Antidote to Infidelity (31 page)

Clearly unconcerned, Bi laughs
as I tackle my curls with the hot brush, “Don’t be daft hon, he wouldn’t
dare
,
he knows we’d have his knackers on a plate. The Colts were training this
afternoon, we’ve been! Maybe he’s decided to bury the hatchet with Troy?”

Covering the jungle on my head
in style revitaliser, I apply some red lipstick and a little of the shimmery
eye shadow that looked so nice in Spain. The Bride of Wildenstein stares back
at me.

Rrrggghhh! It’s hopeless. Like
trying to revive road kill.

“Bury the hatchet?” I huff. “In
the back of his dense skull, hopefully.
Seriously
Bi, we’ve had a shitty
time on holiday and I look like I’ve been hit by a lorry . . .”

“Sally,
STOP
!” she
demands bossily. “You’re hyperventilating, I can tell. Stick your head in a
brown bag, get in that gorgeous car and get over here. I’ll sort you out.”

Click.

As she hangs up, I’m close to
tears, contemplating diving under the duvet until morning or, better still, a
week tomorrow when hopefully I won’t look such a horror.

All set to succumb to the
quilt, I’m dragged from the jaws of sloth as my fighting spirit shines through.
Shaking the cobwebs out of my head, I step away from the bed, stick out my
chest and slip on my denim jacket, defying my mocking reflection.

The optimistic voice in my head
tells me to look on the bright side. I flip the mirror round. Nope. See? There
is
no bright side.

‘Oh, c’mon Sally-o,’ it says.
‘You may resemble a House of the Dead extra, your hubby may be out banging his
immaculate mistress, but
you
have, er, inner beauty. . . not to mention
a hot doc after some post-op passion. What more do you want, girl? You’ve got
it
made
’.

Not feeling the slightest bit
reassured, I dash downstairs and pin a sarcastic note to the fridge before
leaving for the Strikers, safe in the knowledge that, whatever happens tonight,
things can’t
possibly
get any worse.

No, no, nooooo.

How can it be
possible
or even
fair
that on the one night I arrive at work looking like I’ve
been tortured by the Taliban, my ex-boyfriend turns up centre ice resembling an
air-brushed L’oreal advert, whipping the fans into a frenzy? And how come, as
The Whistler’s chief hockey hack, I haven’t been pre-warned?

Typical bloody Gerald! Not a
whisper
.
How he runs a busy newsroom I’ll never know. Old players returning is
news
,
I’m a
reporter
, I need to know these things. That way I can choose
not
to cover the match and sob behind the sofa instead.

I can hear Gerald-the-Peril
now, jangling the coppers in his pockets, hatching his evil plot with his
imaginary friend. The only person who’ll talk to him.

‘I know, let’s not tell Sally.
Yeah, ha ha. Let’s surprise her. Yeah, that way she can spot her big, bad
ex-beau on the blue line during God Save the Queen, choke on her Doritos and
wham! There we have it, Saturday’s front page’.

Oh, seriously though, I can’t
believe
it. Wade Wallace, back at the Strikers. He can’t be. He just
can’t
be.
Yet here he is, skating around in the captain’s shirt to a hero’s welcome,
wolf-whistles and rapturous applause like some long-lost frigging Adonis.

It’s simply too cruel to
tolerate. The game isn’t even halfway through and already I want to hang myself
from the pigeon-stuffed rafters or fling myself under the zamboni.

Sandwiched between Amy and
Bianca on the front row of block seven, right behind the penalty boxes, here I
sit. Sad, sorry Sally. Huddled under a coat, desperately trying to piece
together the key points of the first period, which I’ve missed entirely due to
shock. The Strikers are beating their fierce rivals, Medway Wings, 3-1 in the
first leg of the Winter Cup - I know
that
much. And Wanker Wallace has
scored two of the goals, I know that, too.

Sharp-shooting son-of-a-bitch!

What I
don’t
know is how
I’m going to worm my way out of the press conference, which wild horses
couldn’t drag me to. Or how Will’s going to react to his arch-nemesis being
back on the scene at such an inopportune time in our marriage.

Though Will and Wade have never
actually
met, Will being Will, he’s Googled him. He’s also seen him on
the telly a few times. Naturally, as the only other guy to have ‘scored’ with
his wife, he regards him as a serious threat. Terrorist material.

You know what this means, don’t
you? Not only am I going to get it in the ear over Mike . .  . and Greg . . .
and whoever else Mr Jealousy has dreamt up in our twenty-four hours apart, I’ve
also got a macho, whining Wade-athon to look forward to when he spots him on
Sky Sports. And
I’m
the faithful one!

***

 “Ladies and gentlemen, please
re-take your seats, the second period is about to begin . . .”

“Oooh, goodie! Sal, this is
orgasmic
- I can’t
believe
you’ve been hiding it from me, you meanie! Which one’s
lover-boy again? Number fifteen? Nice arse. Mm mm.”

Tits pressed to the Plexiglas,
Bi hollers at the top of her voice just as Wade whizzes past, turning to give
her a hawk-eyed stare before tapping his stick and grinning lecherously through
his gum shield.

As I duck for cover, my stomach
does a forward flip. Ow, he’s
exactly
as I remember, all six feet
looming six of him. Long blonde hair, mean green eyes, square jaw and broad
shoulders. The only difference is his prominent nose, which looks like it’s
lost a few too many battles with the puck. Or a stick. Or a hard, fast fist.

Good. The bastard’s broken his
beak, eh? I want to break his neck. Bi, it seems, wants to break him in, and judging
by their indiscreet little exchange, a Wade-style ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’
is
definitely
on the cards.

Well, she’s welcome to him. I
only hope she knows what she’s letting herself in for.

Feeling sick and increasingly
jumpy, I squirm in my seat, feathers ruffled.

“Bi, look, I don’t think I can
take this. I’m going home . . .”

I nudge Liselle aside and
shuffle along the pew, then stop dead as my mangled chops appear on the big
screen hanging above the ice. The familiar twang of ‘Mustang Sally’ fills the
throbbing arena, accompanied by Tannoy Tom blurting,
“Ladies and
gentlemen, let’s give a warm, Ice House welcome to our very own Mustang Sally,
bringing you all the latest news, views and interviews in tomorrow’s Whistler!
Give us a wave, Sall-eeee!”

Blushing, I raise my hand
obligingly to a chorus of cheers, before the music stops and, thank God, the
camera switches to the face-off. Clearly impressed, Bi’s beaming. She drags me
back to my seat, planting a smacker on my cheek.

“That’s
awesome
, Sal.
You, my battered beauty, are a fully-fledged celeb. How’d you do that?”

I shrug miserably. “Do what,
exactly? Make myself look a prize twat in front of six thousand folk?”

“No!” she laughs. “Well - yes!”

“Oh, I don’t know. They’ve been
doing it since I was eighteen,” I tell her, weary eyes on Wade as he executes a
bone-crunching check into the boards. “Don’t get too excited, Strikey Mike’s
the real superstar. Keep watching.”

Sure enough, at the next break
in play, the screen is filled with the crazy team mascot - a giant, black
bowling ball - gleefully rolling from block to block, sending the crowd into
raptures.

I gesture glumly upwards, point
proven. “See. I’m just a lame excuse to rattle out Mustang Sally for the
Canadians. If I’d been a Katie or a Charlotte, they’d be buggered.”

Bianca nods. Before I can stop
her she hurries off to the foyer, allowing Liselle to slip beside me as
ravishing Rowan appears at the end of the row with a bucket of popcorn, four
bottles of Bud . . . and a carton of milk.

Boy is she a knockout.

Despite a heated mid-ice scrap
between Strikers’ powerhouse Jenson McRaney and Wings’ scar-faced ear-chewer
Chad Lambert, all eyes are on my best friend as she politely waits for a break
in play before taking her seat.

***

An hour ago, Mustang parked
outside Liselle’s immaculate five-bedroomed home, I got the shock of my life as
Bianca, bold as brass in a rule-flouting leather micro skirt and tarty red
bodice, skittered excitedly down to the car, tugging a reluctant,
blanket-covered figure along by the hand.

“Ta-da! What do you think?” she
beamed.

As Amy and Liselle clapped, she
whipped off the cloak to reveal a dramatically re-vamped Rowan, before noticing
my face and adding, “Holy shit, Sal, did the plane crash?”

I didn’t answer, I was too
mesmerised by the
gorgeous
girl before me, dressed in a curve-hugging
coral two piece, chunky jewellery and matching kitten heels. Gone were the
trademark glasses, pale face and honey ponytail to reveal a raven-haired beauty
with glowing cheeks, sparkly eyes and a dazzling smile.

I barely recognised her, truly,
she looked
that
different. Delicious. Whatever they’d given her, I’m
telling you, they should bottle it and sell it. In my sorry state I’d buy a
trolley full!

As they piled into the car,
Rowan sat beside me, dainty bejewelled hand on her non-existent bump, looking
radiant, relaxed - and perkier than I’d seen her in ages. During the four-block
drive to the rink, I discovered the girls had spent the last three days moving
Amy in, scoffing pizzas and transforming Rowan into a chic, Troy-taunting
catwalk queen.

Munching on a Galaxy bar, I
told them all about our steamy penthouse romps, my unwitting evening with Greg,
Mike’s ill-timed call, our argument, my accident and finally, the deserved
comeuppance of Miss Flirty-Short-Skirty. Just as I expected, my exaggerated
account of ‘Flirty-Gate’ had Bianca in raptures over my ‘cunning devilment’
which, of course, she took full credit for instilling.

As we shot past Valentine’s
shopping centre and turned the corner to the arena car park, Bi began fiddling
with my rear view mirror, distracting me with her pout as I roared through the
traffic lights on red.

“Shit!” I squealed. “Did that
light have a camera? Damn it! I’ve got six points already, this accelerator’s
hyper
.”

Rowan turned to check but Bi
just sniggered, “Don’t worry, when the pic comes through, we’ll say Quazimodo
was driving.”

“Oh shut up, Bi.” I snapped.
“And straighten my mirror, I need to see what’s behind me.”

“I’m behind you.”

“Very funny. I’m
serious
.
About the players, too. No fraternising.”

Liselle stifled a giggle as Bi
straightened up, disgruntled.

“Whaaat? You’re kidding me,
right. Tell me you’re kidding, Sal. It’s like taking me to an all you can eat
buffet with a wired jaw!”

Amy zipped up her silver bomber
jacket, shoved a fizzy lolly in and smirked, patting Bi’s bare shoulder.

“Oww, poor Bi. No Colts. No
Strikers. It’s a bad day for bedpost notches, huh babe?”

Bi scowled and pushed her hand
away.

“It’s no laughing matter,
ladies. I can’t fuck the footballers ’cause
she’s
married to one,” she
tipped her head accusingly at Rowan. “Can’t hump the hockey players because
you
work with ’em. Uuurrrggg!”

Frustrated and sex-starved (
yeah,
right
)
she folded her bangled arms, adding, “Barrel of laughs you
lot are. It’s like being out with a bunch of bloody nuns!”

Handing her a peace-offering
wine gum, Liselle straightened the collar of her fluffy beige duffel.

“
And
she can’t even
stalk the sixth formers,” she joked, cheekily meeting my eyes in the mirror.
“Because
I’m
a headmistress. Don’t fret Bi, next week we’ll go to the
fire station and you can get stuck in!”

Bianca was less than impressed
but by the time I’d flashed my press card and parked, she’d suitably appeased
herself, picking up an unsuspecting young policeman on the short walk to the
arena. Whilst we all fell about laughing, she feigned to be lost, fluttered her
lashes and moved in for the kill, bagging his name and number in thirty seconds
flat.

Barely out of school but ‘broad
enough to have a crack at’, the poor kid never stood a chance with Bi chomping
at the bit to take down his particulars and try out his truncheon.

Tut. Honestly!

***

Whizz! Smack! Claaang!

The puck, a solid hunk of heavy
rubber, shoots past my ear and rattles off the advertising boards, reminding me
who I am, where I am, and what I’m
supposed
to be doing. Sally.
Strikers. Reporting at the rink, not daydreaming in la-la land.