Husbands by Adele Parks

he was grinning again, as though everything I said pleased him.
    ‘Sad but true,’ I assured him grimly.
    ‘Do you really think the world is that superficial?’ he’d asked.
    ‘Lots of it. You must be bloody lovely not to have noticed, especially as you work in a school.’
    Stevie’s eyes widened. ‘Did you just pay me another compliment?’ he asked.
    ‘No, I insulted you. I said you lacked perception.’ I smiled again so that Stevie wouldn’t take offence. He didn’t. He laughed out loud. It was a laugh that came from the belly and rang clearly through the restaurant and all of London town too, I expect.
    We talked, gossiped, told stories, swapped views and barely paused for breath. I got the opportunity to air my theories on the enormous quantities of sugar that builders, ostensibly, have in their tea (they must use it to mix cement or something). I talked about Eddie, a whole heap, so much so that I had to keep asking, ‘Am I boring you?’ Stevie assured me that he wasn’t bored.
    He talked about his work, his mates and his mum’s Sunday roast. I was about to run a mile, I can’t stand men with oedipal complexes and I don’t buy into the theory of watching how a man treats his mum as an indication of how considerate he’ll be as a boyfriend. An exceptionally close mother–son relationship at Stevie’s age could only indicate a lack of proficiency with the washing-machine dial. I was relieved when, instead of telling me how friggn’ A his mother’s roast is, he confessed that she can’t cook and that her gravy is often served with the question, ‘One lump or two?’
    After leaving university Stevie had bummed aroundEdinburgh for a while, then galvanized and spent three years travelling around the world. I adore meeting other explorers. We talked about all the places we’d visited, and the ones we still wanted to see. Only another traveller can summon the appropriate interest to enthuse about a sunset not personally witnessed. Stevie seemed bright, animated, wise and relaxed. Characteristics that, pre-Oscar, might have been attributable to me.
    It was past four in the morning when we fell out on to the street. We were giggling so much that I was bent double, although I can’t remember what he’d said that was so funny. I was having a fantastic time, and from what I could gather, he was too. It seemed natural when he put his arm round me, and I don’t think it was just to stop me falling over my heels and landing arse-up in the gutter.
    ‘What do you want to do now?’ Stevie asked.
    I glanced along the Fulham Road and saw a cab’s light in the distance.
    ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ I asked, because although we’d discussed pretty much every other area of our lives we had both avoided discussing our love lives. I had done this for two reasons. First, I’m not sure I have a love life to discuss; and second, if I have, then it’s one that has left me not quite bitter and twisted but certainly scared and scarred. Not, I believe, attractive qualities in a date. If we were on a date, and I’m pretty sure we were. It felt date-like.
    What was Stevie’s excuse for his reticence?
    ‘No, the situation is vacant,’ he said, with a broad smile.
    I wanted to ask him if he was waiting for me to applybut, even fortified by a large amount of drink, I didn’t dare be so forward. He doesn’t wear a ring but I thought I ought to check. ‘Are you married?’
    Stevie glanced at his shoes. ‘The thing is—’
    ‘You’re married to your work, right?’ I asked, cutting him off because of course he isn’t married. What a stupid question. It’s insulting to his integrity; I was immediately ashamed.
    ‘I wasn’t going to say that.’
    Suddenly a depressing thought overwhelmed me. ‘Are you gay?’ I asked.
    ‘Not last time I checked. Why? Are you homophobic?’ he asked, mock-serious.
    ‘No, of course not. I just don’t want you to be gay. Even if it means I could say, “Some of my best