Husbands (12 page)

I’m not required to, because Amelie asks, ‘What did Stevie’s parents think?’

‘They were divorced. He hadn’t seen his dad for years. He lived with his mum, who liked me. She was pleased we were going away together. She had this old-fashioned and inaccurate idea that I would keep him out of trouble.’

‘When did you marry?’

‘I was nineteen.’

‘
So
young.’

‘I loved that. I loved the idea that we had so much time stretched out in front of us. I was sure we’d last forever.’ I pause and think about a time when I believed in forever. It almost hurts. ‘We were so in love, it seemed like the obvious thing to do, which seems madness now. Funny how hindsight can completely alter perspective.
The decision to marry was spur of the moment. We went to a registry office, still hungover from a wild party the night before. We pulled witnesses off the street. And while Scotland isn’t the State of Nevada, we were both over eighteen so it wasn’t at all tricky to get married. It seemed romantic. A big adventure.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘The obvious. We
were
too young. We were almost instantly ashamed and afraid and we didn’t dare tell our parents or anyone what we’d done.’

‘You thought they’d be angry?’

I didn’t think it was anybody else’s business. ‘Sort of. We’d cheated Stevie’s mum out of the chance to wear a hat. My dad would have been mildly disgruntled at missing out on a valid reason to have a drink although he’d have been relieved not to have had to pay for a bash.’ I shrug apologetically, I’m apologizing for my youthful mistake. ‘I thought marrying would make me feel independent but it didn’t. I just felt daft. We knew everyone would dismiss our hasty ceremony as a silly, irresponsible joke because… well, it was, wasn’t it? We kept silent because we didn’t want to be told what we already knew.’

Amelie dashes to a cupboard, locates the biscuit barrel and then sits down again. She offers me a chocolate digestive; normally I’m partial but I shake my head. Amelie eats the biscuit in just two bites and then starts on another.

‘Things were fine while we were at university. In a way we relished our wee secret. In halls of residence, we had no real responsibilities. We were two big kids playing house, playing grown-ups. The reality didn’t hit until
we graduated. We moved to Edinburgh and found it expensive. We had no money and no jobs and when we finally got jobs, crap ones, still had no money because we were paying rent.’

As I tell the story of this time in my life, the warmth drains out of my fingers and toes. I was always cold in our draughty flat. Cold and anxious. It wasn’t different enough from Kirkspey.

‘Stevie kept saying he wanted to be a musician but there weren’t many opportunities in Edinburgh. Everyone said we needed to move south or even abroad. But Stevie didn’t want to. He thought his talent would be revealed while he hummed and served chips in McDonald’s. I started to hate him for that. It seemed so infantile, believing that one day someone would shout, “Hey, you with the salt shaker! I’ve been waiting to discover you.” But things turned from dreadful to dire when he gave up on his dreams of entertaining with his own songs and style and fell into the Elvis tribute thing.’

‘Fell into?’

‘He’d done the Elvis gigs since he was a kid. His mother used to trail him round working men’s clubs. I’ve seen the photos; you wouldn’t believe it, Amelie. What sort of mother dresses her ten-year-old up in blue flares and gets him to perform to a room full of boozy strangers?’

‘Did he hate it?’ she asks with concern.

‘No, he loved it.’

‘Well, if he loved it his mother wasn’t being cruel, was she?’ I find Amelie’s reasonableness infuriating.

‘But what a seed of a dream to sow. A useless, tatty
dream. Couldn’t she have encouraged his talent in another direction?’

‘She was probably doing her best.’

‘Yes,’ I nod but I’m distraught at the memory. I never understood. ‘When money got tight in Edinburgh, he got this crazy idea that he could start doing the circuit again. He was actually very good, more’s the pity. We spent night after night in squalid dives; Stevie in fancy dress, belting out someone else’s tunes. I couldn’t see myself spending the rest of my life trailing around filthy pubs.’ I sigh.

‘Your loathing of Elvis impersonators makes more sense now,’ says Amelie.

‘But, then, my career prospects weren’t much better. I had no idea what I wanted to do with myself and so I sat in our dingy flat, getting depressed. I wanted to move away but felt trapped by the marriage. Then some people started to ask if we were going to get married; we couldn’t find a way to tell them that we already
were
. Other people, more perceptive people, started to ask why we were still together, when we clearly had different agendas now. It was impossible to explain ourselves to anyone. Our juicy secret became a sword hanging over us.’

I wish I smoked. This would be a good point to light a cigarette. Except that I hate the habit in others and have never dreamt of it for myself. Instead I take a swig of the whisky-coffee.

‘It wasn’t long before the bickering set in. Then we progressed to full-scale rows. We nosedived from love’s young dream to a ghoulish nightmare with indecent haste. So I left.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘Why didn’t you get divorced?’

‘We never got round to it.’

‘You never—’ Amelie is too incredulous to complete the sentence. ‘How could you be so nonchalant? So irresponsible? People marry young, mistakes are made. Choosing who you want to spend the rest of your life with is a tricky one, lots of people get it wrong first time. But you should have got divorced.’

I nod. I’ve always known what I should have done, but doing the right thing is often hard. I’d wanted to pretend the whole thing had never happened.

‘What the hell made you accept Philip’s proposal? Why didn’t you say something then?’ she demands.

This is possibly the hardest question she could have asked. I gather my courage. ‘He asked me minutes after I’d heard that Ben was dead. Before I’d even had time to tell him Ben was dead. I was scared. You must—’

I daren’t finish my sentence. She must understand that. She must realize that I wanted to cling to life and that nothing seemed especially real or clear-cut, except that I loved Philip and he’d asked me to marry him. I wanted to feel safe and so I said yes.

It wasn’t just the ISAs and the DIY that made me feel safe. It was something else. It was something I find difficult to put into words. Maybe something to do with his flat. Specifically, the thick creamy carpets, which were deeper and more luxurious than anything I’d ever come across. Or the large number of photographs in silver frames that showed Philip knew countless beautiful
people who seemed devoted to having a great life. At least, that’s what the numerous photos of friends and family said to me. Even the oldies in his pictures looked impossibly glamorous. Grandmas with silver bobs, black trouser suits and chic diamonds. Not a curler or saggy stocking in sight.

I was reassured by the enormous vases of fat, creamy lilies sitting on tables in the dining room and hall and on the shelf in the bathroom. I’ve always adored fat, creamy lilies, which seem to me the epitome of comfortable living. Somehow, waxy lilies embody summer, they smell sexy and expensive. We had dozens of lilies at our wedding even though everyone complained about the danger of the orange pollen staining their clothes. I ignored them. I wanted my wedding to smell of summer and wealth and sex. And security.

I hardly dare to look at Amelie. I wonder if she is going to be hurt or understanding.

‘Are you blaming this on Ben?’

‘No, no, Amelie you mustn’t think that,’ I say. I force myself to meet her eye so she can see I’m genuine. ‘I loved Ben. I’d never try to use your tragedy as an excuse for my mess. It is
because
I loved Ben that I wasn’t thinking clearly.’

Amelie seems to accept this. She breathes in deeply and then lets the air tumble out of her nose. ‘Wasn’t there an opportunity before the wedding to tell him that you were already married?’

‘I tried. But you know when you get introduced to someone and you instantly forget their name? But you keep meeting them, and each time you mumble something
barely audible, rather than admit that you have forgotten their name. It goes past the point when you can ask.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, my situation was like that, only about a million times more difficult and more horrendous. When could I say, “By the way, Philip, did I not mention that I’m already married?” I wanted to say something, I really did. But, once the plans started to take shape, I got carried away—’ I clamp my mouth shut. There is no explanation other than that I am a coward. A hopeful coward who thought I might get away with it.

Philip and I married in a hurry but in style. We had a great big do with over two hundred guests. I wanted to make a splash. Ben dying had left me feeling terrified and vulnerable. It wasn’t just that I was scared that if I didn’t grab at life and hold it really tightly, then the bus might get me next time – although that was certainly part of it. But the bigger thing was that I was also sick with the sense that if I died tomorrow I would die without making my mark.

Ben was a reasonably successful playwright. His works had been regularly performed on the local rep circuit for years, the critics had greeted his plays with considerable respect and there were always discussions about one of them making it to the West End. Ben had died – there was no doubt about it – on the cusp of huge financial and critical success. But he had always lived – there was no doubt about it – in the midst of huge emotional success. He was loved by Amelie, with an unequivocal and relentless love that I’d always found encouraging. He was an involved and inspiring father and an adored and
respected partner. This made his death shattering but his life worthwhile.

That’s what I wanted. A worthwhile life.

I couldn’t write plays so I did the next best thing; I bought a wedding dress from Vera Wang and had a reception at a smart London hotel. Don’t laugh. I felt it was a start. Like I said, grief doesn’t make sense.

It’s not true that a big wedding takes several years to plan and prepare for. In my experience it took exactly four months, one week, two days. Of course, I was in a fortunate position that my newly acquired status as Philip’s fiancée meant that I was able to throw money at any potential hiccups. The harpist, the caterers and the vicar all insisted that they could not take any bookings at such short notice, until I offered to pay above the going rate and to make a sizeable donation to the church roof fund, at which point miracles occurred. My dress was stunningly simple and simply stunning. I had it all: Jimmy Choo shoes and Agent Provocateur underwear. My hair was teased into fat luxurious curls by one of London’s top stylists. It was a very different affair to my hasty dash into the registry office with Stevie.

‘The last I’d heard of Stevie was that he was back in Aberdeen. Bloody hell, I never expected him to turn up on my doorstep. Worse still, on my friend’s doorstep. What am I going to do?’

‘I wonder what Stevie’s line is on all of this?’ muses Amelie.

‘Oh
my God
.’

The full awfulness of my situation hits me and I think I might throw up. Laura, one of my best friends, is
possibly sleeping with my husband. One of my husbands, that is.

‘We have to expect her to mention you to him,’ points out Amelie. ‘I wonder if he’ll say, “Small world. The funny thing about your friend is that she’s my wife.”’

My mind is whirling so quickly that I almost miss Amelie’s sarcastic tone,
almost
. I try to stay focused. ‘No, we’ll be fine. She’ll call me Bella.’

‘Yes, she will,’ says Amelie carefully. ‘That is, after all, your name.’

‘Not then. Back then I was Belinda. That might buy me some time.’

‘You changed your name?’

‘I never liked Belinda, it’s so—’ I don’t bother to finish.

‘So Bella is a nickname?’

‘No, I did it by deed poll. Bella
is
my name.’

‘My God, you are a dark horse. I always thought you were one of those people who struggled to keep secrets about contents of Christmas stockings and all along you are an expert at being mendacious. I wish Ben was alive, he’d love this.’

I, on the other hand, am not loving this. I think I’m going to cry.

Tuesday 25th May 2004

Laura

Since the breakdown of my marriage it is not uncommon for me to wake up and wonder why anybody chooses to live in London. I have no choice in the matter. I live in London because Eddie needs to see his father regularly and I doubt that would happen if I moved further afield. If I try, it is easy to spread and blur my loathing of Oscar so that I can find a way to blame pretty much everything that is uncomfortable in my life on him. My lack of money, decent career and self-respect are just the obvious ones. I can spend hours connecting Oscar’s inadequacies with those of London’s underground, London’s lack of private gardens (or even parks that are dog-poop free), the cost of childcare, parking, council tax and housing.

Sometimes, I am clearsighted enough to see that there are many things that I adore about London and to remember that I spent half of my childhood dreaming of living here. I never link Oscar with these aspects of city life.

I love the fact that it is always possible to buy a loaf of bread, even at midnight, and the choice stretches between panini, bruschetta, cinnamon, cracked wheat, German pumpernickel and rye. I love that Eddie is surrounded
by cultural diversity and won’t grow up thinking
anyone
is different or odd. It’s great that there is always something to do or somewhere to go and that most of the museums are free.

Invariably, I have a flare-up of resentment at living in London as I stand on a platform waiting for an overpriced, overpacked and already very late train to take me to work in Shepherd’s Bush. Not today. This Tuesday morning as I head off to work at the surgery I’m amazed to discover that I don’t find the crowded tubes particularly galling. Instead, I step back and let everyone off the tube before I rush forwards to try to secure, if not a seat, at least some floor space. I smile at… well, everyone. I don’t even care that they don’t smile back.