Antidote to Infidelity (34 page)

Jesus. Why did I do that? Why?
Whatever happened to self control?

A civil slap round the face
would have sufficed, but no. I have to skywrite it to the whole bloody world
that I can’t keep my legs shut at work. Well, that’s how they’ll view it
anyway. They’re probably in the hot tub now compiling a ‘who’s shagged Sally?’
tick chart.

Oh stuff it, I’m sick to the
back teeth of hockey players anyway, bunch of skating psychopaths the lot of
’em. All inflated egos and corrupt consciences.
All except Jenson of course, who’s a thoroughly
decent bloke . . . and therefore an enigma.

As I reach the medical suite, a
little calmer yet still checking over my shoulder for Wade snapping at my heels
with a fist full of calcium dust, I can’t help but wonder what’s happened to
Ruby, the Strikers’ physio. She’s probably had her fill of them, too.

Noticing Mike’s name above the
door in big, black letters where Ruby’s used to be, my thoughts drift. Mike
Foster, new team physio. Mike Foster, my not-so-secret admirer. Mike Foster,
husband antagoniser. Or appeaser it seems? Oh, it’s all quite peculiar.

Not that I’m complaining, mind
you. How could I? Whether it’s by chance or choice, he’s taken a job on my turf
and
met Will man-to-man to assure him that he isn’t on the make.

When his actions quite clearly
suggest . . . that he is. Probably. Smitten, I’d say. Typical me, quitting just
as match nights are looking up. I wonder if he’ll stay when I’m gone?

Knocking lightly on the suite’s
tinny door, I’m about to enter when I hear shuffling, Jenson groaning and
Rowan’s unmistakable whine. I also catch Mike mention
‘Novocaine’
- an
old-school anaesthetic used for cheap, quick-fix stitching on the quiet.

What the hell are they up to?
Why isn’t Jenson in the hospital? And why’s Rowan in there, I thought she’d
gone home?

Barging in, I come face to face
with the unlikely trio: Jenson propped up on a blood-caked stretcher with
Rowan’s milky arms draped around his neck and Mike about to stick a five-inch
needle in his scull. Seeing me, he hesitates, allowing a fretting Rowan to rush
over and yank me into the fold.

“Oh Sal, thank God.
Please
talk some sense in to him. He won’t let us take him to the hospital.”

Huh. Who made her his next of
kin? They’re pals, sure, but I’m his in-case-of-emergency person. Me. Which
makes neck hugging my job, surely.

“Jeesus, Sal,” Jenson groans,
rolling his eyes. “Tell her to stop makin’ such a song and dance, will ’ya. I’m
not getting me no MRSA crap, I’ve heard what happens in hospitals. The doc’ll
fix me up good, won’t you buddy?”

I look to Mike, feeling like a
piggy in the middle.

“Can you
do
that? Is it
safe? Is it
legal
?” I ask, concerned. “Shouldn’t he be having a brain
scan or something? They’re all in Bupa, you know.”

Mike shrugs. “He won’t bloody
go
,
will he? I’ve either got to sew him up here and now or send him home with a
crack in his cap bigger than the Grand Canyon.”

Agitated and visibly in pain,
Jenson takes a friendly swat at Rowan.

“Stop
fussin
,” he snaps,
tether nearing its end. “’Cause it’s legal. They patch guys up in Thunder Bay
with fly wire and fishin’ hooks. Take her home, Sal, for Christ’s sake and let
the doc do his job before I bleed to death.”

Dabbing Jenson’s wound with a
gauze, Mike says, “Look, why don’t you girls take off? I’ll take Brutus here
home when we’re done. I’d like to keep an eye on him anyway, watch for signs of
concussion. These animals don’t need a doctor, they need a zoo keeper.”

God he’s fab, a real Samaritan.
He should get an OBE for selfless medical chivalry above and beyond the call of
duty. What a guy!

As Jenson signals his agreement
to Mike’s plan with a thumbs up, I sense Rowan’s dead on her feet and nudge her
gently towards the door.

“Hey, Sally-o. Wait up!”

Solid jaw in a Cheshire cat
grin, my favourite hockey player blows me a kiss.

“The doc tells me you were
quite the little nurse up there. Sorry for not warnin’ you about Fuck Face -
didn’t know myself ’til five minutes before face-off.”

Flinching at the mention of
Wade, I edge Rowan into the corridor as Mike, clearly wondering who ‘Fuck Face’
is, hovers in the background, stabber at the ready.

Needles. Yeeessh. Worse than
seaweed and worms put together.
Cleavers,
swing
lamps, tin sinks, it’s just like being in a backstreet butchers. Way too much
blood and gore for a mum-to-be: it’s Horlicks time.

***

As we make our way across the
floodlit car park, Rowan’s slender arm linked through mine, she’s solemn, edgy
and I have a strange feeling she’s about to drop a bombshell.

I’m right.

Half way home, as the radio
relives the ‘sporting gore-fest of the century’, she takes a deep breath and
turns it off, filling the car with expectant ‘here it comes’ silence.

“Sally,” she whispers timidly.
“Can we . . . talk?”

“Course. What’s up?” I coax.
“C’mon, I can see
something’s
on the tip of your tongue. What’s wrong?”

Picking at imaginary fluff on
her jacket, she shrugs back against the headrest and sighs.

“Okay. But you might be mad,
Sal, and you
can’t
shout at me ’cause I’m pregnant. Promise?”

Growing increasingly sceptical,
I cross my fingers behind the wheel.

“Promise.”

She looks unconvinced but
blurts out anyway, “Bi took me to Colts’ training today to see Troy.”

“Yeah, I know. I was meaning to
ask you - how’d it go?”

She shrugs awkwardly, her
reluctance to answer suggesting she’s not quite decided.

“Er good, I guess,” she says
eventually. “We kind of, well, got things out in the open you could say.”

Crunching the car into stiff
fourth gear, I nod, thinking how different Rowan looks with dark hair.
Much
more attractive. Only a complete
twat
would give her up. Hot or not
though, I can’t understand
why
she’d want to put herself through the
torture of visiting toss-pot Troy’s hunting ground. Cheerleader-ville. Bi must
have drugged her and dragged her.

“Great,” I say, supportively.
“Open’s good. What kind of things?”

She smiles bitterly, rubbing
her forehead with a menthol headache buster.

“Oh, you know what he’s like,
Sal. Cruel,” she shudders, dabbing me too. “Last night on the phone he called
me a dowdy cow and said he pities the baby if it’s a girl.”

“Bastard. I
hate
him. I
really do.”

Rowan clasps her hands on her
knees, legs tapping nervously.

“I know. Me too,” she
continues. “But this morning he said I looked sexy. And he wouldn’t
mind
his baby looking like me after all. It made me think, Sal.”

I pound the brake to the floor,
an inch short of flattening a suicidal pigeon.

“Ooops, sorry baby,” I grin,
patting her tum as the seatbelts tug us back. “Made you think
what
? Tell
me you didn’t take him back, Rowan? Tell me you didn’t.”

Shuffling nervously, she gazes
out of the window as we turn onto Sycamore Grove, seemingly drawing strength
from the sight of an infinite line of majestic ice-capped trees.

“No
way
,” she says,
defiantly. “I stood up to him, Sal. I said, ‘Hang on a minute dickhead, just
what makes you think it’s
your
baby?’”

“You
did
? Nice one! Well
done you,” I beam, thrilled to see a bit of fighting spirit after three years
of submissive shrinking violet. “Bet that rattled his cage?”

She shudders and winds up the
window.

“Oh, yeah. Too much. He called
me a slut and threatened to slit my throat . . . ’til Bi barged in and
bollocked him like you wouldn’t
believe
.”

I laugh, imaging the heated goalmouth
exchange. Hey, Vinnie Jones has nothing on Bianca!

“Sounds about right. Typical
Troy, typical Bi. Don’t get too upset hon, he’s all mouth.”

Not putting it past the
lunatic, though, to turn up ‘here’s Johnny-style’ in the middle of the night
with a menacing glint and a meat cleaver, I’m about to suggest our spare room,
or even Amy’s new apartment, when she squeezes my hand tightly on the gear
stick.

“The thing is Sal, Bi thought I
was winding him up. . . but I wasn’t.”

“Huh?”

Scrutinising her new false
nails, then the glowing CD player, she eventually meets my eyes and whispers,
“About the
baby
. I wasn’t joking.”

Suddenly catching on, my
concentration shatters as I swerve momentarily into the path of an oncoming
car. As the fuming driver blasts his horn, giving me a deserved two-finger
salute, I pull up sharply outside Pam’s Pantry and whip round to face Rowan.

“You mean it’s really
not
Troy’s
baby?”

Holding my stunned gaze, she
shakes her head.

“Yeah. Definitely
not
,
thank God.”

“Well bloody hell Row, rewind a
bit . . . whose baby
is it
?”

But I know. I just
know
.
She doesn’t need to say a word. After my diabolical Christmas, my holiday from
hell and a hockey game resembling a bloodthirsty Hun battle, my stunning best
friend’s about to shatter my heart into a billion pieces with, “
Will’s. And
we’re madly in love. And eloping to Australia in the morning . . .”

I poise myself, ready to leap
out of the car and run sobbing into the night.

Reading my mind, Rowan slaps me
hard on the thigh, rolling her eyes dramatically.

“Sally Ann Moss, you sceptical
prat.
You’re waiting for me to say ‘Will’s’, aren’t you?
Aren’t
you? Admit it!
Good God above, that’s
shocking
.”

Shaking her head, amused, she
smiles brightly as I exhale, then hugs me close as I start to cry.

“You daft moose, Sal. What
do
you take me for?” she asks softly, stroking my hair. “I
love
you.
Will
loves you. We
all
bloody love you. It’s
Jenson’s
baby.”

Whoa, talk about
Freaky
Friday. Right up there for violence, drama and shocking revelations, I’m sure
you’ll agree, tonight’s been
far
more gripping than settling in front of
the fire with a Bargain Bucket and Ugly Betty. And lucky old me, I’ve
still
got Will and his unpredictable amateur dramatics to face when I get home. But
hey - I’m getting quite used to bedlam, so roll on the grand finale!

***

Having spent the last half hour
grilling Rowan on the doorstep of her thankfully Troy-less townhouse, I’ve
discovered she and Jenson have been at it like rabbits for months on the sly.
Or, to be precise, ever since she realised toss-pot Troy was firing blanks and
shagging everything with a pulse or a pompom.

Apparently, she relegated him
to the spare room around the time she decided Mr Maple Leaf – with 10 years’
friendship on his CV - was
actually
eligible marriage material. Not to
mention a pedigreed father-in-waiting.

A series of steamy moonlit
escapades and romantic picnics to the park ensued, during which, over
sandwiches and sparkling Perrier, Rowan and Jenson fell ‘madly, crazily,
unconditionally, irrevocably’ . . . in love.

Splendid. I’m all for a happy
ending.

They neglected to tell
me
,
however, as I have ‘too many problems of my own’ to be burdened with the
knowledge. A piss poor excuse if ever I heard one, and I’ve heard
plenty
.
More like if Sally doesn’t know, she can’t pass judgement. Which, if they’d
bothered
to ask, would have been, ‘Brilliant guys! Go for it!’

People
seriously
need to
start being straight and showing a bit of respect, not springing random
surprises left, right and centre just as they’re about to be busted. If not,
I’ll end up having a heart attack and it’ll be, ‘Poor old Sal, who’d have
bloody thought it?’

Unsurprisingly, the
shock-the-shit-out-of-Sal o-meter is now full to capacity. What next? Bianca
becoming a nun? Liselle a serial killer? Amy switching to gum? My parents
babysitting?

***

Pulling onto our drive, I inch
my Mustang into the garage, well aware that walls, gates and other inanimate objects
have a tendency to jump out when I’m least expecting it. In fact, Will’s motor
suffered such an injury in November. An unfortunate collision with a three-foot
stone bollard which, I swear, wasn’t there when I started reversing.