Antidote to Infidelity (22 page)

I smile. He’s getting cocky. I
haven’t got a
monkeys
what aquí tienes means and his superior grin tells
me he knows it. You just wait ’til I get home, I’ll be hounding our knickerless
librarian for the Spanish thesaurus. Which, incidentally, Will thinks is some
sort of prehistoric creature.

Eyes like saucers, I scurry
inside.

Wow oh wow, I’ve died and gone
to heaven.

Clip clop, clip clop. Ah,
clearly I haven’t or my carthorse shoes wouldn’t be making such a racket. I
hastily slip off my stubbies so as not to scratch the immaculate marble and
continue my exploration.

Wandering down the endless
hallway, Will a step behind, I’m overcome with Alice-in-Wonderland-style
disbelief. I can just
tell
by the smell and its pristine sparkle that
it’s brand new. Untouched.

Spinning full circle, I absorb
the décor. Fresh, bright white with the occasional subtle gold swirl,
complemented to perfection by the high ceiling and its shimmering crystal
centrepiece. Wow. Oh, it’s
just
how I’d have done it.

Skipping on in rare
its-much-better-than-the-brochure ecstasy, I come face to face with a vase of
exotic white orchids and an exquisite guilt-edged mirror, which soon loses its
appeal when my fat-lipped reflection stares back.

Gaaahhh! Moving on.

Ducking behind my hand, I slip
into the master boudoir where a giant four-poster bed stands proudly in the
middle of the room, its splendour enhanced by a hexagonal Jacuzzi bath bubbling
away in the far corner.

I sink into the silky quilt,
stunned. Will takes a long breath, laces his arm around my shoulders and
squeezes.

“Like it, Sal? Really? Do you?”
he asks nervously.

I want to answer, to tell him
it’s Nirvana, that Bi would just
die
, but I’m far too dazzled by the
walk-in wardrobe. I can only manage a slow, tongue-lolling nod.

Satisfied, he adds grandly,
“I’ll take that as a yes! There’s three more bedrooms down the hall. Come on,
babe, I’ll give you a tour!”

Squealing with delight (well,
it certainly tops the Travelodge) I spring up, chasing him into the open plan
kitchen which, oh-boy-oh-boy, looks just like a centre spread in Better Homes
with its authentic clay oven, skylight and smoked glass dining table,
beautifully laid in cream and crystal. Just as I’m thinking it can’t
possibly
get any better, Will raises a set of bamboo shutters to reveal hidden patio
doors and a courtyard-style sun terrace as long as our street.

Entranced, I press nose to the
glass. Even in darkness it’s like gazing out into a dream. To my left there’s
the exclusive, yacht-filled marina, whilst straight ahead, the ocean - calm,
vast and inviting - ripples softly beneath the stars.

To my right (oh my
God,
get
me
naked)
there’s an overflowing infinity swimming pool shining
bottomless turquoise, its gurgling freeform spa luring me in.

“Oh,
Will
- wow!” I
gasp, holding out my arm. “This is
unreal
. Pinch me, quick!”

Smiling, he slides open the
door instead. I fling myself into the warm night air, spinning around in
circles. As Will looks on proudly, I dart to the terrace edge, perch on the
wall and turn to face the sea, long legs dangling over the edge.

“Oooh, this place is absolute
bliss
,”
I gush. “It’s definitely
not
off Teletext.”

Settling in behind me, he locks
his arms around my waist, making sure his clumsy wife doesn’t topple head first
into the frothy abyss.

“Nope, it’s certainly not,” he
says, voice at ease. “It’s a brand spanker, three months old. Residential. I
knew
you’d love it. The kids too, how about we bring ’em next time?”

I nod enthusiastically.

“God yeah. Do you think we’ll
be able to book it again?”

Kissing my hair, he pauses for
a second to drink in the view before adding, “I’m
certain
we will.
Believe it or not Sal, it’s Ben’s.”

“Whaaaaat?”

It’s a good job he’s got me as
I jump a foot.

“
Ben’s
? Amy’s Ben? Get
out
.
Crikey, he must be
loaded
!”

Nuzzling my neck, Will sighs,
tracing the outline of my breasts through the silk of my blouse.

“Mmmm, he’s doin’ okay. Though
I’ll admit, I’m more interested in what’s under this top than in Ben’s bank.
Much
more interested.”

I whirl round so as not to end
up splattered on the rocks. Toying with his belt buckle, I spot a wine-filled
ice bucket and a two twinkling goblets by the spa. Excellent. A glass of
that
I’ll be able to do
this
without thinking about Becky. Or, more to the
point, without thinking about
him
shagging me and thinking about Becky.
Or thinking about Mike. Or, worse still, thinking about
him
thinking
about
me
thinking about Mike whilst he’s shagging me.

Aaahh! This is complicated. Far
too mind-boggling for midnight, gim’me a glass! On second thoughts, I’ll take
the bottle – I’m
desperate.

Handing me a glass, Will pops
the cork into the sea and kicks off his shoes, followed by his T-shirt, jeans
and odd socks. Three seconds later, he’s standing before me in a pair of tight
black Calvins which, with a wicked smile, he whips off and casually tosses
after the cork.

Silly great bugger! Doesn’t he
realise they were twelve quid a pair? Oh, mmm, hello, someone’s getting a big
boy. Must be all this foreign air!

“Say, se
ñ
orita?” he whispers. “You
wouldn’t want to strip and join me for a dip, would you?”

Turning, he dives naked into
the glistening lagoon, drenching me with a warm wave before surfacing in the
foaming spa section.

“Dios, esto es caliente! Come
on, Sal . . .”

I don’t need asking twice.
Already stripped from the waist down, I wade into the invigorating water,
tossing the remainder of my clothes into a messy heap by the light stone
barbeque. Swimming towards Will, who’s stretched out in the bubbles like a
Eunuch, I feel
alive
for the first time in ages, my worries a distant
fog at the back of my mind.

Mmm. So, this is what it feels
like to be Cheryl Cole? I could get used to this.

It’s almost too good to be
true. It’s exotic. It’s erotic. It’s paradise found.

With an alpha growl, my
dripping hubby drags me towards him, jolting me back to my real-life dreamland.
Hoisting me up, he gently caresses my breasts, belly button and hips before
sinking into the bubbles.

Ahhh. Now
that’s
. . .
what . . . ahhh . . . I’m talking about. Ahhh! Oh . . . my . . . mmm. Oooh,
blimey
.
He’s been practicing.

Of course he has. Bastard.
Oooohhh!

As I float away, teetering on
the brink of euphoria, wondering if Will’s got gills, realisation hits me. The
next three days could be sink or swim for us. Marriage make or break. Because
one thing’s for sure: if we can’t get on in paradise, we can’t get on anywhere.

Mmm. There’s nothing quite like
waking up in January with the sun streaming in through your window and being
able to poke your toe out of bed without fear of frostbite!

Gazing at Will hibernating
beside me like a contented bear, I slip silently out of our four-poster and
take a stroll around the apartment on my own, eventually settling with a cup of
coffee by the open patio doors to admire the glorious view in daylight.

Glancing at the freeform pool,
still as a mill pond, a tingle creeps up my spine as I remember the ripples we
made during our star-lit spa - a sure sign our sex life isn’t
quite
dead
and buried. In fact, add to it my brazen seduction in the garage, and I’m
positively Madonna!

Boob cones aside, I’ve done a
lot of thinking overnight and I’ve decided: we really need to make the most of
this break as it’s the only adult time we’ll get until the kids’ annual
expedition
next
January. For Rosie and Ryan’s sake at least, we
need to go home
synchronised
. Therefore, I’m not - under
any
circumstances - going to slip into miserable mode. I’m going to be positive and
look
forwards
, not back, whilst being an amiable wonder-wife who serves
slap-up breakfasts on the terrace. Muy bien!

Sauntering into the bedroom
where Will’s still snoring like a hippo with pneumonia, I select my favourite
zebra-stripe dress out of the wardrobe and slip it on, along with my new
sling-backs and a light, crocheted shawl.

Grabbing the key card from the
bedside table, I skip down the steps, across the lawn and through the already
buzzing marina to the shopping complex, resisting the lure of a quick scoot
around the Sealife Centre and a play with the loggerhead turtles. I’ll save
that for when the kids come!

Amazingly, I also manage to
bypass the boutiques (
very
expensive pastime), the Gucci handbag shop
and even the perfumeria - a
staggering
achievement, considering I’ve
left my Light Blue on the dressing table at home. And smell like chlorine.

***

Fifty Euros later, merrily
laden with bucks fizz, bacon, croissants, jam and the works, I’m settled in the
pleasant winter sun, Bailey’s latte in hand, feet dangling over the harbour
wall, feeding fresh-baked baguette to the shoals of fish circling the yachts.
As the last chunk of crust disappears under the water, I decide an hour’s quite
long enough to dawdle, so turn to swing my legs street-side and round up my
bags.

Ouch! Bloody rough sandstone.
Oooh, pig!

Catching my ankle on the ledge,
I reach down to rub the angry graze, causing my shoe to slip, bounce off the
wall and - talk about bread always landing butter side down - plop into the
water below, whipping the fish into a frenzy.

Shit!

Suddenly Sally Gunnell, I
sprint down the narrow steps, dodging moorings, jumping cracks and hopping over
ropes in a frantic bid to catch it before it drifts out to sea.

Too late. Bugger it!

By the time I reach the water’s
edge, it’s several metres in, aided by the grey swirl of bobbling fish.

Ungrateful, greedy little
buggers. Next time I’m bringing a rod, not bread.

I stand, hands on hips,
assessing the situation. I’m about to strip off and give chase when luckily my
sensible side overrules, leaving me hunting for something long to coax it back
with. Nada. I see nothing. The only thing within my reach is a rope, but I can
hardly lasso a
shoe
, can I? Ask it to hold on tight while I haul it in.

Stamping, I’m all set to concede
defeat when my ears prick up. Someone’s singing ‘Sweet Home Alabama’. Someone
close. Someone male. Someone vocally challenged. Turning to investigate, I spot
a stocky blonde guy on his hands and knees, vigorously scrubbing the deck of a
majestic vessel, ‘The Big Dipper’.

Excellent. Assistance ahoy. A
golden opportunity to play my damsel in distress card. Again. Yes, yes, it’s
getting somewhat of a habit, but in my defence they’re forty quid shoes, brand
new, not to mention one of only eight pairs I’ve packed. I mean,
come on
.

Approaching the beautiful boat
enviously, I shake off my lone shoe, reach over and tap it lightly on the Big
Dipper’s immaculate port side.

“Hola! Se
ñ
or! Hola! Yoo-hoo! Behind you!”

Whipping around, Mr Moneybags
spots me straight away and makes his way down the yacht, bare-chested, tanned,
mop in hand.
Oooh, trust him to have his provocative torso on display. How
the hell am I supposed to make eye contact now?

Clearing my throat, ignoring
his pecks, I intend to ask politely and in
perfect
Spanish if I can
borrow a net or something similar. But, oooh, it’s all going pear shaped.
Standing shoeless, whacking away at his yacht, I’ve suddenly come over all
embarrassed and my mind’s gone blank.

I try to speak but instead, to
his middle-aged amusement, I end up doing a commendable impression of the fish,
opening and closing my mouth noiselessly as he hops down onto the jetty.

“Buenos días. ¿Puedo ayudarle,
señorita?”

Oooh, sexy voice. Deep.
Authorative.

Squinting in the hazy sun, I
know
I recognise him but can’t
quite
place him. Then he rubs the back of his
neck, grins and - whoa, lightening bolt, boy do I ever! Years of swooning over
Indecent Proposal in my early teens
surely
can’t be wrong - it’s
Robert bloody Redford.

Aaahhh!

Blood rushes to my ears, making
me giddy. No, it
can’t
be. Can it? I thought he was older. Much older.
Wow, he must have a top notch plastic surgeon, he looks a million dollars.