Part 24 (2/2)

'My mum's a lovely lady,' said Stevie, understandably defensive.

'She is, but it would have been such a terrible leap backwards for me.'

'But there was work there.'

'In the post office!'

'A steady income. I thought that was what you wanted.'

'I still don't know what I want.'

But even back then I knew what I didn't want. I didn't want my children to grow up in a house where the white paintwork is yellowed with cigarette smoke and people use the loo as an ashtray so there are always stray f.a.gs floating in the water. I didn't want a household where no one bothers to say 'excuse me', 'pardon' or 'what?', let alone knows whether it's to negotiate body s.p.a.ce, beg forgiveness for an embarra.s.sing bodily function or ask if a question can be repeated in a louder voice. I didn't want my daughters to be considered unlucky. I didn't want my sons to feel the need to mindlessly beat other women's sons, just for something to do on a Friday night. It all seemed pagan. I just wanted things to be different.

'And now?' asks Stevie.

'Now, what?'

'Now do you see me as one of them? Do you see me as someone who would want to hold you back? Limit your potential?'

'For f.u.c.k's sake, Stevie, you are an Elvis impersonator. You wear jewellery and flares. What makes you think you could ever show your face in Kirkspey local again? You're not one of them. I was wrong about that.'

Stevie smiles, a broad forgiving grin. He recognizes my backhanded compliment. His pleasure encourages me to be kinder.

'You've done really well, Stevie. I wish I'd had teachers like you when I was at school. And the Elvis thing's turned out OK, hasn't it? Don't get me wrong, I still fundamentally disbelieve in what you are trying to achieve. Why be an imitation when-'

'Stop, stop, quit while you're ahead,' Stevie laughs. 'Please don't pour any cold water on the compliment. Leave me with the warm glow.'

We smile at one another and I feel a great sense of relief. Telling Stevie how I felt, and why I acted as I did, is a stupendous release. I had not realized that I was so burdened by guilt and shame until now. Now I feel a tiny bit calmer. Stevie's relations.h.i.+p to me is a little bit straighter and clearer: he's an ex and I've just articulated all the reasons why he's an ex. I feel such a surge of wellbeing that I stretch out my hand and grab his. I squeeze it tightly, hoping he'll understand how I feel. I hope that somehow he sees that there has been a monumental s.h.i.+ft.

'About last night, Belinda.'

'Do we have to talk about it?' I ask. I mean, one step at a time.

'I think we do,' says Stevie who is obviously keen for quantum leaps.

'I'm so sorry, Stevie, but I don't want to.' It terrifies me that last night Stevie kissed me, and not only did I kiss a man other than my husband but I kissed a man who is my other husband.

And I liked it.

Very much.

I don't want to lose Philip but I can't quite let Stevie go. Of course my actions are stupendously flawed. Kissing Stevie is a direct route to losing Phil, and signing decree absolute papers is the sort of thing you do when you are letting go. I can't have both men but will one of them ever be enough?

'I need to, Belinda. I'm totally thrown. Here's the thing. Last night Laura looked sensational. She looked more-'

'More beautiful than I did.' I help him out. Of course she did, that had been my plan. I didn't want him to notice me because I knew I was unlikely to resist the onslaught of his attention.

'Different. She always looks lovely but last night she was beautiful. And she's easier going than you. She's not married to someone else. She's not even married to me, for G.o.d's sake. And yet in the garden all I wanted was you.' Stevie pulls his hand out of mine and his head sinks into his hands. For one really awful minute I think he might cry. 'I didn't want to fall in love with you again. But it's you. It's always been you. But then... it can't be you because although we're married, you're off limits. We're getting divorced.'

The pain and pleasure of hearing Stevie say this explodes inside my head and heart simultaneously. It's a rush of emotions and I'm unable to fathom which is dominant and where the feelings were launched from. d.a.m.n, just when I was making some progress. Is it as clear-cut as my head fighting my heart? I don't think so. I think my heart is fighting a savage civil war and my head is a barbarous, invading foreigner. I rush round the table and bend down to wrap his sad bulk in my arms.

Then, when I think things cannot possibly get any more fraught and confused, I hear a familiar voice boom, 'h.e.l.lo, my loves. Who would have b.l.o.o.d.y believed it? After all these years, who would have thought it?'

38. Devil in Disguise.

Stevie.

The situation is out of my control and even out of the seemingly all-governing control of Bella Edwards because the secret is no longer our little secret.

In vivid technicolour he lumbers through the diner towards us. He's beaming at the serendipity of our meeting; Belinda and I only see the face of the Grim Reaper.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, me loves. Stevie, me lad! Belinda! I wouldn't have known you, la.s.s. You've gone skinny. How b.l.o.o.d.y brilliant to see you both.'

Neil Curran slaps me on the back, hugs Belinda and then, in a rare moment of northern man showing affection, hugs me too. Belinda and I rise from our compromising position and accept the hugs but our tongues freeze. Neil Curran, never the most observant of men, doesn't notice our silence.

'How many years must it be now?' he asks. 'Six? Seven?'

'Eight,' mutters Belinda. I feel very sorry for her. There's no opportunity to pull on her poker face. The expression she's wearing shows that she's completely distraught and out of options.

'And is that a wedding ring I see?' laughs Neil, grabbing hold of Belinda's left hand. 'Nice.' He lets out a low and long whistle, 'A carat. You must have done well for yourself, Stevie. All of that off an Elvis tribute act's salary? I'm impressed.' Neil's vulgar reference to the cost of Belinda's ring is not meant to be offensive; it's supposed to be the opposite. Of course, under the circ.u.mstances it's pretty vile. I thought I'd stopped being bitter a long time ago that Belinda rarely wore my plain gold band.

'Any kiddies?'

'No', Belinda and I chorus quickly. I look at her, waiting for a signal as to what we should do next. She struggles to take control of the situation by turning the conversation away from us and focusing on Neil. I suppose, the less we say about ourselves the fewer lies we'll have to tell.

'So, Neil, Neil Curran,' she repeats his name and credit where it's due she does a plausible impression of being pleased to see him and overwhelmed by the coincidence of meeting him. The latter sentiment requires less acting talent, of course. 'After all these years you haven't changed a bit,' she says, turning on the charm. If I remember correctly, she never actually liked the man. She thought he was a slimy t.o.s.s.e.r. 'What are you up to nowadays?'

'Still the same stuff, Bel-Girl.' Belinda shrivels a fraction on hearing the nickname he'd given her several years back. I've always thought it was rather witty on a number of levels she always hated it. 'That's right, same stuff. It's in the blood, isn't it? Elvis, s...o...b..z the whole shebang. It's in y' blood. You know that, with your Stevie. Still doing the circuit after a decade. Bet you didn't imagine that way back when?'

'No,' says Belinda, drily. 'So, are you here for the Greatest European Tribute Artist Convention and Compet.i.tion?' Somehow she manages to inject enthusiasm into the question.

'Of course. I'm the compere. I saw the list of finalists and your name, Stevie. But I wasn't sure it was you, lad. Common name, Stevie Jones, might have been one of a number,' says Neil. 'You haven't been so big on the UK scene for quite some time now, have you, Stevie? Didn't know what you were up to. Have you been earning your cash abroad? This your comeback gig?'

'Something like that,' I mutter.

'Very appropriate, lad. The King himself did exactly the same thing in Vegas on July the thirty-first, in nineteen sixty-nine. He performed at the Hilton, an off-Strip hotel that depended on the showroom as its major draw. Hundreds were turned away almost every night, even though there were two shows. One at eight in the evening and another at midnight.'

I know everything Neil is telling me about Elvis and he probably knows that but he likes the sound of his own voice far too much to shut up. Besides, he's clearly had a few too many already and makes the mistake most drunks make: he thinks what he has to say is fascinating. I tune out and spend a few moments in unprofitable panic worrying about the things I've just said to Belinda, the fact that last night we kissed and the fact that someone from our past is here, very much in our present. I look at Belinda and I figure that she's doing the same. She's alabaster white.

'Have you had a flutter?' he asks.

'Small one,' I confirm.

'What about you, Bel-Girl? I'd have you down as a bit of a secret gambler. The quiet ones are always the worst.' Neil nudges me in the ribs.

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