Part 10 (2/2)

My body is operating in slow motion yet at the same time my heart is racing. I wonder if these two diverging physical responses will tear me in two. Maybe splitting in two would be the perfect answer. I lift my gla.s.s to my lips and spill liquid down my dress.

'Are you OK, gorgeous?' asks Philip.

'Fine,' I mutter, blus.h.i.+ng as I rub away the spillage.

'You don't want to go spilling things on your new dress.'

'It's not new.'

'Of course it is. I don't mind. Why don't you admit it? You look stunning.'

Philip is always OTT with his praise and thinks I'm far lovelier than I am. Normally it's a misconception I encourage but tonight I just want him to shut up. 'Doesn't she look gorgeous, Stevie?'

'Very nice,' mutters Stevie. Can everyone else see his embarra.s.sment?

'Stop it, Philip,' I warn.

'You've made such a huge effort, why shouldn't you bask in compliments? And why can't I ask another chap's opinion? Laura doesn't mind.'

Laura grins good-naturedly. She's never looked better and therefore clearly doesn't mind her man being asked to compliment another woman. She's obviously secure. I can guess what's given her that dewy glow. Philip notices it too. 'You look stunning tonight, Laura. And you too, of course, Amelie.'

Amelie smiles, not offended that Philip's compliment to her was clearly an afterthought.

'Stevie and I are very lucky men to be surrounded by such a bevy of beauties.'

I know Phil is trying to be inclusive and fair but I wish he'd shut up. His excessive compliments sound pompous and insincere.

'Shall we eat?' I mutter as I stride towards the dining room.

20. You've Lost That Loving Feeling.

Stevie.

Holy f.u.c.k. Holy f.u.c.kity f.u.c.k. Belinda McDonnel. Belinda b.l.o.o.d.y McDonnel. My wife, ex-wife, I presume, is serving me... What the f.u.c.k is she serving me? I'm jolted out of my immediate shock by a plateful of slimy seash.e.l.ls. It looks a bit like the outflow of a seriously bad cold served up with doll's forks. Oysters? Belinda McDonnel is serving oysters to her mates for supper on a Sat.u.r.day evening? It's too much to take in.

At first I thought I was mistaken. This Bella woman didn't seem to know me from Adam. So I doubted myself. This couldn't be my long-lost wife. There was a resemblance but then, as I've discovered, lots of women resemble Belinda. Over the years I have spotted women with the same gait, height or hair. I've heard similar laughs. I've chased women down streets and tapped them on the shoulder but when they've turned round, the illusion has always been blown apart.

I've imagined meeting my wife on countless occasions. I'd always thought we'd b.u.mp into each other at a gig or in a public library. Or maybe abroad somewhere, the Parthenon yeah, that would have been good. Or in a rainstorm, because thunder and lightning are not without dramatic connotations. Despite having approximately a thousand scenarios filed away, I have never imagined meeting Belinda on the steps of a huge house in Wimbledon, as she welcomed me as a guest to her dinner party. For a start, Belinda McDonnel couldn't cook.

For a split second I wondered if this elegant lady might be a cousin of my long-lost wife. Because this Bella woman is married to this Philip, a good-looking older bloke, and as far as I know Belinda is still married to me. Oh, my G.o.d. Could we be divorced and I've never known? I move around a lot, post doesn't always find me. So, despite imagining this moment for eight years, on a more or less daily basis, when I was actually confronted with my ex-wife, I wasn't quite sure. For a split second the thing I had been longing for, was the thing I least wanted to believe. But then she hugged me.

She felt exactly the same. Any lingering doubt vanished in that instant. Belinda's body folded into mine and it fitted. She's only slight and she slipped under my arm, as though the s.p.a.ce had been waiting for her to return, to fill it. I hadn't realized I was carrying around a gap. Or maybe I had.

She's changed quite a bit. Her hair used to be a ma.s.s of pre-Raphaelite curls but now she wears it straight like a newly polished sheet of gla.s.s. It's darker too it hasn't seen a bottle of Sun-In for a while, that's for sure. Her face is thinner; she's lost her puppy fat. My Belinda McDonnel was pretty. This Bella, what's-her-name, is stunning. One of the most beautiful women I've seen for a long time.

As I hugged her, I breathed her in, and tried to fill my lungs with the essence of her. She wears a different perfume something spicy and sophisticated. It suits her. And as she pulled away from me (why was that such a wrench?) I noticed her clothes. She was not wearing the Doc Martens, the thick woollen tights, baggy jumper, short cord skirt or large hoop earrings she wore in all my imagined reconciliation scenarios. Maybe it was a bit much to expect, it wouldn't be hygienic, let alone fas.h.i.+onable. She suits the s.e.xy black number, no doubt about it. It's a posh dress, obviously. The type you buy in the shops I wouldn't dream of going in. Manned, or rather womanned, by intimidating ladies that look at me as though I'm too rough to even be their bit of rough. I wonder how much it cost as a percentage of my annual salary.

I hadn't expected her to have moved on quite so much. Moved quite so far away. Away from me. Which is perhaps a bit b.l.o.o.d.y naive of me, under the circ.u.mstances. There are those who would argue that she'd made it extremely clear that moving away from me was exactly what she wanted.

I watch Belinda closely as she fusses and serves up the food.

Belinda used to have a heavy North-East Scotland accent, now she sounds a bit like the queen. 'Do you think the rolls are the correct temperature to complement the oysters?' she asks the smiley Amelie lady, who shrugs indifferently which suggests she's an OK type of woman. In my book the type of woman who cares if the bread rolls are the correct temperature to complement the oysters is not OK. Belinda can't be serious, can she? I'm sat opposite her. Me, her husband from Christmases past, here in her house bought with husband of Christmas present and she's worrying over the temperature of bread rolls!

The more I watch her, the more I think she has changed beyond recognition. It isn't just her expensive designer dress and haircut that sets her apart from everyone else I know. It isn't just that she's curbed her accent, changed her name and the colour of her hair. She is changed in a more fundamental sense. She is as hard as her beautifully manicured nails. I s.h.i.+ver.

The evening is a blur. Someone hands me a drink. Someone else hands me another. At the table I'm placed next to Laura and opposite Belinda. Someone pours me yet another drink. Who the h.e.l.l is drinking them? This is too much. I've found her and lost her all in one night. She's married to Philip. She's wearing his diamond-encrusted, platinum wedding band. The simple gold one I gave her is nowhere to be seen. Not that it was constantly in evidence even when we were together. She was forever leaving it in her sock drawer in case we met anyone we knew and betrayed our marital status. When was I divorced?

I realize that I'm not being the entertaining and amusing boyfriend Laura would like me to be, when she digs me in the ribs for the third time. 'Did you catch that? Philip just asked how you got into doing Elvis gigs.'

Somehow, I mumble a response on automatic pilot. I'm sure lovely Laura will believe I'm nervous around her friends because I don't know them. Let's face it, she's not going to imagine how well I know her best friend, is she?

Lovely Laura. Oh, what a b.a.s.t.a.r.d I am. Lovely Laura. I call her that because, really, she is lovely. I adore the word 'lovely'. It's such a simple word but it conveys so much. Attractive, delightful, charming, kind. Full of love. Laura is all of those things and I have a history with her best mate and she clearly doesn't know a thing about it. Laura is sa.s.sy and fun and I know she wants me to believe that's all she is, but I know she's vulnerable and scared too. I don't want to hurt her. Should I say something? Should I pick up my fork and tap the gla.s.s b.l.o.o.d.y crystal by the look of it. Who'd have thought of Belinda McDonnel owning anything more sparkly than a hair clip? Should I say, 'Sorry to interrupt such a genial evening but, Philip, mate, the thing is I was married to your wife. Just thought you ought to know. That is the case, isn't it, Belinda? Sorry, Laura. Sorry, everyone. Sorry.'

I reach for my fork.

'Aren't you keen on oysters?'

These are the first words that Belinda has spoken directly to me since she told me to keep my mouth shut. Her question coming at that precise moment makes me think she can read my mind. Something we both once believed. The memory of our past closeness sends a jolt through my body and stirs up some buried loyalty. I've thought of her over the years, of course I have. For years she was all I thought about, but nowadays I don't often look back. It's too confusing, too b.l.o.o.d.y... sad. Sometimes I've wondered what sort of life she was leading but I don't think about our history, our love. No way. I haven't allowed myself that- Pleasure.

Because, oh G.o.d, she'd been a pleasure. I can almost smell the suns.h.i.+ne when I cast my mind back, so startling are the memories. So joyful, so real.

I can't make an announcement when she's asked me to keep quiet. I have to give her a chance to explain.

'Er, no. Don't like the texture,' I say.

'It's an acquired taste. You have to work at it.'

'But why would I want to?' I ask.

Laura nudges my knee. Obviously I sound rude. But f.u.c.k it, joyful, real, suns.h.i.+ne memories aside, Belinda is being so patronizing. I remember her using Typex to paint her stiletto heels, who is she to tell me which tastes I ought to acquire? I must stop drinking. I have to get a grip.

Belinda stretches across the table and takes my plate away. 'Maybe we can find you something you'd prefer. Eggs? A salad?'

'No, thanks.' I meet her eye. 'I haven't got an appet.i.te.'

'It's probably the heat,' says Laura. She picks up a place mat and starts to half-heartedly fan herself. 'Not that I'm complaining. We don't get enough decent weather, this is really pleasant for early June.'

Laura is a little pink. It might be the alcohol, the heat, or it might be that she's been reduced to making small talk about the weather with her best friends. Poor Laura, clearly she's tense because she wants us all to get on. On our way over here she hinted that Bella (as she knows Belinda) had been a bit tetchy about our new relations.h.i.+p and Laura was at a loss to understand why. Well, there's a mystery solved.

'Would you mind giving me a hand in the kitchen, Stevie?' asks Belinda.

'Don't ask a guest, darling. I'll give you a hand,' says Philip. He's a nice enough bloke but clearly under the thumb.

'No, you sit still,' says Belinda placing a firm hand on his shoulder. I want to laugh that my mental image is not just symbolic but literal. I wonder if Belinda would think my joke was funny. I used to be able to make her laugh all the time.

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