Ugly thoughts to neutralize the fabulousness of touching him.

  I sit back on my sunbed and grab my novel. Stevie flips on to his back, which is a good thing because he’s less likely to burn that way, and yet not such a good thing because he notices, ‘Your book is upside down.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, turning it quickly. ‘It’s not very good anyway.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, something light.’ I try to hide the cover from him.

  ‘Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina,’ he observes.

  ‘Yes,’ I admit.

  ‘A great work.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admit.

  ‘Not light, really.’

  ‘No,’ I admit.

  Stevie pauses, then smiles. ‘This is really awkward, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I grin widely, relieved I’m not the only one to find this whole situation impossible.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ he offers.

  ‘I’m trying not to.’

  ‘Why? You’re on holiday.’

  ‘Because I don’t want to do anything I’d regret,’ I answer. That’s the thing with Stevie – it’s easy to be honest around him.

  ‘What could you possibly do that you’d regret?’ asks Stevie.

  He smiles at me, a slow sexy smile. If anyone else had treated me to that same smile I’d be sure there was a tiny bit of flirtation going on. But there can’t be. There mustn’t be.

  ‘What’s left for you to do? It’s not as though you could get drunk and marry impulsively just because you’re in Vegas. You’re already married to both your travel companions. Unless, of course, you go for the hat-trick and do the lesbian marriage thing with Laura.’

  I stare at Stevie weighing up whether he is being cruel or spiteful. But his eyes are sparkling with mischief. He’s trying to laugh at our situation because what else can we do? If we didn’t laugh then we’d most definitely cry. I choose to burst into slightly hysterical peals. It is some sort of a relief.

  ‘I’m not sure that lesbian marriages are legal, even here, in the state of Nevada,’ I say with a giggle.

  ‘Oh, legality has never held you back,’ says Stevie and laughs uproariously. He waves at a passing waiter and orders a bottle of white wine and two glasses. I don’t object as the resolve I had, in shovel-loads on the plane, has melted away.

  Stevie and I spend two glorious hours together. We hire a huge tyre-shaped float. It’s big enough to allow us both to bob inside and we drift around the loop-shaped pool, screaming every time we coast under the ‘waterfall’. We paddle in the ‘sea’, we drink wine and eat enormous club sandwiches because it transpires that neither of us had breakfast. It’s very hot, so we also become more confident at rubbing on sun lotion for one another. The conversation flows as rapidly as the surrounding fountains. We chat about nothing much: places we’ve visited, hotels we’ve stayed in, bars we’ve drunk in. I haven’t backpacked or stayed in a youth hostel, Stevie hasn’t drunk in the Sanderson or the Ice Hotel in Sweden, so we both have a lot to say.

  We joke and occasionally we disagree, but only gently. For example, I believe that there comes a certain age when women ought not to wear bikinis and ought gracefully to adopt the single-piece suit and a sarong. Stevie laughed at this and said fat, ugly and old people were just as entitled to feel warm sun on their skin as lithe, young beauties.

  We hold stupid competitions to see who can float on their backs for the longest time (boredom breaks me and Stevie is the acknowledged champion). Stevie shows off doing underwater handstands and swimming between my legs. To the casual onlookers we probably seem to be the epitome of a deliriously happy couple. I bet people think we are honeymooners. Yet, even as I enjoy the morning, I mourn because I know it does not belong to me: I’ve stolen it. The thought sobers me so I swim to the edge of the pool.

  ‘I fancy drying off,’ I say, as I haul myself out of the pool. Stevie does the same and I become momentarily mesmerized as I watch the sparkly water that clings to his shoulders and legs. I’d sparkle too, if I clung to him like a second skin. He has a broad chest, much more man and less boy than I remembered, probably because the hair there has thickened but, thank God, it’s not a rug. His shoulders are square and strong-looking.

  ‘Do you work out?’ I ask, not considering the implied compliment.

  ‘What do you think?’ asks Stevie as he flashes me a cocky grin and winks. I pull my eyes away.

  I am aware that I am practising the same trick I tried to employ at my wedding to Phil. Everyone warned me (correctly) that the big day would speed by in a flurry of smiles and excitement and before I knew it the whole thing would be over. Amelie advised me not to drink too much and concentrate on preserving two or three unforgettable things that can’t be captured on film – a particularly provocative smell, touch or taste. She said I was to make them my own and keep them as treasure to unearth whenever I needed them later. Right now, I am breathing in the smell of sunshine and sun lotion on warm flesh, and drinking in the image of flickering sunlight on the pool surface and I’m trying to hold on to it. I’d like to capture every sound, glance, smell, sensation and store them up because I’m on borrowed time. I’m having fun with a borrowed man. The thought hits me, with a sledgehammer whack. I force myself to address the issues we’ve been avoiding.

  ‘Where’s Laura this morning?’

  Stevie’s posture becomes rigid. We both know that the mention of her name is a rebuke. ‘I left her on the phone to Eddie and I booked her into the spa. By now she’ll be having a facial or a massage.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful.’ I force a smile.

  Stevie shrugs. ‘It’s not easy being a single mum.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Where’s Phil?’ he asks to chide me.

  ‘Playing the slots.’

  ‘No, actually I think that’s him over there, with Laura,’ says Stevie.

  I look towards the direction he’s pointing in and sure enough, Phil and Laura are threading their way through the sunbeds, towards us. It’s as though we summoned them up through a voodoo spell. They are both grinning and waving happily. Laura looks relaxed after her spa treatments and Phil is shouting something about winning $380. I only wish I felt happier to see them.

  32. Treat Me Nice

  Laura

  I can’t remember when I last had such a riotous time. I spent the morning in a spa, a treat paid for by my truly legend boyfriend, and the afternoon by the pool with said truly legend boyfriend and Phil. Bella went shopping and only came back to the pool late afternoon. Then she slept in the shade insisting that the sun was her worst enemy. An eminently sensible attitude, no doubt, but not one I’m prepared to adopt, considering the dearth of sunshine in my life. Phil, Stevie and I had a hoot. We played cards – practising for tonight when we plan to hit the casinos big-style. We splashed around in the pool and enjoyed vibrant-c
oloured cocktails. At about four Stevie dragged himself away for the PR photo shoot. A bit of a bore but we can hardly complain – a few duty calls while we enjoy all this seems fair enough.

  ‘I’m going to go shopping. Do you want to come?’ I ask Bella.

  She squints at me, then feels around for her book, which is lying beside her sunbed.

  ‘I’d love to, but I’m dying to know what happens in my novel and can’t leave it alone.’

  I don’t comment on the fact that she wasn’t reading it when I approached her but instead I ask, ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘Anna Karenina.’

  ‘Come shopping, Bella. You’ve read it before – you know how it ends. She shags the cute guy, can’t live with the guilt of being an adulteress and tops herself.’

  ‘It’s not as straightforward as that. She was a martyr to her passionate nature. She tried and tragically failed to live outside the customs of her time,’ says Bella, with more commitment than I was expecting.

  ‘No doubt, I must have missed something when I read it. The thing is, adulterers always dress up their sleaze, but in the end it’s the same thing – horrible,’ I say. ‘Anyway, on to brighter things, why don’t we hit the shops? I want to surprise Stevie and buy something really glamorous to wear tonight. I want to look fabulous for him.’

  Bella stares at me for the longest time, then asks, ‘Can you afford it?’

  I fight a blush. ‘Well, no, not really. Not in the sense that the money is in my bank account but there’s still space on my plastic and I so want to look sensational.’

  ‘Come with me.’ Bella takes my hand and leads me back to the hotel.

  ‘It’s stunning,’ I gasp.

  We are in Bella’s suite and the item I am referring to is a fuchsia-pink dress laid out on her bed. It’s Matthew Williamson’s peony dress that, to my certain knowledge, both Kate Beckinsale and Laura Bailey have been spotted in this spring. It’s flirty and fun, and without doubt the most sexy number I have ever had pleasure to set eyes on.

  While I am thrilled for Bella, it must be a joy to own such a fabulous item, inwardly my heart sinks. Obviously, if she’s wearing this tonight my need to shop is not only dire, it is life and death. I have nothing that can complement, let alone compete with, this dress. I surreptitiously check my watch. It’s ten to five and we’re meeting Stevie in the bar at nine. Do I even have time to find something so wonderful? Is there anything else quite so lovely on the planet or, more practically, in the Vegas shopping malls? I am not normally this giddy over clothes and I’m not especially competitive – over the last few years I’ve got used to Bella looking a million dollars and me looking… well, considerably less. But tonight I want to shine. Tonight, I want to stand out. Because, tonight, I’m planning to tell Stevie exactly how I feel about him.

  I know, I know, a girl is supposed to wait until the guy’s made a declaration. It’s more elegant, it’s more refined and it’s probably a damn sight more sensible – no one likes a knock-back. But I can’t wait. I nearly blurted it out last night – I would have, too, if Bella and Phil hadn’t interrupted us. But maybe it’s better that I’ve had to wait till tonight when I look groomed and cool. Last night I was shiny and glowing – in the wrong sort of way.

  I’m actually looking forward to telling him that since he came into my life everything has gone topsy-turvy. Everything that was dull and grim, has vanished. Everything that was fun and good, is better. I love the way he listens with seriousness to anything I have to say – even crap, like my ideas on where the storyline in Corrie is going. I love the way he has an opinion on where the storyline on Corrie is going. It’s a genuine skill to be able to chatter nonsense and yet ask questions which show perception and intelligence. He thinks I have that skill. I think he has. He is funny, very, very funny. In a belly laugh type of way, not in the nasty too-clever-for-your-own-good type of way, which is so popular in London. He is razor-sharp, totally on the ball about all sorts of stuff. Music, the national curriculum and what’s on at the movies are topics that are bound to be discussed in the staff room, but Stevie also knows about the latest white paper the government is trying to push through, literature, motorbikes, hunting rituals of ancient, nomadic African tribes. It might just be that the Scottish education system is broad, but it impresses me.

  Then there’s the other stuff. He looks at me and his eyes scorch my soul. Tattooing my heart and mind with a message of hope and promise. Plus, he is so crash hot in the sack it would be impossible not to love him. Vegas is the place where people come to gamble and to take risks. I’m placing my bet on the King of Hearts. The fact is, I will burst if I don’t tell him.

  ‘Are you wearing that dress tonight?’ I ask, as I sit down on the bed. I’m still sticky with sun oil and sweat so I’m careful not to touch it. Typically Bella has laid the dress alongside beautifully coordinated accessories: a pair of killer heels, a sparkly bag and earrings. It looks like a fashion shoot. ‘You could be a stylist, you know,’ I tell her. I often suggest careers to Bella. It is a mystery to me how a woman so brimming with talent and intelligence has avoided making anything of herself.

  ‘I don’t think fuchsia pink is my colour,’ says Bella.

  I look at her quizzically. ‘You have to wear it. This dress deserves an outing. It’s an insult to the designer to leave it at home.’

  ‘And it’s a tiny bit long for me. Pink’s your favourite colour, though, isn’t it?’ Bella delivers these lines with a broad grin.

  ‘You’re kidding!’ The penny drops. She’s offering it to me.

  ‘No, I’m not kidding. I bought it for you – or at least, Phil did. His cash, my choice. We wanted to thank you for bringing us on this fantastic break. That’s what I’ve been doing all afternoon, shopping for you. Look, it’s your size, the shoes too.’

  I pick up the dainty, strappy shoes and carefully inspect them. They are beautiful, a spangled mix of diamanté and satin, and entirely to my taste. Not quite as high as Bella would wear. She’s put a great deal of thought into this gift. ‘Oh my God,’ I squeal. ‘I’m going to look stunning.’

  Bella starts to laugh. ‘I like the modest you, it’s refreshing,’ she teases.

  And then we hug each other. We often hug each other – hello and goodbye, when Eddie says something super-sweet, or when either of us just needs a hug. But there hasn’t been much hugging between us recently and I only realize as much when Bella grasps me. The hug started with me grabbing her but now she won’t let me go. Slowly, carefully, I break away from her. I look down at the girl in front of me. It must be the height thing because she looks as vulnerable as a brittle stick. One blow and she’d snap.

  ‘Hey, Bella, are you OK?’ She looks close to tears.

  ‘I’m glad you like it. I didn’t want you to think I was being flash.’

  ‘Be as flash as you like, babe, especially since you have such great taste,’ I joke. I sit on the bed and start mooning over the dress. I can’t believe it’s mine, I can’t wait to try it on but I need a shower first.

  ‘I do remember, you know,’ says Bella. ‘I remember wanting to buy expensive things and not being able to afford them.’

  ‘Hey, babe, I know. We’ve spent many a happy hour playing imaginary purchasing,’ I grin.

  Bella and I used to play a game where we’d sit and flick through a magazine, Vogue or even the Argos catalogue, it didn’t matter. The idea was we’d choose one item from each page as our imaginary purchase. The rules were, only one item – however many you coveted on a particular page – and you had to have something, even if it was a page selling the latest range of commodes.

  ‘No, I mean before that. You and I were always broke but we weren’t poor. We could pay our rent and buy food. I’m talking about being poor. As a kid, after my mum died and my dad stopped going out on the boat. Without him fishing, we had no money. I mean no money, Laura.’ Bella turns to me and looks me straight in the eye. ‘We couldn’t afford any new clothes, not even pa
nts and socks.’

  ‘How did you manage?’

  ‘We had good neighbours. They gave us stuff to tide us over until the boys were old enough to work. I just—’ She can’t finish the sentence. ‘It was pretty miserable. Things aren’t always what they seem. Not everything is straightforward. That’s all I’m trying to say.’

  I have no idea why Bella chooses to confide this in me now, especially after years of being very closed about her childhood but I know it’s important. I also know she’s not prepared to share any more when she says, ‘Anyway, go and get your gladrags on. I need a bath.’

  33. Hard Headed Woman

  Bella

  ‘Hi, Amelie, it’s me.’

  ‘Ermph?’ Amelie makes a sound that isn’t a recognizable word. I check my watch.

  ‘Oh, shit, sorry. I forgot all about the time difference. It must be… what?’

  ‘One in the morning,’ she mumbles.

  ‘Sorry, I’ll go.’

  ‘Don’t you dare! I want the latest instalment. Wait till I get a glass of water.’ After a minute, she returns to the phone somewhat refreshed. ‘So what’s up? Has it all gone bang yet?’

  ‘No.’ I can barely disguise my irritation. I wish Amelie wasn’t quite so certain that this situation is going to explode. Why won’t she humour me and let me believe there might be a pain-free exit?

  ‘So, what have you been doing?’

  ‘I spent the morning by the pool.’

  ‘Alone?’ she asks suspiciously. How does she know?

  ‘With Stevie.’

  ‘Nice,’ she mutters, with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘And this afternoon I went shopping for Laura.’

  ‘A guilt purchase?’

  ‘No. A thank-you present,’ I insist, huffily.

  ‘Having a good time then?’

  ‘Sort of.’ I pause.

  Where do I begin? I am so confused. I cannot find any clarity no matter how much I search my head or even my heart. I need to talk to someone about this but my usual options of Phil or Laura are non-starters. I don’t get the feeling that Amelie is going to be especially sympathetic either but I’m so desperate I blurt out what’s in my mind.