Bella

Amelie rings me at 8.30am Saturday morning. I wonder what took her so long.

‘You better have a good reason for running out on Laura,’ she demands.

‘I have,’ I assure her.

‘Well, what is it?’

I turn to look at Philip sleeping peacefully besides me. He looks almost babyish swaddled in thick white cotton sheets, cushioned by a large amount of pillows. He’s exhausted. He spent the day in Switzerland yesterday, seeing some client or other. His plane was delayed and then the cab from the airport got snarled up in traffic, we arrived home at approximately the same time as one another. Like Amelie, Philip had been surprised that I had cut short my girls’ night out and had wanted to know why.

I told him that I’d suddenly felt overwhelmed with a need to be with him. I explained that more than anything in this world all I wanted was to be away from the bar full of fat, blousy women, cigarette smoke and the smell of stale and fresh booze. I just wanted was to be in our clean, stylishly decorated, South West facing home. I wanted to drape my arms around his neck. I wanted to nuzzle into his whiskers and squash myself against his chest. Philip had been delighted with this response and we’d made urgent love on the stairs. For once, our needs overwhelmed our desire for comfort.

‘I just wanted to spend some time with Philip,’ I tell Amelie truthfully.

There is a pause whilst she considers this. Unlike Philip, there is no probability that Amelie will be flattered into distraction.

‘Why, what’s going on?’ She asks with more perception than I appreciate.

I shiver. I’m cold even though it’s a bright spring day and sunshine is already flooding through the bedroom window.

I choose not to answer the question and ask, ‘What time did Laura get home?’ Suddenly I’m panicked. ‘She did come home, didn’t she?’

‘Why are you worried that she is lying prone in an alley somewhere?’

‘No I’m worried she slept with Stevie Jones,’ I blurt with more truth than I intended. This causes Amelie to repeat her question.

‘What’s going on Bella? What on earth made you leave Laura like that?’

I hesitate again. Eleven years of strict and rigorous training battles with a fleeting instinct. I could cast aside the stringent code I put in place. I could tell her the truth. I gently touch Philip’s face. I trace my finger across his eyebrow and down his cheek bone. There is so much to loose. There is everything to loose.

Despite the needy and energetic sex last night I did not fall into my usual deep and contented sleep. Philip could barely drag himself off the landing and into bed before his eyes closed. I, however, couldn’t find the same relief. I tried reading but the words wouldn’t stay on the page, they jumped about, spitefully cheating me out of a distraction. I drank a glass of warm milk, something I haven’t done since I was a child but it just left a funny cloying taste in my mouth and after half an hour I couldn’t stand it, so I got up and cleaned my teeth. I lay awake all night replaying the past, imagining the future. One was depressing, the other bleak. I last remember looking at the clock at 5.45am, after that I must have finally fallen to sleep. Amelie’s call woke me from a miserable dream where I was being chased by Big Ben and I kept standing in gigantic piles of dog faeces. Maybe Amelie can help me.

‘Amelie, can I come over? I can’t talk about this over the phone.’

‘The coffee is on,’ she replies, mirroring my ominous tone.

Amelie opens the door to me and is clearly torn between ticking me off and giving me a hug.

‘I guess you’re in some sort of tricky spot?’ she asks.

‘You could say that. I need a coffee.’

Amelie leads me into her kitchen; where, as she promised and as is usually the case, a pot of coffee is brewing. The real stuff. I never serve Amelie instant coffee because she has never offered me any, but the difference is, I really think she goes to all the trouble of grinding beans even when she is alone, without guests to impress I’m happy to make do with instant. Amelie pours me a cup and tops up her own. I reach for the warm croissants without having to wait to be offered.

I choose to say nothing because I don’t know how to start. I stare out of the window and watch Freya and Davey who are playing in the garden. They are wearing their pyjamas, under their coats, accessorised with their trainers. This sartorial chaos is nothing to do with the fact that Amelie is a grieving widow, although to the uninformed observer this may seem the case. Amelie, Ben and the kids often stayed in their nightwear throughout an entire weekend, unless they ventured out or invited company around. Ben always said that this custom was to symbolize a release from the tyranny of a working week. Although in reality, as he worked from home, his working week wasn’t ever hampered by a dress code. Amelie had continued the bohemian tradition after he died. It strikes me that has Amelie managed to hit the correct balance of changing some things and leaving others well alone.

 ‘Amelie, tell me, what you think of me?’ I blurt.

Amelie stares at me, rightfully reflecting that the question is borderline barmy. ‘Where’s this leading?’ she asks cautiously and wisely. Of course she’s right not to jump both feet into a character assassination or even a glowing reference.

‘Well, you are perceptive. You’ve known me for six years. We’ve seen each other through the good, the bad and the frankly bloody awful times-‘, I pause to squeeze her hand. She smiles briefly. Bravely. ‘You probably think you have me pegged, don’t you?’

‘I don’t presume,’ replied Amelie tactfully. ‘You aren’t easy to peg, as you put it. You are quite an impulsive women.’

‘Do you think so? I think most people would look at my life and think it is this scary amalgamation of clichés.’ Amelie looks puzzled. ‘Well, I am a thoughtless drifter, who can’t quite make a go of it in any of the numerous industries I’ve had a stab at. I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when I met my husband. A wealthy, older man. Not obscenely wealthy. I’m not talking 100ft yacht, several holiday homes scattered across the globe and a Swiss bank account. And I’m not talking obscenely old either, but there is a nine year gap. I know what people think. They think I married Philip to get myself out of a hole.’ I stare at the trail of flakes of croissant that sit on my lap, on the breakfast counter and the floor. I feel truly sorry for myself. I wonder if it is too early in the day to cry.

‘Which people? Nonsense. I don’t think that,’ asserts Amelie, ‘It’s clear that you love him and he loves you. Have you had a row?’

I squeeze her hand again, poor Amelie, I didn’t want to alarm her. ‘No nothing like that. The people that work with Philip, the other waitresses in the cocktail bar, people like them think I’m a cliché.’

Amelie tuts and waves her hand dismissively, ‘No they don’t.’ Then she becomes more assertive on my behalf, ‘and even if they do, who cares? These people don’t matter to you.’

‘I do love Philip,’ I insist. ‘I didn’t just marry him because I couldn’t face my ass being squeezed by one more randy, drunken customer. But I can see why people are doubtful.’

‘Do you have any doubts?’ asks Amelie carefully.

I take a deep breath and try to be as honest and clear as possible. I know it’s vital that I explain myself to Amelie if she is to help me.

‘The thing is-‘

‘I’m starving.’ I turn to see who is the source of the interruption.

‘Morning Eddie. Gosh, you must have played with your Buzz lightyear late into the night.’ Eddie looks wary. He probably thought that using a torch under the covers had fooled Amelie. Amelie doesn’t pursue the issue. She always says the trick to being a calm mum is choosing the battles that are worth fighting; a late night at the weekend, clearly doesn’t fall into that category. ‘Freya and Davey were up ages ago,’ she adds.

‘Oh.’ Eddie immediately looses interest in breakfast and runs to the back door. ‘Can I go play too?’

‘Don’t you want some breakfast?’ offers Amelie, far too much of a professional to insist that Eddie should have breakfast. He takes the bait.

‘Maybe, OK. Hi Aunty Belly.’ Eddie smiles at me. Normally, I am unable to resist his smile and his use of the private nick name (a nick name that would be mildly offensive if issued from anyone other than the cutest four year old on the planet). Normally, I’d sweep him up in a huge cuddle and plant kisses all over his face. This morning I find it hard to mumble more than, ‘Hi Eddie.’

Eddie is still here. Eddie spent the night at Amelie’s. That means... I try not to panic. Maybe Laura is here too. Maybe she rang Amelie last night and they agreed not to wake Eddie in the middle of the night and so Laura stayed here or just went home alone. Alone is the important bit. That’s the bit I need reassurance on. As though Eddie can sense the question I need answering he asks, ‘Where’s my mum? When will she pick me up?’

Amelie is busy pouring Rice Crispies into a bowl. She falters for a nano-second, Eddie doesn’t notice. The almost imperceptible hesitation however tells me all I need to know.

‘Mummy will pick you up before lunch time,’ says Amelie. ‘We thought you’d want to spend the whole night here.’

Eddie nods happily and accepts his breakfast.

Amelie and I sit in silence as he slowly eats his way through the cereal. Neither of us pretends small talk would be appropriate. Finally, when Eddie has finished the enormous bowl and two pieces of toast, (has the kid got worms?), after he has located his coat and trainers and flung himself out of the back door to start his days adventures I am alone with Amelie and able to ask.

‘She slept with him?’

‘Well, we can’t know for sure. But she called last night and said they were going on some place after the gig. She asked if I’d look after Eddie until morning.’

‘She slept with him.’ I repeat. I’m distraught that saying it for a second time doesn’t make it any easier to believe or accept.

‘She’s over 21,’ says Amelie with reasonableness that, at this moment, I find insulting. ‘What’s the matter Bella? This can’t just be about the fact you don’t like Elvis impersonators.’ 

I don’t want to have to lie to Amelie but I certainly don’t want to have to tell her the truth either.

‘I love Philip. I do. I really do. It’s not about the large home. Although I do love the fact that he has a respectable job, I’m not denying it. Before Philip I had nothing other than a loyalty card in Sainsbury’s so I can barely articulate the joy I feel now that I have a Selfridges store card. But that joy is partially to do with the fact that I like the yellow carrier bags not because shopping at Selfridges means I’m rich. Of course I love our holidays to exotic places but they are only fun because we go together and... .’ I falter. ‘I love all the add ons but mostly I love him. I really do.’ I realise that the expression, “the lady doth protest too much” comes to mind so I snap shut my mouth.

‘What‘s the matter?’ demands Amelie again.

‘I have so much to loose.’

‘What are you talking about?’

I can no longer hold back the information that I’ve aggressively guarded for years. I am so lucky that I met Philip. Yeah, he took me away from the grind of a dead end job and is paying the bills whilst I make my mind up about what I should do next. He’s doing this patiently and without complaint, even though we both know it could be a long wait; think the siege of Troy. But more than that, I’m lucky because he is charming, funny, interesting, kind. He’s a great husband and I want - wanted - want to be a great wife but I can feel the fates shift. My luck is running out and I realise that soon my secret is going to be exposed. I’m horrified.

‘The thing is. The surprising, non-cliché-thing about me, is technically I’m a bigamist.’

I say the last part of the sentence extremely quickly, almost wishing I wasn’t saying it even as I am doing so. Most definitely, I wish it didn’t need to be said. The words are out. They sit between Amelie and me for a silent and endless fraction of time.

She doesn’t move and then, slowly, she asks, ‘You’re kidding right?’

Her tone is cautious as though she is addressing an adolescent who has had a fresh outbreak of acne and says she’d rather kill herself than go to school. I’m insulted but simultaneously understanding of her reaction.

‘I wish I was,’ I mutter. ‘I’m married to Stevie Jones.’

‘Elvis?’ Amelie asks with tangible disbelief. I nod. ‘Laura’s Elvis?’

‘Mine, actually.’ And the worse bit is that I feel indignant that she described Stevie this way.