Part 5 (2/2)

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.

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