Antidote to Infidelity (23 page)

I stare. A lot. Just to make
sure. It is, it
really
is. Oh God. Robert Redford. Not on the telly but
right here on the marina next to little old me. Wow, Bianca will have a
seizure
.

I stare a bit more, listening
to the sensible voice in my head, which says, ‘bugger Bianca, just
breath
,
Sally, breath. Be cool. Casually nonchalant. And whatever you do, don’t say -
or
do
- anything stupid’.

Excellent idea.

Tugging my solitary shoe back
on, I shyly compose myself, answering in my coolest, most
oblivious-to-Hollywood voice, “Hi Mr . . . Mr . . . er, yeah - hi. Ha-ha! I was
wondering if I could borrow your pole. Perhaps. Maybe. If you don’t mind, that
is?”

Scratching his head perplexed,
he dips his mop in the water, stirring the fish.

“Ah good, you’re English,” he
drawls, looking me up and down. “My pole you say? And which pole might that be
exactly?”

Feverishly twisting my curls, I
catch the delicate undertones of an oh-so-smooth American accent. Now I’m a
million
percent
convinced it’s him.

Damn it! I want to be aloof and
alluring, I really do, but all I can see is Demi Moore and Woody Harlson
debating the pros and cons of a million-dollar-bonk.

“Oh you know, your
thingy
pole,” I stammer, cheeks burning. “The
really
long one . . . I’m
desperate.”

As he squints in blank
mesmerisation, I add hastily, “You
know
, the one you pull the boat in
with. Only the fish are drifting off with my shoe and I wouldn’t normally ask
but it’s my favourite, you see.
Please
.”

Wry smile playing on his lips,
Bob hops back on board, taking my hand to haul me up behind him before peering
into the choppy, fish-infested depths. Reaching for his, er, pole, he leans
overboard, effortlessly hooking in my dripping slip-on. 

Hooray!

I clap excitedly like a trained
seal. Pleased with his efforts and indeed, my applause, Bob cools his brow with
saltwater, wrings out my shoe and gallantly hands it back.

“One . . . wet . . . shoe, my
lady. Mmm . . . my thingy pole,” he muses, examining his yacht hook with an
ear-to-ear grin. “Great technical term, I like it! That’s what I’ll call it
from now on. A thingy pole. Smashin’.”

Balancing on one leg, fiddling
with straps, I attempt to impress him with gracefulness, only to freak out and
kick my shoe into the air as a rogue piece of seaweed entwines itself around my
toes.

“Yaaggghhh! Eeeggghhh!
Aaaggghhh! Get off, get off, get off!”

Hopping in circles, shrieking
and trying desperately to unravel it, I topple backwards, knocking a bucket of
dingy suds all over his freshly scrubbed deck. Feet skiing, arms going round
like windmills, I’m about to nose-dive overboard when he grabs my shawl and
roughly hauls me to safety.

Phew! That was close.

Unravelling the offending
foliage with a smirk, he tosses it back where it came from, keen, no doubt, to
prevent further damage to his boat.

He’s grinning at me crookedly,
like I’m some sort of comedy act. Like I’ve just wandered out of Monty Python.
Now I feel like a right old drama Queen. As my heart regulates, I attempt a
lame explanation.

“I’m really sorry about that,”
I gush, “but I have this
huge
seaweed phobia. Eeeugh, I
hate
the
stuff. Got ravelled up in it once when I was a kid and nearly bloody drowned!”

Bob eyes me suspiciously. He
probably thinks I’m a complete psychopath but even so, it doesn’t stop him
retrieving my shoe for a second time. Kneeling down, he slips it onto my
wiggling foot.

Being a shameless floozy, all I
can think about as I sit in my lukewarm puddle is how rough and manly his hands
feel, brushing against my ankle.
Oh, and what a lucky
cow that Demi
Moore is!

Flushed, I give him my
long-perfected eyelash flutter, cooing, “Thank you sooo much. Two rescues in
one day! They make a good couple, don’t you think?”

Glancing around, spotting
no-one in particular, he turns back to me, bemused.

“Who?”

“My shoes!”

He raises a quizzical eyebrow.
Thank
God
I’m sitting down, ’cause my legs go to jelly. I really, really
want
not
to say anything else but it just sort of slips out,
besotted-teenage-groupie-style.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I just
have
to ask. You
are
Robert Redford, aren’t you?”

He frowns, polishing a mucky
fingerprint off the wooden steering wheel. “Robert Redfern?”

“Redford!” I squeal, leaping up
incensed. “The mega-famous actor. I’m a huge,
huge
fan.”

He laughs, casually mopping up
the salty reservoir swimming all around us.

“So I see. Nope, sorry, never
heard of him. He can’t be much good. Name’s Greg.”

I shake his offered hand,
mortified.

Bugger. I was
certain
it
was him. One hundred per cent. Well, maybe seventy-five-ish. Looking on the
bright side, though, at least I’ve not just asked my all-time heart-throb if I
can ‘borrow his pole’.

Noticing Not-Bob’s eyes dip
south, I realise, aghast, that my soggy dress has gone transparent around the
bum, displaying my lacy black thong to all and sundry.

“Aaah!” I gasp, wrapping my
shawl around my waist. “I
knew
I should have taken that off! Look away, look
away!”

He does, camouflaging a smirk
as he quips, “My sentiments exactly!”

Feigning offence, yet secretly
thrilled
at his open sauciness, I purse my lips.

“You’re wrong, by the way.”

He grins.

“About the thong? No way!”

“
Not
the thong, cheeky.”
I chide, mock-appalled. “Robert Redford. He’s
very
good and a
massive
sex symbol too! He’s totally gorgeous.”

Casually overlooking the fact
I’ve just given a complete stranger an eyeful of my knickers, I scrutinise his
side profile intently, adding, “God, you look sooo much like him. And speak
like him even. I bet you’ve got gorgeous women on tap . . . ”

The sensible voice in my head
goes ballistic.
‘Right, that’s it!’
it screams.
‘The instant that
plane hits the tarmac, Sally Moss, you’re taking a serious think-before-
you-speak course and having those loose lips sewn together’.

Not-Bob chuckles heartily,
taking my back-handed compliment modestly.

“I
wish
. Just me and the
Dipper, I’m afraid. She’s a yacht, actually. Say, can I offer you a drink? I
could tumble dry your shoe so you don’t catch a chill.”

Mmm. Tempting. Ve-ry tempting.

I’m about to say, ‘sounds like
a plan’ -
well, I don’t want to risk a nasty chill, do I?
- when I
remember I’ve left my handbag and breakfast goodies all ‘steal-me steal-me’ by
the wall. Not to mention my unsuspecting and
extremely
jealous husband
fast asleep in paradise.

“Ow, shit!” I mutter angrily,
wanting to stay but needing to scarper. Plagued by visions of some slimy
Spaniard cleaning out our joint account, I shimmy down the ladder and leap onto
the jetty as Not-Bob watches, mystified.

“I’m sorry, I’d love to
normally,” I shout up, “but I can’t today. My husband’s waiting for me in bed!
Thanks anyway.”

There’s a brief flicker of
disappointment in his eyes, then it’s gone and a bright smile lights up his
sun-kissed face as he nods, waves and returns to his mopping.

As I reach my fish-feeding
spot, blowing like I’ve run a marathon, I drop to my knees and rifle through my
bag to check the contents.
Still there. Phew!

“Hey! Cinderella! Ahoy there!”

Startled, I pop up from behind
the wall to see Not-Bob yelling and shaking his mop.

“Lovely to meet you! Some other
time, perhaps? Say, do you think if I offered your fella a million dollars he’d
let me have you for the night?”

Mmmm. Knowing Will, probably
not.

Breakfast baggage aloft, I
laugh delighted and shout back, “Oh you big fibber . . . you
do
know who
he is! Some other time, definitely. Cheers for saving my shoe!”

Feeling a rush of vanity
vitality, I wave my heavy cargo and flounce off, marvelling at the marina which
is now alive with holidaymakers. Just like a magpie, attracted to anything
twinkly and shiny, I stop briefly to purchase a shelly necklace that catches my
eye in a tiny boutique opposite our main gate. Remembering the security code on
the tenth try, I let myself back into Fort Knox, making my way up the steps to
the welcome aroma of frying bacon.

Mmm. I’m famished.

The door to the penthouse is
open and Will, sprightly in a cheesy Chippendale pinny, has hauled his arse out
of his pit and beat me to breakfast. Waltzing in, I plonk my heavy bag on the
worktop, pinch a sizzling mushroom out of the pan and slap his bare bum.
Peachy!

“Hey big boy, watch it doesn’t
spit on your naughty bits! Ouch!”

He taps my hand with the
spatula.

“Oi! Mits off, you can wait.
I’ve laid the table outside. Go. Sit.”

Catching a flash of thong, he
growls, “Mmm.
Nice
dress,” as I slip my arms around his waist and bear
hug him.

“Oh, you’re nicking all my good
ideas,” I whine. “I was going to surprise
you
with breakfast. I popped
to the shop while you were sleeping. Where’d you get all the food?”

Smirking, he tosses a couple
more sausages into the mix.

“The fridge, funnily enough.
You know, that big boxy thing in the corner . . .”

Shaking the bucks fizz, I pop
the cork into a tea-towel only to glance out of the patio doors and see a
bottle already open on the table. Nestled next to a plate of croissants.
Ahh.

“Oh, clever bugger. The fridge,
eh? And how come the fridge’s full? I didn’t even think we had milk. I made
my
coffee with some skanky whitener I pinched off the plane!”

Will sips his cappuccino.

“What can I say Sal? Our Benny
boy’s the host with the most!”

Giving me a quick peck on the
cheek, he shoos me out of his kitchen like a scrounging tabby. Four sausages on
the spit and he thinks he’s Delia Smith!

Wandering onto the terrace, I
settle into a lounger by the pool and browse for blemishes on the models in
Vogue. Naturally, I can’t find any. No spots, no fat, no cellulite.
No fair!

Feeling inferior, I slip a hand
around my waist to see if I can pinch an inch.

I can.

Several, actually. Ow, now I
feel like Nelly the Elephant. I
knew
this dress felt tight. I blame the
post woman.

Just as I decide I
seriously
need to diet, Will appears, armed with two full English and a fresh pot of
coffee, his pinny abandoned in favour of dark three-quarter combats and a tight
surfer top.

Taking a pew at the table, he
tings his fork on the side of the bucks fizz as if summoning a lazy cat for its
Whiskers.

“Come on Sal, food’s up. You
must be hungry after your long walk.”

Mmm. Food. Yum!

Forgetting I’m a fat cow, I
slide onto the art deco two-seater, greedily shovelling in a whole slice of
crispy bacon.

“My walk? Mmm, this looks nice.
Mmm, it
is
nice! I’m
starving
. I only went to the
supermarket.”

Will smirks knowingly.

“And then?”

I blink indignantly.

“And then
what
? And then
nothing
. I didn’t buy a single non-food item!”

Amused, his twinkling eyes are
on my new necklace.

Uh-oh. Rumbled.

“Aaah,” I admit reluctantly.
“Except this little beauty.”

Rule number one: buy it, hide
it, then sneak it out a month later and say you’ve had it ages. Never fails.
Well, almost never . . .

Toying guiltily with my
purchase I ask hopefully, “Do you like it? It was a bargain, only thirty Euros!”

Actually it was fifty. Of
course it was. Rule number two: Always knock twenty quid off the real price
when busted by your fella.

“It’s lovely,” Will smiles,
chopping his sausage and pouring us a drink. “Very shelly. And then what?”

I kick him playfully under the
table, half expecting him to return to the kitchen and rifle through my bag
like a customs officer.

“And then
nothing
. Who
are you, Poiriot? I shopped, had a latte and did a bit of fishing if you must
know.”

Mopping up his egg with some
greasy fried bread, he’s staring at me inquisitively.