Antidote to Infidelity (26 page)

Maybe the girls are right.
Maybe I
would
feel better if I just followed suit, shelved my vows and
made it one-one. Nothing dramatic, just a no-strings-attached night of wild,
unbridled passion with a complete stranger. To exercise my demons.

I mean exorcise, of course. My
spirits are already shattered.

As my eyes fill up, I blink
away the tears, draining my glass in bitter desperation. Why not two nights, huh?
Fair’s fair. Why not two naughty, steamy nights of selfish, reckless sex with a
delectable doctor who makes house calls? That way, Will can
agonise over
what
I’ve
done every waking moment, drive himself crazy wondering how he
kissed, how he touched, how he felt inside me. If sex with him was
better
.

Thoughts drifting to the twins,
I stare at the floor, ashamed. It’s an impossible situation. I’ve been
despicably wronged, yes, yet I’m a whore if I retaliate, a doormat if I don’t.
How can I
possibly
win?

I’d never do anything to hurt
Rosie and Ryan,
never
. But what if they never knew? If I slept with Mike
- or
anyone
- we’d be in the exact, sorry situation we’re in now except
for one crucial difference: Will and I would be
even
.

I don’t want to think this way,
really I don’t, it goes against everything I stand for – yet I just can’t help
myself. It’s almost as if
Will’s
infidelity has sprung open an ugly
Pandora’s Box of impurities and now, I’m infected. What if
revenge
is
the only cure?

***

 “Hey sexy Sal, you look a
million miles away. Your coffee’s going cold. Penny for your thoughts?”

Watching me intently, Will
places my hand to his lips, covering my knuckles in kisses. I close my eyes,
ashamed that with such a lame chick-flick move, he’s already got me a-tingle.
Oh God and wet-on-cue, too, damn him.

You see? This is
just
what I mean. I’m weak, easy and predictable. Where’s the fun in that? Plus I’ll
always be a boring brunette, when gentlemen – one in particular – clearly
prefer blondes.

Sighing, I top up my glass,
feeling less appealing than raw veal to a vegan.

Well, Mr Universe, if you
really must know, I’m thinking that as soon as my back’s turned, you’ll be in
the toilets, shagging the sexy young waitress who’s been giving you the
come-to-bed-eyes all night. Or the rich bitch behind us who can’t stop staring
at your pecks . . .

“Oh nothing really,” I say
quietly, seeing stars. “Just a few silly little things, that’s all.”

He runs his foot cheekily up
the inside of my bare leg, undressing me with his eyes.

“Really? Want to share them?”

“Mmm. Nope.”

His cold shoe comes to rest on
my thigh, making me visibly shudder.

“Aw, come on Sal, loosen up.
Enlighten me.” He leans to whisper in my ear, all seductive and smelling of
Armani. “Let me into that mysterious mind of yours.”

Fighting a strong urge to swipe
the plates flying, leap up and beg him to ‘take me now’ in full view of our
fellow diners, I slap his foot and push it away, closing my legs tight.

“Stop it, Will! If you
must
know, I was wondering why you didn’t have your wedding ring on. In London. The
night you bedded Becky.”

There, I’ve finally said it.
Get out of that one, Casanova.

As if stung by a bee, he sits
bolt upright in his chair.

“
What?
Where the hell
did
that
come from? I thought we were having a nice, romantic evening?
You can’t just hit me with that!”

Taking a sip of cold coffee for
clarity, I stare at him, desperately trying to focus, unable to believe I’ve
blurted it out.

“Oh yes I bloody well can,
Will,” I snap. “Anyway, I’m not hitting you with
anything
. You asked,
I’m telling. And I want an honest answer.”

Fidgeting with his top button,
he’s deliberately avoiding my eyes.

“Okay Sally, you’ve obviously
decided to ruin our night,” he hisses, tight lips barely moving. “I
lost
it, okay? I haven’t a clue where. I got to London and realised I didn’t have it
on. Satisfied?”

I glare, bringing cup and
saucer together with a clatter, startling the elderly gentleman beside us.

“No,
actually
, I’m not,”
I fume. “What utter novice
bollocks
, Will!”

I grab his hand, gesturing to
the thick, gold band gleaming in the candlelight.

“How convenient. You
lost
it whilst you were busy banging Becky, then just happened to
find
it
before you came home to me? Do I look that
gullible
?”

He jolts his chair back noisily
and stands up.

“Sally,
STOP IT
,” he
demands, looming over me angrily. “This is
totally
uncalled for.
Especially here. What do you want me to
say
? That I left it in my hotel
room while I was out cruising for chicks?”

I shake my head vehemently.

“No. I want you to tell me the
truth, Will. Or maybe that is the truth . . .”

Kneeling beside me, he pushes
away a curl, whispering in my ear, “I . . .
lost
. . . it. I
didn’t have the heart to tell you. This is a
new
ring. I went all over
fucking
London trying to find a replacement.”

Green-eyed monster growling
inside, I whirl to face him, my elbow sending the sugar cubes flying.

“More like you went fucking
all
over
London trying to replace
me
!”

Regarding me coolly, he stands,
shrugging apologetically at the couple beside us, who - obviously enthralled -
politely pretend they’re not listening.

“Sally-Ann, this stops
HERE
,”
he tells me sternly. “I’m going to the bathroom and when I return, we’ll resume
our lovely evening and pretend this conversation never happened. Okay?”

He stalks off and I swear, damn
his tight arse, every female eye in the place watches him go, leaving me
mulling over what I’ve achieved with my ill-timed outburst.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Maybe
Will’s right. Maybe I
should
just brush it all under the carpet, stop
kicking up a fuss and pretend it never happened. After all, no matter what he
says, it isn’t going to turn back the clock, is it? He can hardly un-shag her.

Maybe it
is
a new ring.
Maybe not. Maybe I’m a spineless
mug
who needs to stop whining and sow
her wild oats. A pattern’s emerging, you see. He doesn’t think I’ve picked up
on it, but I have. Every time we argue I get a gift - a bag, a car, a holiday,
a bracelet, a bonk - but never any answers.

Materially, it’s marvellous.
Mentally, it’s murder.

***

Five minutes later, emotions in
remission, I watch Will stride confidently through the restaurant, dodging
frantic waiters. Noticing a scantily-clad strumpet eyeing him up by the bar, I
decide to apologise and protect my coveted asset.

My asset, it seems, has other
ideas. Sliding back into his chair, Will grabs the fresh bottle of champagne
out of the ice bucket, pours himself a full glass and downs it in one gulp.

“Right-o, Sally-Ann,” he says
calmly. “You’ve had your little dig, now it’s
my
turn. Are you or are
you not screwing Mike Foster? And if not, do you intend to? An eye for an eye
and all that?”

“Whaaaat?”

As his bold accusation hits
home, I blush, feeling caught out. How can he
possibly
be on to my
illicit, get-even affair before I’ve even had it? Who is he, Derren Brown?

Another intensive night class,
maybe?

“Will that’s
absurd
,” I
protest. “How could you . . . I mean why would you even
think
that?”

Reaching into his trouser
pocket, he slams my phone down on the tinted glass.

“Because he just called while I
was taking a piss and I don’t take kindly to fit fucking doctors phoning
my
wife.” His eyes dart accusingly as he snarls, “Particularly ones whose name she
screams out when I’m screwin’ her.”

“That’s not
fair
!” I
squeal. “I didn’t
mean
to . . .”

I’m cut short as my mobile
begins to buzz, luminous caller ID revealing ‘Dr Who’ wants to chat.

Oh . . . bugger.

Glaring daggers at each other
across the table, Will and I lunge for the phone. Luckily, I get there first
with a nifty netball snatch.

“Hello, Mike? Can I call you
back? Now’s
really
not a good time . . .”

Despite my hostile situation,
his sexy drawl gives me an instant lift.

“Sorry Sally, are you driving?”
he asks. “I won’t keep you, I just wanted to tell you, you left an interesting
message on my mobile, didn’t find it ’til today.”

Looking up at Will, watching me
like a cobra, I feel my colour drain. Turning to face the sea, I whisper, “I
did?
What message?” Then, realising I’ve only sent one voicemail since Christmas,
“Oh God, not the . . . oh,
God
! Oh, I’m so
sorry
, it was meant
for
Will
. Look, I can’t talk about this now.”

Oh, balls. D for daddy, d for
doctor. Easy mistake. If you’re a complete twat.

“
What
was meant for me?
Huh? Can’t talk about
what
? Gim’me that damn phone!”

Seething, Will spins me round
and tries to snatch it out of my hand, but I hold on and switch ears as Mike
laughs warmly, “Don’t worry, I’m flattered. Very flattered actually, it’s a
long time since a beautiful woman’s shouted
my
name in bed. I can
keep a secret. Why can’t you talk?”

Squirming, I want to walk away
with the phone but in his current mood Will would probably smash up the
restaurant.

“Because I . . . well, I’m . .
. ”

“ . . . with hubby?”

To my immense relief, he
finishes my sentence.

“Yes! Exactly.”

Mike chuckles, amused.

“And he gets jealous, yeah?”

“Yes! Like you wouldn’t
believe
.”

Suddenly serious having hit the
bullseye, Mike stuns me with, “I’m not surprised! Shouting my name when he’s
hard at it? Jees, I bet I’m public enemy number one. Put him on a sec.”

“Whaaaat?”

Put him on? Doesn’t he realise
I’m sweating and in deep, deep shit?

“Go on,” he insists. “I’d like
a quick word.”

As I flounder, Will, fit to
explode, drums his fingers impatiently.

“Hold on,” I stammer. “Let me
get this straight. You
want
to talk to Will?”

“Bingo.”

Sure. I’ll not only tie my own
noose, I’ll build the gallows, too.

Smoking at the nose, Will
scowls with lizard-slit eyes as I reluctantly toss the phone across the table
with a shifty, “Mike, erm, wants to talk to you.”

Picking it up, he shoots me a
sceptical ‘is-this-guy-for-real?’ look, covering the mouthpiece with his thumb.

“He
wants
to talk to
me?” he asks disbelievingly. “
Willingly
?”

All panicked out, I shrug and
give up. “Apparently so.”

Teeth clamped, jaw set, Will’s
departing gesture is a lingering, suspicious glare as he stalks out of the
restaurant and down to the jetty for a red-blooded rumble with the doc.
Translation: he makes sure he’s well out of earshot so he can eff, blind and
blow his top in private.

Flushing like a beacon, I
twiddle my serviette nervously, attempting to twist it into a novelty chicken
as I ignore the judgemental glances of our whispering dinner companions.
Failing miserably, I toss my half-hearted origami into Will’s banoffi pie and
scan the marina for my husband. Except for thirty or so yachts and two
pipe-smoking fishermen wrestling with a lobster pot, the jetty’s empty.
Deserted. He’s buggered off.

Feeling exposed and
increasingly disorientated, I take the remainder of the bubbly - for security -
and stagger unsteadily onto the marina.

***

Earlier, as we strolled hand in
hand to the Met, taking in the scenery and engaging in pleasant conversation, I
felt relaxed, revitalised and a million miles from Goldwell. Now, lumbering off
to Lord knows where in the pitch black, attracting a series of unscrupulous
glances, my troubles have caught up with me. One in particular.

Why on earth would Mike
want
to talk to Will? What could he
possibly
have to say to him?

One:
Relax pal, I’m not after your
wife

Two:
Don’t flatter yourself son, I
wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole