Antidote to Infidelity (19 page)

Amy nods gratefully and sets
off upstairs with her vanity box, followed by Will, who engages in a manly
struggle with the cases. Standing like a prize melon by the telephone table,
I’ve no choice but to trudge up after them, hugging Amy’s lead-filled sports
bag.

Christ, what’s she got in here?
Feels like bricks. Oooh, or a body perhaps. If so, I reeaally hope it’s my
mother. In casserole-sized chunks. I’m sure Will would be more than happy to
partake of a bowlful. And my dad, too, for that matter. Mind you, she’d be all
gristle.

“Wait, whoa, hold on a sec, I’m
lost,” I puff, making a mental note to add ‘haul fat arse to gym’ to my
resolutions. “You said ‘while you’re
gone
’. I’m not going
anywhere
. . . and what’s all this about an apartment?”

Weary and flagging, Will
reaches the top, gesturing to the guest room with his foot. Amy bounces in,
gleefully throwing herself onto my best beige and cream bedspread.

“Oooh, Sal, it’s one of those
dead
posh three-storey ones on the Square,” she beams. “Dead big an’ all, it’s got
three
bedrooms and everything!” Removing her treasured cropped denim jacket, she
adds, “We
weren’t supposed to be moving in ’til next month but
mum found out and flipped.”

Will finally crumbles under the
weight of the cases, collapsing exaggeratedly by

the dressing table. Amy,
oblivious to the sorry state of her new gofer, buffs a rough nail.

“She’s a total
nutter,
Sal,” she says, eyes wide, like she’s revealing something I
don’t
know.
“She was chuckin’ my stuff out the window and everything. Dad just cowered in
the potting shed as usual, but good old Will came to my rescue.”

Fluttering her glittery lashes,
she blows him a kiss, cooing, “Didn’t you, Will?”

Amused, Will raises his
eyebrows, giving me a sarcastic like-mother-like-daughter
look
. I don’t
take the bait.

Yes, alright, not
unlike
my mother, I have an annoying habit of making clothes fly but that’s where the
similarities
stop
. I could
quite
easily point out just how
similar
he
and his puppy-loving father are, but it’s a hornets’ nest I
don’t want to poke.

So,
that’s
where he’s
been all day. Storming the tower. Snatching princess number two from the
dragon’s den. Good old Will, indeed! Obviously last night’s hero hour has gone
to his head. Just rode in on his white steed and staged a rescue, eh? Highly
unlikely, my mother scares the shit out of him, always has! And
we
? Amy
said ‘we weren’t supposed to be moving in’. Who the hell’s
we
?

I glance suspiciously at Will,
who’s scrutinising the carpet, chewing his lip, a dead giveaway he’s hiding
something from me or about to spring a stinger.

My stomach somersaults.

Oh, for God’s sake, surely,
surely not? Surely he isn’t the ‘we’?

Yes, I flipped momentarily and
called him a prick, so - what? He’s shacking up with my baby sister now? Oh,
come
on
!

I slump beside Amy who, busily
rooting through her purse for her ringing mobile, notices the illuminated
caller ID and tosses it to me like a burning ember, diving under the covers
with an ‘eeekk’! I glance at the display -
MONSTER
calling. Great.
Cheers, Amy. Thanks a bunch.

Taking a deep breath, I grit my
teeth and say, sweet-as-dripping-honey, “Hello mother. How’s things?”

“Don’t you ‘how’s things’ me,
Amy Steadman! I hope you know what you’re doing, young lady. This isn’t a
hostel, you know. You can’t just waltz in and out whenever the mood takes you.
It’s preposterous!”

Yeesh.
The shrill tones of my mother
Sylvia make me quiver to the bone. I feel like an army of frozen ants are
marching on my spine. Shuddering, I contemplate hurling the phone at Will and
joining Amy under the quilt but somehow manage to hold my nerve.

“Mum, hang on, hang on - it’s
me,
Sally
,” I tell her. “Amy’s, er, otherwise engaged, I’m afraid.”

The Monster huffs haughtily. I
can almost
see
the horns sprouting through the wrinkled skin of her
permanently frowning forehead.

“Otherwise engaged, my aunt
Fanny!” she snaps, acidly. “She shouldn’t be doing
anything
until she
is
engaged - and to someone
suitable.
Not moving in with a deadbeat
divorcee no one’s ever heard of!”

Oh, I need this like a hole in
the head. Desperate to pass the buck, I slap the quivering bump beside me. Amy
pokes her head out, mouths ‘no way’ and disappears back under the quilt. Not
that I can blame her, poor kid. In her position, I’d sooner feed myself piece
by piece to famished piranhas than take the call. My mother takes
some
talking to at the best of times, but with a bee in her bonnet it’s not a
conversation, it’s a sting-athon.

Harsh faced with light grey
hair, hawk-like eyes and a concrete frown, Amy and I nicknamed her ‘The
Monster’ when I was thirteen and she was just seven. Offensive but spot on, and
it stuck.

Following a catalogue of
cruelty ranging from hamster poisoning and goldfish flushing to slipper
smacking and boyfriend terrorising, we realised our compassionless mother was a
far cry from the Waltons. She was more like Cruella de Vil. Step out of line
and she’d skin you alive!

Nowadays, she’s pretty much the
same, if not
worse
. Like a Dior-clad demon, she rules her house with a
rod of iron, refuses to work and relies on one of the neighbour’s daughters to
skivvy at her beck and call for a pittance. Never having handled a dishcloth in
her life, the Monster passes her days scorning lesser beings, shopping benefit
cheats, stockpiling extravagant ornaments . . . oh, and making our humble
father’s life a living bloody hell.

Not that he dare complain, mind
you. Poor old dad. Thirty-one years of torment. I thought
I’d
had it
bad!

Sensing icy Monster tentacles
creeping up my spine, I will the cell’s battery to go dead and get me off the
hook. It doesn’t. The signal’s clear as a bell. Damn it! I’m gonna have to
toughen up and take one for the team.

“Well mum, you know, I don’t
really
know much about it but Amy’s a big girl,” I say, trying to reason with her
non-existent nice side. “I’m sure she knows what she’s doing . . . ”

My mother cackles dryly.

“What, just like
you
knew what
you
were doing, Sally-Ann Steadman. He’ll have his wicked way
and the next thing you know, she’ll be up the duff and you won’t see him for
dust. You mark my words!”

“It’s
Moss
, mother.” I sigh,
feeling like a broken record. “Let’s not bring Will into this, please, just for
once . . . ”

She ‘ha ha ha’s’
evil-Disney-queen-style.

“I wasn’t aware I had. I was
merely referring to my air-headed daughters, who, despite being
extremely
well brought up and
extremely
well educated, seem quite happy to throw
it all away on working-class marriages!”

As the dragon draws breath, I’m
convinced
I’m about to be branded her favourite Sally-basher - a
‘brainless baby-factory’ - when she adds, “Though I must hand it to William. He
did look
quite
presentable when he popped in today. Seems your father’s
little talk has bucked up his ideas.”

I look up at Will, the suited,
booted saviour, and pat the bed for him to come into the fold. He does,
reluctantly, eyeing the phone dubiously and giving it a wide berth. I know how
he feels - hear the beast, fear the beast. Ooooh! I hope my stuck-up mother
hasn’t been sticking her beak in where it isn’t welcome, like she always does.

“
What
little
talk, mother?” I ask, impatiently. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re on
about.”

She sighs dramatically. Clearly
conversing with her dimwit daughter is too much like hard work.

“Back . . . in . . . the . . .
summer,” she says slowly, like I’m the stupidest person in the world, “Wilfred
told William in no uncertain terms it was
high time
he sharpened up his
act and brought home the bacon. Relying on
you
to write silly
sports columns and Lord only knows what else! It just isn’t proper, Sally-Ann,
for a wife to be forced to support her husband . . . ”

Ooooh! I
detest
her
high-and-mighty attitude. Detest it. I can imagine her Hyacinth Bucket-ing in
the hallway of her palatial Peak District cottage, barking out orders and
clicking my father to heel. Why is it, whenever I speak to my mother, she
always make me feel like smashing the phone to smithereens? Or, better still,
strangling myself with the wire?

So,
she
was the
inspiration behind Will’s sudden business brainwave. Figures. She probably
lured him over, hijacked his pride, planted an inferiority complex and made him
feel he had to prove himself. Typical mother. Not only has the old bag snatched
him off me
and
the kids with her meddling, she’s forced him head first
into the arms of another woman! God, she’ll be
thrilled
.

Well, I’ve had enough. Enough,
enough, enough!

“
Mother
. . . ”

“Yes, Sally-Ann?”

“I
refuse
to do this any
more,” I snap, on emotional overdrive, “so I’m warning you nicely. If I
ever
catch you interfering in my business again . . . ”

The ‘bump’ gives me a vicious
kick.

“ . . .
or
Amy’s
. . . ”

Will nods approvingly, like the
dog in the Churchill advert.

“ . . .
or
Will’s . . .
I’ll have no choice but to . . . but to . . . ”

Shit!
Ballsy build up in the bag, I
just don’t know what to threaten her with. I could ban her from seeing the kids
but she wouldn’t care. She’d just be delighted
not to have to
hide her Royal Doulton figurines on a Sunday.

“You’ll have no choice but to
what
,
Sally-Ann? Spit it out . . . ”

She’s mocking me - again. I
want to drag her down the phone and stamp on her. What can I
say
to make
it hit home that she’s an absolute horror? Nothing. She’s immune to insults,
with rhino skin and selective deafness.

I suddenly remember an old idea
of Will’s. Why not hire a scar-faced hitman to seal her in concrete and dump
her in the Trent? Mmm. Tempting. Ver-y tempting. That’d shut her up. I’m about
to look through the yellow pages, see if anyone’s offering shifty removal
services, when it hits me - my mother’s weak spot. Her precious reputation.

Snobby to the extreme, she
shops daily at Waitrose, turns her nose up at the checkout girls and tells
everyone her eldest daughter hails from Harvard, whilst her son-in-law’s a
wealthy Fleet Admiral in the Navy.

A Fleet Admiral, I ask you! Of
all the conceited
crap
. She’d just bloody love that, wouldn’t she? To
shipwreck Will on a desert island while she pairs me up with some arsy
aristocrat with a title.

Squeezing the receiver until my
knuckles ache, I go for the jugular.

“I’ll tell you what, mother.
You just keep your nose out from now on and who knows? Maybe I
won’t
take that job at Aldi.
And tell everyone I serve I’m unmarried
with four illegitimate children. And live in a council flat. Oh, and I’m
SYLVIA
STEADMAN’S
DAUGHTER
. . .”

With an outraged ‘ooohhh!’ she
slams down the phone. Victory washes through me like someone’s tipped a hot
kettle into my veins. Phew!

Liberated, Amy resurfaces with
a delighted grin, waltzing with the curtains as she dances merrily round the
room.

“Ding, dong, the witch is
dead!” she punches the air in glee. “Gosh Sal, you’re brave! That told
her
.”

I snatch hold of her skinny
wrist, tugging her down beside me.

“Not so fast, Munchkin. What’s
going on - who’s the guy?”

She roots through her Hello
Kitty vanity case for a fresh lolly, unwraps it and shoves it in.

“Ben. Ben Hendrix,” she
squeaks, patting my hand excitedly. “Oh, you’ll love him Sal, everyone does!
He’s a keeper. Isn’t he, Will? Won’t she love him? Tell her she’ll love him!”

I scowl icily at Will. Backing
away, he makes a ‘cut’ sign across his throat, raising his hands in surrender.
I slap his shin, annoyed.

“You
knew
about this and
didn’t tell me?”

He thinks about it for a
moment, then nods slowly.

“Well you’d better spill ’em
now,
buster!” I fume. “Who’s Ben bloody Hendrix, where’s his wife
and how long’s he been shagging my sister?”

Will snakes his arm around my
shoulders.

“About three months, but we’re
not
going to fight about it. Ben’s sound Sal, he’s just going through a messy
divorce . . .”

Hearing the words ‘messy’ and
‘divorce’ in the same sentence, I raise my eyebrows sceptically.