Antidote to Infidelity (28 page)

For a fraction of a second I
actually believe him, then remember I’m
outrageously
gullible, not to
mention fully dressed, shoes and all.

“Oooh, fibber,” I scold him.
“We
didn’t
shower!”

As I hit out playfully, he
confesses, “Nope, we didn’t. I’m a gentleman. I just washed the sick out of
your hair and took the couch. No funny business. You mumbled ‘Mike’ a few times
in the night. Lucky hubby, I take it?”

Busy imagining what dastardly
deeds Bianca would have got up to stowed away with a hunky sailor, the mention
of Mike snatches my attention like an abandoned bag at Heathrow.

“Huh?
Mike
? Are you
sure
?”
I ask, panicking.

Amused, he reaches for my empty
mug, fingers lingering on mine a moment too long.

“Certain. I guess Mike’s
not
your husband, then?”

Oh not again, surely?

Harassed, I feel my temperature
hike a notch. Fan-bloody-tastic. I clearly can’t be trusted. If I’m ‘oooh, aaah
Mike-ing’ again it’s a blessing I didn’t go home. Perhaps I should invest in a
gag before I do. Or some ear plugs for Will . . .

Feeling brazen and queasy, I
sigh.

“No, Greg. He’s my doctor.
Well,
a
doctor, not really
mine
. It’s a long
story.
My husband and I had a big bust-up when he called during dinner.”

Mouth on overdrive, I wag my
finger for inspection, adding, “I chopped it off when he told me he’d slept
with a woman in London, who turned out to be a nurse at the local hospital . .
.”

Eyes wide, Greg grabs his castanets,
mortified.

“Chopped
what
off?”

“My finger!”

He looks baffled - and a bit
like he’s stepped into a Carry On film.

“Well, thank
God
for
that!” he phews. “So, let me get this straight, your
doctor
slept with a
nurse
? So what?”

“Nooo. My
husband
. He
confessed on Christmas Eve and we’ve been bickering ever since. He also told me
you
were Robert Redford.”

“Who? Your doctor?”

“My
husband
. Pay
attention.”

Grinning and plonking both cups
down on the tiny lamp stand to my right, Greg fishes under the bed for a pair
of white Nikes.

“Do you run?” he asks casually.

“Only when chased,” I confess,
thinking that my lazy great feet haven’t exceeded ‘saunter’ for six years, but
I’m hardly going tell old lagoon-eyes that, am I? I mean,
come on.

“Sally?”

“Yes?”

“Just how
old
do I look?
Seriously.”

Mmm. Tricky question. Wanting
to be polite, I knock three years off on account of hospitality, chivalry . . .
and
great
hair.

“I’d say . . . oooh,
forty-two-ish. Why?”

He smiles. “Close. I’m forty,
actually. I only ask because you’re making me paranoid by comparing me to
Robert Redford.”

Feeling fit for breakfast at
Tiffany’s in my swanky cocktail number, I adjust the top so my strapless bra
isn’t showing.

“Well, you really do look like
him,” I insist. “
And
you’re American.”

“I’m
not
American, I’m
Australian
,”
he protests, mock-appalled. “Crikey, woman. Do you
know
how old
Robert Redford is?”

“Erm, fifty?

Greg chuckles heartily.

“Nowhere near. Try again.”

“Fifty-five?”

He laughs out loud, eyes
flickering with amusement.

“Yeah, in Indecent Proposal.
He’s in his seventies, your heart-throb. I checked.”

I shake my head.

“Eh-eh. He
can’t
be. Not
in a
million
years. Fifty’s my swooning threshold.”

Unable to contain himself any
longer, Greg bursts into riotous whoops, shoving his
monstrous
bare feet
into his trainers. I can’t help but stare. They’re
not
feet, they’re
fence panels.

“Yep darlin’ - size fifteen,”
he chuckles, catching me gawping. “My pals call me platypus. Amongst other
things.”

Blimey! I can’t help blinking,
my eyes are on stalks.

“Wow, a fifteen? Really?” I
gasp, wishing I had my camera. “I didn’t know they
existed
. You’ve got
ready made surfboards!”

I’m about to add that Bi would
whip off his shorts on the strength of urban myth alone, but think better of it
and fill my overactive gob with the remainder of my croissant. Still smirking,
Greg wanders over to the wardrobe, unhooks a navy sweater and tugs it over his
head.

Staring into space as if
reminiscing, he says, “I had a wife once, you know, just like you. All women
are the same. We mortal husbands just aren’t good enough, you want rich,
Botox-faced A-listers who age in reverse dog years.”

Re-adjusting my chafing sandal
strap, I can’t resist a quick pry.

“You
had
a wife? Where
is she now?”

Oh, way to go, gobby. Can -
open, worms - everywhere.

Crossing my fingers and praying
for something bearable like, ‘Oh, she ran off with the window cleaner’, rather
than ‘died suddenly, very tragic’, I’m relieved when he says, “Gone. Bad egg.
Had to get shut. Good riddance.”

Hmmm. So technically he’s
single, then . . .

Speaking of spouses, I suddenly
remember mine. Will’s probably got a dozen or so sniffer dogs tracking my scent
whilst he eagerly bumps up my life insurance. Seriously, though, I can’t help
but wonder if
he
’s thinking of getting shut of
me
.

Possibly.
Probably
.
Particularly if Mike’s thrown down the gauntlet.

Deciding it’s high time to jump
ship, I give Greg’s cheek a friendly peck, which he takes as an invitation to
slip his arms around my waist.

“Sally, stay. Just for a while.
Please? I’ll make you breakfast.”

Mmm. Strong. Nice smell.
Massive hands too.

I sigh. Bianca would I’m
certain, but it’s different for her, she hasn’t got a husband. Well, not a
current one anyhow.

“Sorry, I
can’t
,” I say
apologetically. “You were wonderful last night, though. Thank you. Just so you
know, I don’t make a habit of going home with strange guys.”

“Oh that’s
reassuring
,
Sally. Get your filthy paws off her!”

Startled, we break apart,
coming face to face with Will as he lumbers into the cabin. I haven’t a
clue
how much he’s heard but one thing’s crystal - he’s got the wrong idea.

Throwing Greg a chilling look,
he grabs my wrist, yanking me towards him like a maxed-out mother dragging a
toddler out of the toy shop. His face is contorted in an ugly grimace. I feel
like I’ve been caught with my knickers round my ankles.

Neck veins bulging, he slams
his fist down on the steel drainer, sending our mugs clattering.

“Of all the
stupid
,
selfish things to do, Sally. I was about to have them drag the marina. What the
hell
do you think you’re playing at? Is this how you get back at me?
Huh? Is it?”

As I shake my head feverishly,
he turns on Greg, pinning him to the wall with an iron forearm.

“And
you
. What the hell,
Greg? I thought we were mates and, what? You’re screwin’ my wife?”

Stunned, Greg holds up his
hands in surrender. Will, trapped in Hyde-mode, is a whisker away from knocking
him through the window.

“Whoa Will, buddy, take it
easy,” Greg stammers. “Cut me some slack. For Pete’s
sake
, she was
distressed. I carried her home. That’s
all
, I
swear
.

Nostrils flared, Will presses
his face to Greg’s so they’re nose to nose.

“You must think I’m a fuckin’
MUG
!”

Regaining his composure, Greg
boldly stands his ground, looking Will dead in the eye.

“Buddy, get a
grip
,” he
says firmly. “I didn’t know you were back, man. Strewth, I didn’t know she was
your
wife. I swear on me Ma’s bones I haven’t laid a
finger
on her.”

Unconvinced, Will narrows his
eyes, holding Greg fast.

“If you’re lying to me . . . ”
he hisses.

Greg seizes his shoulders,
giving him a shake.

“No
way
. I give you me
word mate, not a finger. Dingo’s honour.”

Nodding soberly, Will lowers
his arm and turns on his heel, frogmarching me through the open door.

“Hey man, wait!” Greg shouts.
“Are we cool, or what? Are we still on?”

“Forge’d abou’d it,” Will snaps
back, all Mickey Blue Eyes.

As he hustles me across the
deck towards the ladder at the back of the boat, face like a thunder storm,
Will doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at me. I
daren’t
look at him
and for once, words fail me. Unsurprisingly, Greg doesn’t give chase as we
hurry along the deserted jetty towards our apartment and the daunting prospect
of privacy.

You know, I never thought I’d
be one of those ‘walked into a door’ women who everyone wants to wrap in cotton
wool, save and ship off to the Samaritans. Funny isn’t it, how things pan out?

Sitting alone on the packed
plane home, nursing a black eye, a bulging cheekbone and the tail end of a fat
lip, I’ve got a window seat, extra leg room and the undivided attention of Miss
Flirty Short-Skirty, Will’s over-friendly outbound air hostess.

I’ve also got countless pairs
of eyes boring into me every which way I turn, peeping out from behind
twitching newspapers, duty-free mags and in-flight safety cards. Whispers,
suspicious glances, sympathetic smiles - it’s driving me
nuts
. I’m Sally
Moss, circus freak, unwittingly attracting the whole prying, flying shebang on
the two thirty-five pm to East Midlands Airport.

Trying unsuccessfully to
conceal myself behind an inflatable cushion, I consider putting an announcement
over the Tannoy, like:
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.
As a special treat, today’s in-flight movie will be replaced by the unsightly
individual in seat 17C explaining her ghastly Elephant Man-like appearance’.

Maybe not, eh?

I shrink back into my chair and
close my eyes. Well, one. The other’s already puffed shut. Oh, let them think
what they like, nosy buggers. What do I care? I’ve got
much
more
pressing things to worry about, like:

One
: The fact my husband sees me
as a slut

Two:
Our crumbling marriage, and if
we’re doomed for divorce

Three
: The prospect of Will, sick to
death of me, falling back into Busty Becky’s arms (and other ever-open parts of
her immaculate anatomy)

Four
: Rosie and Ryan coming home to
a mummy who makes Freddy Krueger look like the Easter Bunny

and

Five:
The fact I’ve just forked out
250 Euros for an immediate flight to sort out my ridiculous life.

***

Sadly, yesterday’s hour of
post-yacht mudslinging ended in drama, tears and Will buggering off home
without me. Bastard.

Well, no. I can’t deny he had
his reasons. The
instant
the apartment door slammed, we rowed heatedly
over everything from work and wedding rings, to knobbing nurses, devious
doctors . . . and why I carry breath freshener in my handbag! Unsurprisingly,
the whole exchange came to a head over Greg.

Toe-to-toe in the hallway, the
conversation panned out like this . . .

Will
:
“
Do you think old Crocodile
Dundee would have been so quick to pluck you off the beach if you
’
d been a 14-stone whale?
”

Me
:
“
You can
’
t say that Will, it
’
s
mean
.
”

Will
:
“
Bloody true though. No, he
fancied
you. And his chances.
He’s got desperate women throwing themselves at him day and night just because
he looks a has-been heart-throb. I
knew
where you’d be. Groupie.”

Me
:
“
Huh? Just what do you mean by
that
?
Robert Redford’s not a
has-been.”