Antidote to Infidelity (30 page)

Locked. Great.

Assuming he’s shoved our latest
ding-dong to the back of his mind and gone to the office, I fish in my purse
for the key and let myself in. Dragging everything into the hallway and
carrying our new pets into the kitchen, I notice three things that
immediately
get my back up:

One:
The air is thick with Armani.
Why, if he’s not going out with me? Which he clearly isn’t.

Two:
  A hastily scribbled note
pinned to the fridge, which reads, ‘Gone to the footie. Don’t wait up. Check
your messages’.

Not ‘love Will’ or ‘welcome
home’ or ‘hope you had a nice flight, let’s be friends’, simply ‘buggered off
out and I’m gonna be late, Will’.

and

Three
: Missing items - lots of them.
My china table vase, my best place mats, even the washing up bowl - gone. All
vanished into skinny air. Mmm.

***

I decide to make myself a nice
cup of tea and chill out only to find the kettle, too, has gone walkabout.
Oooh,
I’ll wring Amy’s scrawny little neck when I get my hands on her. And Bianca’s
for being such a crap supervisor.

Filling a mug with water, I
stick it in the microwave with a teabag, hitting play on the flashing answer
machine as the mechanical voice informs me, ‘You have . . . two . . .
messages.’

Pulling up a chair, I wait for
the ping as Mary’s high-pitched voice echoes off the tiles.

“Hello Will-ee-yum, hello Sally
dear, I just wanted to let you know . . . Oooh, no, fill the bucket with sand,
not mamma’s handbag. Naughty! Sorry, what I was trying to tell you is . . .
aaagggh! Clive! Put those bloody binoculars down and grab his ankle before he
goes over again. Clliiive! Do you hear me? Am I talking to myself?”

I sit back, soaking up what
sounds like utter bedlam. Honestly, anyone would think they’d poddled off to
the beach with the entire nursery. Oh well, at least it’s not just
me
the twins tie in knots! Giggling at the muffled chaos, I hear sighing,
splashing, crashing and the twins tittering, before Mary pipes up again,
“Phew.
Good gracious me! Sorry dear . . .  I just thought you should know . . . oh,
no! Goodness me, why didn’t you tell
mamma you needed a wee-wee? Look,
ooowww . . . Clliiive! I’ll have to go, dear . . .”

Click.

Smiling and missing my little
monkeys immensely, I try calling back but, rather than a spirited chat with the
kids, I get Clive’s answer phone, which never fails to crack me up: ‘What’s
that? What? Oh, the bloody thing’s asking me to record my greeting, Mary. What
shall I . . . oooh, right. Yes, yes, Clive here, can’t get to the phone so
I’ll, erm, ring you in a bit. Roger, Wilko’.

“Hi guys, it’s mummy!” I say
cheerily. “Sounds like you’re having a
faaaab
time. Missing you hundreds
and millions and
billions
, so’s daddy, he sends you massive monster
kisses. We’ve got you a
big
surprise for when you get back. Love you!”

Hanging up reluctantly, I add
milk and two sugars to my drink, waiting for the second message, then groan and
cover my ears as the gruff voice of Gerald McNamara - The Whistler’s ageing
editor - snaps,
“Sally? Sally? If you’re there, pick up. I mean it - pick
up. Right now. Now, now. Immediately. Not a week on Thursday.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause
whilst he waits for me to pick up. I can just see him now, hopping about the
office like a prissy leprechaun, doing his senile nut in because I’m not
jumping when he clicks.

Aw, I wonder what he wants?

Uh-oh, it’s Friday - hockey
night. I’d totally forgotten. Oh, I hope the he’s remembered I’m on leave for a
fortnight, it’s been booked in since May.

Obviously not.

“Sally Moss, where the blazes
are you? I think freelance, more like freeloader. Look, Ron’s wife’s gone into
labour four weeks early, awkward sow, and Kev’s in New-chuffing-York! You’d
better get your arse in gear and cover tonight’s match. No lame excuses either,
you’ve taken the piss right royally over Christmas . . .”

Click.

Oh, great.
Just
what I
need after the holiday from hell. All I want to do is slip into a four-hour
bath, bathe my war wounds and have it out with Will, but no. I’ve got to ‘get
my arse in gear’ and turn up for work looking like I’ve been hit by the puck.

Always a pleasure, Gerald. Nice
to see some things never change.

Oh well, only three more months
then - hooray! - early retirement for grumpy old Gezza, leaving me free of his
wise cracks and forked tongue forever. In the meantime though, he is still
technically
my boss so I’d better do as I’m told.

Mmm. I’m going to need a
much
stronger pick-me-up than skanky-tasting tea, though. I need make-up, chocolate
cake and Kings of Leon! A bit of
moral support
wouldn’t go amiss,
either. Maybe the girls would like to come?

You know, this
could
be
a good thing. If I stay in, I’ll only wallow in self pity and be a Haagen Daaz
porker. A monster cheer-up session’s
definitely
in order, and what
better way to convalesce than to:

One:
Have a good old girly chin-wag
and catch up on all the latest gossip?

Two:
Earn top dollar watching
pillars of testosterone collide for our dainty amusement?

and

Three:
Show off my Mustang with a
spin around the city?

***

Perfect! Cheering up, I call to
rally the girls who, unsurprisingly, all say ‘yes!’- Bianca a little
too
enthusiastically.
I arrange to pick them up from Liselle’s and lay down my strict match-night
ground rules:
no
short skirts,
no
see-through tops,
no
fraternising with the players and
no
unladylike language.

Since my rookie slip-up with
Wade, you see, I’ve gone for the professional, plain Jane approach - boots,
jeans and polo necks - and I expect my friends to follow suit. Particularly
Bianca. In the past, I’ve always tried to keep her well away from the Strikers
for
obvious
reasons, but duly warned, I trust her to be on her best,
closed-legged behaviour. Well, no. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw
her, she’s a born bike, but you can always hope.

God, Bi would just
die
to trade places with Ruby, the Strikers’ physio. She’d never take a sick day
that’s for sure and she’d
definitely
work nights.

Imagine actually being paid for
rubbing muscular backs and massaging horse oils into groin strains all day
long? Ooh, the hardship. It’s little more than a shameless bloke-fest if you
ask me. Honestly, why I studied English instead of PE I’ll never bloody know.

Hurriedly stripping off, I cram
my sweaty flying attire into the washer before sensing I’m being watched. Stiff
as a board, I whirl round, carving knife in hand, ready to tangle with a masked
hitman or perverted peeping Tom. Naturally, I’m relieved to come face to face
with far less menacing voyeurs - terrapins.

Phew!

Beady green eyes shining, my
impulsive Pet City purchases ogle me from the worktop, hungry little mouths
chomping expectantly. Feeling foolish, I carry the aquarium to the sink and
fill it with lukewarm water before gently plucking the kids’ new pets, one by
wriggling one, out of their carry-home case.

Plopping them into the tank, I
plug the twenty pound heat lamp - which the pushy salesman assured me was
‘absolutely imperative, miss’ - into the vacant kettle switch, feeling pleased
with myself.

Delighted to be free, they dart
around, exploring their habitat before clambering onto the brown plastic
island, where they sit, unblinking, watching my every move.

Do terrapins blink? Or do they
just stare? Wow, they’re really interactive. The kids’ll love ’em!

Tapping the glass, I bend to
introduce myself then realise: they’re not interested in
me
at all,
they’ve spotted their supper - a big, gross bag of bloodworms - wriggling
beside my elbow. Eeugh. Yak. Bloodworms. Almost as bad as seaweed but ‘absolutely
imperative, miss’.

Gritting my teeth, I poke a
hole in the top of the bag and let a surge of worms spill into the tank, much
to the delight of the starving critters, who leap off the island like mini
scuba-divers, greedily snapping at their supper.

Yikes! I’ve just spotted my
blimp of an arse in the kitchen window.
Not
a pretty sight. Better stop
parading around like Lady Godiva in full view of the neighbours. Drawing the
blind, I snatch Will’s infuriating note off the fridge, wrap myself in a towel
and trudge upstairs, vanity case in hand.

I pause to re-read it on the
landing. What kind of moron does he think he’s married to, trying to soak
himself in aftershave and get away with a blatant ‘gone to the footie’ fib on a
Friday afternoon? I mean,
come on
. I may have blown the whistle on Match
of the Day when Jamie Redknapp’s appearances fizzled out, but I still know my
Ronaldos from my Rivaldos. Plus I’ve been planning our weekends around Old
Trafford’s fixtures for the past six years!

Suspicious mind a-buzz, I enter
our pleasantly Becky-less bedroom, coming face to face with an unmade bed,
closed curtains and an angry-looking iron smouldering away on a beach towel on
the floor. Thankful to be standing on carpet, not a smoking pile of ash, I
hastily flick it off at the switch, making a mental note to bollock Will when
he returns from his fictitious football match.

As I fold the towel and toss it
onto the bed, a nasty thought strikes me.

Uh-oh. Will never, ever irons.
Never. Except in life and death emergencies. He doesn’t even know how to switch
the bloody thing on (or off, obviously) and hasn’t the foggiest idea where I
keep the ironing board.

The fact that he
has
ironed means two things: not only is he a dilatory
twat
who’s almost
burnt the house down, he’s also a sneaky son-of-a-gun who’s abandoned his wife
and best shirts in Spain . . . then disappeared somewhere posh enough to call
for creaseless clothes.

Humph!

What if, not expecting me home
yet, he’s arranged an illicit rendezvous with Becky?

What if he’s headed out on the
pull with Robert and his virile young mates? And scored. Again.

What if he’s gone to meet some
stunning businesswoman who
professes
to want to talk shop, but
really
wants to bonk him on the boardroom table?

What if
I
miss the first
period of the match and get
fired
for gross incompetence?

Oh, stop it Sally.

Wherever Will is, whatever he’s
up to, my hockey clock’s ticking and I’ve got to get my skates on . . . or face
the wrath of Gerald.

Tugging a black angora sweater
off a hanger, I slip it on and cover myself in Impulse Goddess before squeezing
(too much Sangria?) into my tighter-than-usual tight black jeans. Dropping to
the floor, I ferret about under the bed for my leather, knee-high boots as the
phone rings on the bedside cabinet. Hoping it will be Will putting me out of my
misery, I grab for it, banging my head on the wooden slats.

“Ouch! Pig. Hello. Will?”

“No - better. Me. Look - I’m
almost
ready. I was just wondering, did you
really
mean no short skirts, or
were you just speaking metaphorically?”

Metaphorically? Me? I couldn’t
speak metaphorically if I tried. Twelve years in journalism and I’ve only just
conquered verbs.

Disappointed to hear Bianca’s
trivial chirping, I hurry over to the dressing table mirror. Flipping it round
to face me, I scare myself half to death. Ow, this is terrible, I look
hideous
.
No,
worse
than hideous. Compared to my mangled chops, hideous is positively
catwalk.

“No tarting, Bi,” I say firmly,
feeling sluggish and ugly. “I
mean
it. Will’s pissed off somewhere
secretive and I’m having a bad,
bad
face day. Please wear something
conservative, don’t wind me up.”

Wedging the phone between my
ear and shoulder, I attempt the cover-up of the century with Max Factor as
Bianca whines, “Okay, okay. Spoilsport. What’s up with your face? Is it spots?
Don’t fret, I’ll bring you some Witch Hazel. Works wonders.”

I grimace, trying to blot out
the black and blue bumps around my eye and cheek by towelling on some dark
powder. Bad move. I look like I’ve been nosing round the flowerbed, burying a
bone.

“Uuuurrggh. Flawless Finish, my
foot!” I snap, toning it down with some talc. “No, it’s not
spots it’s -
oh, never mind. Will says he’s gone to the footie, Bi, but he’s been
ironing
.
What if he’s still playing away?”