by Adele Parks
‘I think I meant it,’ I say weakly.
Not exactly impressive, I know. Not the sort of fighting talk that wins the lady. I watch Belinda struggling with indignation and common sense. I realize she’s probably heard more romantic propositions but I don’t want to say anything I might regret. Anything more that I might regret.
‘Sort it out, Stevie,’ she says, and then she tells the taxi driver to stop.
‘But, lady, you’re nowhere near the Mandalay Bay,’ says the driver.
‘I can walk a few blocks. I need to shop,’ she tells him. Then she turns to me, repeats her instruction, ‘Sort it out,’ and flounces out of the car and in the direction of an enormous shopping mall.
I stay in the taxi and as we edge through traffic on the Strip, I ask myself, can I sort it out?
Neil Curran is a loud, diehard compère who, in another lifetime, had a stand-up act at seaside resorts such as Blackpool and Yarmouth. We got to know him when I was trying for the Greatest European Tribute Artist Convention and Competition in 1996. Funny that he should be compèring the competition this year as he did on the night that Belinda did her bunk. Of course, Belinda would argue that this isn’t so much a coincidence as indicative of the fact that the job of a tribute artist is small-time and the circles I mix in are small too. She won’t accept, or even acknowledge, that the Elvis tribute industry is massive. Facts aren’t going to get in her way.
The mini-drama that ensued after Belinda walked out was the talk of the town for several days and the talk of the circuit for… well, longer than I was prepared to keep track of. Belinda doesn’t know, she’s never asked, but I did not win the King of Kings title that night in Blackpool. I did not even compete.
We weren’t having a good night, or a good year, come to that. I’m not a bloody fool, I knew that much. We were forever rowing about our secret marriage, our lack of cash and where and how we should best earn our livings. Even so, nothing could have prepared me for what she did that night.
I will never forget the humiliation as I sat at the table, nursing a warm pint and a glass of crap white wine, waiting for her to return from the loo. After twenty minutes I sent someone to look for her, I was concerned, not worried. I thought she must have an upset stomach or something. I became more than concerned, more than frenzied with anxiety in fact, when she wasn’t in the Ladies, or anywhere else in the hotel.
Neil kept insisting that there was nothing to worry about and that the show must go on but I couldn’t do it. It was obviously serious. Your wife doesn’t go to the Ladies and then just forget to come back.
How could she have left me on the most important night of my career to date? How could she think that was an acceptable way to end a relationship? A marriage. There wasn’t even a note. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Diddly-squat. Fuck all.
I have never felt lonelier than I felt that night; the night I slept alone in the grotty B&B, on a hard narrow bed. Blackpool is my hometown and while my mum was still living up in Kirkspey at that time, I had other relatives – aunties, uncles, cousins – who I could have called on. Any one of them would have happily loaned me a bed and even made me a fry-up the next day, but I stayed put. I slept in scratchy sheets, in a room with malfunctioning central heating because I thought – I hoped – that she might come back to me. Her clothes were gone but it didn’t have to mean she had indisputably, literally quit. I told myself that maybe she’d get as far as the coach station and then she’d find out there wasn’t a bus to Edinburgh until the next day so she’d come back to the B&B. We’d talk about what was wrong and we’d put it right. It might be OK. It didn’t have to be a big deal.
She didn’t come back to the B&B nor was she waiting for me in our flat when I returned to Edinburgh. I will never forget – and God knows I’ve tried to – the wave of fear, panic and then unadulterated terror that swept over me when I opened the door to our flat and there it was – nothing. Total and complete nothingness. No letter. No missing possessions, no trace, no clues, no reasons, no explanations.
I contacted the police. I told them it was possible my wife had been abducted; neither they nor I believed that to be the case. They added her name to a long list of people who had done a ‘Reginald Perrin’ as they called it and said they’d check the hospitals. But as she was an adult and there were no signs of foul play there was little they could seriously be expected to do.
No signs of foul play? Even if Belinda had left of her own free will and no crime had been committed, the foul play quota was still off the scale. What she had done to me was so intensely cruel and profoundly wicked that it was categorically unforgivable. That’s what I told myself, unforgivable. Then I spent weeks, months, and eventually years thinking of ways to forgive her.
Nothing comforted or helped me. Belinda would probably laugh if I ever tried to explain to her that even Elvis Presley’s music failed to console me in those bleakest months. I didn’t think he’d suffered as much as I had. I didn’t think he’d ever been so totally humiliated.
For ages Belinda had been trying to get me to give up Elvis. It was ironic that her departure achieved what she had longed for, and yet she never knew it. My greatest love had stolen the joy I had in my other great love. It appeared that one could not exist without the other. Not for me. For several years I couldn’t even listen to an Elvis song. I hated the man, or at least the music. If ever I was in a shop and an Elvis track drifted through the sound system, I would leave the shop. I’ve walked out of quite a number of karaoke bars and wedding receptions in my time. I thought it was meaningless pap and even ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ and ‘My Baby Left Me’ did not scratch the surface of agony at being so unceremoniously binned.
After about four weeks, she sent me a postcard so that I knew she was alive – and that she didn’t feel alive near me.
For some time I thought I was rubbish, crap, leftovers. I endlessly mulled over the self-indulgent, self-destructive questions that all dumpees ponder, regardless of gender. I found the answers a year and a half later, after I’d been travelling abroad for some time. What did I do to deserve this? Nothing. What is wrong with me? Nothing. Why would she treat me like this? Madness.
Look, it’s all water under the bridge now. But, I’m just saying at the time it was hard. Granite.
When I came back to the UK I decided to study for a PGCE so I could teach music. It took a further two years before I could let Elvis back into my life.
But when he returned, he returned with a vengeance. My music had matured. I thought as much and others confirmed it to be the case. I had more to put into the lyrics because loss has a whimsical way of making some people bigger. Having loved and lost was good for my art – much better than good old-fashioned happiness or contentment. Although, to this day, I’d have preferred to be a ‘not bad’ tribute act with a wife and kids at home, rather than a ‘sensational’ one with a different cutie from the crowd in my bed each night. I guess I’m just an old-fashioned guy at heart.
The thing is, I hankered after winning the heats and the trip away to Vegas but I covet and crave winning the final competition, with an undignified longing that borders on an obsessive need.
Of course, I don’t believe I can turn the clock back. It will never be January 1996 in Blackpool again. I will never have the opportunity to say to Belinda, ‘Don’t go to the loo. Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong.’ I cannot change the sequence of events that followed that fateful trip to the Ladies. Events that cascaded into the casual heap that – for want of a better term – I call my life. However, if I compete and win this time, I might just be able to jump-start my life again and put myself back on track. I might regain some dignity.
I threw the competition for her once. And I threw my life away too. But I won’t do it again.
I am going to go to the rehearsal and I am going to be good. Seriously, intensely good. I am going to be the King of Kings European Tribute Artist Act 2004. Belinda McDonnel and Bella Edwards will have to find a way to live with it.
I sneak into my hotel room and pick up my costume and leave again without being spotted by Laura. I leave her tickets for tonight’s dress rehearsal show and a note telling her I’m missing her. Which is only part of the story.
I catch the monorail and as I hop on board it crosses my mind, what am I thinking of? Do I really believe that winning the competition would win me back some dignity when I consider that I have wrapped my arms around two women in twenty-four hours? While I am determined to attend the rehearsals and enter the competition I know that to sing or not to sing is not the difficult question. And probably, for that reason alone, it’s the question I decide to focus on.
39. Stuck On You
Laura
‘Can I get you another drink, Laura?’
‘No, I’m all right, ta, Phil. I don’t want to start on the turps just yet.’
‘So what was that vodka and tomato juice?’ He points to the empty glass on the table next to me.
‘Hair of the dog.’
‘Fair enough.’ He lies back on his sun lounger, clearly unprepared to drink alone but I can’t keep him company today, even to be polite.
‘Just how much did I drink last night?’ I ask Philip, as I reach for my sun lotion and slap a dollop of factor fifteen on to my thighs. It’s the third time I’ve reapplied cream in about half an hour. I’m not thinking clearly.
‘About as much as me.’ He grimaces.
‘So, too much is the easy answer then.’
Normally I can hold my own against Phil and I never have to drive the porcelain bus. But Lord knows, I’m thirty-two not twenty-two and I really think I’m getting a tiny bit long in the tooth for experimenting with cocktails that are the same colour as my mouthwash.
Philip and I pass a comfortable couple of hours lolling next to the pool, having a bit of a yarn about various hangover cures. He favours a large breakfast, I prefer popping a couple of painkillers. We give both methods a go as desperate times call for desperate measures. We also try hair of the dog, sleep and lots of good old-fashioned glugging of mineral water. By three o’clock I can give a reasonable impression of a fully functioning human being. I put down my novel and announce as much to Philip.
‘I’m feeling better too,’ he confirms. ‘Which is bad news, really, because by tonight I’ll have forgotten how awful I felt this morning and I’ll do the whole thing all over again.’
‘Not me. I’m taking it easy tonight. I want to feel tip-top tomorrow for Stevie.’ I beam at Philip. I love the role of supporting girlfriend; it’s a novelty.
‘Do you think he has a good chance of winning the title?’
‘Of course,’ I say instantly and loyally. Then I pause to consider a more reasoned response. ‘Well, I haven’t seen any of the other competitors perform, but he’s brilliant – you’ve seen him.’
‘I was very impressed,’ smiles Phil. ‘But they all must be good for them to have got this far,’ he adds cautiously. I know he’s trying to temper my expectations.
‘I know the standard of entertainment must be high. They are charging thirty bucks entry just for the dress rehearsal tonight.’
‘What’s the difference between tonight’s show and the final tomorrow?’
‘None as far as the contestants are concerned. They have to sing the same two songs at both shows. But tomorrow there will be warm-up acts, showgirls and judges.’
Phil is squinting against the sun. ‘Being part of something so big is impressive, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’ asks Bella, interrupting our conversation. She’s suddenly hovering in front of our loungers, blocking my sun.
‘Hi,’ Phil and I chorus. ‘We were talking about Stevie and the competition.’
Bella scowls. She is so not impressed with Elvis tribute acts and nothing anyone can say will change her mind.
‘Where have you been all day?’ I ask, changing the subject. I really haven’t the energy to hear her bad-mouth tribute acts, indirectly pouring scorn on Stevie.
‘Shopping.’
‘Where are your bags?’ Phil and I ask in unison again. I’m pretty sure the same reasoning does not motivate our curiosity. I’m keen to see the fabulous stuff she’ll have bought. Phil will be worrying about his credit-card bill.
‘I didn’t find anything I liked,’ says Bella.
‘Nothing?’ I’m stunned.
‘You’ve been shopping all morning and most of the afternoon and you haven’t bought a single thing?’ asks Phil. He can’t believe his ears. Or his luck.
‘That’s right.’ Bella drops into the sun lounger next to him. ‘I think I’ll go and change into my swimsuit and take a dip,’ she says. But she doesn’t make a move. Instead she waves to a waiter and orders an orange juice.
‘Still not drinking?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Detoxing?’
‘Hmmm,’ she murmurs but she doesn’t tell me what programme she’s on.
‘Very sensible,’ I comment. ‘I felt as rough as a badger’s arse all morning.’
Actually, I find Bella’s sudden sober behaviour rather irritating. It’s as though she’s determined to have as little fun as possible on this holiday. Also, it’s embarrassing that she can remember more than me about my singing ‘My Way’ in the bar at the MGM Grand last night. What possessed me? Daft question, lots of alcohol possessed me. When I’m sober I can hold a tune; I’m not so confident about my abilities when I’m under the influence.
‘Are you excited for Stevie, Laura?’ asks Phil.
‘Yes, very,’ I pause. ‘Well, mostly. A little bit of me is dreading the shows,’ I confess.
‘Are you worried he’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t win?’ enquires Phil sympathetically.
‘He’ll win,’ I say with a confident grin. I’m a big one for positive thinking. ‘No, it’s not that.’ I sigh and then admit, ‘I’m getting a bit fed up of the groupies. I found their constant presence a little overwhelming last night.’ I’ve been waiting for Bella’s return to air my grievances, but I put on my sunglasses because I’m not sure I can cope with even her seeing my eyes as I say what I need to say. ‘I can’t put my finger on it but last night we had all the ingredients to have a stupendous time and yet the evening was more… fair to middling.’
‘I thought you were having a brilliant time,’ says Phil, clearly hurt.
‘Oh, Phil, don’t get me wrong. I loved the venues you picked, the food was delicious.’ I turn to Bella, ‘And please don’t think I’m undervaluing your generosity because the dress is stunning. I love it.’
Bella waves my comments away and stares back out to the pool. She’s intently watching a group of kids horse about – pushing and splashing one another.
‘But that’s my point. We’re in Vegas, I was with my best mates in all the world, wearing the most gorgeous dress I’ve ever worn…’
‘You did look hot,’ confirms Philip.
That’s the kind of interruption I like. ‘Yet at times I felt Stevie gently drift away from me.’
‘Rubbish,’ says Phil, who knows nothing about these things.
Bella, who knows everything about these things, stays silent. I continue, ‘It felt a bit like discovering your new Louis Vuitton handbag is an imitation. One moment you think it’s the most fab thing on earth, the next it’s slightly shaming. It’s the same bag but you can’t carry it around with the same swagger when you know it’s not the genuine article. Last night Stevie was mostly attentive, kind, funny and considerate but on occasion, without any perceivable provocation, he became distant, distracted, discouraging.’
‘Nonsense,’ says Philip again. ‘If he is at all distracted it’s probably because the big competition is coming up tomorrow. He’s just nervous, right?’
I want to believe this so much. Too much.
The thing is, and there is no way I can say this in front of Phil, last night Stevie did not want to come to bed with me. Despite my peony dress. Hasn’t he read the script? Cinderella gets to go to the b
all in a pretty gown, the prince falls in love with her and they live happily ever after. I’d make do with the modern equivalent. Cinderella gets to go to the ball in a pretty gown, the prince falls in lust and can’t keep his hands off her. After several months of hot sex they move in together because they can share the washing-up and it cuts down on phone bills. Some would think it’s a sad day when even your daydreams take on such a practical skew but I’m more comfortable with realistic aspirations. The days of dizzy dreaming are long gone for me. Either way – Stevie hadn’t read the script. Last night he walked me to our room, came in, changed out of his Elvis costume then made up some story about wanting to clear his head.
Was I born yesterday? I’ve always believed that no man turns down a warm bed unless he has another waiting. Is that very paranoid of me, just a little bit paranoid or sound judgement?
‘Last night he sneaked off at some ridiculously late hour. He said he had this pre-gig lucky-habit thingy to do. He had to have a walk late at night and do some voice exercises. He said I couldn’t go with him because he’d be self-conscious about doing tongue twisters in front of me. I’m not convinced. Could it be true?’
‘Yes!’ says Bella, with huge conviction. ‘Creative types do have their good-luck routines and funny rituals. I once read that Mariah Carey insists on having Labrador puppies in her dressing room before every performance.’
I instantly feel better. For about a moment.
‘Look over there.’ I hiss and nod my head sidewards in the direction of a skinny, toned blonde, one of the groupies who had practically sexually assaulted Stevie last night. Right now, she is massaging sun oil into some other guy who just happens to have a quiff and is wearing large gold sunglasses.
‘She’s one of those hussies from last night. Look at her – she’s as good as having sex on a sun lounger.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ says Bella. But she is straining to see over Phil’s shoulder.
I turn just in time to see the hussy whip off her bikini top. She is uncomplicated sex on a plate. A fabulous dish, most men would agree.