Part 22 (2/2)

How is it that time after time I can still forget how dangerous it is to have a conversation with Stevie? He always insists on being hideously straightforward.

'And I liked being by the pool with Laura this afternoon,' he adds.

As I said, hideously straightforward. I look away so that my eyes don't betray the hurt I feel. I shouldn't be hurt. Stevie is supposed to enjoy the company of his girlfriend. That's a good thing.

For a good thing, it hurts like h.e.l.l.

'Did you like playing the casinos?' I ask.

'Fantastic laugh,' he confirms. 'You?'

'Hated it,' I reply frankly. 'My problem with casinos is that they remind me of amus.e.m.e.nt arcades horrible places. Cheap, tatty prizes, the incessant clatter of the machines, lousy music, glowing coloured lights, and chewing gum stuck to the floor that looks like loose change. I hate it when you see drunken people scrabbling around trying to pick it up, thinking they've got lucky, but they never have and they never will. It's anything but glamorous,' I mutter.

'You're talking about Blackpool,' says Stevie astutely.

I shuffle uncomfortably. How did he work that out? I don't want to talk about Blackpool. We never have and that's fine by me.

'Vegas is just like Blackpool,' I grumble.

'No, it's not. It's glamorous here and exciting. No one's hometown is ever glamorous.'

'It's the same hopeless hope,' I reply definitively.

Stevie sighs and gives up arguing with me. We sit silently until he quietly adds, 'This evening was difficult, though. The whole situation is killing me.'

Did he feel it too? Was he uncomfortable every time Laura touched or kissed him, the way I was when Phil lavished attention or affection on me? Did he sometimes want to turn to me and share a joke or a thought but knew that he had to gag himself or risk exposure? Did he watch the couples on the dance floor and wonder what it would be like to hold each other? He might have.

'It's a hideous, miserable situation and I wish to h.e.l.l I wasn't in it. I wish you hadn't put me in it,' he clarifies.

'I'm sorry,' I say for about the millionth time.

'So you've said, about a million times.'

Inappropriately, I start to giggle.

'What are you laughing at now?'

'Just that I was thinking the same thing. I've noticed that we often think the same thing.' I don't mention or acknowledge that sometimes we disagree over fundamental and petty things too. That's not so important right now.

Stevie looks up at the black sky and sighs. 'I'm so confused, Belinda. One moment we're fine. We're friends, right?'

'Right.' I smile.

'But then suddenly, without warning, we're enemies.' He turns to me now, 'Which are we? What can we be?'

'I don't know,' I reply. There is another option, of course, but it's X-rated and I can't bring myself to suggest it. I reach out and squeeze Stevie's arm. But then I can't seem to move my hand away. I wait for him to pull away from me. He doesn't.

We fall back into a silence. I hope he believes it's a comfortable silence. For me, it's a silence fraught with s.e.xual tension, which I know is wrong but feels a little like something that's right. I am staring at his mouth and thinking about kissing his lips. I'm not imagining gentle, tender kisses. I want to thrust myself hard against him. I notice that his strong, muscled arms are now tanned from the day in the sun and a bit pink at the crook of the elbow. I want to kiss him there, in the crook, I want to kiss him everywhere.

These brandies have gone to my head; now I remember why I am supposed to be off the booze.

I pull my hand away from his arm, and sit on it. Being here with Stevie is exciting; the warming trickle of brandy in my stomach, which is already melting my brain cells, is delicious and the warm summer night is a delight. It's a moment in time that, taken in isolation, is perfect. Considered on the grand scale, it's disastrous.

Time is running out for Stevie and me. This morning was borrowed time, tonight it's stolen. Somewhere, lodged in a court (whatever that means) back in London, are the papers we signed saying we want to divorce each other. In the same way that, for years, a paper sat in a registry office in Aberdeen saying we once had wanted to be married to each other. Both papers mean nothing and everything, at the same time. In two months' time a decree absolute will declare that our muddled paths are legally dissolved. And that will be that. Suddenly, I see tonight as my last opportunity to ask the questions that used to keep me awake at night, when I first upped sticks, and ran away to London.

'What pulled you to it, Stevie? How come you wanted to be an Elvis tribute act so badly?'

'So badly that I drove you away, you mean?'

He's right. Without Elvis we might have made it work. That's why I need an answer to my question. I start to retrace his history, hoping to jog his mind into offering me long overdue insight.

'You always liked Elvis, even when you were a child. You were a big fan by the time you moved to Kirkspey.'

'Definitely. Do you remember the hours we spent watching his old movies, listening to his tracks?'

'Yes.' Back then Stevie's near obsessive knowledge of and great love for Elvis had been endearing. 'You went to university-'

'Yes, and it was great.'

'But you didn't do gigs then.'

'No. I got to know lots about the Trojan wooden horse and I got to spend lots of time in the Coach and Horses.'

'Exactly my point, Stevie. I thought you were a Renaissance man. You studied music, you read The Iliad and The Odyssey in your spare time, yet still went to the pub with your mates. You got a really good degree and then you wanted to be an Elvis impersonator.' I try, but fail, to hide my exasperation.

Stevie smiles thinly, 'Tribute act, if you please. Believe me, Belinda-'

'Bella, if you please,' I say, playing t.i.t for tat.

'Bella, believe me, belting out a couple of verses of ”Love Me Tender” is far more relevant than most of the stuff I learnt at university. Even if I'm wearing a wig and flares.'

I'm aware that he's trying to keep things light, but his jokey att.i.tude towards his career only riles me more. 'Why can't you just fulfil your potential, be yourself?'

'That from a girl who changed her name, her haircut, her accent and home but failed to leave a forwarding address for her husband.'

Suddenly, the night air doesn't feel quite so warm. I can see his point but it doesn't stop me staring crossly at him. Indeed, it's probably because I can see his point that I'm so churlish. I notice my brandy gla.s.s is empty so I signal to the bartender, who brings us colourful c.o.c.ktails. I have no idea what I'm drinking; I should probably have eaten the bread and b.u.t.ter pudding to line my stomach. The bartender must think so too because he places a small bowl of nuts on the table. I scoop a handful into my mouth but know they can't help me.

I breathe deeply and try to hide my discomposure.

'Can I ask you something, Belinda?'

'Anything,' I agree rashly.

'If I hadn't met Laura and stumbled into your life, when would you have got around to contacting me? Or were you hoping the whole messy business would just disappear?'

'The latter, I suppose.' I sigh. 'Although the situation was coming to a head. Time was ticking on.'

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