Part 25 (1/2)

Belinda stares at him, clearly stunned that he has made such an accurate appraisal of her character. She may hate gambling on the tables and slots but he's right, she's the biggest risk-taker I know.

'Have a go on the slots, little lady. That's my tip. The three-coin jackpot often pays a hundred and fifty per cent of a two-coin win. Theoretically costing a quarter of a dollar per play. The trick is, Bel-Girl, to know that they only pay out substantial sums if two or three coins are deposited instead of one. But, and here's the rub, less than a quarter of slot players play with more than one coin at a time. That's knowledge for those in the know, that is.' He winks at her, she doesn't respond and I doubt she appreciates the tip. 'It's grand b.u.mping into you. It will be just like old times tomorrow. Best of luck to you, Stevie. Best of luck, lad,' says Neil, who always had a habit of repeating a sentiment several times.

'Thank you,' I stutter. If ever a man needed luck...

'Well, we need to get going,' says Belinda, signalling frantically to the waitress for the bill. She knows Neil Curran well enough to guess that he could keep chatting all afternoon; our partic.i.p.ation in the conversation would not be required. 'Stevie needs to try his costume on. We don't want to be late for the dress rehearsal.'

'Oh, yes. We're taking it all very seriously. The rehearsal's an event in itself. Ticketed, you know,' says Neil, proudly.

'I guess that's so the organizers can make twice as much, is it?' asks Belinda.

'Aye.' Neil smiles, 'My idea.' He doesn't seem to hear her dig. She was forever complaining that the organizers of these events were exploitative and the prizes weren't up to much. She could never see the fun in just being part of it.

'I helped find a number of the sponsors too, mind,' adds Neil. A northern man, in his fifties, who isn't shy about his canniness with money. If he'd been born in the south, as likely as not Neil Curran would have been running a cutting-edge advertising agency or made a fortune as a City trader.

'This bash has cost a bob or two with every finalist bringing three friends.' And then he asks the question I didn't want to answer in this lifetime, 'Who did you bring with you, if you haven't bairns?'

I don't think the truth my girlfriend and Belinda's other husband would make appropriate small talk so I'm grateful that Belinda takes control.

She kisses Neil's cheek.

'Really fantastic to see you,' she lies. 'We'll leave you to your lunch and er...' She glances at the booth that Neil emerged from; it's littered with empty beer bottles but he's eating alone. 'And er... your beer,' she adds, as she grabs my hand and starts to lead me away. She appears every inch the devoted Elvis-wife, who sees to it that I leave plenty of time to style my quiff before big gigs, sews sequins on my costume, spends hours on the Internet sourcing the most authentic gold gla.s.ses available, that sort of thing. Exactly the type of wife Belinda did not want to be. 'See you at the rehearsals, tonight, I expect,' she calls over her shoulder.

'I'll be there, la.s.s. You can count on me. Goodbye.'

We pay the bill at the counter and then leave the diner. Belinda manages to keep smiling until we are safely in a taxi, then she immediately lets go of my hand as though it is scalding her and rounds on me like Attila the Hun.

'f.u.c.k, Stevie, what have you done now?' she spits, in an angry whisper.

'Me?' I'm more than surprised.

'Didn't you check to see if you knew any of the personnel running the compet.i.tion?'

I feel stupid. There's an information pack in my room with brief biographies of the compet.i.tors, the other entertainment acts and the compere. I hadn't read it.

'This is all your fault,' says Belinda emphatically and somewhat unfairly.

'My fault?'

'It was you who brought us here,' she snaps angrily.

'Oh, I'm so sorry,' I mutter sarcastically. 'But you weren't forced to accept the freebie holiday, you could have said you had a previous engagement.'

'I wish I had,' she barks.

h.e.l.l, of course this was always going to go t.i.ts up. How could I, of all people, have fallen for the pseudo-sophistication of Bella Edwards when I knew it was just Belinda McDonnel in a posh frock. Belinda never had the luck to get away with anything as conniving as this. Belinda was the kid in cla.s.s who always got caught when she copied her homework, the kid who missed the hockey goal on an important penalty point, the kid whose mum died of lung cancer. How did she manage to get away with bigamy for this long with luck like hers?

Bickering isn't going to help.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Belinda, what are we going to do?' I have no idea why I've asked her. She's hardly been a leading beacon when it comes to good ideas and foolproof plans to date, but then I am struggling for alternatives.

'You'll have to pull out of the compet.i.tion.'

'What?' I'm astounded.

'There's no alternative. He thinks we're married.'

'We are.'

'Be serious, Stevie.'

Belinda has disappeared. The woman who wrapped her arms around me and wanted to comfort me in the diner, just ten minutes ago, recedes in front of my eyes and instead Bella, the I-will-survive queen, comes to the forefront. In my head she is wearing one of those T-s.h.i.+rts that read 'It's All About Me'.

'If you go ahead with the show, Laura, Phil and I will be in the audience. Neil's bound to come over to our table after the show and he'll let the cat out of the bag.'

'Well, you and Phil don't have to come to the compet.i.tion, we might get away with it.'

'We won't,' says Belinda. 'Things are getting out of hand.' I'm not sure if she's referring to the unfortunate meeting with Neil Curran or our snog last night.

'Promise me you'll pull out,' she says.

'Don't ask me to do that.'

'I am asking. I'm pleading.'

'I can't do that, Belinda. This means too much to me.'

'As much as I mean to you?' she demands. I pause for a moment and wonder how I can explain.

Eventually I mutter, 'You're not mine.'

'Just a few minutes ago you said you were in love with me. Was that just something to say at the time, to increase your chances of getting your hand down my knickers, or did you mean it?'

A number of things go through my mind. Whether I've ever had even the slightest chance of getting my hand down her knickers is, I'm ashamed to admit, one of the thoughts. The others are a little more pragmatic as I struggle with the nub of the question. Did I mean it when I said I loved her? And, if I did, how much am I prepared to do in the name of love?

'I think I meant it,' I say weakly.

Not exactly impressive, I know. Not the sort of fighting talk that wins the lady. I watch Belinda struggling with indignation and common sense. I realize she's probably heard more romantic propositions but I don't want to say anything I might regret. Anything more that I might regret.

'Sort it out, Stevie,' she says, and then she tells the taxi driver to stop.

'But, lady, you're nowhere near the Mandalay Bay,' says the driver.

'I can walk a few blocks. I need to shop,' she tells him. Then she turns to me, repeats her instruction, 'Sort it out,' and flounces out of the car and in the direction of an enormous shopping mall.

I stay in the taxi and as we edge through traffic on the Strip, I ask myself, can I sort it out?

Neil Curran is a loud, diehard compere who, in another lifetime, had a stand-up act at seaside resorts such as Blackpool and Yarmouth. We got to know him when I was trying for the Greatest European Tribute Artist Convention and Compet.i.tion in 1996. Funny that he should be compering the compet.i.tion this year as he did on the night that Belinda did her bunk. Of course, Belinda would argue that this isn't so much a coincidence as indicative of the fact that the job of a tribute artist is small-time and the circles I mix in are small too. She won't accept, or even acknowledge, that the Elvis tribute industry is ma.s.sive. Facts aren't going to get in her way.