Part 27 (1/2)

I emerge from the bathroom a dripping cloud of love with a towel wrapped around my waist. I've caught a few rays and Bella loves to see me wet and freshly shaved, she's told me so on a number of occasions. I stride to the bed and then carefully lean in to kiss the top of her head. To think this woman is carrying my child! This amazing, beautiful, interesting woman is going to be the mother of my babies. I think I might explode with pride. I hover above her, waiting for her to turn away from the TV, and towards me, so that I can kiss her on the lips.

'You're making the bed wet,' she mumbles, without taking her eyes off the screen. I look up to see what's captivating her. A minute-long advert for kitchen knives? I pick up the remote and press the 'off' b.u.t.ton.

'I was watching that,' she grumbles with undisguised irritation. She turns to stare at me crossly, which gives me the opportunity to plant a smacker on her lips. Bella allows the kiss but keeps her mouth firmly closed, which inhibits my seduction plans.

'If you were drinking alcohol, I'd say this was a champagne moment, wouldn't you, gorgeous?' I ask. Then I grin and add, 'But if you were drinking, it probably wouldn't be a champagne moment.'

'What are you talking about?' asks Bella. She squeezes her hand into the tin of jelly beans and scratches around for another large handful. 'I don't know why I keep eating these. They're making me feel sick.'

She feels sick! I could kiss her. I lie down beside her and prop myself up on one elbow, facing her. 'I have something really funny to tell you,' I say.

'I could do with a laugh,' replies Bella. But she doesn't let me tell her the funny thing, instead she says, 'I'm really tired, do you think there's any way we could give tonight a miss?'

She stares at me. Her enormous brown eyes, framed with thick, long lashes, have never looked more beautifully Bambi-like. She's exhausted. Confirmation of everything I've been hoping for. It's as though she's shown me the funny white stick with the blue line. A family is just what I want. What we want. I'm so thrilled, I could burst. Knowing her secret is enough to make me explode.

'We can't miss the show unless we have a really good excuse,' I reply. 'After all, the main reason we're here is to support Stevie. We're his guests. We can't fail to show up at the dress rehearsal. Tonight will be important for his morale and confidence.' I pause dramatically, 'We'd need a really, really excellent reason to miss it.'

Like my wife is feeling nauseous carrying our first baby! I wait for her to confirm my suspicions but she doesn't. Bella sighs and mutters something about the best reason in the world. 'What is it?' I almost yell my question as excitement has made it impossible for me to control my voice. Bella looks startled.

She doesn't answer, she just rolls off the bed and opens her wardrobe door. She pulls out a top the first one that comes to hand. It's unlike her not to spend hours agonizing over what to wear. Maybe she already knows that some of her clingy numbers won't fit any more. Has she changed shape yet? Not to my eye, but then I'm not really sure when women start to 'show'. Oh h.e.l.l, this is exciting. My wife is going to bloom. I'm certain that she's going to be one of those beautiful and serene mothers-to-be. I imagine she'll glow rather than puke. But if she does puke I'll be right by her side holding her hair. I want to be with her every step of the way. I want to ma.s.sage her achy back and I definitely want to be at the birth. But most of all I want her to tell me she's pregnant! I can't wait another second. I want to start our future now.

'Bella.'

She pauses at the bathroom door. 'If we have to go to this thing I need to get ready.'

'Bella, are you pregnant?'

'What?'

I sit up on the bed and grin helplessly, waiting for her to make all my dreams come true.

'I'm right, aren't I? You're pregnant. The tiredness, the dizziness, the moods. Not that I mind you being moody. I mean, I understand. It must be hormones.' I'm gabbling because I'm deliriously excited but I don't want to upset her, she has been very irritable recently, so I tread carefully. 'And it's extremely n.o.ble of you to wait until after the compet.i.tion to make the announcement, rather than stealing Stevie's thunder. But, sweetheart, you can tell me! I'm so thrilled.' I stop gabbling.

Bella is silent. She's frozen, one hand on the bathroom door handle. She's looking at the floor. 'You're mad, Philip. Insane.'

She pops my dreams. Like balloons jabbed with a pin, they bang and disappear.

'You're not then,' I mutter, sadly.

'No, of course I'm not. Whatever gave you that idea?'

I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. Of course Bella isn't pregnant. She'd have told me if she was. She wouldn't have cared about Stevie's compet.i.tion. In fact, I don't think there is anything on this earth she cares less about than Stevie's compet.i.tion. How could I have allowed myself to get so carried away? How could I have imagined something so important to be fact, based on nothing other than flimsy hypothesis and conjecture?

Because I wanted to believe it. I want us to be a family so much more than anything. More than common sense, or caution, can control.

Besides, if Bella isn't pregnant then I am once again face-to-face with a number of very worrying issues. The alternative to pregnancy appals me.

I lie in silence except for the sound of running water as Bella showers. I hear her dry her hair and listen to the familiar sounds of her rattling around in her vanity case. I sit on the edge of the bed waiting for her. The sun is setting so the room is washed in a warm golden glow. The occasional reflection from the neon lights in the street darts crazily around the room, ricocheting off the furniture. The warm glow and the coloured lights suggest we ought to be having a better time than we are.

It takes Bella longer than usual to apply her make-up, more than enough time for me to pull on some chinos and a s.h.i.+rt. When she emerges from the bathroom I see that the extra effort has been worthwhile.

I'm always proud of my wife. She's strong, funny and gorgeous. But tonight she is something more; tonight she is dazzling. She's wearing a casual enough get-up. A red, funky sheer top and a beige skirt. I bought both garments for her from Diesel one Sat.u.r.day afternoon when we were killing some time in Covent Garden. I've seen her wear the outfit two or three times already and it's 'reluctantly s.e.xy' it allows a flash of taut stomach rather than anything obvious plus, she's wearing high strappy shoes, always a winner. Her hair is glossy and straight, like a sheet of ice, and her fingernails are freshly painted a very obvious scarlet that she normally confines to her toes.

I know a lot of 'stuff' about Bella. Our friends often joke that we'd be really great candidates for that old show Mr and Mrs. We know all the trivia about each other, trivia that holds lives together and gives them some form.

She takes skimmed milk in her tea, semi on her cereal and the full-fat stuff in coffee. She wears a Jo Malone perfume, except it's very trendy so it's called cologne, not perfume. She uses Jurlique skincare products. Her favourite smell is basil. Her favourite cheese is Gorgon-zola. Her favourite dessert is a bowl of strawberries and melted chocolate. Whenever she buys a new outfit she absolutely has to wear it that night, even if she is just sat at home, with me, watching a DVD. She likes the feeling of warm sand between her toes when she's walking on a beach but prefers to sunbathe by a pool. She often laughs so hard that she is helpless and feels sick although not that often, not recently. She loves being met at stations or airports. She gets a kick out of sticking her knife into a new jar of honey and eating from the blade, even though she knows she shouldn't. She prefers instant coffee to filter because she loves to 'pop' the seal on a new jar of coffee. She could recite a similar list of my preferences too. I know she could, because the fridge always boasts my favourite foodstuffs, her a.r.s.e is often to be found in the lingerie that I find s.e.xiest. She buys me video games I haven't got but do covet, she can choose me a book or a tie and knows all the names, ages and birthdays of my nieces, nephews and G.o.dchildren.

But suddenly, I'm paralyzed with fear because I wonder is this all I know? 'Stuff?'

I'm not so sure I know any of the big things about Bella, the things that give a life meaning. We have form but no meaning. How does she vote? Would she even get off her backside to cast a vote? Probably, for general elections but maybe not for local ones. How shocking. Does she want four kids? Does she want one? Why can't she figure out what she wants to do from nine till five? Is it really that hard? What's making her sad at the moment? How is it possible to know so much about a person and yet know nothing at all?

She's made an effort with her make-up. I know that because I know she doesn't normally wear eyeshadow, but today she is wearing two colours, carefully blended together and the liner stuff, and mascara. I know that she's wearing Perfect Pout gloss on her lips and Eyeko bronzer on her cheeks. I've been with her when she's scoured shelves for these products. I know so much. I know nothing at all. Because, the question that I cannot answer is whether the make-up is a mask to hide her? Armour to protect her? Camouflage to disguise her? Or is she painted like a flower to attract a pa.s.sing bee?

I don't know my wife and the pain of admitting such a thing is almost beyond my capacity. I'm struggling to behave with a semblance of rationalism.

'Do we have to go to the show?' she asks again.

'You're all dressed up,' I point out.

'We could go somewhere else.'

I ignore her and pick up the door key and my wallet. 'Bella?'

'What?'

'Are you having an affair?'

'No.' She stares at my left ear, for about a minute, then she looks me straight in the eye and repeats, 'No.'

But I don't believe her.

41. One Night.

Bella.

We arrive at the hotel hosting the gig at 8.45 p.m. I have done my best to delay the inevitable I've never taken so long to get ready for something, not even on my wedding days. However, Phil's beautiful manners mean that my death warrant is signed. I swear I can hear the blade of the guillotine being sharpened. I thought that looking s.e.xy might distract him and that he'd pounce on me, putting all thoughts of supporting Stevie out of his mind. But the conversation about my phantom pregnancy well and truly ruined the mood. Where the h.e.l.l had that ludicrous idea come from?

In the taxi I said I was feeling dizzy again. He grunted that he was sure it was nothing a stiff drink wouldn't cure. It seems he is all out of consideration and thoughtful-ness as far as I'm concerned. Understandable, I suppose, but lousy timing. If ever I needed Phil to be dependable, solicitous and kind, it's tonight. Bad luck. Bad timing. Very Vegas.

Neil Curran will expose Stevie and me tonight. Besides the imminent exposure too terrible and traumatic to contemplate there'll also be a certain amount of torture beforehand. A little like bad foreplay before miserable s.e.x, only hundreds of times worse. I am going to have to sit through fifteen Elvis tribute acts. I am about to be hauled las.h.i.+ng and biting down memory lane. It's almost enough to make me want to confess all to Philip right now. Why put myself through the horror of drawing out the experience?

Survival instinct, I suppose.

Despite the odds, a tiny defiant (deluded?) part of me wonders if it is possible that I'll get away with this. I'm hoping that somehow Neil Curran won't spot me in the crowd, or if he does, he might not want to mention his ancient a.s.sociation with Stevie, in case it's viewed as nepotism. I still hope against hope that I'll leave tonight's gig as Phil's wife.

The hotel is as flashy and gaudy as all the others I've seen on this trip, they're beginning to blur into one h.o.m.ogeneous ma.s.s of neon. We flash our VIP tickets to an earnest and efficient member of the waiting staff and we're swiftly ushered through a series of dark corridors and back doors, until double doors are pushed open and we are in a lavish and remarkable concert room.

The carpets are plush. The flowers, lights, candles and glittering backdrop on the stage are impressive. The tables and chairs have been set up, in tight cl.u.s.ters around the stage, and stretching as far back into the hall as possible; I'd guess there is a capacity of six hundred. It's a long way from the King's Arms Hotel in Blackpool. Undeniably, it's striking.