Part 23 (1/2)

'Biological clock?' he asks.

I seethe. I hate it when men talk about biological clocks, or hormones, or the time of the month. They wear that supercilious expression and nod as though they understand everything. When in fact the opposite is true.

'Not mine,' I snap. 'Phil's.'

'No. You were never maternal,' mutters Stevie. He sips his c.o.c.ktail, clearly oblivious to the threat of my blinding him with a colourful, paper umbrella. Our confidence and cosiness is easily threatened. 'You know nothing about me,' I bite.

'I'm your husband,' he states.

'Technically. Nothing more.' Suddenly, I want to pick up my bag and storm out of the garden back up to my room. I want to run away from this horrible creeping intimacy, this straight talking, this dangerously explorative mood. I want to run fast, my feet pounding on the pavement, over and over again, just to put some distance between us. But I stay put.

'Philip is desperate for children. It was becoming increasingly difficult to explain my reluctance. But how could I have children with him when I'd simply be inviting those new lives to join my old mess. Parents shouldn't do that. A parent's role is to sort out the messes. I knew I couldn't be legally married to you and have a child with Phil. Besides-' Do I want to go on?

'What?'

'Well, even a.s.suming I get this bigamy thing sorted out, I'm still nervous of how adequate I'll be as a parent. I'm a bit short on role models,' I confess.

'You'll be a great mum, Belinda,' Stevie a.s.sures, with seriousness.

'Thanks,' I grin. 'You'll be a great dad.' Obviously my brain hadn't been consulted before my tongue threw out this rash statement. Stevie is glowing in the light of my compliment.

I snap my mouth shut at just about the exact moment his lips meet mine.

We kiss for how long? I don't know a fraction of a second or several minutes. The kiss is such a delight. It zooms past the last eight years, erasing my history, erasing my responsibilities and, oh G.o.d, erasing my morality. He is s.e.x. He always was. I craved him when I was young. Ached for him on warm summer nights when I slept alone in my dad's home. The window open, letting in the sounds of the evening and the promise of a future. A breeze, that was all about promise and the question, what if? What if?

I'm not going to. I want to. Oh yes, I want to and that's bad enough, but not as bad as actually doing it. I know how he feels (firm) and how he tastes (salty, s.e.xy). I know every curve, niche and crevice of his lovely, lovely body. And there's something else. I know that the s.e.x we had as good as it was would be even better now. I've had other men to practise on, not loads but a few. Way back when... I probably got marks for energy, rather than expertise. I'm more confident about my body now mystifying, considering my skin is not as soft and my b.o.o.bs have... what should I say? Relaxed? But at least I now know exactly how to get the right bits to start jumping.

And let's face it; he's probably learnt a trick or two.

Oh G.o.d, we could have excellent s.e.x. Intense and pa.s.sionate s.e.x.

'Phil,' I say, pus.h.i.+ng Stevie away at about the exact same moment I hear him mutter, 'Laura.'

We separate and I grab my c.o.c.ktail better that than Stevie's body.

'We can't, Stevie.'

'We're married. Legally we wouldn't be doing anything wrong,' he says, articulating the loophole that has occurred to us both.

'Morally we'd stink,' I point out.

Stevie sighs. 'I'm confused about your moral code, Bella. Did you find it easy to stand at an altar and agree to marry Phil? Did you sail through that bit about ”if anyone knows of any legal reason why this marriage can't go ahead” etc etc?'

'I know I'm confusing you, Stevie. I'm confused too.'

I push back my chair and unsteadily totter to my feet. I sway slightly, Stevie probably a.s.sumes that's the effect of the alcohol which is better than him knowing the truth. His kiss was the most overwhelming of my life and I think it is stamped upon me for ever.

He grabs my hand and our fingers entwine; finding each other swiftly and naturally, as though they had memories of their own.

'Why are you having such an effect on me, after all these years? If I was truly happy with Philip, you wouldn't get near me,' I mutter.

'I agree.'

'Why do I want you?'

'I'm irresistible.' Stevie wants to appear c.o.c.ky and confident but it's an act. I know him: he's lost and forlorn.

'I have to go to bed.'

'Good idea.'

'Alone, Stevie.'

Stevie squeezes my hand, then kisses it, 'I shouldn't be thinking about you either. I should be thinking about Laura or focusing on the compet.i.tion but you plague me. You play me. I wish I hadn't heard you talking to the barman.'

'I didn't know you were listening.'

'True enough. If you had, the last thing you'd have been was honest.' His eyes drill through any semblance of sense I possess. 'Meet me tomorrow, Belinda. We still have so much to deal with. There's so much I don't understand.'

'That's madness,' I insist, pulling my hand away from his. This was just a drunken kiss. We've overstepped the mark, yes. But it's a bungle, not a premeditated cruelty. 'I can't meet you,' I say, shaking my head.

'You owe me, Belinda. This isn't just about you. I'll be in reception at nine. I'll wait for you,' states Stevie firmly.

36. Any Day Now.

Friday 9th July 2004.

Stevie.

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

Could this possibly get any messier? What have I done? What have I said?

'Morning, gorgeous,' Laura mutters, as she opens one eye. She doesn't lift her head she also drank a shedload last night and she's only human. She does, however, launch the widest beam and set it sailing in my direction.

I am leaning against the dressing table, as this is the point in the room furthest from the bed. I move my fingers in a feeble wave and say nothing. She widens her grin a fraction, closes her eye and drifts back to sleep. She'll a.s.sume my reticence is because I'm hungover too, or nervous about today's impending rehearsal, or that I didn't want to wake her from her drowsy slumber. Whatever conclusion she reaches, it will be generous and I don't deserve her benevolence.

Nearly every day, for several weeks now, I have been lucky enough to wake up to Laura's beam. It's a wide, very even grin and while I'm aware that it's fas.h.i.+onable to describe desirable women's smiles as 'cookie' or 'lopsided', 'slow' or 'reluctant', Laura's is an absolutely straight grin that is fast and ready. She has fleshy pink lips and Hollywood-white, uniform teeth. Her parents must have spent a stack of dollars at the dentist. This morning, like all the other mornings, her smile radiates and fills the entire room. That and the blinding suns.h.i.+ne streaming through the window are clearly signs from G.o.d that I am a condemned man. I know that, generally speaking, suns.h.i.+ne and a dazzling smile from your girlfriend are seen as fortuitous but in my case I see them for what they are. Aggravators of the world's most vicious hangover, sent to spitefully suck the last drops of moisture out of my frazzled and parched brain. Timely reminders sent to nip and snarl at my malfunctioning conscience.

I've lain awake for practically the entire night when what I needed most was to sleep. Well, I needed sleep about as much as I needed a lobotomy, a kick up the derriere, to turn back time or a life swap. Sleep has to be deemed the most accessible of the above choices, and yet even that eluded me.

All night I lay awake next to beautiful Laura and thought of beautiful Belinda. Laura's long, lithe limbs were stretched out next to me and I carefully studied the wonder of her her grace, poise, strength and athleticism. But while I could see her beauty I felt unable to enjoy it. I have betrayed her.

Some would argue that as I've failed to mention my secret marriage to Belinda, for the entire duration of our relations.h.i.+p, that I had already betrayed Laura on a number of occasions. Whenever I surrept.i.tiously sneaked off to meet Belinda in some warm old pub or snug thirty-something bar, I betrayed her. Whenever I was vague about the 'significant others' in my past, I betrayed her. Whenever I fudged the details of where and when I went to university I was less than honourable. However, in my heart I had not betrayed Laura. Until last night. I believed that I was protecting her. I told myself that I was only involved in this messy subterfuge at Belinda's insistence and Belinda isn't some malevolent force she's Laura's best friend. I did a pretty good job of convincing myself that keeping a secret from Laura was for her own good. After all, the secret did not relate to her, directly. And, well, if I was protecting myself a little bit because once I'd sat through oysters and linguini at Bella's and stayed schtum, I was involved then no harm done. What else could I do? I honestly believed that my situation was messy but not irretrievable and, significantly, not of my own making.

Until last night.