by Adele Parks
He closes the song to riotous applause pounding up to the chandeliers.
Stevie pauses to wipe his face on the silk scarf he’s wearing round his neck and gives it to a middle-aged woman, à la the King himself. The old girl looks like she might explode with glee now that she is wrapped in his sweat.
I wonder what he’ll perform next. The entire room is waiting with bated breath: it’s almost possible to see, taste and smell the anticipation.
Are you lonesome tonight? The question bounces from Stevie’s lips and squarely hits his target – the hearts of every single member of the audience. Even the tiny minority of eternally confident, supremely content individuals – who had never missed a soul or regretted drifting apart from any lover – felt they were being directly besieged by his intense tenderness. The song effectively demonstrates his versatility. He isn’t an Elvis tribute act that can do either rock ’n’ roll, or ballads: he has the talent to tackle both.
Stevie’s deep-voiced narration in the middle of the song is a confident move. It’s a brave tribute act that relies on nothing but his voice; no fancy moves, no whizzy lyrics, no distractions at all, just a simple riff, delivered with almost painful sincerity and yet Stevie does it. Stevie pulls it off.
Everyone in the room believes that Elvis is singing to them: I know that Stevie is singing to me. It’s our song. Well, as good as. All the lyrics are scarily pertinent. Stevie is appealing to me, the woman who strangely changed and left him surrounded by a perpetual emptiness. I hear him. I hear the pain of eight years’ confusion, heartache and misery, which I caused. The whole room hears it because when Stevie finishes, the applause and stamping of feet, the standing ovation and the delirious screams for more almost bring the roof down.
‘He’s excellent! Easily the best!’ exclaims Philip, confidently. He’s on his feet, beaming and clapping.
‘Do you think?’ Laura is wiping away tears of joy that are squeezing out of her eyes and running down her face. ‘I agree. He’s gold,’ she laughs in a rare moment of absolute certainty that her opinions stand solid. She’s clapping so rapidly her hands are a blur.
‘You can tell he was brought up to do this,’ I enthuse. ‘His mum would be so proud. All those years of practice. When Stevie was as young as eight his mum dressed him up in the suits and stuff and took him to competitions.’ I beam and the smile is so wide it hurts my cheek muscles. Laura nods, I’m not telling her anything new.
Phil stares at me, ‘How do you know that?’
‘He told me,’ I answer without skipping a beat. I’m not lying but I was careless. This moment of jubilation and triumph has made me let my guard down. How stupid of me. How careless! I stare at the stage, not daring to turn back to Phil because I know he is watching me, very, very carefully, and I’m terrified of what he might see.
42. I’ll Remember You
Stevie
I actually feel quite sorry for the guy who has to go on stage after me. The audience doesn’t want to know. They only want me. I have them eating out of my hand. I know that sounds really big-headed – and I try not to look too cocky when I’m backstage – but it must be pretty clear to everyone that there hasn’t been a better performance tonight. I have never given a better performance in my life.
Belinda came.
She risked everyone finding out that she is a bigamist to watch me perform tonight. What does that mean? It has to be good, doesn’t it? Assuming Belinda wanting me is good. It has to mean something. It has to mean we mean something. Today she begged me to throw the competition but I could not do that, not even for her; I had to go ahead and it was the right decision. Tomorrow, if I perform as well, the title will be mine. After all these years, some things will be put straight.
I join Laura, Belinda and Philip front of house. It takes ages to walk the fifty or so yards to their table, because everyone wants a piece of me. People ask for autographs, reach out to touch me, women jump around me and plant quick pecks on my face and hands – it’s surreal.
When I reach the table, Laura falls on me and hugs me tightly. Bella smiles shyly over her shoulder. Her straight hair and smart clothes don’t fool me: I can see Belinda McDonnel’s unsophisticated delight shining through. I bask in it. Phil, a true gent, has bought a bottle of champagne and Laura has bought a bottle of water. She smiles and tells me that she doesn’t want me hungover tomorrow.
‘You were brilliant tonight,’ says Belinda, as we all settle into our chairs.
‘Thank you.’ I meet her eye, glug a large glass of water and then sip some champagne. I’m really only drinking it to be polite. It feels weird drinking the guy’s champagne when I’m married to his wife and feeling ambivalent about it. I mean – he’s a good bloke – under any other circumstances we might have become mates.
‘If you can be half as good tomorrow you’ll walk it,’ says Belinda. She’s actually giggling. She’s genuinely enthusiastic. I’d begun to doubt I would ever see the day.
‘Well, it’s never over until it’s over. Nothing in life is a certainty,’ I caution. I’m nervous with her assumption that the competition is in the bag, even though I’ve had the same thought. I have a good chance, I know that, but Belinda of all people must know that you can’t predict anything in life.
‘You’ll win, I know you will,’ says Laura leaning in to kiss me. Awkwardly, I shift my face so that her kiss falls on my cheek. It’s not that I don’t want to kiss Laura. She’s gorgeous and any man in his right mind would want to kiss her. It’s just that I feel distinctly caddish kissing her in front of Belinda. I feel the full weight of the deceit I’m practising. It’s crippling.
I turn to Laura and say, ‘Babe, you know what? I need an early night.’ She grins assuming – not unreasonably but still inaccurately – that I’m feeling frisky. I mean I need sleep.
‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t want to stay and watch the competition.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I’ll get my wrap.’ Laura leaps up and dashes off to the cloakroom. Philip mutters something about needing a pee and exits the table in the same instant, leaving Belinda and me, face-to-face, and alone.
‘I’ve never seen it before, your talent. I think I’ve refused to see it – but you were right to perform tonight,’ she says.
Even after the rapturous and universal applause, her praise is possibly the most flattering thing I’ve ever heard. It’s certainly the most coveted.
‘Good choice of tunes. Brave and different.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Stevie, I know what you were saying but—’
‘What I was saying?’ She’s lost me.
She takes a quick look over her shoulder, scouring for Laura and Phil, neither of them is in sight. Bella recognizes that we have only snatched moments and decides to be bold.
‘I’m very flattered that you sang to me, Stevie. It means a lot, whatever happens.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ I state flatly.
‘“Are You Lonesome Tonight?” It was for me, wasn’t it?’
Awkward pause. I can see why she might think that. The lyrics, I guess, could be interpreted as pertinent to our situation but I chose my songs months ago, way before Belinda re-entered my life. I run through the lyrics in my head. Oh God, I can be stupendously thick sometimes. The song is all about a woman who ups and offs without any reasonable explanation. The singer – this bit is really mortifying – pleads to her through a series of questions clearly articulating his pain and longing. What was I thinking of? Not Belinda – obviously. Which is a bit surprising, actually.
I could let it go. I could let Belinda think that my performance of a lifetime was inspired by her, but it wouldn’t be fair. My performance of a lifetime occurred despite her. I’ve never lied to Belinda: it would be lunacy to start now when things are already so murky.
‘I didn’t choose that song with you in mind. I didn’t choose it with anyone in mind,’ I blurt.
‘Oh.’ Belinda physically pulls back from me, sh
e looks startled. Hurt? ‘I thought—’
‘Years ago, you taught me not to be overly emotional about this business. You berated me for picking my numbers for sentimental reasons. I chose to sing those two particular tracks tonight because I knew they contrasted and complemented each other. They showcased my range. That’s all.’
Belinda picks up her champagne glass and takes a sip. She’s considering what I’ve just said. I study her face. It’s almost impossible to read. Is that relief I see?
‘Stevie, you must perform tomorrow. I meant what I said before, you’ll win. I won’t be there tomorrow. Somehow, and I’m not sure how yet, I’ll persuade Philip that we don’t need to attend the competition. It’s not going to be easy, he’s a big fan of yours.’ Belinda flashes me a quick grin as I try to digest what she is saying. ‘We are unlikely to get as lucky again. Neil Curran will be sober for sure. His salary depends on it.’
I am stunned and saddened. Belinda thinks I’m great. She thinks I’m the best Elvis tribute act ever but it hasn’t changed her mind. She doesn’t want me. The disappointment is…
… not as devastating as it was eight years ago. I wait to feel the onslaught of pain. The bloody agony of being rejected, the relentless misery and confusion brought on by being deserted, but it doesn’t happen.
I have to get this clear. ‘Why did you come tonight?’
‘I couldn’t get out of it. Phil insisted,’ Belinda shrugs.
‘Phil did?’
Yes.’ Belinda catches sight of my face. ‘Oh, no. You thought I’d chosen you?’ she asks carefully. I nod. Belinda looks mortified. ‘I’m sorry, Stevie. It’s not a choice I can make.’
She’s holding the long stem of the champagne glass, I notice that the liquid is moving – she’s shaking, ever so slightly. She looks directly into my eyes and I know what’s coming. Way back in Blackpool she wasn’t able to look me in the face. She could not finish us cleanly, let alone battle for us. I always thought that was the worst thing about our break-up. I respect her for doing it differently this time.
‘If I could turn back time, if I’d had more confidence in you, things might have been different,’ she says slowly. ‘But it’s too late now. Too late for us.’
These are the most desolate and cruel words in the English language, naturally, they were always going to end up in our relationship at some point. Too late.
‘Oh, this is such a mess and it’s all my fault,’ she cries, frustrated.
I’m not going to argue with her.
She stutters on with her explanation. ‘It’s not that I’m choosing Phil over you, Stevie.’
‘It seems that way.’
‘I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon. In theory we could just walk away – legally you are my husband – we could just run away and start up again as a married couple. At the very least we’d avoid all this mess, and isn’t running away my forte?’ I sense a but coming. ‘But we’d never recover. We’d feel too guilty. The past always catches up. I’ve learnt that much.’ Belinda is still staring directly into my eyes, she isn’t ducking this one. When I try to look away she takes my face in her hands and forces me to hold her gaze. ‘It’s not a level playing field. I can’t hurt anyone else. I can’t hurt Phil and I can’t hurt Laura.’
‘But it’s OK to hurt me.’ I know I sound petulant; a silly, sulky boy, but no one likes being brushed off. ‘Don’t tell me I’m too good for you.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’ She grins. ‘I’ve hurt you so much already but largely you were over it. This unfortunate shove down memory lane has been disturbing and distressing, but it’s not real. It’s a flirtation, or a letting-go ritual, or something – but it’s not real.’
I consider what she’s saying and a tiny part of me, buried about five fathoms deep, reckons that she might just be talking sense. Unprecedented but not impossible.
‘What you have with Laura is real. You said yourself she adores you, tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor. She’s interested in your music. You both like travelling. The same things make you laugh. I think you have a promising start. And what I have with Phil is—’
‘Patchy,’ I point out because someone has to.
We were making real progress along the road of ‘tell it how it is’, up until a moment ago. I feel duty bound to shove her a few more steps along the path. I’m bound through love. I’m not sure I can categorize the love I feel for Belinda, this mixed-up beauty. I’m not sure if love ought ever to be labelled and put in tidy boxes. I might love Belinda because she is an old flame and we have so much shared history. My love might be attributable to friendship. Or she might just appeal to the macho bit in me, the bit that wants to help out a confused but attractive woman. I don’t know. Right now, it hardly matters. Belinda, the vulnerable, neglected, grief-stricken girl floats in front of me. Bella the woman, the survivor and product of all that has gone before, is sitting with me too. I like them both. It’s a revelation.
It’s almost indiscernible – something in the eyes, perhaps, or a shift in the demeanour – but slowly the woman starts to emerge and grow in front of me and the girl is fading away. This is the natural order of things.
‘Come on, Belinda, you’re kidding yourself. Philip doesn’t know anything about you. Your entire relationship is based on a huge lie.’
‘And good intention,’ she defends.
‘It doesn’t cut it. You don’t cut it as his wife.’ I’m being cruel to be kind and she seems to understand this.
‘I will, though, Stevie. If I get the chance.’
I look at my wife across the table, nervously sipping champagne to buy time – time that is priceless to her – and I see that she means this with every fibre of her soul. She means it so much that in that instant my wife vanishes and my ex-wife – with all the closeness and distance that that implies – shrugs at me.
‘You have to tell him about your past, Bella. About me and about your dad. You have to talk to him about how much you miss your mum and why you’re scared of having babies. You have to tell him that as a young kid you were bullied at school. You have to tell him everything and give him the chance and honour of knowing you in your entirety. Because, if you don’t, none of this makes any sense at all and the pair of you won’t make it.’
43. That’s When Your Heartaches Begin
Bella
Stevie’s right, of course. Despite the fact that this salient piece of advice is delivered to me by a man wearing a flared, beaded catsuit and stick-on sideburns, I recognize that it’s the best advice I’ve had for a long time. I determine to do exactly as he suggests – and I would have if, at that moment, our table hadn’t been invaded by my worst nightmare. In a rush – similar to that of the opening of the doors to Harrods on sale day – we are suddenly deluged with company.
Laura and Phil have come back. Laura is holding her wrap and Phil a glass of whisky, a double by the looks of it. And Neil Curran is holding court.
‘Bloody cheek of them! Said I was pissed. Put me under lock and key, they did. That’s an infringement of my human rights, that is. I’ll bloody sue. Every bugger is suing every other bugger over here, aren’t they? Well, I’ll bloody sue them.’ Neil’s indignation dissolves when he lays eyes on Laura. He always was a dirty old flirt with a keen eye for a pretty lady. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely friend, Bel-Girl?’ he asks me.
I struggle to find words because I know that everything is now out of my hands. I sink back into my chair and watch in amazed horror; aware that the situation is past rescue.
Laura beams at Neil and says, ‘I’m Laura Ingalls. Hold the name jokes.’ She puts up her pretty hands and metaphorically brushes away the expected jokes. She’s obviously got Neil’s number and knows he’ll tease her mercilessly about her name. ‘You, on the other hand, don’t need any introduction.’ She knows instinctively that the compère is someone an Elvis-wife/girlfriend ought to befriend. Funny, as I’d always found it easier to be rude to Neil Curran. ‘You are the
infamous compère, Neil Curran,’ she says with her widest beam.
‘Not so infamous, darlin’. Just a bit fond of the bottle. But, bloody hell, lassie, I’m on holiday. Well, as near as damn it.’ He plonks himself into a chair next to mine, then asks Laura the question I’m dreading: ‘So, how do you know this lovely couple?’
Laura looks a wee bit confused that Neil has referred to Stevie and me as a couple. In the longest moment of my life I see her decide that the drunken compère has jumped to a conclusion, then she strives for what she believes is clarity. ‘Bella’s my best friend and I’m Stevie’s girlfriend.’
‘Fucking hell. Pardon my French,’ says Neil, spluttering. ‘That’s all a bit cosy, isn’t it?’
‘Philip Edwards,’ says Phil, holding out his hand for Neil to shake. ‘Bella’s husband.’
Weakly, Neil shakes it and turns to stare at Stevie and me. ‘Who the hell is Bella?’
I think he knows.
‘I am,’ I mutter. Choiceless.
‘But you’re married to Stevie,’ says Neil, ‘not this one.’ He points at Phil.
‘No, no,’ giggles Laura. ‘Stevie and Bella have just met through me. Bella is with Phil, I’m with Stevie.’
I can see her trying to be patient – she thinks he’s still under the influence. Sadly, I know that Neil Curran has never been more sober. I daren’t look at Stevie but I sense movement. I think he is dropping his head into his hands, adopting the pose common to utterly and completely fucked members of mankind.
‘Er lass. I don’t know what’s the do ’ere, but as true as I’m standing in front of you, I can tell you Belinda McDonnel and Stevie Jones are married. They told me so. We’re old mates, you see. We go back over a decade.’ Maybe Neil thinks Laura is trying to pull his leg and while Neil likes to dish out the gags, he doesn’t like to be the butt of others’ jokes. He becomes more adamant. ‘Couple of lovebirds these two. Even after all these years. I caught them canoodling in the diner next to the Elvis-A-Rama Museum, just today.’