Husbands. Part 5

12. I Got Lucky.

Stevie.

I wake up before eight even though it's a Sat.u.r.day and even though Laura and I were ga.s.sing till the small hours. I usually sleep late after a gig, rarely bothering to rouse myself before the big match is on TV but today is different. I'm full of energy. I have that feeling you get when you're a kid and you wake up on Sat.u.r.day, knowing it's pocket-money day and there's no school and the world promises to offer unlimited, untold delights. A few of which are even legal.

I wander through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I open the fridge and discover what I expected: nothing much. There is about a quarter of an inch of milk still in the carton but a quick sniff confirms it's no use to anyone other than a biologist. I pull on jeans, T-s.h.i.+rt and socks I never bother with boxers at the weekend I force my feet into my trainers, I grab a set of keys and set off to the shops.

It's only when I'm halfway there that I realize I should have left a note for Laura. There's a reasonable chance that when she wakes up she'll have no idea where she is. She was hammered last night when we staggered back to my place. She told me repeatedly that she'd never been to Highgate before and I told her repeatedly that she still hadn't, as I live in West Hampstead. I feel c.r.a.p about not leaving a note. There is nothing worse than uncertainty. Personal bugbear of mine. Ancient thing. I resolve to hurry back as soon as poss.

'Morning, mate.' I nod to Mr Patel.

He smiles and nods back. He recognizes me from the countless midnight dashes I've made to his shop for bread, milk, cheese, frozen chips etc. He's unilaterally friendly amazing considering that every day he has to deal with hordes of shoplifting teenagers, stinky winos and tight-fisted b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who complain about his mark-up.

His mark-up is a disgrace, but I stomach it without murmur for a number of reasons. First, I'm not certain what anything does/should cost. When I do venture into a supermarket I rarely check the price tags. It's not that I'm loaded, far from it, but I can't see the point in getting worked up that a bag of crisps used to cost twelve pence and now they cost forty-five. I mean, Brigitte Bar-dot used to be a fox and now she's, well, not. That's life. Second, you pay for convenience and I have never found Mr Patel's doors closed, not even on Christmas Day in 2002 when I felt a desperate need for brandy b.u.t.ter. Third, I don't want to be grouped with complaining b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who hara.s.s Mr Patel and similar. Once you start behaving like this you're only a step away from going out with your mates and splitting the pizza restaurant bill according to who ate what rather than in equal shares. It's not nice.

I pick up a basket and throw in a carton of orange juice, a loaf of bread, two cartons of milk (one tasty, the other skimmed, cos women like that). I can't decide whether to buy croissants or bacon, eggs and sausage. I have a feeling that Laura is a cooked-breakfast girl but I'm not sure if she'll admit as much to me at this early stage. Women always try to pretend to men that they eat less than they do. Which is ridiculous: we don't give a toss what they eat.

I decide to buy the lot and throw in a tin of beans and some fresh-ish mushrooms, which will probably look OK once they are cooked. Mr Patel has clearly seen this type of basket on countless Sat.u.r.day mornings: he points out the fresh orange juice in the fridge which is tastier than the stuff I've picked up. I swap the carton for the tiny bottle of freshly squeezed chilled juice. Hesitate again, then grab another couple. I'm expecting Laura to be in dire need of vitamin C.

It's a beautiful spring morning. The air is cold but the sky is a calm, bold blue. A pleasantly high proportion of the wide undulating streets of West Hampstead are framed with fat, established cherry blossom trees that have started to shed their petals. Cars parked overnight under them look like they're dressed for a Hindu wedding. I have an almost girlish delight in the pink carpet (which I am, naturally, embarra.s.sed by). It's disconcerting that I only just resist picking up a handful of windfall petals and chucking them into the air, just for the pleasure of seeing them flutter to the ground again. I content myself with banging into trees and hoping to dislodge a few petals. I've got to keep this impulse under wraps when I go out with the lads for a bevvy tonight or else I'll be ostracized from the darts team.

Laura is lovely.

Laura who kisses buskers, or at least let me kiss her when I was busking, is lovely.

I'm not a busker. By day I'm a music teacher at a local state secondary school. I like my job but it's not always easy. I seldom come across talent and confidence. It's not generally a good idea to show that you are a talented child in the state school system and if you do s.h.i.+ne, it's cooler on the football pitch or in the end-of-term drama production. Pa.s.sing grade seven violin is considered sad. Largely, the kids I teach have opted to take music because it's seen as a skive; there's no hint of verbs to be conjugated or algebra to be calculated.

I used to do the Elvis tribute thing more or less full time. I thought I'd make a career of it; lots of people earn a decent living that way. But it wasn't to be. Now I am Elvis from time to time because I like to see people enjoying music and that's not a sight I'm treated to when I'm teaching year ten and upwards. I limit myself to a few weddings and birthday parties and now I have this monthly gig at The Bell and Long Wheat.

The happy consequence of my gigs is that the extra cash comes in useful and the kids at school have developed a grudging respect for me since I turned up as the entertainment at Mark Barker's aunt's wedding. Mark Barker is as hard as nails and somewhat less pleasant than a bleeding, pus-oozing acne pock. Yet, while hating ourselves for doing so, staff and pupils alike court his good opinion. I'm lucky because Mark has never entirely despised me, as he does many other teachers; I haven't committed the cardinal sin of being post thirty-five (Mark doesn't deign to talk to coffin dodgers). Nor do I wear socks and sandals whatever the season. I believe that secretly Mark has always thought I'm a bit cool but he's never been quite able to forgive me for being a teacher. If I worked in web design or even ad sales Mark would have admitted I'm all right. Turning up as Elvis at his aunt's wedding could have gone either way.

Clearly the kids felt compelled to rip the p.i.s.s out of me when they first heard I had a night job but I teach music, for G.o.d's sake, I couldn't have gone down in their estimation. For some time, my eardrums were a.s.saulted with countless tuneless renditions of 'Jailhouse Rock' as I walked through the grey corridors and I'd accepted that I'd hear b.a.s.t.a.r.dized versions of 'Return to Sender' until I received my golden wrist.w.a.tch. Kids are very consistent but not that imaginative when it comes to taking the mick. Then Mark Barker suggested I bring my guitar into his GCSE cla.s.s. I'd been resisting turning into Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society because it all ends in tears, doesn't it? But I did relish hosting an impromptu and low-key jamming session.

Word soon got round that I 'wasn't completely c.r.a.p' and my lessons became notably more animated, meaningful and, frankly, better attended. It was a thrill when the cla.s.s discussed music with an enthusiasm and vigour that had previously been notably absent.

The kids seemed to view Elvis as the missing link between Beethoven and the hip-hop stuff they listened to. The misconception that anything with blaspheming and cursing in the lyrics was hot, and anything else was not, slowly eroded. We talked about the importance of music, the possibility of making a living from music and the value modern society placed on music. One of these discussions led to the bet/social experiment/barefaced dare that I could make money from busking. Mark Barker made the challenge, I couldn't pa.s.s it up.

So that was why the day I met Laura I was pretending to be a busker. But I guess pretending to be a busker makes you a busker, even if it is only for a couple of free periods and a lunchtime break. The same as, say, if you were pretending to be a hairdresser and you actually cut someone's hair, then you would be a hairdresser for that moment in time. Which I think is a great thought, as it gives us freedom to be many things.

When I met Laura I thought, quirky, which I always find attractive despite my experiences repeatedly demonstrating that quirky women ought to be avoided (quirky is one small step away from barking). I thought, pretty and nice accent. I like Aussie girls: they can throw frisbees. And when she kissed me, or at least let me kiss her I was like, yeah, cool. But I didn't expect to see her again. Three million people travel on the tube every day, it wasn't even my usual line but as my old grandad used to say, 'Never underestimate the lengths a woman will go to, to get what she wants.' And Laura, it seemed, wanted me.

This thought inspires me to do a little jump and click my heels mid-air. I make a mental note to execute this manoeuvre in front of Laura, if the opportunity arises or can be orchestrated. Women love it when you play around like a kid. I wonder if today I'll get to show her that I can walk on my hands.

I know she said her mate had tracked me down and she'd been bullied along to the gig but that was rubbish. Where was the said mate, if that was the case? She was on her own last night. Not that I'm complaining. I think she's all the more gutsy and rare because of her sleuth work.

I put the key in the lock of my block of flats and bound up the stairs. I push open the door of my apartment quietly I don't want to wake Laura if she's still asleep, with her young lad it's unlikely she often gets the chance for a lie-in but my caution is unnecessary. Instantly, I'm ambushed by signs of activity.

The shower is gus.h.i.+ng and Laura has found the MTV channel; she has the volume up far too high for this time of the morning the bloke in the flat below mine will no doubt knock on the ceiling with a broom soon, as he does when I play MTV. I smile to myself. Further proof that Laura is a top la.s.s.

I start to cook breakfast. I warm the croissants in the oven and fling everything else into a pan with a glob of oil. I'm ridiculously nervous. I say 'ridiculously' because I'm reasonably used to entertaining ladies, and breakfast is the meal I most often prepare. I'm not being pathetically braggie when I say that, if I wanted to, I could bed a babe (or at least a non-moose) after every gig. The women in my audience rarely present much of a challenge. And if there is nothing that takes my fancy I have actual groupies as a back-up. Groupies are girls who sleep with me while pretending that they are sleeping with Elvis Presley. Obviously, a bit weird but some of them are very cute and humming a couple of lines of 'Love Me Tender' is a small price to pay in return for enthusiastic and no-strings-attached s.e.x with a cutie. It's not that I'm a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. It's biology. Few men would find it in their hearts (or their trousers) to say no.

But Laura is different.

Laura is a woman, not a girl. She knows how to have a laugh and yet after talking to her it is clear that her life is extremely serious. She's like a mate but s.e.xy too. A s.e.xy mate. I'm already looking forward to introducing her to my mates because John will make her laugh (and last night I discovered just how cool it is when Laura laughs) and Dave will reflect well on me, he's into the environment and saving whales and stuff, girls are impressed by blokes like that (they don't go out with them, though). And the lads will be impressed with Laura. They'll think she is funny and bright and cute. They're bound to.

'Hi.' Laura interrupts my thoughts of her. I jump as though she'd caught me looking through some hardcore p.o.r.n. The knock-on effect is that I almost drop the frying pan.

'Hi,' I manage, sounding a bit lame. I cough and wave a tea towel over the pan to give the vague impression that the fumes have affected my vocal chords. I try again and hope my voice doesn't sound like a boy who is enduring his s.c.r.o.t.u.m dropping. 'Did you sleep well?' I ask.

Laura blushes. Honestly, she's gorgeous. She puts me in mind of all those olde-worlde poems I read when I was studying English literature highers. Poems about coy mistresses who permanently wore the blush of a rose on their cheek. I used to think it was sloppy b.o.l.l.o.c.ks but now I see the attraction of shyness mixed with an almost imperceptible hint of wantonness.

'Did we have s.e.x?' asks Laura. Hearing her say 's.e.x' causes my p.e.n.i.s to shudder a fraction. This feels nice but vaguely inappropriate.

'Regrettably no,' I admit honestly.

Laura looks relieved. 'That's good.' She catches sight of my disappointed face. I make a point of blatantly wearing my disappointment, as experience has shown that wanting a woman is the best way to get one. 'I mean, I'd like to have remembered it if we had,' she adds.

I grin. 'You would have, I promise.'

She blushes again and grabs at the neckline of her robe, which is actually my robe. It feels good to see her wrapped in my robe. She thinks about it for a moment and then puts her hands at her sides, trying not to let me see that she opened the neckline a fraction while doing so in order to flash some cleavage. I really want her.

'We talked,' I add.

'I remember that,' she grins. 'Most of it. Was I talking absolute b.o.l.l.o.c.ks?'

'No. You were fascinating,' I tell her and we both know this isn't a line.

'What's for breakfast?'

'Sausage, bacon, eggs, beans, the works; even some dodgy mushrooms.'

'Great.' Laura grins.

'Great,' I confirm.

13. Girl of Mine.

Philip.

I surface from a peculiar dream about being at a race track and betting on a dog, who happily won. But then I noticed that it had the body of a dachshund and my head, which was somewhat disconcerting, even for the most rational type of guy who doesn't pay any attention to dreams; no one likes to see themselves as a mutant. I stretch out my hand and feel for Bella. She likes to know my every thought, both conscious and unconscious, so she likes me to tell her my dreams. She thinks they're significant and applies poppyc.o.c.k amateur psychoa.n.a.lysis to them. Total nonsense, of course, but if it makes her happy then who am I to object? Besides, she sees the ones about Naomi Watts as a direct challenge and more often than not insists that we reenact whatever I've dreamt. A man can't lose.

We had good s.e.x last night. Unexpected. Charged. Youthful. I love my wife.

I slowly stretch, wondering how it can possibly be the case that I notice when I feel youthful; is it the exception rather than the rule? I am much nearer fifty than twenty-one; a sobering thought. Not one I share with Bella, despite her longing to always know what's on my mind.

Her side of the bed is cold, suggesting she was up and about some time ago. I pull myself out of bed and wander downstairs, hoping she'll be in the kitchen or the conservatory. Both rooms are empty and a cursory search of the house tells me that she's gone out. I check the calendar, which hangs in the pantry, and I scan the breakfast bar for a note. I'm not too surprised that I don't find either source at all fruitful; Bella is not the sort of woman to leave rea.s.suring or even informative notes detailing her whereabouts. Sometimes she seems perpetually stuck in her rebellious teenage years. It's one of the things I find attractive about her.

I brew some coffee and consider breakfast. Bella would prefer it if I ate half a grapefruit and some of the muesli she prepares each Monday, with precise quant.i.ties of oats, nuts, raisins and stuff, to last the week; she'll know if I skip it. She won't hear of shop-bought muesli too much salt and sugar. She worries about cholesterol (mine) and body fat (mine and hers).

The concern is at first glance endearingly mature but on closer inspection could be seen as a succinct embodiment of her almost split personality. A concern about fat intake is clearly very responsible, the fact that it was precipitated by an article in a women's monthly magazine that said 70% of all married couples put on over half a stone in the first year of their married life, is less mature. I begged her not to believe the statistic. I made her laugh by telling her that 87% of statistics are made up on the spot. Still, we lived on salads for weeks.

It concerns me how seriously Bella takes advice from not particularly legitimate sources. She is unlikely ever to read a pamphlet from the doctor's surgery. On the other hand she avidly reads article after article in tabloid papers on the latest food combination diet, ways to decorate your home, ways to interpret dreams, ways to impress your boss (particularly irrelevant when you consider she rarely has one). She'll also take the word of the woman at the dry-cleaner's, her friend's brother-in-law's dad, or the pleasant man who read the gas meter, as gospel. Bella, it seems to me, is always looking for answers. Often to questions other people don't even bother to ask. I often wonder if she would have been different if she'd had a mother. I think Bella losing her mother when she was so young has left her permanently lonely and a little bit lost, although she'd never admit it.

I choose the grapefruit and muesli because thinking of Bella's dead mother saddens me and I want to do something nice for her. Not that Bella would thank me for my disquiet, which she'd see as pity. Bella is, in many ways, fiercely independent. When I met her I wondered if I'd ever be able to chisel through her steely self-reliance and convince her that it is possible to be autonomous within a relations.h.i.+p. Once I saw her, I knew I had to have her. Not just for s.e.x but for keeps. It was one of those big romantic falling-in-love moments that I'd never considered, let alone expected. At first, I thought she didn't want me. Or anyone for that matter. The shop was closed. I became driven by the desire to make her understand how fantastic it is to want and need someone, to be wanted and needed in return. I think I've succeeded. It's so clear that Bella, like most of us, needs looking after. Not all the time, not always by the same person but she does need a bit of help from time to time.

After breakfast, I rinse my china, stack the dishwasher, shower, shave and read half of the rainforest that is disguised as my Sat.u.r.day paper. Bella still hasn't returned home. I call her mobile. It rings in the kitchen. I call Laura; her phone is switched off. I try Amelie.

'h.e.l.lo, Amelie.'

'h.e.l.lo, Philip. How are you?'

'Fine, except I've lost my wife.'

b.u.g.g.e.r. What a tactless thing to say to someone who really has lost their partner. Mentally I beat myself soundly, then make matters worse, 'I mean I've mislaid her, not lost her.' I give up. 'Is she with you, by any chance?'

'Erm, she is and she isn't.' Amelie hesitates, which surprises me. I wait for her to be more specific. She's the clear thinker in Bella's group of friends. She's practical, efficient and easy to deal with. Normally. I wonder if I really have offended her as I can't see how my question about whether Bella is with her or not can be open to misinterpretation.

'She was here, minutes ago, but she's gone out.'

'Where?'

'With the children. Yes. She's taken Freya and Davey to the park. She wanted to give me a break.'

'Which park?' I ask. 'I could catch them up. I'm kicking my heels.'

'Do you know, she didn't say.'

'Well, it will be your local park, won't it?'

'Probably, but she might have gone all the way over to Kensington Gardens. Davey likes the Peter Pan play park.'

'Did she say when she'd be back?'

'No.'

'Maybe I'll pop over to the local park anyway.'

'I wouldn't waste your time you know what kids are like, they'll probably get bored and be back home before you get there. You'd be better off calling one of your friends and seeing if you can get in a round of golf.'

'Maybe. Thanks, Amelie. Get her to give me a call when she gets back, will you?'

'Will do. Goodbye, Philip.'

I click the red b.u.t.ton. How strange. I'm not often accused of having an overactive imagination but I definitely have the feeling Amelie was lying to me. Very odd.

But, on the other hand, why would she lie to me? No reason on earth. It is a lovely day, shame to waste it. I pick up the phone again, press my brother's number and arrange a round of golf.

14. I Just Can't Help Believin'.

Laura.

'That was delicious.' I smile as I mop up the last smudge of fried egg with a slice of white toast. 'A cooked brekkie. You're trying to impress me.' I smile, hoping I'm coming across as cute and astute. 'I should have guessed we hadn't slept with each other, you're still making an effort,' I add. Oops. It was supposed to be a joke but I wonder if I sound world-weary? Everyone knows that many a true word is said in jest.

Stevie looks a bit put out but doesn't say anything. But then what can he say? If he told me that I can trust him, that he won't let me down, that all he wants to do is sing to me and make me laugh and that he'd still be interested in me even after we've had s.e.x even if I am a single mum and a divorcee to boot then I'd think he was pretty weird.

Yet, this is exactly what I want to hear.

My innards feel as though they are dancing a jig whenever I look at him, so it's not unreasonable that I'd like him to tell me that I'm the most interesting woman he's ever had the pleasure to meet. Or at least, that I'm not actively boring. I'd settle for that. I shake my head, bemused by my own inconsistency and fallibility. No wonder men don't understand us, I barely understand myself sometimes.

It's probably my hangover kicking in that's stopping me from thinking clearly. I don't think he thinks I'm boring or bogan. I steal a glance at him from under my eyelashes. I hope I look seductive rather than creating the impression that I have a fly in my eye. Stevie meets my gaze and he's grinning now, but that could be genuine amus.e.m.e.nt at me, not with me. He doesn't look bored, in fact, he looks eager to please. But I've been out of this game for a long time; it's easy to misread situations. I wish I could be the woman I was before I met Oscar, before my confidence and spirit had been trampled underfoot. The old Laura would have been able to make an accurate reading of the situation in a matter of seconds. I turn away, embarra.s.sed at the situation and at the woman I have become.

I think it would be more productive to concentrate on recalling the events of last night. Hard facts will help me decide whether Stevie went to the effort of making a cooked breakfast because he's still hoping for a quickie but would then be counting the minutes until I got my jacket, or whether he was doing a nice thing because... well, because... he likes me.

I sit very quietly for some minutes before I decide that I'm almost certain we had a sweet-as time. And I mean we, not just me. Slowly, specifics come back to me. It seems miraculous that while I had unduly high expectations, the reality defied probability by exceeding them.

I can't remember ever being as happy as I was in The Bell and Long Wheat last night. I can't remember feeling so charged, so alluring, so positively fascinating. Stevie sang to me. The sweet words brushed my consciousness, nearly bringing me to o.r.g.a.s.m just as effectively as if it had been his fingers that were caressing my secret bits. He called to me when I was leaving because he didn't want me to go, he smiled at me, made a fuss of me. Every woman there wanted to be me. It was exhilarating!

We left the bar just after eleven. I'd already drunk more than was sensible but I'm pleased to say on the list of my talents, 'cheerful drunk' is quite high up. Neither of us considered going home, and once we'd made the phone call to Amelie, checking that Eddie could stay the night with her, we were free to go on anywhere we wanted. Of course, I didn't tell Stevie that Amelie had agreed to look after Eddie all night, I didn't want him to think I was too available, but I did say that I wasn't under any time constraint. Available enough.

Stevie stored his guitar and sound equipment at the pub and got changed into a pair of jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt that were considerably more of this millennium. We caught a cab into Fulham and chatted all the way. It turned out that he wasn't a busker, with a breakthrough gig, he's a teacher and the gigging is a sideline.

'Are you disappointed or pleased?' he asked.

'Don't mind either way,' I answered truthfully, although I know Bella will be pleased.

We called in for a bite to eat at Vingt Quatre on the Fulham Road. I'd never been there before but remember pa.s.sing it once, late at night, and seeing a queue outside the door. I was trying to flag down a cab to take me home after a dash to Chelsea and Westminster A&E (small piece of Lego up Eddie's nose, another story). I'd wondered how the restaurant pulled such crowds, it didn't look that special. It turns out that it has a double whammy of attractive plus-points. First, as the name suggests, Vingt Quatre serves terrific food 247 and is therefore a haven for clubbers with the munchies and, the best bit, at the end of the meal they bring a small bowl of Smarties with the bill. Who could resist? Certainly not Stevie or me.

We were led through the small noisy restaurant to a table at the back. I took in the decor (ubertrendy in a retro, not trying too hard, sort of way) and the clientele (eclectic anyone from Sloanes sporting pashminas to hardcore cool, Diesel-clad clubbers). What everyone had in common was a surprisingly buoyant mood. Stevie ordered burger and chips. I went for smoked salmon and scrambled eggs on toast, although I seriously doubted my ability to swallow in front of him. I was being entirely a teenager.

Once the deeply trendy but unexpectedly affable waitress had taken our order I commented, 'People are champion in here, aren't they?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, you rarely see Sloaney types smile, do you? Although I don't know why not, from where I'm sitting being beautiful, rich and pampered would seem reason enough to smile. And these trendy clubbers are so relaxed, even before they've taken their I-love-the-world drugs.'

Stevie had been a gent and taken the seat facing me and the wall so I had the best view of the restaurant. He turned to have a squiz.

'Everyone does look happy,' he agreed.