Antidote to Infidelity (17 page)

Fuming, I slam the door,
sending our antique brass mirror - a wedding gift from Will’s parents -
shattering into a million tiny fragments. As the ringing phone joins in the
din, I snatch it up, expecting it to be Will, lecturing me from the safety of
the car for making a scene in the street.

“I don’t
care
what
anyone thinks,” I roar. “Do you hear me? I . . . don’t . . . care!
You’re
the one who can’t keep your zip zipped, so
you
don’t get to pass
judgement!”

All set to stalk out and join
him for a mud-slinging finale, Rowan’s dejected voice stops me in my tracks.

“Sally? Sally? What’s going on?
Are you okay?” she asks quickly. “Jees, what’s that awful racket?”

Aaggh! Fire! Cooker going up in
flames!

Hurdling the shards, I rush
into the smog-filled kitchen, fanning the bacon pan with a tea towel before
tossing it into the sink, hissing and smoking like crazy.

“Uuugh. Aaagh. Rowan. Phew, hi.
Sorry . . . God, that’s
Pllluurrgghh
. Urgh!”

“You’re not trying to cook, are
you?” she teases. “It sounds manic.”

Really? It does? She should
catch the crazy-real-life-stage-show, not the radio version, then she’d see
manic.

Wafting the oppressive, meaty
cloud, I stick my head under the oven’s extractor fan, inhaling greedily at the
vent.

“Huh, that’s an
understatement!” I splutter between gulps. “Oh boy, gim’me a sec, the kitchen’s
all smogged out and I’ve had a blazing row with Will . . .” Then, remembering
it’s
her
dead-head husband at the centre of it all, I add, “Look, if
this is about last night, I can
explain
. . . ”

“No, don’t,” she says sharply.
“I don’t want to hear it. I
know
what happened. Well, I don’t
know
but I can
guess
. I just need to hear it from you, that’s all. That you
didn’t
.”

I frown, suspecting what’s
coming.

“Didn’t
what
, exactly?”

She lets out a pained, tired
sigh.

“Look, I know he’s a tosser Sal
but you didn’t lead him on, did you? Y’know, because of Will’s fling,” she
takes a long beat, “or too much time with Bianca, maybe?”

Squeezing the phone like a
stress ball, I feel wronged yet again.

Lead him on? Lead him on? Oh
sure, if breathing and having breasts is leading the letch on, then yeah, fair
cop, consider me guilty as charged.

“
No
, Rowan, I did
not
.”
I tell her, exasperated. “Honestly, of all the crap to come out with. How could
you even
think
that? I thought we were friends.”

“We
are
Sally,” she
assures me hastily. “But, well, I just needed to hear you say it. Y’know
.”

Oh, I know alright.

Leaning over the sink, I dip
too far, soaking my best bedding in grease as I try to blow the last of the
smoke out the window. I’m tempted to toss the phone in, too, to drown out
Rowan’s whining.

“Row, look, I’m sorry,” I sigh.
“I hope you’re okay, I really do, but I’ve had just about all I can take for
one day . . .”

Rowan laughs miserably. “No,
I’m
sorry Sally. The bastard needs castrating.”

Well, at least we agree on one
thing.

Casually tossing six cremated
bacon strips onto the lawn for the birds, I’m about to volunteer my services
when she adds, “That’s three strikes and out as far as I’m concerned.”

“What? Great!” I chip in, a
little too hastily, cradling the phone under my chin. “You mean you’re actually
going to . . .”

“Yep, I am. To hell with him,”
she says boldly. “It’s
over
. He’s
out
. We’ll break the bloody
house in half if needs be.”

Confidence slipping, my
long-suffering friend falls silent.

“Row? Are you still there?” I
ask softly, sensing tears.

Instead, I detect a hint of
satisfaction in her quavering voice as she whispers, “He can take whatever he
wants, Sal . . . but the baby’s mine.”

Standing alone in my
chaotic kitchen, washing what seems like the whole cul-de-sac
’
s pots, I
’
m beginning to realise it
’
s time to hit the emergency
stop and get off the runaway train. Crikey, so much has happened since
Christmas Eve, I feel like I need to sit down with a hot chocolate and catch
the omnibus edition of my out-of-control life.

Rowan
’
s pregnant - that
’
s the latest revelation - but
thankfully, it
’
s a
good
one.
She
’
s yearned to be a
mum for so long, I
’
m absolutely
delighted for her, even if it does mean a little Troy or Troyetta terrorising
the world in nine months
’
time.

Isn
’
t it typical of the stork to
oblige
now
, though, just as she
’
s come to her senses
and kicked the lecherous father into touch? Oooh it
’
s long overdue, but I have to
hand it to Rowan, she
’
s certainly given it
a shot.

Personally,
I
’
d
have read him the
riot act on the honeymoon, strangled him mid-cruise and tossed his body
overboard as shark bait. All he
’
s ever done is make
her cry, shag around and pull her down, so I
’
m
certain
she’s made the right decision. Good riddance. She
’
ll be
much
better off
without him, baby too.

Smashing my china
plates around in the suds, I pick up the infamous carrot knife, placing it at
arm
’
s length on the
drainer. It
’
s got a bloody lot
to answer for. I think I need to bin it. Either that, or shove it right up
Troy’s arse sideways.

Mmm, now there’s a
tempting thought.

Pot-washing
fantasies aside, I
’
ve assured Rowan
that I’m right behind her, every step of the way. We’ll
all
be there for
her, even Bianca I’m sure. You never know, a new baby in the fold might have a
calming effect on her. When the twins were born she practically moved in with
us, christening herself ‘Auntie Bi-bi’ and strutting around the square with
their double stroller twice daily, proud as a peacock.

Mind you, I wish had
a pound for every time she said, ‘Relax, they’re not mine!’ when a cute guy
jogged past. I’d be a millionaire!

Rowan will make a
wonderful mum, she’ll take to it like a duck to water and be eased in gently,
one little bundle at a time. Not me though. Oh no, I even do having babies the
hard way . . . and I
’
m not referring to
the forceps and sixty-three stitches, either.

With no multiple
births in our families, I still somehow managed to conceive two of the little
monkeys, quite naturally, for double trouble! But the difference was, I had
Will to keep me going.

When I couldn
’
t eat, couldn
’
t think, couldn
’
t cope, when I fell asleep
cleaning my teeth or made the midnight bottles with Coffee Mate instead of Cow
& Gate, he
was
my rock
.
When I was down, he was up. When I was weak, he was strong. When I collapsed
with exhaustion during the colic phase, he took the gruelling night feeds for
weeks
,
surviving on just three hours’ sleep yet still finding the energy to vacuum,
iron and grocery shop.

In the cold light of
day, I
’
ve got an awful lot
of reasons to love Will, albeit one
really
good one to hate him, but we
’
re currently out of sync.
Singing from different hymn sheets. At opposite ends of the scale. I seriously
think that, if we don
’
t want to be
divorced this time next year, we need to get our act together, maybe even try a
few sessions at Relate. If not, I
’
ve got a horrid
feeling my best bud won
’
t be the only one
bringing up a baby (or two) alone.

Our
babies are due back
at the weekend and starting full-time school on Friday.
This
Friday. That
’
s a
huge
milestone for
me, which is another reason - as if I haven
’
t
enough already - my emotions are all over the place. I desperately need
pre-empty nest syndrome support, but am I getting any? Am I heck!
Important
things are being overlooked whilst Will and I commit domestic suicide, staging
our very own re-make of War of the Roses.

It cuts me to the
quick. I feel like someone’s picked up our perfect family jigsaw and smashed it
all over the floor. I
love
my kids more than anything in this world, and
there’s no questioning Will’s devotion to them, which is the main reason I’ve
not ended our marriage and changed the locks.

What I can’t help
questioning though, is his devotion to
me
. My life’s lost all direction
because of one reckless, selfish, ill-conceived action and I’ve
no idea
how to get it back on track without being a total pushover. The government
should provide protocol for women –
mothers
- in this very situation. A
handy, pocket-sized pamphlet entitled,
‘Get Mad, Get Out . . . or Get Even?’

***

Wishing I
’
d said
‘
yes
’
to the dishwasher Will wanted
instead of insisting
‘
I enjoy doing the
pots
’
, I ditch the last
of the crockery on the drainer and head upstairs to slip out of my bed sheets
and into something more suitable. Wandering into our en-suite, I scrub the
stale taste of Troy off my teeth before hopping into the shower pod, willing
the revitalising jets to banish all traces of him from body and mind.

Suitably refreshed,
I tug on a pair of tight jeans and a khaki sweater, pull last night
’
s hair into a clip and rifle
through the dressing table for some lipstick. All I can find is
Temptress.
Typical.

On the way back to
the kitchen, I jump up and down on the
‘
fixed
’
step out of curiosity.
Squeek-squeek-squeek. Mousy as ever, just as I expected. Bodge-it-and-scarper
strikes again!

Flicking on the
radio, I shake Will
’
s sludgy clothes
into a heap on the floor and stuff a bundle into the washer, humming along to
Kiss
’
s apt
Crazy Crazy
Nights
. Watching the colours whir and spin, I continue to analyse what
’
s easily been the worst, not to
mention
weirdest
, week of my life.

At a time of
supposed joy, forgiving and togetherness, Will and I are miserable, resentful
and apart. Just as he
’
s fearlessly rescued
me from Troy, spent a fortune on my dream car and made frantic love to me on
the bonnet - resulting in the most
intense
orgasm of my whole
life
-
I
’
ve upset the apple
cart by shouting out another man
’
s name.

Way to go, Sally!

And so, once more,
the tables have turned. I
’
d gone to bed on top
(so to speak) and woken up underneath. In the battle of sex and the sexes,
despite his infidelity - which sits like a humungous, ignored elephant in the
corner of the room - Will has somehow managed to regain the moral high ground
thanks to my Mike-moaning motor-mouth.

My husband - the
heroic, Mustang-giving sex-god - is creeping out of the doghouse, just as I -
the crude, loose-lipped wife – take up residence.

Just
. . . bloody . . .
great.

Well, things are
a-changing let me tell you, starting with my fab five New Year
’
s resolutions:

One
: Stop fighting with
Will and slinging his clobber out the window

Two
: Stop fantasizing,
even subconsciously, about Mike Foster (or anyone else)