Husbands. Part 19

I think it's obvious: this sense of displacement and uselessness that people claim to feel is symptomatic of our hurried and disposable lifestyle and the fact that we don't live near our families any more. The art of good old-fas.h.i.+oned chatting is dying out. You don't need an expert to tell you that much. Or maybe you do, as no one talks any more. Anyway, we're blokes so Bob didn't take offence when I said as much.

Frustratingly, it turns out that I was right about one thing, the art of good old-fas.h.i.+oned chatting is dying out at least, it is between me and my wife. Despite repeated enquiries as to what's bothering her, I keep banging up against a fat wall of silence. But it turns out I was wrong about the other thing a life coach does have his uses.

I found it was helpful to call Bob and tell him about Bella's mood swings. He suggested she might be depressed. I'd never have contemplated depression; she doesn't seem the type. But Bob told me there isn't a type. It's b.o.l.l.o.c.ks thinking you have to behave like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest if you suffer from depression. He said her symptoms were typical of someone anxious about their ident.i.ty. Apparently, newly-weds are vulnerable to this: they struggle to hold on to their ident.i.ty as they become half of a couple. The other group who are vulnerable to ident.i.ty issues are the unemployed. My persuading Bella to pack in her waitressing work, just after we married, might have exacerbated the situation. I only wanted to help. Bob said there wasn't much I could do except encourage Bella to draw her own conclusions, and support her all the way. He started talking about love and stuff, the kind of topic blokes normally avoid while enjoying a pint. I appreciated his sacrifice.

I search for ways to support her. 'What's wrong, Bella?'

'Wrong? Nothing.' She smiles at me. 'Why should anything be wrong?'

'I don't know, but I get the feeling something's worrying you? Whatever it is, I'll help. You know that, don't you? Just tell me and I'll help.'

'You're very sweet.' She kisses me on the cheek.

I feel like a Chelsea Pensioner who has just offered to escort her across the road. I sigh and change the subject. 'Laura seems very happy.'

'Yes.'

'She's clearly besotted with Stevie.'

'Yes.'

'And while, as a rule, I don't go in for monitoring the love lives of my friends woman's work I'm pleased to note that it's obvious Stevie feels the same about her too. Wouldn't you say so?'

'Do you know, Phil, I'm really sleepy. I'd like to turn the lights out now. A good night's sleep will be the best thing for my headache, don't you think?'

It clearly doesn't matter what I think because Bella gives me another peck on the cheek and flicks out the lights. I'm left staring into the dark.

Ho hum. While it is obvious that Laura is besotted with Stevie, it is just as clear that Bella can't stand the man. She has managed to hide as much from most people, but to me, it's patent. The only thing that is unclear is why. Bella vetoed my suggestion of playing a round of golf with him; I only suggested the game to allow her and Laura some girly time. I thought it would cheer her up but she was totally against it. She didn't really want to come on this holiday either. She came up with a number of weak and implausible excuses to get out of it but I'd already accepted Laura's kind invitation. It's obvious to me she needed a break. She's stuck in a rut and doesn't know which way to turn. Bob agreed that a new environment might help her make a decision about her career or, at the very least, stop her being so b.l.o.o.d.y moody.

Bella's ferocious dislike of Stevie is a mystery to me. He seems like a decent enough bloke to me, even if he has a penchant for wearing silver and white Lycra costumes that are so tight you can see his gooseb.u.mps. Gyrating in front of a live audience dressed this way does at least go to prove he has a sense of humour.

'Do you know what I found out tonight?' I ask the hump under the duvet that is Bella feigning sleep.

'What?' she mumbles.

'Stevie went to Aberdeen University too. He is one of your fellow alumni.' Bella doesn't comment. 'How old is he, do you know?'

'I'm not sure,' she mumbles.

'About your age, I'd have said.'

'I think he might be younger than me. He certainly acts it,' she snaps.

'I wonder what he studied. Do you think your paths might have crossed? You must at least know people in common.' I'm trying to find mutual ground between Stevie and Bella; it's in short supply.

Bella is reticent about her past, if you judge her against other women who seem to like nothing better than to talk about themselves except perhaps to talk about their exes. Bella has the good sense to know that I could not be less interested in her previous s.e.xual encounters; I am distinctly incurious. On the other hand, I would like to meet more of her old friends. They'd interest me.

'I imagine he studied music. That lot kept themselves to themselves. I'm sure I'd have remembered if our paths had crossed.'

'Especially if he was wearing sideburns and gold gla.s.ses,' I joke.

'Especially then,' agrees Bella.

And then she surprises me. I suddenly feel her warmth next to my lips. The breath that is escaping from her body is mingling with the breath escaping from mine. She starts to kiss me. Slow, long, probing kisses. In one deft move she wriggles on top of me. Bella is so slight I sometimes barely register her weight but tonight she is pus.h.i.+ng down on me, pus.h.i.+ng her whole self into me. I can feel her nipples harden under her top, I'm sure she can feel my c.o.c.k harden and press against her. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her closer to me. Her fingers are running through my hair and mine are searching for her flesh. She starts to trail kisses down from my lips, past my ear, my neck, my chest, and then her fingers race ahead. She guides my c.o.c.k into her target and we don't chatter any more. Even if I had the will, her mouth is full.

31. My Happiness.

Thursday 8th July 2004.

Bella.

Stevie has won a seriously amazing prize. Never in a million years would I have imagined that being an Elvis tribute act could be so profitable. I have to admit the hotel is scrumptious; I admit this to no one other than myself, as I stare with amazement around the luxurious, tropically themed out-of-this-world resort.

The Mandalay Bay Hotel has been built around a 'lagoon', it has its own rum distillery (go figure), a couple of pools plus a sandy beach. The beach is swept by waves from a machine that can generate breakers big enough for people to surf. It's all very convincing. I find myself a sunbed, apply sun factor a squillion and settle down to enjoy the rays. I listen to children, screaming and laughing while they play in the pool, and overhear the occasional conversation between dudes who have been catching some waves, and I make-believe that I'm on a real beach.

I concentrate on relaxing, a contradiction I suppose. I will not think about the following: my marital status and the conversation I had the night before with Phil frankly terrifying. He wanted to know what was wrong with me. I thought I was doing quite well in giving the impression that nothing is wrong with me. Clearly not. He asked if anything was worrying me and said whatever it was, he'd help. Nice sentiment but not one I'm prepared to put to the test. I wish he could help. There is nothing I want more than to curl up in his strong arms, and lay my head on his broad chest, and sob. If only he could sort everything out. But he can't. It's not like writing a cheque for a parking fine or telling me that my thighs look positively svelte in the ridiculously expensive pair of leather trousers I impulse-purchased from Joseph and regret doing so. The only person Philip can't save me from is myself.

Oh G.o.d. It would be so terrible if he ever got the slightest hint of what's worrying me. How could he begin to understand, forgive or help? The conversation, already difficult, plunged into something far more appalling, when I found myself telling outright lies. So far, I'd been careful to avoid the truth, omit certain details big details, like marriage ceremonies admittedly but, until yesterday, I'd never told downright lies. Yesterday I categorically denied that I'd ever known Stevie. Then I initiated s.e.x. Guilty s.e.x, silencing s.e.x. And while Phil was aware only that it was good s.e.x (scared, desperate s.e.x does have a certain edge) he'd hate me if he knew why I was keen to distract him last night. He'd hate me even more if he knew who I was thinking of when I climaxed.

What am I doing thinking about this? I will not think about this.

Other things I will not think about include the fact that Laura and Stevie are clearly getting along like a house on fire. What was it that Philip said? That they were besotted with one another. They must be if Phil has noticed. And that's a good thing. Isn't it?

Finally, I will not think about Stevie.

'Hi.'

I recognize his voice instantly, even though my eyes are closed against the sun. 'Hi,' I mutter. I sit up and pop on my sungla.s.ses. I can't risk my eyes being the window to my soul. Even through rose-tinted gla.s.ses Stevie looks a bit pale, but that would be my only criticism. Other than that, he is lean and fit. Gorgeous, frankly. He stands over me holding a towel and suncream. I glance around the poolside and am panicked to observe that the only free sunbed appears to be the one next to mine.

'I didn't realize you were out here,' he mutters, grumpily.

I didn't realize that I had to give him a schedule of my movements. 'Well, yes I am.'

'I can see that.' We both pause. We're unable to grab to mind even the most miniature version of small talk.

'Would you prefer it if I went and sunbathed elsewhere?' I ask eventually.

'Well, you would prefer that, wouldn't you?' His tone is a combination of sharp and sulky.

'We can't sunbathe together,' I point out.

'No, I suppose not.' Stevie looks around and discerns what I already know about the scarcity of sunbeds. 'But then again, what harm will it do?' He shrugs.

It smarts that he is totally apathetic towards my presence. I get the distinct impression that it makes no difference to him whether I sunbathe next to him or on the other side of the globe. What can I say? 'Sorry, babe, you can't lie down next to me as you are almost naked and I'm already entertaining inappropriate thoughts about you, I'm not sure I'll be able to control myself.' No. Of course not. The only dignified thing to do is give the impression that I'm as unaffected by him as he is by me.

'No harm at all. We only have to avoid each other in front of Laura and Philip. Anything that goes on between the two of us is our little secret, hey?'

How did such an unfortunate sentence form in my brain, never mind struggle into existence? That sounded one hundred per cent come-on. I'm wrestling with playing by the rules I set, within the game I created. I know that I ought to just pick up my towel and go and track down Phil in the gambling hall, but something glues me to the sunbed. I blush furiously. Stevie looks momentarily bemused, then dismisses me. He places his towel on the bed next to mine and sits down. I pick up my novel. He picks up his suncream. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as he rubs lotion on his thighs, arms, face and stomach. It's quite a show.

'G.o.d, I could never imagine you using suncream,' I blurt.

Wrong, wrong, wrong! That sentence was, once again, totally unsuitable. For a start, it implied criticism the Stevie Jones I knew and loved was too ridiculously macho for anything as sensible as sun protection. For a second, it alluded to the fact there once was a Stevie Jones that I knew. And loved.

'What do you mean? That I'm too thick to take on board government warnings about global warming and skin cancer?' asks Stevie snidely.

'No, not that. It just... Well... It just wasn't something we ever thought about when we were kids, was it?' I'm beginning to wonder if there are any 'safe' topics of conversation for us or if we are wading through the verbal equivalent of a crocodile-infested swamp. 'I mean too much sun wasn't something that kept anyone awake at night in Kirkspey, was it?' I grin, hoping that Stevie realizes I'm not sarcastic or critical. I'm nothing other than nervous.

He looks at me for a long time, about two hours or maybe thirty seconds. 'Suppose not. Will you do my back?' He offers me the sun lotion as though his request is a reasonable one.

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 b.u.m, 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 ma.s.saging the cream until he's fighting an erection. Ideally, I'd like to take off my bikini top and lean into him allowing my b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 s.e.xy 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 pa.s.sing waiter and orders a bottle of white wine and two gla.s.ses. 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 ent.i.tled to feel warm sun on their skin as lithe, young beauties.

We hold stupid compet.i.tions 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 G.o.d, 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 c.o.c.ky 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 ma.s.sage.'

'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.