Part 12 (1/2)

'Want to pop up for a coffee?' I grin. I wanted to come across as seductive or at least wry, I think I came across as the dreaded needy and helpless.

'It's late. I need to get to bed.'

'I've got a bed.' The chord I struck was fraught.

'I need to sleep.'

'You can sleep at my place.' Quite definitely without allure, simply desperate.

I sigh and am about to give up when Stevie mutters, 'OK then,' and he leans forward to pay the cabby.

I see the babysitter to her car and then I make coffee. I'm not thirsty but it's something to do. Stevie paces the flat like a caged lion. It's not a great thought.

'Have a seat,' I urge.

He chooses a kitchen chair, a chair that does not facilitate cuddling, canoodling or caressing. I hear his message.

A vile thought grips me. Could Stevie be one of those blokes who's nice until you sleep with him, then turns into a complete s.h.i.+t? It's possible. Past experiences, everything I read in the monthly magazines and pretty much all anecdotal evidence suggests the vast percentage of men are this type. It is possible that I've completely miscalculated him. The way he looked at me as he sank deep inside me was, I thought, communicating sincerity and amazement. What if the only thing he was amazed by was my gullibility and my slightly stretched cervix? I am crippled with shame. Only minutes ago I practically begged him to come up to my flat. Clearly, I wasn't even impressive enough for him to want to bother with a repeat performance. The ignominy of the situation is boundless. I feel like a slug that has just been showered in salt.

I muster the tiny crumbs of dignity that are lurking somewhere very deep inside me and mutter, 'You can go if you want to.'

Stevie looks surprised. Which is natural, considering I practically put him under citizen's arrest to get him upstairs in the first place.

'I don't want to go,' he states. 'Do you want me to go?'

'No, no,' I splutter. 'It's just, you didn't enjoy yourself very much tonight, did you?'

'No, not really.'

At least he's honest. I steel myself. I've always been the sort of person that hoes in, faces things full on. 'Are you the sort of man who treats a girl crash hot until you sleep with her, then you turn into a complete s.h.i.+t? Because if you are, I'm cool with that.'

This is a lie, of course, but at least I sound a bit more sophisticated and twenty-first century. Depending on his answer I might throw him out or clobber him with my brand new, very heavy Tefal frying pan.

'No, I'm not.' Stevie grins. 'You call a spade a shovel, don't you?'

'I just want to know where I stand.' I fold my arms. I hope I look defiant and even a little intimidating. The stance also hides my shaking hands.

'I'm the sort of man who knows when he's on to a good thing and feels very deeply for the woman he's just started sleeping with. OK?'

Stevie has turned a very deep purple and even if I were to doubt his words I could not have a heart and misinterpret his demeanour. I grin, relieved. Delighted, actually.

He sc.r.a.pes back his chair and pats his knee, indicating that I should hop on board. I do so and then balance precariously and uncomfortably. I've never liked sitting on a guy's knees. Not even when I was fourteen, which is surely the latest age it is acceptable behaviour. Stevie kisses my neck, which just about makes the whole ordeal bearable.

'I don't like oysters or Roquefort cheese,' he mutters.

'Or my friends,' I add.

'I wouldn't say that, exactly.'

'I know it wasn't a comfortable evening. Bella was being OTT, but honestly she is so lovely when you get to know her. A beaut.'

'Lovely? You say.'

'Yes. And Amelie was being a bit difficult with Bella, they must have had a disagreement.'

'About the temperature of the bread rolls perhaps?' says Stevie with a grin.

'Don't be mean,' I say, hitting him playfully. We kiss. It's a long, slow, lingering kiss.

'Let's go to bed,' he suggests.

'OK.'

I agree without worrying about whether I'm communicating alluring, nonchalant or composed. I suspect I'm communicating gagging for it. I switch out the kitchen light and follow Stevie into the bedroom. He has his back to me and he pulls his T-s.h.i.+rt up over his head. He's beautiful. I want this to work.

'Stevie, don't spit the dummy.'

'What?'

'I mean, don't lose patience. If you could give Bella another chance I know you'd find she's worth it,' I urge.

'You think so.'

'She's my mate.' I don't want to make too big a deal but I do want them to be friends. So it is with quite some relief I hear him say: 'OK, Laura, I'll give her another chance. For you, I'll do that.'

23. How the Web was Woven.

Monday 7th June 2004.

Bella.

'Can I buy you a drink? I think we both need one.'

'It's the least you can do.'

Stevie is right, it is the least I can do but even so I'm not comfortable with him pointing it out. I'm not sure I've handled this correctly, but what's the etiquette for meeting your husband at a dinner party you are hosting with your other husband? I'm not sure if I want to charm him, threaten him or befriend him.

All day I've considered sending someone instead of me to this meeting. But who? Amelie has made it clear that she has no intention of involving herself because I won't take her, frankly, naive advice and 'fess up to Philip. A solicitor is out of the question, since I've broken the law. I don't like handcuffs in the bedroom, not even fur-trimmed ones; the idea of real ones sends me into apoplectic panic. I thought about hiring a private detective but I had visions of a man with a s.h.i.+ny suit, worn through at the knees and elbows, a small, fat man who smokes roll-ups and sprays spittle when he laughs. The vision was so grubby it almost turned my stomach and while this is dirty work to do, Stevie wasn't always a grimy secret. I once loved him very much. The least I can do is turn up in person to offer an explanation.

'I wondered if Laura had spoken about me,' I begin tentatively.

'No. She mentioned her friend Bella Edwards. I know, or knew, a Belinda McDonnel.' He sounds accusing.

'I prefer Bella to Belinda. Bella is just more... appropriate.'

'What was wrong with Belinda? Not posh enough for your new London life?'

I glare at Stevie but I can't think of a quick comeback because he's dead right. In truth, even if I'd been christened Flavia, Camilla or Jemima, I would probably have wanted to change my name when I left Edinburgh. Didn't he get it? I wanted to leave it all behind.