Free Husbands by Adele Parks Page A

eats his way through the cereal. Finally, when he has finished it and three 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 day’s 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. Saying it for a second time doesn’t make it any easier to believe or accept.
    ‘She’s over twenty-one,’ says Amelie reasonably. ‘What’s the matter, Bella? This can’t just be about the fact that you don’t like Elvis impersonators.’
    I don’t want to lie to her but I certainly don’t want to have to tell her the truth either.
    ‘I love Philip. I really do. It’s not about the large home, although I do like him having a respectable job, I’m not denying it. Before Philip I had nothing more than a Boots loyalty card so I can barely articulate my joy at having a Selfridges store card. But that’s partly because I like the yellow carrier bags, not because shopping at Selfridges means I’m rich. Of course I love our holidays in exotic places but they’re only fun because we go together and…’ I falter. ‘I love all the add-ons but mostly I love him.’ As the expression ‘the lady doth protest too much’ comes to mind, I snap my mouth shut.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ demands Amelie again.
    ‘I have so much to lose.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    I can no longer hold back the information that I’ve guarded aggressively 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 while 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, soon my secret will be exposed. I’m horrified.
    ‘The thing is. The surprising, non-cliché thing about me, is technically I’m a bigamist.’
    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 with a fresh outbreak of acne who has said 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 worst bit is, I am indignant that she described Stevie like that.

12. I Got Lucky
    Stevie
    I wake up before eight even though it’s a Saturday and even though Laura and I were gassing till the small hours. I usually sleep late after a gig, rarely bothering to rouse myself before the big match is on TV but today is different. I’m full of energy. I have that feeling you get when you’re a kid and you wake up on Saturday, knowing it’s pocket-money day and there’s no school and the world promises to offer unlimited, untold delights. A few of which are even legal.
    I wander through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I open the fridge and discover what I expected: nothing much. There is about a quarter of an inch of milk still in the carton but a quick sniff confirms it’s no use to anyone other than a biologist. I pull on jeans, T-shirt and socks – I never bother with boxers at the weekend – I force my feet into my trainers, I grab a set of keys and set off to the shops.
    It’s only when I’m halfway there that I realize I should have left a note for Laura.