Part 16 (2/2)

'I expect so. I haven't seen him since the wedding.'

'He did come then.' I'm relieved to hear that the reinvention of Belinda found a way to accommodate her father, at least.

'I wasn't keen to break my own precedent,' admits Bella, alluding, I presume, to our wedding. 'If I could have got away with not inviting my father and my brothers I would have, but Phil insisted. At least Dad managed to appear sober until the reception. Quite an achievement since he'd been drinking since ten in the morning.'

'Did your brothers come?'

'Martin and Iain did. Rob couldn't be bothered and Don, well, as I said he's-'

'Inside?' I guess.

'Yes.' Bella sighs.

'Did they cause any trouble?' We both know that Bella's brothers are awkward when sober, aggressive when drunk.

'No. In all fairness all they wanted was to merge into the wallpaper. Like that was going to happen, with their cheap s.h.i.+rts and dirty hair. They didn't even wear jackets. I'd offered to buy them all suits but they wouldn't let me. It was so obvious that they were fish out of water. But at least that meant they were unsure enough not to kick anything off.'

She's still angry and ashamed of them. I'd hoped she'd grow out of that.

'What do you want from them, Bella?'

'I want them to be altogether different.'

This is possibly the most honest thing Belinda has said to me since we met up again. I pity her for chasing an impossible dream.

'I want them to be charming, involved and fascinating relatives. At my wedding, I wanted Dad to bore the guests with stories about what a darling little girl I was and I wanted my brothers to flirt with my single friends.' She tries to smile but I know her well enough to know that she wants this so much it hurts. Smiling is next to impossible.

'You know that's never going to happen. You'll never change them, however much you change yourself.'

'You're right,' admits Bella, with a sigh. 'My brothers' idea of a charm offensive is to ask a girl if she wants a bag of chips before or after s.e.x. At least my father's indifference towards me came in useful when I told him that a father-of-the-bride speech wasn't required. I didn't want him to walk me down the aisle either, but Philip said it was traditional and respectful. I wanted to say, ”Sod respectful. Had my father and brothers ever been respectful towards me when I lived with them? No.”'

'Why didn't you say that?'

'I don't talk about my family much to Philip,' she says with a shrug. 'My family are light years away from his; he wouldn't be able to relate to my experiences.'

'You should be more open.'

'Don't you start. Why does everyone always want to rake over the past? The past is just that, past. It's where it is for a reason.' Bella looks at her watch. 'Look, I think we've said all we have to say tonight. Thanks for signing the papers. I guess I'll see you at the airport.'

And with that she stood up and took flight.

27. Viva Las Vegas.

Wednesday 7th July 2004.

Bella.

'Oh my G.o.d, first cla.s.s. I have never flown first cla.s.s in my life.'

Laura's grin is so wide I think her face might split and, while I have been imagining all manner of disasters to prevent my having to attend this trip, my best friend's face ripping in two because of the force of her ecstasy, is one I'd not considered.

She's been behaving like an excitable child since the limo picked her up this morning and who can blame her? Besides the limo, there's free champagne flowing liberally, this is her first holiday abroad in four years, she is travelling with her best friend and the man of her dreams.

The only fly in the ointment is that he's the love of my life too.

Oh G.o.d, do I mean that?

I am trying to avoid Stevie. I really am but it's not easy. When all the others were enjoying free alcohol in the airport lounge I wandered around the shops. But I panicked when I couldn't get excited about the rows of lotions and perfumes, the discounted leather bags and clothes this is not just out of character, it must be a seriously worrying clinical condition. I didn't feel the slightest spark of excitement at spending my cash (well, Phil's cash). All I wanted was to be near Stevie. Stevie with his neat, toned body, his broad, full-on grin, his laugh, his wit, his guitar for G.o.d's sake. That shows how desperate things are.

The past six weeks have been the worst of my life.

I've tried not to think about him. I've tried not to want him. But it's like going on a diet; the moment you decide to cut down on fat is the moment you start to fantasize about cream cakes, fish and chips and Mars bars. I'm ashamed to admit that we've met up a few times since we agreed to divorce. One of the meetings was a necessity, the others were luxuries.

At the first meeting we signed the relevant papers within about three minutes. Then I offered him a drink and he agreed, instantly. I should have kept it all businesslike and impersonal. But I was enjoying myself. At least, I was until he started going on and on about the past. The worst of it was that I was answering him fully and honestly, just slipping back into the old ways of frank conversations. It is not healthy. It's pretty dangerous, so I b.u.g.g.e.red off as quickly as possible.

As I left the pub I swore I wouldn't give him another thought and we certainly wouldn't meet up again. We met up again by the end of the same week.

I told him I needed to check a detail with the paperwork. The strange thing was, once we were ensconced in a pub in Covent Garden a less covert, more comfortable rendezvous than our initial meeting he didn't refer to the outstanding detail, he knew it was a pretence but he'd come anyway.

During the evening we caught up, like old friends do, with genuine affection. We laughed, chatted and confessed our dreams, achievements and compromises. Stevie talked about his career, his mates and the girls he's dated. He did not talk about Laura. I talked about all my careers, my mates including Laura (I was unilaterally nice, it's easy), and men as a h.o.m.ogeneous group. I didn't mention Philip. We decided we were hungry and chose to eat spaghetti together rather than go home to the people we weren't mentioning.

Then we agreed to meet at All Bar One on Cambridge Circus. An extremely busy venue. I told myself that this underlined that our meeting was innocent and we had nothing to hide. I dismissed as lunacy Amelie's suggestion that I wanted to be caught with Stevie.

The atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke and curiosity. This time we didn't bother with polite small talk or general enquiries. We sank into a comforting intimacy and picked up where we'd left off years ago. I carefully recounted elusive, long-forgotten memories and he told me his latest theories, ideas and plans. He fidgeted on his chair, but with excitement I think, not nerves or embarra.s.sment. He found it unproblematic to tell me the most tremendous and melancholic thoughts he'd harboured in the last eight years. He was delighted that I was equally interested in both and (at least temporarily) he didn't seem to resent that I wasn't around when he formed his theory on what makes someone happy. Stevie has grown up. This thrilled and saddened me in more or less equal and confusing proportions.

'In the end everyone wants the same thing,' he'd said.

'What's that?' I'd asked.

'Happiness.'

'Well, obviously. But you can't leave it at that. That's too broad.' And while Stevie has great pecs and the T-s.h.i.+rt he was wearing showed them off to perfection, I was mildly impatient that he had failed to develop a more honed argument. Philip would not have tolerated such sloppiness.

'Happiness to some people is scaling mountains. To others it's having mountains of cash. To still others it's having a big family or independence. It's not enough to say everyone wants the same thing.' It terrified me to realize that I wasn't really interested in what Stevie believed made everyone happy, just what made him happy.

'Contentment,' he told me, although I hadn't asked the question. 'I'm happy when I am content with what I have and not longing for something I don't have or I've lost or never had.'

He had lifted his beer bottle to his mouth but he didn't drink, he paused and stared at me. The look sliced me to my core. I felt as if he'd undressed me in that busy pub and exposed me for what I was, someone cruel, someone destructive but someone powerful.

'I don't know if I've ever felt content.'

'I know that, Belinda,' said Stevie, before he coughed, turned away and broke the torturous tension.

Stevie talked about music, novels and poetry. We quoted old poems to one another, poems that we'd memorized at school. I told him I still found T. S. Eliot too much like hard work but I'd since given some more modern poets a chance; Liz Lochhead and Douglas Dunn were my favourites. He told me he still hated Jane Austen and thought she was twee. I told him I still loved her and always would.

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