Part 17 (1/2)

'Do you remember hiding in the library? Hiding from the rain? Hiding from your dad and brothers?'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, yes. I haven't been to a library for years.'

'The one at my school is just like the one back in Kirkspey. The same smell of sticky back plastic and dusty carpets. That smell never leaves you, though, does it?'

Suddenly I was transported back to our school library. It had ugly, serviceable shelving and lighting, damp patches on the ceilings and watermarks in the carpet and yet it was so grand and marvellous. It held such knowledge, entertainment, so many travels and dreams. I have always been happy in libraries.

'It's funny how smells are so evocative,' I comment. 'Your house always used to smell of Pledge.' I laughed.

'And yours always smelt of-'

'Stale f.a.gs and dogs,' I interrupted hurriedly.

'I was going to say oil. Do you remember Martin used to keep his motorbike in the sitting room?'

I s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably. Why couldn't we have had a coffee table, like anyone else?

Stevie saw that I was uncomfortable. He leaned forward and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture was corny and obvious. But try telling my nipples that. They'd gone hard with desire.

'It wasn't all bad, Belinda,' he said.

'Bella.'

'Bella, whatever. Christ, it doesn't matter what I call you or what you call yourself. I know you. Your childhood wasn't all bad. There must be something you remember fondly about it.'

I thought about this. 'I do miss some things.'

'Such as?' Stevie was grinning like a madman, thrilled that I was prepared to engage.

'Do you remember the old cinema?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I miss the women who sold ice cream in the aisle.'

'Usherettes?'

'Yes. They were charming in an antiquated sort of way. Buying a tub of Haagen-Dazs in the foyer by no way compares,' I pointed out.

'And?'

'Big Wagon Wheels. They used to be ma.s.sive and they're diddy now. It's impossible to buy them without feeling cheated.'

'And?'

'I miss fighting with my brothers over the Christmas edition of the Radio Times. We only got it once a year and it was a big treat. We used to love marking what we wanted to watch over the holidays.'

'And?'

'Getting the bus into Newburgh and buying a new outfit every Sat.u.r.day from the market, to wear at the local disco.'

'You bought some lovely outfits.'

'Oh, yeah? Short skirts, skimpy tops. I was a cla.s.s act.'

'You were young. That's how young girls dress. It's called fun.'

I stopped there and offered to buy another drink. I dared not say any more because I knew the next sentence would be the one where I admitted that I miss feeling OK. I want a clean palate. I want not to have made this terrible mistake. Which mistake am I referring to? Marrying Stevie? Leaving Stevie? Marrying Philip?

I became frightened as unformed thoughts drifted into my mind; thoughts about destiny, suggestions of 'the one', hints about the sanct.i.ty of marriage. I tried to cast aside the shadowy feelings and refused to examine them thoroughly. Do I even believe in destiny? I decided I don't disbelieve. It's spiky on the fence.

I'm not in the habit of going out in the evening and getting lashed: those days are long gone. Philip and I enjoy the odd gla.s.s of wine through the week and get gently sloshed together most Sat.u.r.day evenings; still I have to lie to my doctor to come in under fifteen units a week. But when I'm with Stevie, it seems the most natural thing in the world to get right royally p.i.s.sed. Together we feel childishly irresponsible. We always did. It's easy to slip back into old habits, to imagine that we're sparky students full of ill-defined arguments and glorious intentions. We ramble through a vast array of topics the filthiness of religious wars, the frustration of driving in London, the unflattering nature of b.o.o.b tubes. Throughout these evenings I reminded myself that the feelings of youth, buoyancy, sparkiness are probably alcohol-induced and that the next day I'd probably feel wretched with a stinking hangover. The day after our meetings I did feel miserable totally, sickeningly miserable except when I felt glorious.

I feel miserable when I'm not with him and I feel miserable admitting that. I feel glorious when I am with him or thinking about him. And I feel miserable about that too. My feelings for Stevie are perilous. Illegal. To all intents and purposes, I'm having an affair, but without s.e.x and with my husband. It's off-the-scale confusing. The problem is that besides missing usherettes, Wagon Wheels and giddy shopping trips, I miss Stevie. I miss Stevie so much.

On the flight Philip and I sit behind Stevie and Laura. Stevie is following my instructions to the letter. He's being distant and seems like a different person from the one I have secretly met up with on a number of occasions in the recent past. And while I appreciate that he is following the plan we agreed, I find myself irrationally offended by his coolness towards me and genuinely hurt by his warmth towards Laura. Which makes me a wretched b.i.t.c.h. I watch as they clink gla.s.ses, feed one another cashew nuts and watch the same movie as one another even though they have individual screens and headsets. They choose a romantic comedy, bile rises in my throat. When Philip asks which film I want to watch I tell him I'm going to sleep. He asks if I want a gla.s.s of champagne first and, although I never, ever turn down champagne I snap that I'm tired and I can't sleep after alcohol. He's decent enough not to point out the countless occasions I've done exactly that.

Philip is a clever man. He chooses his battles and therefore always lives to fight another day. Recently, he's adopted the strategy of ignoring me. Not ignoring me per se but ignoring the argumentative, stroppy and sullen version of me. He doesn't comment when he finds me staring out the window, when I fail to cook dinner or even order a takeaway. He doesn't yell back when I yell at him for leaving a door open or scattering newspapers around the house. His endless patience shames me and paradoxically goads me on to more and more selfish behaviour. Sometimes, I want him to stand up to me, tell me that my tantrums are insufferable, demand that they stop and demand to know the cause. I want him to force a confession out of me.

At other times this thought terrifies me so I behave like an angel.

So far, Philip hasn't challenged me. But he watches me, all the time: closely, carefully and with eyes that brim concern. He did ask me how I managed at reading group when I'd left my copy of Captain Corelli's Mandolin on the table in the dining room.

Fortunately, I find it almost impossible to stay awake when travelling so I sleep for most of the flight to Vegas welcome rest after weeks staring at my bedroom ceiling. I only wake up when a flight attendant shakes me and asks me to put my chair back into the upright position.

As we taxi towards the gate the pa.s.sengers, who have been penned into the cabin for several hours, start to move. Slowly I stretch my legs in front of me and circle my feet, clockwise and anticlockwise, just as the in-flight magazine suggests, in an attempt to reduce the risk of a blood clot. I turn my head right and left and catch a glimpse of the economy pa.s.sengers already standing, ready to disembark. Before I met Philip I rarely travelled and if I did, I travelled economy cla.s.s with a cheap, inflexible ticket and often on airlines that think loo roll is an unnecessary luxury. I jostled for my place in the queue; I might have inadvertently banged the legs of fellow pa.s.sengers when I lugged my suitcase (old-fas.h.i.+oned, no wheels) across the conveyor belt and out of the baggage hall. I thought there was a race to the bus stop (not the taxi rank in those days). I believed that the bus might leave without me because that was what life was like. A whole series of buses leaving without me.

Getting a job seemed like a major challenge, as was renting a half-decent apartment. I felt that I was on a treadmill, endlessly running and running but never getting ahead, never winning the big prize. My jobs never fed my soul they hardly allowed me to feed my body. My apartments usually had dry rot and lecherous landlords. When I arrived at the sales, inevitably, the only thing left was the spangled, lurid orange leg warmers. I was never content.

Philip was the only first prize I've ever won. Calm, strong, understanding Phil was a gold medal.

The aeroplane doors swing open and suns.h.i.+ne floods the cabin. Suddenly things look cleaner and brighter. The pa.s.sengers in upper cla.s.s are led politely towards the exit. I stop and turn to Philip.

'I love you, Philip.'

He smiles. He's pleased to hear me say it. I certainly haven't been showing it recently. 'I know you do, darling.' He kisses me on the lips, a quick but warm kiss. 'Now get a move on, you're holding everyone up. Let's just have a b.l.o.o.d.y good holiday, shall we?'

As the suns.h.i.+ne and the smell of aviation fuel greet me at the door, I make a decision: after I have divorced Stevie I won't see him ever again. If that means I can't see Laura too, then so be it, but I must crush this childish infatuation before it gets out of hand. Again. I can't indulge these trips down memory lane. Why would I even want to? I hate what I came from, that's why I left. I have to avoid any potentially explosive situations. For a start I won't drink much safer to be abstemious. Many a true word is said in a state of intoxication. Philip is the best thing that ever happened to me and I want to be the best thing that ever happened to him. I want to be a good wife.

28. Can't Help Falling in Love.

Laura.

Las Vegas is just as exciting, vibrant, glitzy, crazy and wonderful as I'd hoped and imagined it would be.

When we pa.s.s through the gates into the terminal we spot a guy holding a sign with Stevie's name on it. The guy is dressed in an old-fas.h.i.+oned chauffeur's suit, but his flat cap a symbol of the deferential manners of times gone by looks at odds with his trendy sungla.s.ses and hip, long ponytail.