Part 3 (1/2)

'I bet we could find out which pub he performs at in Richmond, a.s.suming he got the job,' suggests Amelie.

'She can't just turn up like a groupie,' I argue.

'Why not?' asks Amelie. She smiles at Laura. Laura beams back hopefully.

I make lots of noise clattering plates as I serve up the pizza. I hope my protest is registered. My neck clicks with tension and my stomach seems to be performing a complex crunch that isn't taught in any gym but has a similar agonizing effect to hundreds of sit-ups. I imagine someone pulling out my guts, putting them in a boxing ring to do a few rounds with Tyson and then shoving them back down my throat. I've never liked Elvis.

I take pizza and napkins up to the kids although both the mums warn me that I'll be sc.r.a.ping tomato sauce off the wool carpet for years to come. I ignore them, partly to show how relaxed and easy-going a host I am, and partly because I don't care about the carpet.

When I come back downstairs my friends are talking about reruns of Heartbeat but Laura keeps drifting off into a daydream and the smile on her face makes it clear that she is thinking about her busker. I refuse to indulge her and so we stumble through conversations about Delia Smith recipes, TV adaptations of great novels and how Amelie should wear her hair (she's planning a revamp). At midnight, after we have drunk more than a bottle of wine each, I decide to hit the hay. Both Laura and Amelie insist that they want to stay up and watch some terrible eighties movie. As I close the sitting-room door behind me I hear Amelie ask, 'So, what was he singing?'

I feel strangely excluded and unreasonably narky, even though I know it is self-inflicted exile and the only person I'm annoyed with is me.

8. If I Can Dream.

Tuesday 18th May 2004.

Laura.

Amelie isn't really my friend; she's Bella's, although I've met her on a number of occasions at 'Bella Parties' (and more recently 'Bella Events' as nowadays she is more likely to host something spectacular that outgrows the party category). Obviously, I know all about Amelie's tragic loss. I want, if at all possible, to make her life a little more bearable ideally a little more pleasurable. It's as good a basis for a friends.h.i.+p as any, probably better than a shared postcode.

In my experience women are generally territorial when it comes to friends.h.i.+ps. They don't like mixing. I think the issue is that loose lips sink s.h.i.+ps and invariably Friend A has had a good old gossip with Friend B about Friend C's boring husband/imminent affair/terrible way with money, therefore can't possibly let Friend B meet Friend C in case a clanger is dropped. To Bella's credit, she is always trying to get her friends to mix. Take last Friday for example, it was so sweet of her to invite Amelie and me for supper. The kids all got along brilliantly, and that gave Amelie and me the opportunity to get past 'nice canapes' and 'yummy, champagne, how lovely' which is as deep as our conversations get at 'Bella Events'. That said, I'm not sure Bella will be overjoyed with the subject matter that Amelie calls me about today.

'I've found him.'

'How?'

'It wasn't so difficult. I went online and got a list of pubs in Richmond. I called them all and asked if they had an Elvis impersonator performing. I got lucky on the ninth pub. Apparently Stevie Jones has just been employed to be Elvis, on the third Friday of every month at The Bell and Long Wheat. Peculiar name, don't you think?'

I a.s.sume she is referring to the pub. 'Oh, Amelie, so many calls. What a purler!'

'Meaning, you're pleased?'

'How can I thank you?'

'I wanted to do it,' she says firmly.

I didn't press the point. I figure I must be a pretty desperate case if a friend of a friend thinks I need help with my love life.

'I could babysit for you, if you like,' offers Amelie.

'So you think I should go and see him?'

'Well, yes, obviously. The landlord of the pub said he's expecting your Stevie to pull a big crowd. Didn't you want to see him again?'

Yes. No. Maybe. Suddenly, I am terrified and delighted all at once. Stevie Jones has fallen into my lap.

'I couldn't go on my own.'

'Take Bella,' suggests Amelie. We both fall silent. 'No, maybe not.'

Bella has only mentioned Stevie twice since last Friday and both times as the 'loony, stalking busker'.

'OK, we'll get her to babysit and I'll come with you,' suggests Amelie. 'We don't even have to tell Bella where you're going if you think it will cause difficulties.'

'What if he doesn't remember me?'

'He'll remember you.'

'I've nothing to wear.' The age-old excuse.

'Nonsense,' says Amelie, in a tone that suggests she knows nonsense when she hears it and will not be accepting any.

I scramble around my brain for another excuse but the cupboard is bare.

It has been years since I fancied anyone. I hardly dare admit it to myself but the truth is I can't remember ever fancying anyone as much as I fancy Stevie. I'd been with Oscar forever and while I remember thinking he was a total stud when I first met him that oh-la-la feeling had faded after we'd been together a few years. It was stamped out altogether once I'd got to the stage of searching through his coat pockets for receipts and other incriminating evidence.

After we split I had a brief fling with my osteopath. We rooted energetically every Thursday night. We did not eat together, sleep together or even talk to one another much. I viewed him as a pleasant alternative to Prozac. The affair stopped as abruptly as it started when my backache receded and he got himself a proper girlfriend (someone without a child and a looming divorce case). I don't believe I ever missed him.

But I miss Stevie already. For days I've thought of nothing and no one else. I've found it easy to be pleasant to Big Hand I am patience personified with Eddie. Yesterday, I played Captain Hook and Peter Pan with him for over four consecutive hours. This involves me being endlessly tied up with a soft toy snake, rolling around on the floor until I escape, then being captured again so that I can walk the plank (a line of cus.h.i.+ons on the floor). I did it and smiled, so l.u.s.ted up am I.

I've endlessly replayed The Conversation and The Kiss. Stevie Jones thinks Laura Ingalls is a pretty name, which warms me like a cashmere-covered hot water bottle. I think about his smile, his fingers and the tiny hairs on his ear lobes. I am immortalizing him. b.u.g.g.e.r. I've only just managed to control the situation by reminding myself that Stevie Jones is a fantasy figure: my feelings for him are not dissimilar to those I harbour for Robbie Williams and the chances of it developing into anything real are similar too. Amelie has taken away the safety barrier. She seems h.e.l.l-bent on making Stevie more than a hazy mess of ill-defined desires and daydreams.

I wonder if I dare go to The Bell and Long Wheat. Amelie makes it sound so easy.

'Wear your pink floral T-s.h.i.+rt, your Wonderbra and your best smile,' she insists.

'What would we talk about?'

'You'll think of something,' she says confidently. 'Come over to my place at seven thirty. Bring Eddie. I'll sort out babysitting with Bella.'

9. I Really Don't Want to Know.

Friday 21st May 2004.

Bella.

I protest at being dragged into this farce. Every sensible bone in my body is screaming objections but it would be infinitely more terrible to be left out.

Amelie rang and nonchalantly asked if I was doing anything this Friday. I said I wasn't and she asked if I would babysit for her. Delighted to, I said. Then she added that as she and Laura were having a night out could I babysit Eddie too. I was furious. Of course, I couldn't admit it.

'Oh, going anywhere nice?' I squeaked.

'A pub in Richmond. The Bell and Long Wheat.'