Husbands by Adele Parks Page B

only just past breakfast time. This gesture saddens me as it’s exactly what I did for her on the countless occasions that we sat and talked about Ben, after his death, back when numbing the pain and shock was the only viable option.
    ‘Well…’ Amelie stutters to a stop before she starts, clearly she’s unsure what to say.
    I take a deep breath and tell my story. ‘Stevie was my first love. He moved into our village when I was sixteen. He was like a glistening light in my humdrum existence. Unlike most of the other girls I’d never fancied the local boys I went to school with. Our village was so small that everyone knew each other since the day we were born so they had the familiarity of brothers. On the day I went into fifth form my only thought was which subjects I should take.’
    Amelie, who is terrifically academic, is shocked into interrupting me. ‘You hadn’t chosen your subjects even though it was the beginning of term?’
    ‘No. Amelie, I’m not like you or Ben. I don’t have a particular talent or vocation. I never did. I was waiting to see which teacher was assigned to each subject then I’d choose according to who was the easiest about wearing make-up and who would set the least homework. But then Stevie Jones arrived at the school gate and all I could think of was how to get near him. I found out he was planning on taking literature, politics, music and history so I followed suit.’
    ‘The work of the feminist movement has been so worthwhile,’ murmurs Amelie.
    ‘I didn’t think it mattered, although, all these years later I can’t help but think that I’d have done better if I’d picked geography and sociology instead of politics and music,’ I admit. ‘Anyway, aren’t we getting off the point here?’ Amelie nods tightly. ‘Stevie was the talk of the school. He was a year older than everyone else becausehe’d had a year out, travelling around South America. Age sixteen. Can you imagine the cred that gave him? He’d travelled with relatives – cousins – and he seemed so sophisticated compared to the other boys. So knowledgeable. He was dark and moody and brooding. All the girls fancied him and all the boys wanted to be him. Three girls asked him out on the first day of term.’
    ‘Not backward in coming forward at your school,’ observes Amelie.
    ‘We lived in a small town, you had to make your own entertainment,’ I say. ‘Luckily, he lived very near me and at the end of the day we found ourselves walking home together. It was a lovely early-September afternoon. Bright skies, leaves just turning to gold, there was a low sun glowing and throwing long shadows. We ambled along and I can still smell the sweet, wild grass and the hedgerow.’
    It’s a unique meteorological memory because, more often than not, the walk home from school was bleak and gloomy at best, or demanded an athletic feat of running while being stung mercilessly by lacerating rains.
    ‘You know something, Amelie? Since Stevie I’ve had countless romantic evenings with a varied cross section of the male population. I’ve been courted, flattered, pursued, call it what you will, in the finest restaurants, on boats, beaches and even in front of two of the seven wonders of the modern world.’
    ‘Really, which ones?’ Amelie can’t help her inquisitive mind.
    ‘The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco and the Eurotunnel.’
    ‘Is the Eurotunnel
really
classed as one of the seven wonders of the modern world? How marvellous.’
    I stare at her and hope she can sense my exasperation. Our conversations habitually ebb and flow. Often, on leaving Amelie’s house I think, ‘Oh, I never told her…’ or, ‘I never finished the story about…’ Today, I’m not in the mood for chit chat.
    ‘Yes, I read about it on a website. Do you want the full account of those intrigues?’ I snap, barely disguising my impatience.
    Amelie considers for a moment. ‘No, stick to your story. Keep the bridge and tunnel stories