Part 15 (2/2)

'We were talking about Freya.' I try to sound unruffled.

'But that's my point, Bella. We never talk about you. You never talk about you. Did you ever come to terms with losing your mum?'

I see Laura squeeze Amelie's arm. She's trying to discreetly communicate that it's best to drop this line of conversation. 'I think you ought to respect Bella's right to privacy,' says Laura.

But Amelie won't be deflected. 'Why don't you ever talk about losing your mum? You never talk about your past at all. It's as though your life didn't start until you arrived in London.'

'Maybe it didn't, Amelie. Not really.' I use the voice I normally reserve for bank managers or traffic wardens. Impervious, distant, polite but entirely 'f.u.c.k you'.

'Er, the kids back home called me Jaws because of my brace.' Laura throws in this contribution in an attempt to help me. Ironically, Amelie also thinks she's helping me, she wants to help both of us. We all mean well but are we close to destroying one another?

'You went to a local school, didn't you, Bella? Remind me, what was the name of your village?'

I glare at Amelie, pure toxic. 'Kirkspey,' I say eventually. I know if I don't name it, Amelie will.

'Really?' Laura cries, delighted to have chanced upon what she thinks is a digression. 'That's where Stevie lived as a teenager.'

'Is it really? What a small world,' says Amelie.

'You must be mistaken,' I insist. 'It's a very small village. How old did you say Stevie is?'

'Thirty-one.'

'A year older than me. We'd have known each other. And we don't, so you must be mistaken.'

'I'm sure it was Kirkspey.'

'You should check with Stevie,' says Amelie.

I wish she'd swallow her tongue. 'Kirk means church so there are lots of towns with similar names in Scotland,' I state, coolly. I know Amelie is not going to let this drop so I do the only thing I can. The thing I have always done. I gather up my raincoat and throw a few pounds on to the table and I head for the door. Case closed.

26. I Forgot to Remember to Forget.

Wednesday 16th June 2004.

Stevie.

Bella is wearing a beige halter-neck dress and chunky boots. I'm no fas.h.i.+on guru but I can make a wild stab in the dark and guess that her outfit cost the equivalent of what I'd spend on a second-hand Fiat. The worst thing is my first thought: it was worth every penny. She looks sensational. I have a terrible fleeting thought.

I am proud of my wife.

I pull myself up short and remind myself that (a) she didn't pay for the s.e.xy get-up, her other husband did and if anyone should be swelling with pride it's him and (b) Laura. I have Laura. We are an item and therefore I shouldn't be noticing the s.e.xiness or otherwise of other women, especially one I am married to.

'Hi,' I greet her, with studied nonchalance.

It's a terrible thing that I have feelings for her, even jumbled ones, but it would be much, much worse if she knew.

I've always found it one of life's huge bonuses that I've never fancied nasty women. I'm not one of those men who like high-maintenance b.i.t.c.hes who bleed you dry and treat you badly. I simply do not have a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic streak; life's too b.l.o.o.d.y short for that sort of effort. Besides, the world is full of decent women who look cute and that is where I like to spend my time. It's odd then that I should think that Belinda, having been transformed into posh totty Bella, is almost irresistible while she is clearly cruel. I don't understand myself.

I force myself to remember the moment I agreed to help her, a euphemism for agreeing to divorce her quietly to shuffle away like a good little man, denied a scene or any fuss. I saw her slump with relief; clearly, she'd been rigid with tension throughout our meeting. How b.l.o.o.d.y insulting. Not only did she want rid of me but most embarra.s.singly of all, she wasn't sure I'd want the same thing. Ha, b.l.o.o.d.y arrogant bint. Did she think she was such a great catch that I'd break down into an inconsolable heap, that I'd beg her not to divorce me? Did she think that for the last decade I'd been harbouring fantasies about us visiting Ikea together?

I take a macabre pleasure in reminding myself that it is a good thing she has lost her grasp on reality and that she wastes her money on designer clobber and her time at the beauty parlour. It's a good thing she's not a worthwhile person, with ambition or even a job, that she treats her friends in underhand ways, and that she can't offer me anything like a reasonable explanation for her appalling behaviour towards me. This is all to the good because, as Bella Edwards is such a monster, I won't fall for her. I won't become sentimental about her not even if she looks delicious.

I'm thinking all these vicious, stay-at-a-distance thoughts, when she disarms me. She leans in to kiss my cheek. Not two air kisses but a genuine one and all I can see is Belinda McDonnel. Her lips are squashy and smooth. Her cheek soft.

'Can I get you a drink?' I offer and rise out of my chair but she puts a gently restraining hand on my shoulder.

'My shout. What do you want?'

I glance at my bottle. It must have a leak as it is empty, she grins at my evident surprise. 'Another Beck's.'

Bella returns to the table with fresh drinks. Other men in the bar are watching her. They are curious but don't believe they have any real chance of talking to, let alone dating, a woman like Bella Edwards. She's composed, elegant, refined and aloof. I agree, looking at her now she would appear out of their stratosphere, let alone league, and appearances are all in situations such as these. But the men in this pub are like her father, grandfather, uncles and brothers. The men in this pub are like the sort of man her father expected her to marry. They think they exercise because they play darts and therefore aren't worried about the pies and pints they consume. They play dominoes and think that will keep them mentally agile that and reading the Sun.

Belinda hates pubs, always did. I bet Bella likes wine bars. As a child she often sat in her dad's wreck of a car, waiting outside the local, while he had a 'swift one' that always turned into a slow several. If she was lucky, and he remembered that she was there, he'd bring out a bottle of c.o.ke and a bag of crisps. If he forgot about her she might have to sit waiting for him until the early hours. Licensing laws were lax; his ability to drink for his country was notorious. He'd find her curled up in the back of the car, asleep, wrapped in the picnic rug. He'd wake her up and tell her they had to walk the three-and-a-half-mile journey home, he was too drunk to drive. He saw this as responsible parenting. Lots of the other dads tried to negotiate the winding roads despite consuming a skinful. I didn't know Belinda when she was a kid but she told me these stories.

Looking at Bella Edwards it is hard to imagine the woman has ever felt cold, bored, scared or hungry.

Bella tells me she's met with a solicitor today and that getting a divorce will be 'very straightforward'. She's clearly relieved and not a smidgen of uncertainty or regret darts across her face. She wants to discard me as quickly and effortlessly as she can. I can hardly concentrate on her debrief and instructions, as I keep being distracted by visions of her sorting out her wardrobe and throwing last season's clothes into large black sacks, marked 'Charity Shop'. I am last year's 'fab handbag'.

'The courts will recognize an eight-year separation as ”irretrievable breakdown”,' Bella goes on with a bright smile.

'Who said the law was an a.s.s?' I ask sarcastically.

'We have a choice. We could go for mutual consent after a separation of two years.'

I stare at her in disbelief. She sounds as though she's relaying the agenda for the local residents' a.s.sociation meeting. Her efficiency and enthusiasm are nauseating.

'Or you can divorce me and cite desertion. We only needed to be apart for two years for the courts to be convinced that I...' She trails off.

'Definitely wanted to desert me and hadn't just popped out for a pint of milk and forgotten where we lived.'

'Yes,' she says, flus.h.i.+ng to crimson. 'We just have to prove that I haven't been in touch.'

'Not tricky.'

'There's a bit of paperwork. We need to apply for a decree nisi and then-'

'What about adultery?' I ask.

'Adultery?' The crimson blush runs from Bella's face. I look to the floor and expect to see that she is standing in a scarlet pool. Her face is suddenly green.

'Couldn't I cite adultery or unreasonable behaviour? I mean, marrying another man seems pretty unreasonable to me.'

'I thought we wanted a quick no-mess divorce.'

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