Part 18 (2/2)

Bella looks astonished, and that's satisfying. Who is she to tell me how much I should drink? I order a beer just to annoy her.

Laura comes back to the table. 'Stevie, baby, you'd better not drink much more. You have the photo shoot tomorrow. You don't want to feel too rough,' she says, with a smile.

'You might be right, gorgeous,' I lean across the table to kiss her. I kiss her in a way that yells randy. I gently bite her lower lip and push my tongue into her mouth. I let the bottom of my beer gla.s.s nudge up against her nipple. I'm not sure who I'm trying to get a reaction from, Laura or Bella. I'm too drunk to care.

Philip rejoins the table. 'Ah, young love.'

'Exactly that,' I agree with a grin.

I still haven't actually told Laura that I love her, not in so many words. I'm not trying to play games. The opposite. I don't want to say anything too definite, with this mess hanging over my head. Laura doesn't play games, she doesn't even want to. It's one of the many great things about her. She's refres.h.i.+ngly uncomplicated.

Women are so unnecessarily complex. I mean besides Belinda who is off the scale when it comes to creating needless difficulties in her life and the lives of those unfortunate enough to come into contact with her other birds are not much better. They lie about their age, the number of men they've slept with and their weight, as a matter of course. They lie about fancying married men, their mates' boyfriends and men with money, without batting an eyelid. They lie about the colour of their hair, their ability to eat chocolate and stay thin and how much exercise they do each week. It's so pointless. We know you lie! Men know women lie!

But Laura is different. She thinks like a guy. That first evening out together, she commented that getting to know someone is complicated enough without pretending to be something you're not. I choked on my beer. She is so right. It's so simple. So obvious. Her doctrine is the polar opposite to the doctrine Bella lives by.

And the one I'm living by. Holy f.u.c.k. Hardly a comforting thought.

'Hey, buddy, I told them who you are,' says Philip and he points towards the pianist.

'Who I am?' I ask. Who the h.e.l.l am I? Laura's boyfriend or Belinda's husband? My head is spinning.

'An Elvis King of Kings finalist. The pianist was really impressed.' I shrug modestly. 'He wants you to get up and sing something.'

'Go on, baby. Go for it,' Laura screeches excitedly.

'No, I'm too p.i.s.sed,' I object.

'I've never heard you perform,' says Philip, 'I'd really like to.'

'Please, please, please,' says Laura, giggling.

Other diners tune into the commotion and start to encourage me. They call out tracks they would like me to sing, and it's a buzz, there's no denying it. I've been in similar situations in the UK, at wedding parties if the guests are drunk enough, which they usually are. At the compet.i.tion heats the crowds get fervent but there's nothing like the enthusiasm of the Yanks. They have no embarra.s.sment about encouraging or complimenting. It's charmingly refres.h.i.+ng. Notably, Bella is not cajoling me on to the stage she never has. It's her reticence as much as everyone else's encouragement that does it for me.

I walk towards the stage, wobbling slightly, it's alcohol, not nerves. I'd only noticed a pianist before I stood up, but in true Vegas style, a small band has materialized where it was needed. Beside the pianist, there is now a drummer and some guys on strings. They all flash me hundred-watt grins and ask what's it to be.

Good question.

Drunk, there's a serious chance that I'll become pathetically slushy, indiscreet or angry. It seems impossible to choose a song without it appearing loaded and especially significant. Outright, I reject 'Love Me Tender', 'Don't Be Cruel' and 'Hard Headed Woman' although just thinking about the last option makes me sn.i.g.g.e.r to myself. And there's the question who am I singing for? Laura or Belinda? Both will a.s.sume I'm singing for them. Whether I belt out a showpiece or croon a ballad, they will layer on tricky significance. As women, they won't be able to help themselves, they will find a deeper meaning where none is intended. So, what I choose matters. I wish I knew the words to 'Old Shep'. That alone would be safe.

I look back at the table. Laura is standing, looking s.h.i.+ny and Amazonian. She grins, waves and then puts her fingers in her mouth to wolf whistle. She looks thrilled for me and thrilled to be with me. I see nothing in her but uncomplicated pleasure. I smile back at her. I turn to Belinda. Bella is looking grave and nervous. She seems to be shrinking before my eyes. She's struggling to meet my stare. I see nothing but regret and mess.

Both women fascinate me.

I start to sing 'The Wonder of You'. I have no idea which one I'm singing to.

30. Good Rocking Tonight.

Philip.

'Wow, can that man hold a tune!'

'He's not bad,' says Bella.

'Frankly, I'm in awe.'

I unb.u.t.ton my s.h.i.+rt and fold it carefully before placing it into the laundry bag at the bottom of the wardrobe. Our suite is so stunning that I don't want to mess it up. Bella doesn't have the same scruples; I wander into the bathroom where I'm a.s.saulted by countless lotions and potions that appear to be positively scrambling to make an escape bid from their jars and packaging. It would never cross Bella's mind to put a lid back on a bottle. I reunite various tubes and tubs with their tops, I then wipe away the messy gunk smeared around the jars and start humming 'The Wonder of You' that Stevie sang in the bar. I can't get the tune out of my head. I can't remember the words exactly, something about her love being everything to him, making him feel like a king. Good words. Simple, straightforward, effective.

Stevie is talented, far better than I had antic.i.p.ated. Not that I'm in any way a connoisseur of Elvis tribute acts but I have seen two or three in my time: one at university, another at a corporate do, and most memorably a cl.u.s.ter of Chinese Elvises guys who double as waiters at a very trendy (in a kitsch sort of way) restaurant in Clapham. But Stevie is something else, far better than anything I've ever seen, even on TV.

The funny thing is Stevie doesn't even look much like Elvis but when he got hold of the mic tonight, there were moments when I really thought I was in the presence of the King. How crazy is that? He captured the exact melodious tone that Elvis was famous for. A tone that conveyed a blend of sweet, deferential pleading and soulful sincerity. I don't think it was just champers, I felt a huge lump in my throat and for a short time I found that I couldn't swallow, not even alcohol.

'La, la. Laah. La,' I hum.

'Give it a rest, Phil,' says Bella, joining me in the bathroom. It's clear she means the humming rather than my cleaning-up efforts so I stop, except in my head. It's an enormous bathroom with two basins and two mirrors. We stand side by side, her cleaning her teeth, me clearing up her mess. I love the way Bella cleans her teeth. It's so precise, so deliberate and thorough. She always brushes for three whole minutes and she flosses twice a day, unbelievable. I like her purposeful, painstaking approach to cleaning her teeth because it shows she has the ability to be dedicated to something. She may not be dedicated to a career or even to keeping her wardrobe and make-up tidy but she has a high level of personal hygiene and would never go out without lipstick. She's conscientious that way.

'I'm going to have a quick shower,' she says. 'I'm surprised that there's so much smoking allowed. I thought it was outlawed in the US.'

Bella can't stand the smell of smoke and won't be able to sleep unless she's washed the stale lingering smell off her body and hair. I wait for her in bed.

Fifteen minutes later she joins me. She's wearing a matching vest and pants set in a lilac colour. It's cute rather than s.e.xy. She rarely comes to bed naked nowadays. I tell myself that it would be unreasonable to expect it here as the air con is ferocious: she wouldn't want to catch a chill. I put down the guide to Las Vegas and ask, 'Did you have a nice night?'

'Good, thanks. Yes.' She's rubbing cream into her hands.

'Even though you missed out on the champagne?'

'Yes.'

'Why didn't you have a gla.s.s?'

'Didn't feel like it.'

'Still got a headache?'

'Something like that.'

I consider leaving my line of questioning. It's possible, likely even, that Bella does have a headache. She's complained about the constant jangle of slot machines and the tinny music from the casinos. But why do I get the feeling that something more than a headache is bothering her?

Of late she's veered almost hysterically from shrill and nagging, to silent and uncooperative, from delightful to tearful, then back again. Bella is normally so level, so together, but at the moment I feel I'm married to two women: reliable, kind, calm, even-tempered Bella and the hysterical, cutting, complaining banshee, who jumps when the phone rings and sometimes refuses to answer the door. She's not sleeping well and has got into the habit of skipping meals and s.e.x too, sadly. Giving up alcohol follows a number of evenings on which she has staggered home seriously drunk.

I've given the matter a great deal of thought and the only possible explanation is that she does not like being idle. Bella may not have ever enjoyed career progression as such, but she has a strong work ethic and had never had a day of unemployment in her life, until we married. I persuaded her to take some time to consider what it is that she wants to do with her life. I'm beginning to think that was a mistake. It pains and worries me to say it, but recently Bella has been showing some of the cla.s.sic signs of depression, sometimes manic, sometimes lethargic, sometimes ecstatic and other times tearful.

A friend of mine, Bob, is one of those life coach gurus. He worked with me in the City and then when he became a father, he did the standard reevaluation of his life thingy. He came to the conclusion that his life was lacking in some of the essentials; time with family, a sense of pride or fulfilment in his career and a day-to-day sense of meaning. Serious stuff. So he chucked it all in and retrained as a life coach in the hope that he could help other people reach similar conclusions about their lives. I wasn't particularly supportive of his career choice and commented that I hoped everyone he advised had already paid off their mortgage on the six-bedroom pile in Notting Hill before throwing in their lucrative professions, just as he had. Frankly, I've always thought that life coaching was a bit of nonsense. For G.o.d's sake, what's the world come to if you need a life coach to help you make every decision from whom to marry to how you take your tea?

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