Part 10 (1/2)

19. Baby, I Don't Care.

Sat.u.r.day 5th June 2004.

Bella.

'Amelie, do you think this is a stupid thing to do?' I hiss-whisper the question. We are in my kitchen and Philip is in the cellar choosing wine for tonight's supper party, but you can never be too careful. I am of course referring to inviting my ex-husband, or more pertinently my non-ex-husband, around for dinner.

'You've done the stupid thing already, marrying two blokes,' Amelie whispers back, with her signature brutal honesty.

I am disheartened. Doesn't she know that a girlfriend's role in life is to make the other girlfriend feel better, no matter what? Didn't she ever watch s.e.x and the City? She must have noticed that I'm less than happy with the situation because she adds, more sympathetically, 'Oh, Bella, what a mess. Still, at least you're trying to fix things now, aren't you?'

We stare at one another, trying to hide our fear and desperation. Amelie is a big one for fixing things. She's often sending flowers or chocs to cheer people up or to say sorry. Not that she ever has to apologize for anything worse than forgetting someone's birthday. But even Amelie must see that Interflora isn't going to help here.

'Are you sure you don't just want to tell Philip?' she asks.

'Certain,' I reply forcefully. The idea of having a tete-a-tete with Stevie is horrible my stomach has been churning all week but it is nothing in comparison with having to come clean to Philip. He'd never forgive me. He wouldn't, couldn't understand. I don't really understand it myself.

'The man doesn't even cheat in Monopoly. He never returns to the same parking meter within the specified time, he sends his self-a.s.sessment tax return in early. He breaks out in a rash if he doesn't get his DVD back to Blockbuster on time. He is not a man who breaks laws,' I point out. 'He wouldn't take this well. Who would?'

Amelie nods patiently. 'I know but-'

'There are no buts. I got myself into this mess and I'll get myself out of it. I can do it. I have to.'

I realize that I have gone for the high-risk option. When I open the door to Stevie this evening he'll get a h.e.l.l of a bolt. I'm hoping he'll be too shocked to say anything that will give me away until I've had chance to beg him not to. I turn back to the preparation of supper and put my energy into chopping the peppers as finely as possible. I try to blank out everything else after all, I'm practised at that.

I wonder if Stevie will like fresh linguini with Roquefort sauce. When we met, his diet consisted entirely of Findus crispy pancakes, the chicken variety, with baked beans and brown sauce. His tastes weren't much more sophisticated by the time I left him. I wonder if he'll be impressed that I can cook now and that I have a six-ring Aga. Or will he think I'm a sn.o.b? The worst condemnation we lobbed at anyone way back when.

I shake my head and try to banish this thought.

Of course I'm not. I'm sure he'll be pleased I've done so well for myself, or at least I'm sure he would have been, if we'd met under different circ.u.mstances.

'What can I do to help?' asks Philip, as he emerges from the cellar, carrying several bottles of wine. He puts the two white ones in the fridge, then uncorks a red to allow it to breathe.

'You could pour some drinks,' I reply.

He pours me a gin and tonic and Amelie a vodka and cranberry: our preferred tipples.

'So what's this chap of Laura's like?' he asks.

'No idea. I haven't met him,' I say hastily.

'Well, he must be pretty special if we're going to all this effort for him. Oysters, fresh linguini, chocolate and orange souffle,' observes Philip. 'And you, my darling, look fantastic. Is that dress new?'

I blush. 'I bought it ages ago,' I lie, wis.h.i.+ng for the first time that Philip paid me less attention. Right now, I could do with one of those guys who think their wives are invisible.

The truth is, I have made an enormous effort with my appearance. Normally if friends are coming to supper, I change my top or I might pop on a pair of slightly smarter jeans. Tonight I am wearing a black Dolce & Gabbana knee-length dress. It has a tight bodice, no sleeves and very thin straps. It's laced at the back, which gives it low-key dominatrix-meets-shepherdess overtones. I know I look hot. I want to look hot. I don't want to consider my motives here.

'He seems nice. He's making Laura very happy,' says Amelie.

'Have you met him?' asks Philip.

'Only briefly. I'd been looking after Eddie and they came together to collect him,' says Amelie, nonchalantly.

'You have?' I can't hide my surprise. 'You never said.'

I glare at Amelie but she refuses to look sheepish. Instead she says, 'Didn't I? Must have slipped my mind.'

It's not material but I feel betrayed. I can't help but think Amelie is trying to teach me a lesson. I want to yell at her that I b.l.o.o.d.y well know I've made a mistake, I don't need her priggish lessons. But the doorbell rings, saving us both.

'd.a.m.n! They're early.' I throw down the knife I've been using to chop spring onions and whisk off my ap.r.o.n. I check my reflection in the aluminium fridge door.

'No need to panic, sweetheart. I'll let them in,' says Philip.

'No, I will,' I say and push him aside. I charge towards the door, or at least I charge as much as is possible in three-inch-high shoes. It's important that I greet Stevie and Laura. I don't want Philip to have made Stevie feel relaxed by getting him a drink and chatting. I need to catch Stevie unawares, when he is most vulnerable and pliable. I just need him to keep silent this evening, and for a very short time afterwards, then everything will be OK. After that I can fix this whole sorry mess and we can carry on as normal.

'Laura,' I shout as I open the door. I fling my arms round her and pull her to me. I look over her shoulder at Stevie. My husband. I can't deny I'm more than a wee bit curious. He is turned away, checking out Philip's Jag, which hasn't been put in the garage yet. Slowly he turns to greet me.

Poor Stevie. What was he expecting? The mate of his new girlfriend. A smart hostess? A former waitress turned housewife? How much had they talked about me? Had he already formed an opinion of Bella Edwards? Did he suspect that she might be a little spoilt, living in her huge home in Wimbledon? Or had Laura loyally retold our friends.h.i.+p? Did he know that I'd paid my dues, that I'm a good mate; that I've worked hard and played hard too? Does he know that I married Philip for love and life, not a lifestyle? I don't know, but whatever he was expecting it was not Belinda McDonnel.

Stevie turns to me and our eyes lock. He falters for a second, recognizing me but not trusting his vision, wanting, no doubt, to be mistaken. I was depending on this moment of shock.

'And you must be Stevie, I've heard so much about you.'

I lean in and hug him with just as much warmth as I hugged Laura. Normally this would be over the top but I'm hoping Laura will think I'm being super-friendly. As my body touches his it softens to merge into his harder, toned physique. He smells the same. He smells of my youth. Not Impulse and cheap hairspray, but that boy smell that he brought to my youth. I'd always a.s.sumed it was the scent of boy sweat turning to man sweat, combined with Clearasil and Imperial Leather, but I suspect he has left those brands behind. So, the smell that comforted me throughout my late teens and early twenties, must have been the smell of his skin. Simply Stevie. And smelling 'Simply Stevie' again now, makes me think I've missed it for nearly a decade.

I lean a fraction closer, hoping my move is indiscernible, and inhale gently. I'm trembling. And he is too.

d.a.m.n.

'Don't say a word,' I whisper into his ear and then slowly oh G.o.d help me reluctantly, I pull away.

Stevie straightens and stares into my eyes. His gaze gallops past my pupils and explodes into my mind and soul. He looks confused, hurt and cross. Then he looks delighted: the most confusing response. I know how he feels. I've lived with this guilty mix of emotions for two weeks now. Something tiny and buried has been unearthed and Stevie is clearly pleased to see me.

'Come in, come in. Don't keep them on the doorstep,' says Philip, behind me.

There is the usual ten minutes of activity as introductions are made, drinks are requested and fetched. Laura hands me an enormous bunch of flowers. She doesn't normally bring flowers when she comes to us for supper, I suspect they are an acknowledgement that our easy intimacy has slipped. I thank her but don't really want to go to the kitchen to put them in water. I can't risk leaving Stevie alone with the others. I ask Amelie to see to them. She obliges without any enthusiasm, clearly she'd prefer to stay in the epicentre of the action. Stevie hands Philip a bottle of wine. He looks bashful. No doubt Philip will attribute this to the fact that he's a wee bit awkward about meeting Laura's friends men rarely enjoy these social situations but I know that under normal circ.u.mstances, Stevie would be delighted to meet his girlfriend's pals. He outgrew his teenage shyness and became gregarious and charming a long time ago.

I look at the two men standing side by side and I am struck by their similarities and their differences. They're approximately the same height, over six foot. Perhaps Stevie is an inch shorter than Philip. They both have dark hair and green eyes. Philip's hair is sprinkled with grey, which is to be expected he has eight years on Stevie. Stevie's eyes flicker with mischief, excitement and antic.i.p.ation as they always did. Philip's are calm, they tell the world that he's capable. Philip is bulkier. They both have big feet. The biggest difference is in the clothes they wear. Stevie is dressed in an up-to-the-minute Diesel T-s.h.i.+rt and low-slung jeans. I can see his underwear.

Which makes my throat dry. I take a large gulp of my drink.

Philip is wearing beige cords and a Gap T-s.h.i.+rt. Until today I've always thought that Philip looked smart but modern in that outfit. Now I'm wondering if he could carry off something a bit more cutting-edge. I blush at my shallow thought.

It's Philip I love.

Stevie is history.