Antidote to Infidelity (38 page)

SW: Well, good for you.
I
think
he’s a sly, Spanish-speaking nurse shagger who’s pulling the wool over your
eyes. Think about it, new cars, affairs, bulging bank accounts, mysterious
Australian acquaintances - something’s
fishy
.

VR: I’ll have you know Will’s
working very hard. It’s all proper and above board. And it was hardly an affair
. . . was it?

SW: No. You’re right. More like
a frustrated, lustful attraction. A meaningless no-strings shag . . . or two.
Like you’re
longing
for with Mike.

VR: You’re wrong, smart arse. I
find him interesting, that’s all.

SW: He makes you laugh. . .
and
he makes you blush.

VR: So does Chubby Brown but I
don’t want to shag him.

SW: You scream
his
name
when your husband’s screwing you on the bonnet . . .

VR: Who? Chubby Brown?

SW: Now you’re just being silly
. . .

VR: Look, what’s your problem?
Will invited him, not me. My conscience is clean.

SW: Oooh, why are we bickering?
Just go for it. Live a little, level the score.

VR: No, I won’t. I can’t. I
won’t hurt Will and the kids.

SW: Pity old droopy-zipper
didn’t show such resolve when he slipped out of his wedding ring and into young
Becky . . .

VR: That’s enough. You’re bang
out of order. She was a big mistake.

SW: A big mistake who just
happens
to work at your local hospital . . .

VR: It’s just a coincidence. It
was a mindless one-off . . .

SW: My point
exactly
.
And a mindless one-off never hurt anyone . . . so
SHAG HIM!

***

 “Sally, I know you’ve been
stressed lately but
who the fuck
are you talking to?”

“Huh? What?”

Feeling like the ball in a game
of tittle-tattle tennis, I’m snatched out of my gruelling argument with myself
by Bi, who’s sitting on the bed with a triumphant-yet-intrigued smile on her
immaculately made up face.

Dressed in tight leather
trousers, a black silk corset and red high heels, she looks slim, sexy and
certain to bag a bed mate wherever she’s off to.

Lucky mare.

Spinning to face her, I catch
that familiar gleam in her sparkling eyes and realise it’s more than just a
social call.

“Myself,” I sigh warily. “I’m
talking to myself. You’d be surprised at the gossip I get. You’re here to
educate me, aren’t you?”

She grins, flashing her emerald
tongue ring.

“You betcha baby. I’ve got a
gift to give and a bone to pick. Which do you want first?”

Expecting the doorbell to ring
any minute, I make a snap decision.

“Errr, the bone I guess.”

Bi nods, pleased.

“Good choice. Well, they’re
kind of connected actually. Look, I’m not very good with the huggy-huggy crap,
so let’s just get it over with and forget it ever happened, okay?”

Without warning, she lunges
forward and drags me, nose first, into her impressive cleavage, squeezing me
tight before snapping out of the sloppies and pushing me upright.

“Right, Sal. I love you,” she
says dramatically, twisting my necklace so the clasp isn’t showing. “Loads. I
just wanted you to know. Yes, I take the piss sometimes but you’re the little
sister I never had.”

Handing me a small white
envelope, she adds, “I’d sooner fling myself in front of a lorry than hurt you,
you daft sod. So don’t doubt me. And don’t open this ’til I’ve gone.”

Curious, I frown at the
envelope, rattle it and squidge it.

Odd, it feels like knitting. Or
cotton. Or straw perhaps. Maybe even grass. But that makes no sense at all.
She’s being a bit weird. I hope it’s not some kind of quirky Bi-style
bequeathment. You know, ‘I think you’re fab Sal, I really do. Here, have a
crocheted suicide note and my secret weed stash . . .’

Sniffing it suspiciously and
finding it odourless, I turn to say, ‘thanks, but you’ve lost me’ to Bi, who
beams, kisses my crown and heads for the door.

“Look, Will’s told me the
score. I’d
love
to stay and meet the dashing doc who’s got your eyes all
shiny, but you’re spotty and I’m late.”

Huffing, I attempt to look
indignant but it’s no use trying to get anything past Bi, she’s got a sixth
sense for sleaze and can read me like a book. Reversing out, she gives me a
saucy wink.

“I’m off to the StarBar,
meeting my brothers for a drink,” she says chirpily. Then, holding my stare,
she adds seriously, “Think before you do owt daft, Sal, won’t you? You’ve got
two crackin’ kids and you could do
much
worse than Will.”

Humph. Now that I wasn’t
expecting.

Where the hell did
that
come from? Not out of Bianca’s mouth, surely? Bi, Queen of Sleaze, telling
me
to behave? Since when has Will
been in the good books? And since when
has he been
Will
? What happened to numb nuts? If I remember rightly, the
general consensus was:
he’s
a cheating bastard and
I
’ve got serious
dick deficiency. What’s changed? Who made Miss Hat-Trick-of-Husbands a paragon
of virtue?

I’m about to set her straight
when something else strikes me. Bianca is unique. One of a kind in every way,
and as far as I know she hasn’t
got
any siblings to meet.

Thinking perhaps she’s smoked
more hash than she’s put in my envelope, I say, “Hang on a sec Bi . . . I
thought you were an only child?”

Already on the landing, she
sighs heavily behind the door and pokes her head back in.

“I
am
, you moose,” she
tuts. “Not my brothers, Sal. My
brothers
. Get with it.”

Feeling thick and completely
confused, I feign enlightenment.

“Ooooh . . . I
get
you.
Duh! Sorry.”

But I don’t. Not at all. I
haven’t the
foggiest
idea what she’s on about as she disappears down the
stairs, leaving me all alone with my mystery gift. Carefully slicing it open
with my nail scissors, I empty the contents into my hand, then quiver in
disgust, scattering carrot-coloured clippings all over the rug. The scribbled
note reads:

Dear Sal,

You should have told me what happened with Mr
Skating Shit-for-Brains, not made me weasel it out of Rowan. In future if
anyone hurts you, Auntie Bi’s gonna make ’em pay, or shag ’em and bag ’em at
least! Here’s number 15’s eyebrows and nether region shrubbery as a token of my
eternal affection.

Your loyal friend,

 Bi xxxx

Ps - that’s
not
a dick, it’s a cocktail
sausage. And I think it’s past its sell-by . . .

Gagging, I stash the note in my
top draw before Will sees it and fish my mobile out of my handbag. Bi, clearly
anticipating my call, picks up immediately with an animated, “So, Sal? Do you
like it?”

“Yes. No. I don’t
know
,”
I say uncertainly. “What did you
do
, Bi?”

But I already know. I can just
imagine
how the night panned out. Wade, bashed to smithereens but unable to resist
a quick flash of tit, must have thought all his birthdays had come at once when
he bumped into Miss-Easy-Lay in the players’ corridor.

Little did he know he was
luring Charles Bronson back to his lair!

Glancing out of the window, I
can see Bi’s headlights and hear ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ blurting out as she
shouts, “Got him disgustingly drunk and took advantage when he passed out!”

The scenario sounds chillingly
familiar. I gasp, “Oh Bi, that’s
terrible
. . .”

“Like hell it is!” she laughs
wickedly. “It’s
justice
. He’ll look a twat on the team photo and feel
like he’s got a family of hedgehogs in his shorts for the next fortnight.”

Feeling a tad guilty for
assuming she simply wanted to shag him to end her drought, I’m about to thank
her for bedding and butchering Wade on my behalf when she squeals, “Oooh, Sally
. . .”

“Yes, Bi?”

“There’s someone tall, dark and
mighty fine walking up your path. With flowers. Oooh, and wine. And a big bag .
. . mmm.”

“Shit!” I cry, leaping up and
flapping round the room. “He’s early. What do you think Bi? Do you like him? Do
you think I
should
. . . ?”

“I think,” she says
impatiently, “that you should get those bloody trees cut, I can’t see a damn
thing for conifers. Catch you tomorrow, Sal. Stay sober and for fuck’s sake,
behave yourself.”

With that she hangs up, leaving
me searching for the mini-hoover, suffocating in a whirlwind of butterflies and
all in a tizzy over tea.

By the time I’ve rustled up the
nerve to
consider
going downstairs, our gift-bearing guest is sandwiched
on the couch between Rosie and Ryan, beer in hand, expertly flicking through
the Sky channels.

Regardless of the fact that
three-quarters of the household has the lergie, there he sits,
Doctor-Foster-from-Gloucester, laid back and happy as a pig in muck, debating
‘the best thing about Scooby Doo’ as he waits for his feast.

It’s devious. It’s
dangerous
.
It’s morally unacceptable . . . but it’s bloody
exciting
. The SAS
husband and the nuclear warhead making polite chit-chat whilst the hostess
loiters on the landing, spying through the mottled lens of a Dora the Explorer
telescope.

***

In my defence I did call to
cancel, of
course
I did. It’s
clearly
a bad idea. But he insisted
(most strongly, actually) that he was looking forward to it.

Very much indeed.

What was I
supposed
to
do? He was
aware
we had the pox and ‘happy to take his chances’. Hey,
the man was looking
forward
to it for Christ’s sake, who was
I
to
piss on his parade?

And so, whilst Will hurried
round Tesco’s with a list as long as his arm, I lofted the Christmas
decorations, cleaned the house from top to bottom and made strawberry cupcakes
with the twins before checking on the respective bumps of Jenson and Rowan. I
also found five minutes to check out Amy’s gorgeous new apartment, where,
incidentally, I received a snooty lecture when I told her about my cosy
tea-for-three.

Sucking on a raspberry
shoelace, painting her toenails luminous orange, she had the cheek to tell
me
that Will was ‘wonderful’, that I was ‘lucky to have him’ and that ‘revenge
fucks aren’t all they’re cracked up to be’ . . .

Humph! She’d certainly changed
her tune. What happened to all that endless squawking about ‘opening the floodgates’
and ‘taking a dip’?

I’ll tell you what happened to
it, a cheque for four bloody grand, that’s what. The price of an allegiance.
Another of my so-called allies suddenly seeing Will through rose-tinted
glasses.

Well, stuff them. All of ’em.
Traitors. I know what I’m doing so they can keep their sticky beaks out and
mind their own business, they’re only jealous!

Icily rejecting coffee and a
guided tour, I left Amy’s in a huff, gobbling a drive-thru KFC on the way home
before hogging the bathroom in a vain, nervous flap. I felt skittish. I felt
sick. So much so that I had to take a Diazepam at three o’clock to calm me
down.

Will merely looked on with
judgemental paranoia, but considering I literally had to drag
him
out of
the shower kicking and screaming,
he
couldn’t say a bloody thing!
Especially since
he
was the one who’d instigated it all.

***

When Mike finally arrived, ten
minutes ago in our Saab, the place was spotless, three of us were spotty and
Will - Mr-it’s-Mike-Foster-not-the-Prime-bloody-Minister - had changed (again)
into a brand new smoke-coloured shirt and sexy ripped Levis.  

See? I’m not the only one
dressing to impress. Hunky great tart.

The excited kids, expecting
‘the Doc’ to smash through the ceiling in his Tardis flanked by three-headed
aliens, were less than impressed when a rather ordinary-looking guy entered the
conventional way, shattering their illusions. I, however, took one look at him
from the sanctuary of the landing, decided he was anything
but
ordinary
. . . and fantasised about taking my revenge
immediate
ly, in the shower
pod, with a steamy Bond-style soaking.

Wearing a crisp, Casino
Royale-like white shirt, designer blue jeans and retro winkle pickers, which he
genteelly removed at the door, he soon had the kids eating out of his hand with
a few tall tales and some good old-fashioned bribery.