Antidote to Infidelity (29 page)

Will
:
“
Don
’
t play dumb Sally. He was
hoping you
’
d snap out of your
stupor and shag him!
”

Me:
“
He was
not
!
”

Will
:
“
No. Clearly. I suppose he just
lugged you half a mile back for the
intellectual conversation
.
”

Me
:
“Urrrgh!
How come you
’
re always so quick to judge
people?
”

Will
:
“
How come you
’
re always so quick to flutter
your eyelashes at them?
”

Me:
“
I am
not
!
”

Will
:
“
Bollocks Sally-Ann You can
’
t help yourself!
”

Me
:
“
I can too!

Will:
“
Can
’
t.
”

Me:
“
I bloody well
can
!
”

Will:
“
Prove it. Start behaving more
like my wife and less like a bargain basement hooker.
”

***

So I slapped him.
Hard. Right across the face. I didn
’
t
mean
to, my
arm just shot out impulsively and cracked him one. I couldn
’
t help myself, I just snapped.
A hooker? Huh! How the hell can
that
be fair when I
’
ve only ever slept with one
other guy?

The second my palm
connected with his cheek I regretted it, but I could hardly take it back, could
I? I thought he was going to wallop me back, his eyes were
furious
, but
he just stared in disbelief, raised his hand and rubbed the angry red welt
shining through his day-old stubble.

And that, ladies and
gentlemen, is how I
came
a
cropper. Wait! Before you jump to grisly conclusions . . . Will didn
’
t
hit
me, even though I
probably deserved it. He simply stuffed his passport in a cabin bag, tossed 300
Euros on the hall cabinet and slammed the door behind him.

I waited a moment before giving
chase, only to teeter on the steps, trip over my sandals and cartwheel
uncouthly to the bottom, bashing my head on the rockery as I landed.

Unfortunately (well,
fortunately) Will didn’t see my comeuppance. Eager to get away from the
hubby-basher, he was long gone. It was left to the concerned old couple in the
ground floor apartment to scoop me up and drive me to the local hospital for a
check up where - luckily - a judgemental Spanish doctor told me I didn’t need a
stitch.

He did, however, give me some
strong pain killers, a big insurance bill and an informative leaflet on
domestic violence . . . written in Italian.

Assumptions, assumptions, why
is it always assumptions? And why oh why, on our romantic, marriage-saving
getaway, did we tear our relationship to pieces? The plan was to become closer,
but no. Two days in each others’ company and Will and I are wedged apart in
different bloody countries!

Mangled, in pain and stranded,
I didn’t know
what
to do, so decided to sleep on it. But after a
miserable night of vivid reflection, eye-ache and no phone call from Will -
which wasn’t entirely surprising being as he’d fled with my mobile - all I
wanted to do was go home.

So, early this morning, as the
sun snuck over the mountains, I bid farewell to Ben’s little slice of paradise
and headed to the airport. Clad in a pink head scarf, giant bee-style sun
glasses and hugging two people’s luggage, I got some pretty wary looks in
Customs, probably because I resembled a shifty Thelma and Louise-style suicide
bomber . . . but better that than bump into Juan!

***

Two hours on, here I sit.
Stewing. Widely regarded. Hovering somewhere between Spain and France,
wondering if I’ll arrive home to catch Amy slipping out with the kitchen sink
and Will shagging Becky on the couch.

Busty, bubbly, blonde bombshell
Becky who, I’m absolutely
sure
, doesn’t hit him.

Or scream at him.

Or embarrass him in public.

Or throw up on beaches.

Or get manhandled by hunky
Australians

On second thoughts, that last
one she probably does.

“Excuse me miss, can I get you
anything? Pillow . . . newspaper . . . asprin? Ooops (crash!) I’m sooo sorry.
Clumsy me.”

“Aaagh - ouch!”

I’m rudely interrupted by Miss-Flirty-Short-Skirty
dizzily ramming her drinks trolley into my elbow. Beaming down at me, all fake
lashes, fishnets and false smiles, I’ve got her weighed up alright: over
confident, over made up, under dressed and underhanded. Not that her miniscule
skirt and bust-enhancing blouse aren’t smart - they are. Just five inches too
short and two dress sizes too tight.

Rather than be content serving
tepid tea, cheap tobacco and ridiculously over-priced sandwiches, she’s dolled
up to the nines, fit for a stint at Stringfellow’s. You know, the kind of girl
who’d think nothing of dragging your hubby off to join the Mile High Club while
you powder your nose in the next cubicle.

“Miss? Anything?” she presses,
preening herself. “I could wrap you some ice in a tea towel . . .”

“No thanks, I’m fine,” I
mumble, hoping she’ll bugger off, but instead she kneels in the aisle,
overwhelming me with a knock-out whiff of Estee Lauder Pleasures.

“Look, I don’t mean to pry but
we were wondering,” she gestures to three of her colleagues, peeping at me
expectantly from behind the hospitality curtain. “What happened to your poor
face. It wasn’t
the
guy
, was it?”

What . . . a . . . bitch!

She obviously doesn’t give a
monkeys what traumas
I’ve
suffered, so long as Will - Mr-Flying-Fucking-Fantasy
- isn’t responsible. Oooh, I’ll show her. Watch
this
.

Psyching myself up for an
Oscar-winning performance, I wave my arm in the air to make sure she notices
the one imperfection Will
is
responsible for - my mottled,
friction-burned wrist.

“Yeah, ’fraid so,” I sniff.
“This is nothing though. On last year’s holiday he broke both my legs!”

Her delicate jaw drops open and
she jumps a foot, covering her
slightly
-more-respectable-than-Ann-Summers
uniform in sludgy black coffee.

“Oooch! Ouch!” she squeals,
dabbing herself with a napkin. “Nooo? My God, poor you! But he seemed so sweet
and friendly . . . ”

Cow - uuurrrggg! How dare she?
Now she’s bloody asking for it. Did she not see that little gold band on his
finger? Eh? Does a wedding ring mean
nothing
anymore?

Then again, given Will’s
current track record, it was probably in his pocket.

Thinking ‘I’ll give you sweet
and friendly, missy’, I decide I’ll deal with Will the Ringless Wanderer later.
With the wok.

“Oh he
is
sweet,” I
assure her earnestly. “As a sugar lump. But since his wife disappeared, he gets
a little . . . you know. Cranky.”

She clatters down the scalding
jug, leaning in close.

“His wife . . . she’s
missing
?”

“Yeah. Disappeared without a
trace last month. Well, except for the three severed fingers the cops found
under the potting shed.”

Feeling mean but not the
slightest bit guilty, I select a Twix off the cart, adding, “It’s a shame,
’cause he liked her
much
more than his first wife. These badge-flashin’
jerks keep grilling him but I’ve
told
them . . . it’s just a
coincidence
that they can’t find her either. My big brother wouldn’t hurt a
fly
.
It’s harassment, that’s what it is.”

Gazing at her wide-mouthed
absorption of my bullshit, I can see she’s buying it. Big time. I kick myself
sharply, it’s all I can do to keep a straight face.

“But . . . but . . . he hurt
you
,”
she stammers.

Practically wetting myself, I
nod in battered agreement. “Oh,
nooo
. Well,
yes
, but only because
he’d had a
drink
. It clashes with his medication, makes him go a bit
bonkers. But it soon wears off. It’s trial and error, really. Most of the time
he’s a barrel of laughs!”

Palpitating, she looks ready to
slump into a heap on my knee, but I can’t resist, I’m having
way
too
much fun. There’s gullible and then there’s
gullible
. I’ve finally found
someone dafter than me. They’ll have to update the dictionary!

Checking her name tag, I say
brightly, “Hey, Annabel? I’m pretty sure, er, Clarice, Will’s wife, won’t turn
up and he
really
took a shine to you. How about I give him your phone
number? His shrink says he needs a hobby . . .”

Ashen-faced, she lets out a
strangled squeal.

    “Oh God oh God oh God! I
already gave it to him. On yesterday’s flight. My address, too. I asked him to
dinner. Oh Goddd!”

Oh you did, eh? I knew it . . .
now he’s definitely earmarked for a wok-ing.

Unwrapping my choccy and
tossing her a pound coin, I adjust my headrest, smiling brightly.

“Oh,
wonderful
. In that
case, I’ll make sure he pops round one night
reeeeal
soon with some
lamb’s liver and a nice bottle of Chianti . . . ”

Strange. I sense she’s about to
object, but a regimental supervisor rolls up with her cart, shooing her
forward. Neck craned like an ostrich, she looks imploringly over her shoulder,
desperate to attract my attention and beg me, no doubt, to ward off my brother
- the infamous Goldwell Slasher.

I pretend not to notice.
Instead, I reach for the headphones and tuck into my snack, cheered up, point
proven. My conscience says,
‘Come clean, Sal. Confess you’re kidding’
.
Its catty counterpart says,
‘Stuff her, let her shit herself. Serves her
bloody right!’

Naturally, I go with the cat.

I might be ‘shameless’, I might
be a ‘hooker’, I might make silly mistakes, but Mr Innocent - ‘what? Who? Oh, I
didn’t see her babe’ - obviously did enough flirting on the flight home to get
a phone number
and
a dinner date. When he was
supposed
to be with
me, earning forgiveness for being a cheating bastard.

Feeling my ears pop, I realise
we’ve begun our descent and fiddle with the music channels, searching for
something decent. Settling on Oasis, Don’t Look Back in Anger, I make myself
comfy, pull the blackout goggles over my black eye and lose myself in the
lyrics.

And so, Sally can wait. She
knows it’s too late . . .

Sighing at the irony, I realise
it might be.

Forced out of the marital bed
by two tiny roost-rulers, there’s no telling how far down the
kinky-uniform-fetish road Will has travelled to get his kicks. Apparently,
nurses and air hostesses are flavour of the month. What next - prostitutes?
Rubber gimp masks? Clingfilm and a hoover? He’s definitely hiding
something
.

Even though I’m only
half
serious,
by the time the track switches, quite coincidentally to Bon Jovi’s Bad
Medicine, I’ve made up my mind.

Two can play at that game. It’s
high time I made an appointment with
the doctor.

By the time the idle baggage
conveyor has spat out my luggage and I’ve fannied about for half an hour at Pet
City, the cab fair for the hop, skip and jump home is pushing fifty quid.
Totally extortionate but hey, no sweat, right? New cars, expensive holidays,
four grand handouts for scrounging sister-in-laws - I’m
obviously
married to Baron Rothschild.

Tossing the grumpy driver two
twenties and a ten, I expect change, or at least a little polite help with my
bags, but he just scowls like I’m some sort of cheapskate and gives
me
a
tip: ‘Next time luv, pack lighter, eh?’

Charming.

Feeling like an over-buzzed
bell hop, I lug my mammoth cargo and new four-legged friends up the path to the
front door before dropping everything at my feet, knackered.

Spotting Will’s Saab on the
driveway - its new, al fresco home since my Mustang moved in - I try the
handle.