Antidote to Infidelity (11 page)

Breath catching in my throat, I
shiver at the fluttering in my breast.

Mmm. What about
Doctor-what’s-his-name? What about him indeed! Oh, if only they knew.

I’m so
confused
. I’m not
sure if it’s the job, the coat, the grin, the eyes, the compassion, the flowers
or the urge to hurt Will - but he’s got me giddy alright,
sod-his-bloody-stethoscope! At twenty-nine, married, mother-of-two, I’ve got
that heady anticipation you get when you’re in school and you think the cute
guy in the upper sixth
might
want to take you for a spin on his
motorbike . . .

I know damn well if Bi ever
claps her horny eyes on him, Doctor Mike’ll need resuscitating. She’ll have him
naked and tied to a stretcher quicker than you can summon a crash team!

With a stab of jealousy, I
realise he’d probably love it - he’s
definitely
a ladies’ man. You can
just tell. He looks like the kind of guy who
really
knows his way around
the bedroom, too.

Mmm. Or the waiting room.

Or the storage cupboard.

Or the darkened operating
theatre.

Or the elevator in the staff
car park . . . mmm.

Taking a sip of water, I fan
myself with the menu, regretting the mud pie which is sitting like a brick in
my bloated stomach. What if Amy’s right? What if he does want to shag me? Just
lay me back in his heated seat and give me the ride of my life . . .

Not that I’d ever let him,
obviously. My husband might be knee-deep in nurses but
I
have morals.
And class.
And
a conscience. You’d never guess though, given the fact
that just
thinking
about Mike, I’m close to doing a Meg Ryan in broad
daylight . . . in the middle of Route 66!

***

Realising I’m floating away
with the fairies and being scrutinised curiously by my chums, I shake my head,
sweeping out all inappropriate daydreams.

“Amy,” I plead, “drop the bone,
will you? I don’t want to
shag
anyone. At all. Has it ever occurred to
you that I actually really love Will - well, loved him, bastard - and that Mike
Foster was maybe just being nice?”

“Pllluurrgggh! Agahh! Huurrgh!”

That’s Bianca, choking on the
remnants of her cocktail.

“Bollocks Sal!” she cackles,
wiping her chin. “Men are never nice, unless they’re on-the-make. I should
know, I’m a connoisseur!”

Now that I can’t argue with.
I’ve never known anyone go through men like Bi. It’s almost as if she’s got her
own personal pecks-and-cheques production line - no morals, no hang ups, no
conscience and no regrets!

If a guy has a big cock, a hot
car and a credit card (or preferably, all three) Bianca makes a Bi-line for
him, and I’ve never, not once, seen a bloke knock her back.

Uh-oh. Trouble ahoy. Why am I
sweating? Has someone turned up the heating?

Ahh, no. I’m getting the
heebie-jeebies as Bi’s looking at me with that tell-tale glint in her wicked
green eyes that I’ve come to dread. It usually means she’s about to ‘educate’
me.

“Sally.”

“Yes Bi.”

“Let me educate you.”

 Oh, here we go . . .

“How many men have you slept
with? Excluding numb nuts, he doesn’t count. I’m talking raw, mind-blowing sex.
Headboard bangin’, rafter rattlin’ shaggin’.”

All of a sudden, six pairs of
eyes (that’s everyone at our table, plus the prim-looking middle-aged couple in
the next booth) are burning into me, waiting expectantly.

Blimey, it’s just like being on
trial at the Old Bailey. Up in the box before the Honourable Judge Wilson
(honourable? Bi? Huh!), facing imminent execution for not having invaded enough
boxer shorts in my meagre existence.

I shuffle awkwardly in my seat,
tugging down my denim skirt, which is riding high, joining my thighs to the
sweating leather pew. Well, they can just whistle, there’s absolutely
no way
I’m going to answer that. Even if I say a hundred it’ll still, undoubtedly,
be several
thousand
less than Bianca-the-bus (all aboard, all aboard)
making me look like a right Vestal Virgin.

Bouncing excitedly, Bi reaches
into her bag for a cigarette then, remembering the smoking ban, tuts and roots
round for a Wrigley’s instead. I’m not a smoker, never have been, but judging
by her agitated twitch, I sense there’s no comparison. Chewing will never
replace chuffing.

“Aw, c’mon Sally-o, don’t be
such a prude,” she says, jaw grinding monotonously. “I’m interested, that’s
all. It might explain why you’re so bloody frigid.”

Insulted, I let out a
high-pitched squeal.

“I’m not frigid, Bi, I’m
married
.
There’s a big difference. We’re not all sex fiends, you know. It’s a couple of
rowdy kids you want! You’d not be so hot and horny then!”

Realising my mistake instantly,
I reach for Rowan’s hand under the table, giving it an apologetic squeeze and
mouthing ‘sorry hon’.

For the past year, she and Troy
have been trying for a baby but so far the stork just isn’t dropping. Many
would say “thank God!” given the mutant paternal genes involved, but I’m on the
fence. I think Rowan’s strong maternal chromosomes could quash the psycho’s
seed, give the kid a sporting chance. Trust me to put my whopping great size
eight in it.

Smiling wanly, she shakes her
head and squeezes me back whilst Bianca, oblivious to our tentative exchange,
continues to fish for a confession.

“So, how many then?”

Backed into a corner with no
escape in sight, I hold up my hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright, you win -
ten.”

Rowan narrows her eyes,
shooting me a ‘God-you-never-told-me-that’ look.

Amy whistles, quite impressed.

Liselle, obviously outdone
bless her, just toys shyly with the salt cellar.

Launching into riotous
applause, Bi slaps me on the back then smells a rat, stops abruptly and
eyeballs me suspiciously.

“Ten. Really?”

Shit! Rumbled.

“No . . .” I confess,
shame-faced, wondering if she’s dislodged my wisdom teeth with her whack.

“How many then?” she demands,
Gestapo-style. “No fibs.”

I swallow hard, reluctantly
spilling the beans.

“Ooowh, one. Once.”

“
Whaaaat?”

Springing off her stool in
mock-horror, Bi knocks an empty cocktail glass flying with an embarrassing
display of vocal melodramatics.
Rowan, apologising profusely to our
fellow diners, scurries to retrieve it whilst I sizzle under the microscope,
whispering, “One. One guy. One time. Okay? Are you
satisfied
? Now shhhh!
What’s the big deal?”

Chewing on her glum gum,
merrily crossing and uncrossing her legs, I realise Bi’s unwittingly recreating
Basic Instinct’s legendary ‘Sharon-Stone-beaver scene’. No, no, strike that.
Duh! Unwittingly, my foot. She’s
definitely
doing it on purpose and the
gawping businessman at the bar seems to be appreciating the eyeful.

“ONE
? Once? Is that all? Jesus
Sally, that explains it!” Bi beams, acknowledging him with a saucy wink.

I’m beginning to get cross.

“Explains what, exactly?”

“Your monstrous sexual
frustration! You’re married,
so obviously the sex is shit,
and
you’re faithful
and
you’ve only had one other guy.”

“So?”

“So, that’s serious dick
deficiency. It’s like having a giant box of Roses and saying strawberry’s the
nicest before you’ve tried any of the other flavours.”

“Or, saying Florence is your
favourite city before you’ve roamed in Rome!” Amy ventures, twisting her dirty
blonde hair extensions thoughtfully.

Rowan and Liselle sit still as
statues, impartial, deadpan observers unwilling to draw attention to themselves
in case Bianca spins the bottle again.

“Exactly!” Bi continues, on a
rude roll. “You’re like a starving kid in a candy shop with no pocket money to
spend!”

Giggling, Amy high-fives her,
adding, “Yes, yes, that’s right! Only now he’s cheated on you, hey presto,
you’re loaded!”

Furious
they’re making me feel like
I’ve spent my entire twenties in a nunnery, I frown at my silly sister, who
glares back defiantly, sticks out her tongue and shoves a strawberry fizzpop
into her big, smart mouth. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what her
problem is, what she doesn’t like about Will, he’s always so nice to her.

Maybe she’s jealous.

Maybe she knows something I
don’t. Like he’s not just a first-offender, but a devious Casualty Casanova
with a harem of student nurses in every hospital.

What if my husband’s secretly a
serial womaniser and my little sister knows but can’t bring herself to break my
heart? What if she
can’t
shop him because
she’s
one of them . . ?

What if I’m a paranoid berk?
   

Oooh, stop it Sally!
It’s probably just because he
ruthlessly plucked me from the nest when I was twenty-three, leaving her - a
helpless baby bird - alone to face the constant pecking of our mother.

I fold my arms and sit back,
bemused.

“So, let me get this straight,
girls. Just because Will’s been playing doctors and nurses, I’ve now got the
green light to go for it and any guy’s fair game? That’s what you’re saying,
right?”

Bianca applauds, like a proud
teacher whose first lesson has been heeded and absorbed. “Yes! Bingo! Exactly!”

Our big-gob, the lollipop kid,
chirps up, “I don’t see why not Sal. What’s good for the goose and all that!”

Incensed, Rowan looks ready to
drag me off to church and dip my head in the font. “No! Absolutely not, Sal.
Under no circumstances. You and Will are made for each other, just ignore Miss
Yo-Yo Knickers and keep your legs shut!”

Liselle, cheeks flushed, utters
a mortified, “Well, it hardly seems proper if you ask me . . .”

Oh, fabulous. The votes are in
and what have I got? A hung bloody jury. A fat lot of use that is!

I feel like I’ve wasted a
lifeline on Who Want’s to be a Millionaire because the useless audience hasn’t
got a clue. Bi, the overflowing fountain of filthy knowledge, is about to erupt
again when she spots the clock above the bar, snatches her red Prada handbag
off the table and blows us all a kiss.

“Oops, doesn’t time fly when
you’re havin’ fun? Excuse me, I’ve gotta go make myself gorgeous for tonight.
See ya later ladies!”

“Bi, wait!”

Sensing it’s now or never, I
grab her bangled arm as she about-turns to scarper.

“I’m not going to Savannah’s.
I’m gonna stay in, you know, maybe even ask Will to come home so we can talk
things over.”

A chorus of disappointed
‘ooohs’ and ‘ahhhs’ rattle around the table. Bianca scowls at me like I’ve just
run over her puppy, then reversed the car back to check.

“Like hell you are! You’re not
missing tonight my girl, snap out of it. I’ll be round at five to make you look
the biz!”

Oh no. No-no-no. I’ve made up
my mind. I’m staying in, and in I’m bloody well staying.

Not about to be bullied, I
boldly stand my ground.

“No, Bi, really. Thanks anyway.
I know you want me to, well, sow my wild oats and all, but I just don’t feel
like partying. Not without Will. Plus I haven’t got a costume, have I?”

I want to protest further, to insist
that all I yearn to do is skulk back to my miserable, empty house, phone the
kids and curl up on the sofa with Supernatural’s Sam and a big pot of Pringles,
but I’d be wasting my breath, Bianca isn’t listening. Instead, she’s clapping
her hands and jiggling her hips to the Pussycat Dolls’ ‘Don’t Ya’, which, to
her raunchy delight, is blurting out of the old-fashioned jukebox behind us.

“Leave it to Bi, honey, leave
it all to Bi! When I’m finished with
you
baby, Will’s gonna want you so
bad he’ll be a walking, talking hard-on!”

With that, she flounces off.
Strutting down the steps, she waves saucily at the fit young waiter behind the
bar, pinching Mr Clooney’s saggy bum as she disappears out the door. Ah. Right
then. Well, that’s told me. It looks like I
am
going out after
all.

Up to my neck in luxurious,
lavender-scented bubbles, I should be floating away in blissful contentment in
my over-flowing bathtub.

I’m not.

Instead, mini CD-player plugged
recklessly into the razor socket, I’m listening to LeAnn Rimes miserably
crowing ‘How do I Live Without You?’ whilst drowning my sorrows in a glass of
Blossom Hill.