Antidote to Infidelity (18 page)

Three
: Stop flirting
(consciously or subconsciously)

Four:
Settle the kids
happily into school

and

Five:
Find a challenging
new job that doesn
’
t involve
hubby-riling hockey players

Piece of cake. See?
Maybe I
don’t
need a pamphlet after all. No, I can handle this alone,
I’m good at jigsaws. Just need to re-build the outline and everything else will
click into place. I hope.

That decided, I
snatch my beeping phone off the worktop, feeling virtuous. One text message:

Happy New Year! I trust the
evening went with a bang? Any resolutions I should know about? Mike x

I blush, virtue
popping before my eyes. What is he, a mind reader? A familiar fluttering fires
up in my chest. What’s with all the attention? Was I wearing Impulse on
Christmas Eve or something? You know, ‘when a man you’ve never met before
suddenly gives you flowers . . .’

Yeah. That’s Impulse.
Not puke and Eau de Turkey.

Mmm. Intrigued, I
make a mental check list: new finger, ride home, shirt dry cleaned, gorgeous
roses, phone call in bath, text. I’m not
that
naïve, this is
clearly
more than professional courtesy. The question is, what do I
do
about it?

If I respond, that’s
two resolutions gone straight away. Not to mention the fact that Will would do
his
nut
in after last night.

But then again, do I
really care? I’m allowed friends, aren’t I?

Of course I am.
Clicking
‘reply’ I pause for a moment to re-read the message, smile at the kiss and
think of a witty response, settling on:

Hey Mike, Happy New Year! Hope
Lisa didn’t lead you astray. Speak soon, Sally xx

Hitting ‘send’, I
bite my knuckle, dancing around on the spot. Gaah, gone. Maybe I shouldn’t have
put ‘speak soon’. Maybe that’s being presumptuous? And two kisses? Two? He’ll
think I’m a text maniac.

He should have heard
me last night.

Eagerly awaiting his
reply, I debate whether to delete his message or save it to show the girls. Nah,
too risky. If Will saw it he’d
flip
. One husband on the warpath, as if
he’s not already.

Beep. New message:

Lisa a real let down
L
how’s things with hubby? X

How’s things with
hubby? Oh
God
, if he only knew the trouble he’s landed me in. If only he
. . . oooh, a capital kiss!

In rebellious
teenager mode, I type:

X Not so good. Thanks for
asking tho X

The instant reply is
a simple:

J

Mmm, short but
sweet.
Very
sweet, actually. Why beat about the bush when a smile can
speak a thousand words? He’s obviously trying to cheer me up, and you know
what, he has.

Why doesn’t Will
ever text me? Or even e-mail me? Mind you, I’d settle for him just
talking
to me at the moment, we need to clear the air. Feeling a prickle of guilt, I
decide to call his office, assuming he
’
s scuttled off to
his usual bolt hole.

Punching in the
number, I let it ring for over a minute.

No answer, he
’
s ignoring me. Scrolling down
to
‘
d
’
for
‘
daddy
’
I try his mobile, leaving a
peace offering with his mechanical secretary. An extended olive branch should
he choose to grasp it.

“
Will . . . it
’
s me. Please,
wherever you are, come home. I just want to say . . . I
’
m sorry. I know I
’
ve got a big stupid
mouth and when I open it anything comes out but we need to talk, not fight.
Last night was amazing, and as for shouting Mike when we were, well, you know,
you
’
ve every right to be
mad. But . . . well, you did shag Becky so you can hardly blame me for . . . 

Beeeeep.

Bugger!
Too much waffle.
Out of message. That didn’t
quite
come out as I’d planned, but hey, it’s
a start. The rest can wait until he comes home, when we
’
ll make up
properly
.
Minus the ooh, aaah Mikes, of course.

Mood somewhat
brightened, I
’
m about to tackle
the grimy worktops and maybe even stretch to the windows, when the landline rings.
All set to answer it with
‘
Will?
’
, I pause. How many times have
I done
that
over the last few days, only to look a presumptuous berk
when it turns out to be someone else?

“
Hello?
”

“
Sally? Oooh, Sally, what the
hell
happened to you, missy? The last time I saw you some hunky great Roman was
manhandling you across the dance floor. It looked very promising to say the
least!
”

True to form, Bianca
sounds flustered, excited and out of breath. Translation: she
’
s got that just-shagged tone
about her. I
’
m subjected to it
daily
.
Do you know, I daren
’
t even
think
what immoral misadventures might have occurred after midnight without
me
to keep an eye on her. Or poor Rowan, who spent the whole evening fretting over
what harm the two Mojitos she had at lunch could possibly do to a baby she didn
’
t know she was carrying until a
positive test at tea time.

Wildly excited at
the prospect of
finally
getting one up on Bi without having to
exaggerate, I stick out my Wonderbra
’
d boobs, chin in the
air.

“
That
’
s right, Bi.
Very
promising,
”
I say, cockily.
“
It was Will, actually.
”

“
Get
fucked
!
”

I smile, feeling a
warm, welcome tingling.

“
I
did
, if you must know.
Hard and fast on the bonnet of my new Mustang convertible!
”

I can visualise her
wrapped in the silk sheets of some rampant stranger
’
s bed, making a quick, rude
call while he
’
s nipped out for a
pee.

“
Ooooh, really?
”
she purrs, distracted.
“
Well, well, well, hubby boy
’
s certainly gone up in my
estimation - I take it all back! Not so numb nuts after all, eh? Well, must
dash . . .
”

Normally, Bi being
Bi, she
’
d have demanded
every sordid little detail, but she obviously has more
pressing
things
to do. Well, this is my moment of crowning glory and
I
’
m
going to bask in
it. Miss Sex-on-Tap isn
’
t going to plug me
that
easily.

“
Bi, wait!
”
I demand.
“
What
’
s the hurry? Where are you?
”

“
In bed, luv.
Where else?”

Oh. Right. Ah.

Confidence shattered, I feel
like a flustered
mother who
’
s just barged into
her teenage son
’
s bedroom with an
ill-timed cup of tea.

“
Oooh, right,
’
course, yeah,
”
I murmur sheepishly.
“
With a guy?
”
Then,
remembering who I’m talking to, “Sorry, duh! Silly question. Is the Pope
Catholic?”

Bi laughs chidingly.
“
No, Sally-o. You
’
re wrong, actually.
”

“
Am
I?
”
I tease.
“
I think you
’
ll find he
is
. . .
”

Seriously, I know
what she means . . . but I don
’
t buy it. Bi hasn
’
t been to bed by herself since
she was fourteen! Then again, maybe I
’
m being harsh. Maybe
Pussy Galore piped down, put her claws away and legged it before the clock
struck twelve for a rare (unheard of) nookie-free night.

Then again, maybe
not.

As the washer filps
onto spin cycle, Bi
’
s filthy
cat-that-got-the-cream cackle assaults my tender eardrums. I
knew
I
should have stuck by my guns.

“
With
two
guys, actually,
”
she says proudly.
“
And the other one
’
s taking a shower. You know
monks, Sal, like to do everything together. It
’
s
an
order
, apparently!
”

Without another
word, she hangs up, leaving me goggle-eyed and thinking just what a sheltered
little life I obviously lead.

By the time five o’clock rolls
around and darkness begins to fall, like Mrs Doubtfire on whiz, I’ve blitzed
the kitchen, scrubbed the bathroom, cleaned the windows and scooped a million
glass fragments off the hall floor.

I’ve also called the kids - who
were in raptures having spotted ‘three huge wankers just off the beach, mummy!’
- and popped round to check on Rowan, who was busily bagging
her
husband’s junk whilst flicking through a baby names book.

Toss-pot Troy, clearly in
pieces over the break-up, had buggered off to play football, after which, no
doubt, he’d be milking sympathy for his battered ego from a contingent of
flirty teeny-boppers. Well, you know what they say about leopards? They die
hard.
Or is that old habits? Hmm.

You know, elated as I am that
Troy’s on his way out, I’m equally rattled that Will’s not
in.
I’ve not
heard a whisper from him since this morning, I think I might give him another
quick tinkle.

Humming ‘Bridge over Troubled
Water’ under my breath, I flip open my mobile, then snap it shut as I hear a
car pull onto the driveway. Hot footing it to the lounge with Basil Fawlty-like
strides, I peep through a tiny gap in the Venetian blinds, spying Will and Amy,
side by side in the Saab, locked in conversation.

A stab of jealousy bites as my
sister drapes her arms around my husband’s neck and kisses him on the cheek,
followed by a quick peck on the lips.

Hey! What’s all that about?

Put-out, I look on
twitcher-style as Will retrieves two massive suitcases and a humungous sports
bag from the boot and lugs them towards the front door, followed by
empty-handed, lolly-licking Amy. As I rush to help, my husband topples into the
hall, sandwiched between the bulging cases. Amy giggles, hands me her lolly and
lovingly scoops him up.

“Hi Sal . . . Happy New Year!
Hope you didn’t mind me borrowing Will, I couldn’t have escaped without him!
Where can I dump my gear? The guest room, or what?”

Where can she what? Oh, bloody
hell!

I stare vacantly at my pretty
little sister, who’s obviously decided she’s moving in.

Great. Just what we need, a hot
young lodger.

As if reading my mind, Amy
retrieves her lolly, shakes her tousled blonde locks and laughs, “Don’t look so
worried, Sal, it’s not
permanent
! I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow,
when I get my keys.”

She squeezes Will’s arm, blue
eyes gazing up adoringly.

“Will said I could stay while
you’re gone and have the car to move my stuff to the apartment. Isn’t that
right, Will? The gang’ll be helping.”

Confused, I stare at Will who
shrugs and picks up the cases.

“Look, she called the office in
a right old state,” he explains defensively. “Your bloody scary mother wouldn’t
let her leave, but ta-da, here she is. Job done.”