Part 3 (2/2)

She didn't have to explain.

'The loony busker?' I demanded.

'The first guy Laura has shown any interest in for as long as I can remember,' replied Amelie, calmly; her criticism of my standpoint implicit but loud enough. 'She's really keen. A bit of fun would be good for her. Life's too short not to take all your chances.'

I thought the 'life's too short' line was a mean trick but an effective one. I agreed to babysit.

'You know what would make her most happy?' asked Amelie.

'No.'

'If you went with her, rather than me. It would mean so much to her if she thought you approved.'

'I don't.'

'You're her friend, I'm a stand-in.'

'Ohhh,' I moaned, flattered by Amelie's a.s.sessment of my importance, irritated that I was being manipulated.

At 7.52 p.m. exactly I find myself pus.h.i.+ng open the door of The Bell and Long Wheat. I'm overwhelmed by the smell of cigarettes and alcohol and by the profligate confetti of leopard-print tops, huge hooped earrings and sequined Elvis Presley handbags. I didn't think people still dressed like that, not unless they were starring in sitcoms. The wine bars I frequent are inhabited by people wearing dark suits, smart s.h.i.+rts and discreet ties.

'Isn't it fantastic?' asks Laura.

'It's OK as pubs go,' I mutter ungraciously.

I object, so strongly, to the idea of my best friend falling for a loony busker that I feel miserable about everything a.s.sociated with him and I'm not going to admit that the pub oozes charm. The windows are original stained gla.s.s; the tiny coloured diamonds throw interesting hues around the bar and dance merrily on the optics. There are baroque cherubs climbing the walls, leaving behind them trails of gilded laurels. The chairs are mismatched and worn; the wood has been polished by skittish bottoms and the velvet on the benches is shabby to threadbare. A number of huge ornate mirrors hang on the walls, aged to black in parts. Under any other circ.u.mstances this pub would have earned my praise, but I grumble that it is very smoky and it will be difficult to get a seat.

'How do I look?' asks Laura. She's too excited even to be decently nervous.

Despite myself I grin. 'Amazing, he's a lucky man.'

We push our way to the bar and order a couple of Pernod and blacks (not our normal tipple but Laura wanted to blend in), then drive our way to the last couple of overlooked seats squashed into the corner of the room.

'I'm surprised by the crowd in here,' I comment.

'You mean the large number of ladies past a certain age?' asks Laura.

'No, I expected a fair showing of wrinklies. I'm surprised to see young guys and girls.'

'I guess they've come with their mums to keep them out of trouble,' giggles Laura.

You can almost taste the antic.i.p.ation in the air. Some diehards, with their beaded Elvis T-s.h.i.+rts, sit in silence, grimly guarding their table.

Laura and I steal a glance at our watches. The loony busker is due to appear in fifteen minutes.

'Pop stars never start their gigs on time,' a.s.serts Laura.

'He's hardly a pop star, is he?' She ignores me and insists on continuing to look expectant and radiant.

I glance around at the women wearing heavy eyeliner and too-red lipstick and I am back in a place I never wanted to revisit. 'Don't you think it's weird and morbid that these women spend their Friday nights idolizing a mimic of a corpse?' I ask.

'No. I think it's romantic that one man affected the lives of so many,' replies Laura.

'Jesus,' I mutter.

'No, Elvis.'

I am unsure as to whether she deliberately misunderstood my exasperation.

'Everybody has a face like a slapped a.r.s.e.'

'They're just normal people, Bella. It's because you're used to mixing with the beautiful people.'

'I prefer the beautiful people, call me shallow.'

'Shallow.'

I glare at her, so she offers to get us both another drink. Laura fights her way to the bar and this time comes back with a couple of vodkas and orange. We drink them far too quickly. Laura is either nervous or excited and I've decided this whole evening will be less tedious if I'm drunk.

'Do you think we've got time to get another in?' I ask.

'Better had,' agrees Laura.

It's my turn to shove my way to the bar. At first I smile flirtatiously as people make way for me, but soon I'm forced to dig my bony elbows into people's backs. It's a dog-eat-dog world. Everyone wants to buy their drinks and get back to their seats or viewing point before the loony busker appears. I can smell other people's perfume and aftershave only just masking the more raw smell of sweat produced by their sense of urgency. My hair starts to curl in the heat, betraying my faux sophistication. The last time I wore my hair curly was on my wedding day when I noticed approx one hundred of my two hundred guests wore theirs straight the guys were mostly bald.

Just as I pick up our double gins and tonic, the crowd lets out a cheer. I start to inch my way back through the throng. Elvis is in the building. Suddenly, the room is awash with the uptempo beat of 'Return to Sender'. A good opening number, I suppose, and I know the words doesn't everybody? Certainly everybody in The Bell and Long Wheat seems to. The pub is a ma.s.s of swaying hips and wide grins, people are singing along, clicking their fingers, tapping their feet. The old grannies smile, showing their dentures, and the girls twirl, showing neat waists and high b.u.ms. It's depressingly familiar.

Slowly, I shuffle forwards. Laura is beaming inanely at the stage. She's swaying and nodding with more enthusiasm than I was expecting to see for the first track. On the rare occasion that we go to a club Laura forgets she's an up-for-it Aussie girl. She follows etiquette dictated by British shyness and shuffles on the spot for ten tracks before dancing. But tonight she has rediscovered her roots and is refusing to be intimidated. Amelie is right, the girl has got it bad. I turn towards the direction of her stare, to see for myself this object of her adoration. My world screeches to a dangerous halt and I'm viciously whiplashed by bad karma, spiteful fate or simply sod's rotten law.

Elvis is Stevie Jones.

10. His Latest Flame.

Laura.

Bella missed the first song as she was at the bar. Which is a total b.u.mmer. Stevie Jones is even better than I remembered him. Who would have thought it possible?

Although my fantasies over the last twelve days have been elaborate, I had not considered what he would be wearing at this gig (in most of my fantasies he is naked or on the way). My overwhelming image of him is as a slightly grubby figure, standing on Hammersmith platform. Tonight he is groomed to within an inch of his life and looks even s.e.xier than I remembered. He is wearing high-waisted trousers and a ruffled dress s.h.i.+rt; the style Elvis favoured in his early years. His wide shoulders and trim b.u.m are displayed for optimum impact. His s.h.a.ggy surfer hair is greased into a quiff and somehow he looks cooler than anyone with a quiff deserves to look. I hadn't noticed his broad forearms before.

The room is buzzing and yet at the same time everyone is transfixed. All hearts and minds are paying homage to Stevie. He sang and danced his opening number, 'Return to Sender', with perfection. In witty, flawless imitation of Elvis, he faithfully mimicked the suggestive hand gestures, the boxer's shuffle, the self-deprecating shoulder shrugs.

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