Read Husbands for Free Online Page A

forgotten that my body was capable of entertaining flutters. I have come to think of it as a vessel for food and something for Eddie to cling to and climb on. How odd.
    ‘Laura Ingalls? You’re kidding,’ he laughs.
    ‘No, I’m not. My parents hadn’t seen or heard of
Little House on the Prairie
when they named me. More’s the pity,’ I mumble.
    Can people see sexual attraction? Does this man know I’m imagining him naked? I hope not.
    ‘I bet you hated it when the programme was a hit,’ says Stevie.
    ‘I did,’ I agree.
    Most people assume that
Little House on the Prairie
must have been my favourite programme as I shared my name with the precocious tomboy who was the lead character. It takes unusual insight to guess that I wouldn’t have appreciated sharing my name with a freckly, goofy kid who had a penchant for big bonnets and bloomers.
    ‘Still, it could have been worse. You could have been called Mary.’
    Stevie and I shudder as we consider the full horror. Mary was the prettier character in the show but she was mawkish and irritating too.
    ‘Back then I hankered after a zappier name. Zara, Zandar or Zuleika were my favourites.’
    ‘Did this discontent with your identity last long?’
    Stevie is smiling his fried-egg smile and the fear that he is a fruitcake recedes at about the same rate as realization dawns that he’s flirting with me.
    ‘Throughout the seventies and a large proportion of the eighties until I started to accept that being called Zara, Zandar or Zuleika wouldn’t guarantee that I was more popular or the captain of the netball team.’
    He laughs. ‘I think Laura is a really pretty name.’
    All at once I
love
my name.
    ‘
Top Cat
was my favourite cartoon as a kid.’ The nonsequential comment makes perfect sense to me.
    ‘I loved
Wacky Races
,’ I enthuse.
    And so we start to chatter about stuff, rather than things. And we just keep on chattering until the train flies through Barons Court. ‘I get off at the next stop,’ I tell him.
    What am I saying? Kiss me: this is our brief encounter. Get a grip. His eyes are a bright, clean green that reminds me of jelly: sparkly and rich. I realize I’m describing him as though his face is a plate of food at teatime but it has been a while since I’ve looked at men with any real interest. By contrast, food is an enduring passion.
    ‘Mine too,’ says Stevie.
    ‘I change on to the Hammersmith and City line. I live near Ladbroke Road,’ I blather, giving away more than is wise or cool.
    ‘I’m going to Richmond. I have a sort of job interview.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘The possibility of a regular gig. That’s what I do. I’m an Elvis impersonator, or at least it’s my night job.’
    ‘Really?’ I smile hoping to show my approval and interest, although I seem incapable of articulating it.
    All too soon the tube pulls up in Hammersmith. We both alight and for a moment we hesitate. Clearly, weboth want to say something,
anything
, but nothing groundbreaking comes to mind.
    ‘Well, good luck with the interview – er, the gig thing,’ I say.
    ‘Thanks, see you around,’ offers Stevie.
    We both know we won’t see each other again. Not if he disappears into the throng getting the District line and I merge with the masses passing through the turnstiles for the Hammersmith and City line. I shouldn’t care. But I do.
    ‘Bye then,’ I mumble.
    Then he kisses me. Stevie Jones leans towards me and after an intimacy of approximately fifteen and a half minutes, he kisses me. Very gently on the cheek, a fraction away from my lips.
    A number of possible responses spring to mind. I could slap his face – unlikely as I’m not a star in a black and white, pre-Second World War movie. I could grab his scruffy, scrummy body and pull it close to mine and snog his face off. Also unlikely. Although I have now had chance to notice that he
is
scruffy and scrummy (longish hair, over six foot, broad shoulders, lean – almost lanky – with neat