Part 19 (2/2)

How did such an unfortunate sentence form in my brain, never mind struggle into existence? That sounded one hundred per cent come-on. I'm wrestling with playing by the rules I set, within the game I created. I know that I ought to just pick up my towel and go and track down Phil in the gambling hall, but something glues me to the sunbed. I blush furiously. Stevie looks momentarily bemused, then dismisses me. He places his towel on the bed next to mine and sits down. I pick up my novel. He picks up his suncream. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as he rubs lotion on his thighs, arms, face and stomach. It's quite a show.

'G.o.d, I could never imagine you using suncream,' I blurt.

Wrong, wrong, wrong! That sentence was, once again, totally unsuitable. For a start, it implied criticism the Stevie Jones I knew and loved was too ridiculously macho for anything as sensible as sun protection. For a second, it alluded to the fact there once was a Stevie Jones that I knew. And loved.

'What do you mean? That I'm too thick to take on board government warnings about global warming and skin cancer?' asks Stevie snidely.

'No, not that. It just... Well... It just wasn't something we ever thought about when we were kids, was it?' I'm beginning to wonder if there are any 'safe' topics of conversation for us or if we are wading through the verbal equivalent of a crocodile-infested swamp. 'I mean too much sun wasn't something that kept anyone awake at night in Kirkspey, was it?' I grin, hoping that Stevie realizes I'm not sarcastic or critical. I'm nothing other than nervous.

He looks at me for a long time, about two hours or maybe thirty seconds. 'Suppose not. Will you do my back?' He offers me the sun lotion as though his request is a reasonable one.

I take the lotion as I can't see an alternative. What can I plead? Cramp in my arm? Allergy towards sun lotion? Inability to touch my husband's back without remembering just how physically attractive I always found him? None of these excuses seem quite right, especially not the truth.

Stevie flips on to his stomach. I hover above him. What to do? What I want to do is straddle him. Gently lower my crotch on to his b.u.m, one leg dangling on either side of him so that he sees my neatly manicured, scarlet toenails and my smooth, bronzed legs. I want to rub lotion up and down his taut, muscled back gratuitously ma.s.saging the cream until he's fighting an erection. Ideally, I'd like to take off my bikini top and lean into him allowing my b.r.e.a.s.t.s to push against his back and shoulders, I'd like us to be upstairs in the privacy of a suite.

Obviously I've had too much sun.

I shake my head and try to dislodge the disgusting fantasy. Then I slap a bit of lotion on his back and shoulders. I hope he doesn't get burnt because I hardly did what you'd call a thorough job and even then I had to force myself to think of cleaning underneath the fridge and behind the loo. Ugly thoughts to neutralize the fabulousness of touching him.

I sit back on my sunbed and grab my novel. Stevie flips on to his back, which is a good thing because he's less likely to burn that way, and yet not such a good thing because he notices, 'Your book is upside down.'

'Oh,' I say, turning it quickly. 'It's not very good anyway.'

'What is it?'

'Oh, something light.' I try to hide the cover from him.

'Tolstoy's Anna Karenina,' he observes.

'Yes,' I admit.

'A great work.'

'Yes,' I admit.

'Not light, really.'

'No,' I admit.

Stevie pauses, then smiles. 'This is really awkward, isn't it?'

'Yes.' I grin widely, relieved I'm not the only one to find this whole situation impossible.

'Do you want a drink?' he offers.

'I'm trying not to.'

'Why? You're on holiday.'

'Because I don't want to do anything I'd regret,' I answer. That's the thing with Stevie it's easy to be honest around him.

'What could you possibly do that you'd regret?' asks Stevie.

He smiles at me, a slow s.e.xy smile. If anyone else had treated me to that same smile I'd be sure there was a tiny bit of flirtation going on. But there can't be. There mustn't be.

'What's left for you to do? It's not as though you could get drunk and marry impulsively just because you're in Vegas. You're already married to both your travel companions. Unless, of course, you go for the hat-trick and do the lesbian marriage thing with Laura.'

I stare at Stevie weighing up whether he is being cruel or spiteful. But his eyes are sparkling with mischief. He's trying to laugh at our situation because what else can we do? If we didn't laugh then we'd most definitely cry. I choose to burst into slightly hysterical peals. It is some sort of a relief.

'I'm not sure that lesbian marriages are legal, even here, in the state of Nevada,' I say with a giggle.

'Oh, legality has never held you back,' says Stevie and laughs uproariously. He waves at a pa.s.sing waiter and orders a bottle of white wine and two gla.s.ses. I don't object as the resolve I had, in shovel-loads on the plane, has melted away.

Stevie and I spend two glorious hours together. We hire a huge tyre-shaped float. It's big enough to allow us both to bob inside and we drift around the loop-shaped pool, screaming every time we coast under the 'waterfall'. We paddle in the 'sea', we drink wine and eat enormous club sandwiches because it transpires that neither of us had breakfast. It's very hot, so we also become more confident at rubbing on sun lotion for one another. The conversation flows as rapidly as the surrounding fountains. We chat about nothing much: places we've visited, hotels we've stayed in, bars we've drunk in. I haven't backpacked or stayed in a youth hostel, Stevie hasn't drunk in the Sanderson or the Ice Hotel in Sweden, so we both have a lot to say.

We joke and occasionally we disagree, but only gently. For example, I believe that there comes a certain age when women ought not to wear bikinis and ought gracefully to adopt the single-piece suit and a sarong. Stevie laughed at this and said fat, ugly and old people were just as ent.i.tled to feel warm sun on their skin as lithe, young beauties.

We hold stupid compet.i.tions to see who can float on their backs for the longest time (boredom breaks me and Stevie is the acknowledged champion). Stevie shows off doing underwater handstands and swimming between my legs. To the casual onlookers we probably seem to be the epitome of a deliriously happy couple. I bet people think we are honeymooners. Yet, even as I enjoy the morning, I mourn because I know it does not belong to me: I've stolen it. The thought sobers me so I swim to the edge of the pool.

'I fancy drying off,' I say, as I haul myself out of the pool. Stevie does the same and I become momentarily mesmerized as I watch the sparkly water that clings to his shoulders and legs. I'd sparkle too, if I clung to him like a second skin. He has a broad chest, much more man and less boy than I remembered, probably because the hair there has thickened but, thank G.o.d, it's not a rug. His shoulders are square and strong-looking.

'Do you work out?' I ask, not considering the implied compliment.

'What do you think?' asks Stevie as he flashes me a c.o.c.ky grin and winks. I pull my eyes away.

I am aware that I am practising the same trick I tried to employ at my wedding to Phil. Everyone warned me (correctly) that the big day would speed by in a flurry of smiles and excitement and before I knew it the whole thing would be over. Amelie advised me not to drink too much and concentrate on preserving two or three unforgettable things that can't be captured on film a particularly provocative smell, touch or taste. She said I was to make them my own and keep them as treasure to unearth whenever I needed them later. Right now, I am breathing in the smell of suns.h.i.+ne and sun lotion on warm flesh, and drinking in the image of flickering sunlight on the pool surface and I'm trying to hold on to it. I'd like to capture every sound, glance, smell, sensation and store them up because I'm on borrowed time. I'm having fun with a borrowed man. The thought hits me, with a sledgehammer whack. I force myself to address the issues we've been avoiding.

'Where's Laura this morning?'

Stevie's posture becomes rigid. We both know that the mention of her name is a rebuke. 'I left her on the phone to Eddie and I booked her into the spa. By now she'll be having a facial or a ma.s.sage.'

'That's very thoughtful.' I force a smile.

Stevie shrugs. 'It's not easy being a single mum.'

'I guess not.'

'Where's Phil?' he asks to chide me.

'Playing the slots.'

'No, actually I think that's him over there, with Laura,' says Stevie.

I look towards the direction he's pointing in and sure enough, Phil and Laura are threading their way through the sunbeds, towards us. It's as though we summoned them up through a voodoo spell. They are both grinning and waving happily. Laura looks relaxed after her spa treatments and Phil is shouting something about winning $380. I only wish I felt happier to see them.

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