Antidote to Infidelity (14 page)

As the disgruntled
cheval shoots across the dance floor, bowling over two wig-comparing Tina
Turners, we come face to face with Mark Antony and Cleopatra, or rather, our
Amy and Will
’
s younger brother,
Robert.

A strapping six feet
four, Rob
’
s ten years younger
than Will, two inches taller and almost twice as wide. He
’
s dynamite. Seriously.

Shame he
’
s my brother-in-law
or I
’
d have a bash.

Well, no. Of course,
I wouldn
’
t
really
. . .
but he is a bit biteable. And judging by the catty looks Amy
’
s attracting, draped on his
huge arm in a miniscule silver micro-dress, hot Rob
’
s already set plenty of hearts
a-racing as the ravishing Roman commander.

“
Ayup big lad, no Tiffany
tonight?
”
I ask.

He cringes, grins
and ducks behind his Guinness.

“
Uh uh, Sal. She
’
s a proper nutter, that lass.
Chips, dips, chains, whips an
d
all that. I
h
ad to get shut
.”

As Bianca
’
s ears prick up like
porn-radar, Rob looks me up and down, head cocked.

“Where’s our Will?”
he demands, scanning the immediate area for his brother.

I bristle, feeling
uncomfortable. Who knows? The last time I saw him, he was legging it up the
driveway in his dressing gown, tailed by a flying golf bag.

“How should
I
know?” I snap, more sharply than I intend. “I’m not his keeper.”

“No,” Rob agrees,
scrutinising my outfit, “but you are his
wife
. And if
my
missus
was out in
that
little beauty, I wouldn’t be far behind let me tell
you.”

Great. Double
self-consciousness. Cheers, Rob.

As he heads off,
presumably to re-attach Will to my hip, Amy - sipping a Black Russian and
sucking on a lollipop – takes a step back to give me the once-over.

“
Mmm, good costume Sal but
baaaad choice, I fear,
”
she chides, raising
her glittering eyebrows dubiously.

Confused, I duck in
for a quick sip of her drink. “Mmm. Nice. What
’
s
that
supposed to mean, Cleo?
”

She pops out her
lolly and taps me on the forehead with it.

“
For someone so switched on,
Sal, sometimes you can be painfully thick.
How
’
d you feel if Rowan waltzed in
as a nurse?
You’re
clinically docile. Softer than Play Doh.”

Ahhhh.

Peering down at my
tiny Colts
’
cheerleaders
’
dress, I realise that my
sister has, well, quite a valid point actually, given toss-pot-Troy
’
s incurable pompom fetish.

And
the fact I dated
him in high school.

And
the fact I
’
m supposed to be Rowan
’
s best friend, hence sensitive
to her feelings.

Some friend I am.
Who needs enemies?

Hastily grabbing a
bright orange cocktail off a big breasted Eskimo, I take a guilty slurp,
curling my toes at the intense brain freeze and toxic aftertaste. Why, oh why
didn’t I put my
stupid
brain into gear before letting Bianca dress me
like
this
? I knew this outfit was missing something. A flashing neon
‘GET IT HERE’ sign.

Feeling exposed -
and
despicably
tarty - I hatch a plan. I, Sally Moss, having clearly
blown a common sense gasket whilst dressing, will keep a low profile and, first
chance I get, pinch a mask, thus avoiding detection.

Ta-da! Pure . . .
bloody
. .
.
genius.
Then I’m going home.

Head stinging, I
whisper my idea to a sniggering Bianca before tottering over to a secluded
igloo in the far corner, wriggling away from a paralytic orang-outang who
’
s keen for me to bop to
‘
Come on Eileen
’ with him
.

Hands off, monkey! I
’
m on a make-amends,
avoid-a-bollocking mission.

Glancing sheepishly
over my shoulder, I push aside the frosty bead curtain concealing the entrance,
breathing a sigh of relief as I sink into a comfy blue sofa.

God, that’s nice.
I’m flagging. Need sleep. Maybe I can hide away here?

As the booming track
switches to Robbie
’
s
‘
Millennium
’
, I have a peek at the inside
of my eyelids, imagination running amok with hallucinations of gorgeous doctors
queuing to take my pulse. Mmm. Shattered, I allow myself to settle, pushing my
troubles to the back of my mind as I snuggle down between the twins, my cares
just drifting away. Mmm, that’s better. That’s . . .
Gaaaahhh! I
’
m not in bed am I?
Idiot.

Snapping awake with
a startling just-dropped-from-the-ceiling judder, I find myself surrounded by a
thick grey mist. My legs feel like lead,
‘
MMMBop
’
is blurting out and standing
before me, rather than a hot medical apparition, is
Superman
.

I blink. Nope, still
there. Blimey - real. When the
hell
did he land?

Despite the swirling
fog (bloody overzealous smoke machine) I can just about make out Troy
’
s sharp, distinctive features -
the smug, smarmy grin and the slick-back hair masking his recent receding. He
slides onto the sofa beside me, edging uncomfortably close.

“
Well, well, what have we here?
”
he sniggers.
“
A lonely little cheerleader,
all separated from the pack. Wanna show me your pompoms, sweetie?
”

Eyes cold and
threatening, he
’
s absolutely wasted
and I
’
ve known him long
enough to realise
that
spells trouble. For the life of me, I can
’
t understand what Rowan sees in
him, or, more to the point, what I ever did. The guy
’
s an absolute lizard, he needs
committing.

Or better still,
castrating.

Feeling vulnerable,
I try to stay calm and friendly.

“
Hi Troy. Great party! How
’
s things? Where
’
s Rowan?
” I ask nervously, eyeing the
exit.

But before I can
make a bid for freedom, he lunges forward, giving me a lung-full of
whisky-breath as Austin Powers pokes his head through the igloo entrance,
decides three
’
s a crowd and
scarpers.

“
Who knows, honey? Who cares?
”
he slurs.
“
You
’
re looking mighty fine, Sally,
ripe an
’
ready.
You must have a mirror in those
knickers, cutie-pie, ’cos I can see myself in ’em.”

Eeeugh. Gross.

I want to puke.
Surely,
surely
no one actually falls for such sleazy lines? Except sixteen-year-old
groupies, perhaps. And cheerleaders.

Oh-oh. It
’
s definitely
time
to go.

Edgily twisting my
pigtails, I try to stand up but he grabs my wrist, yanking me down on top of
him. My head
’
s spinning. I
’
m blinded by smoke. I
’
m
praying
it
’
s only his wallet digging into
my hip as he pins me to the sofa, shoving a determined hand up my too-short
skirt.

As frantic
flashbacks strike me like lightening bolts, I scream,
“
Troy, no,
stop
, what the
hell are you doing?
”
trying desperately
to wriggle free as he meanly wrestles my wrists above my head. Locking them in
a vice-like grip, he sneers,
“
What I should have
done in school, Sally Steadman. I
’
m gonna show you
just what you
’
ve been missing out
on . . .
”

Feeling Troy
’
s vile, foul-smelling mouth
pressed to mine, I kick, bite and struggle for dear life, but like a lock-jawed
pit-bull, he
’
s refusing to let
go.

“
Just relax baby, don
’
t fight it, enjoy the ride
,” he slobbers, sweating like a
boar, crushing me with his hefty bulk.

Oh, no, no, no. This
can
’
t be happening to
me. It just can
’
t. Not again. I knew
I should have stayed in. This is my punishment.

Lungs on fire, tears
streaming, I
’
m gasping for breath
and close to fainting when . . . . Smaaaassh! A heavy sword shatters the drinks
table beside us and Troy is yanked roughly to his feet by a massive, masked
gladiator.

Cursing and
drooling, he rakes the floor for a broken bottle but the gladiator is one step
ahead. Reading his malicious thoughts, he whirls Troy round with an animal-like
roar, punching him hard and fast, right between the eyes.

Near-naked body
trembling, I watch my tormentor
’
s nose explode,
spraying the sofa in slimy red gunge as he reels backwards in slow motion onto
the shards of fragmented glass.

Pulling my grazed
knees up to my chest, I hide my face in shame, sobbing as Maximus Meridius
kneels down, whispers
‘
ssshhhh
’
and wraps me in his cape
before gently carrying me out of the igloo.

Shaking
uncontrollably, I bury my head in his strapping shoulder, clinging like a
limpet as he muscles his way through the bustling crowd and across the heaving
dance floor, like Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard.

Kicking open the
steel doors to reveal the freezing night air, he trudges down the steps,
nodding to the bouncers as he tentatively lowers me into the passenger seat of
a waiting convertible, covering me in his cloak.

The lights, which
don
’
t look half as
pretty now, are still dancing wildly in the sky, as I - a shamed, blubbering
cheerleader - turn to face my magnificent hero in the moonlight.

Dazzled momentarily
as a stray strobe light bounces off the thick, gold band on his left hand, I
gasp. I
know
that ring. Oh my God . . . it
’
s
Will
.

“
Are you okay, did he hurt you?
‘
Cause if he did I
’
m gonna go back, right now, and
do
the sick bastard.
”

Chilled to the bone
in a mysterious blue Mustang outside Savannah
’
s,
I
’
ve got a thumping
head, a racing heart, tears spilling down my cheeks . . . oh, and a
testosterone-fuelled Russell Crowe enquiring after my wellbeing.

Wrapping the thin
black cloak he
’
s given me tightly
around my shoulders, I lean over to lift off his helmet, needing to make
sure
.

Surely it can
’
t be. Surely this
dynamic damsel rescuer can
’
t be my husband?

It
’
s just not
right
. He
doesn
’
t have a briefcase
in his hand, for one. No pinstripe Debenhams suit on. Then, of course, there
’
s the inescapable fact that
Will just doesn
’
t
do
heroics.

Then again, I didn
’
t think he did romance, did I?
Or hot young nurses, for that matter. I
’
ve been wrong twice.
Funny isn
’
t it, how you
think
you know someone, when really you don
’
t know them at all?
Clearly, I
’
ve got a lot to
learn about my heroic, romantic, nurse-knobbing husband.