Antidote to Infidelity (39 page)

Handing Will a colourful
bouquet, which my husband scowled at before realising his mistake and quickly
correcting himself, Mike followed up with a friendly handshake which turned into
a manly bear-hug. He then knelt in front of the long-faced twins, high-fiving
their hands in turn.

“Well, hello there. You must be
Rosie and Ryan. You know, I actually
hate
doors. Cars too, but my other
transport,” he said, winking and whispering behind his hand, “is stuck in 1857
having a new flugie-o-meter fitted.”

Sensing they were softening, he
went for broke, whipping two surprise-filled goodie bags from behind his back.
The result: an exasperated eye roll from Will, whoops of delight from Ryan . .
. and a beaming Disney princess dragging him off to play musical bumps.

***

As I walk calmly into the
lounge, Mike’s got the best seat in the house, a smitten limpet hanging off
each arm and an amusing dilemma every time he tries to sip his beer.

“I could do with a third hand,”
he laughs, knowing full well Will is out of earshot in the kitchen, scraping
black bits off a burnt quiche.

“I’ll bet!” I giggle,
remembering our bathtub chat. “It’d make life a lot easier on the motorway.”

“What would?” Will interrupts.

Juggling a tray of southern
fried chicken, potato wedges, onion rings and breaded mushrooms, my husband
tosses his speciality combo feast onto the coffee table, prising a grumbling
Batman away from Mike and swinging him, kicking and screaming, over his
shoulder.

“Sat Nav,” says Mike straight
faced, reaching for a hot wing then ducking as a slippered foot clips his ear.
“I’m thinking of getting a Road Angel to let me know where the cameras are. I
tend to get a bit carried away on motorways.”

Taking a long swill of beer, he
looks edgily from me to Will, who has his back to us whispering subtle words of
warning in Ryan’s ear.

“So are you guys . . . okay
now?” he asks awkwardly. Then, quietly to me, “Your bumps look a lot better
than last night.”

Blushing unwittingly, I can’t
help but wonder if it’s a veiled boob compliment. I’m about to offer him a
Thornton when we hear a loud crack outside the window, followed by a flustered,
one-shoed Bianca spilling in onto the mat.

Hobbling over, she hands me a
heel-less high heel and blatantly ogles Mike for what seems like
three hours
before blurting out, “Hi Sal, hi kids - oops, clumsy me I’ve broken my
shoe. No time to go home, can I borrow some of yours?”

Knowing
her
game
alright, I’m about to drag her upstairs, shoe her and tell her to shoo, when
she gushes, “Oooh
sorry
, I didn’t realise you had company. Aren’t you
going to introduce us, Sal?”

I don’t have to. Mike’s on his
feet in a flash, turning on the knee-knocking charm.

“Hi, I’m Mike. I’m Sally’s,
well, Will’s . . .” he stops, scratches his head and laughs. “Let me start
again. I’m Mike, it’s a pleasure.”

Sticking out her perky silicone
boobs, Bi gives him her finest ‘come hither’ eyes.

“Mmm,” she purrs breathlessly,
drinking him in. “A pleasure to be Mike or a pleasure to meet
me
? I’m .
. .”

“ . . .
Leaving
,” I
finish for her, shooting her a look. It’s an ‘I mean business and I mean
go
’
look and she knows it. Dragging her into the hall, I lift a pair of strappy
black sandals from the cubbyhole and thrust them into her arms. God, it feels
like my disastrous prom night all over again, when Troy disappeared behind the
bike sheds with slutty Suzie Capello because I wouldn’t ‘put out’.

Well, I’m not in school now and
I’m not bloody having it!

“Bianca!” I hiss angrily,
squeezing her bony elbow. “What do you think you’re
playing
at? Broken
shoe my foot! You can’t just waltz in and hit on
Mike
, it’s
preposterous!”

Ignoring me completely, Bi
peeks indiscreetly back into the lounge before hustling me onto the porch, closing
the door behind us.

“It might be too late,” she
whispers, retrieving the sparkling heel she’d obviously whacked against the
wall as an alibi. “I think I might have shagged him Sal . . .”

“You . . .
what
? Nooo!”

Oh, surely this can’t be
happening. Pause and rewind, pause and rewind!

Freezing my tits off on the
lawn, I grab her shoulders and shake her like a coconut tree.

“You’re
kidding
, right?
Not funny, Bi. At
all
. Tell me you’re having me on?”

Tapping her nails on the number
plaque by the doorbell, Bi stands in thoughtful silence, clearly trying to
recall whether or not she’s humped my hunky houseguest.
Seriously
wanting to rattle her, I wait patiently for as long as I can manage before the
irritating clicking of acrylic on steel pushes me over the edge.

“For God’s
sake
, Bi. You
can’t
do
this to me,” I explode. “He’s
gorgeous
. Surely to God
you know if you’ve
shagged
him or not. I’d bloody well remember if I
had!”

Snatching my sandals back off
Bianca, who’s cleverly managed to fix her own, I slip them on, feeling
resentful.

Bloody Bianca! It isn’t fair.
Mike’s my weapon of just retribution, not one of her meaningless conquests. How
dare she turn up uninvited, stick her plastic tits in his face and announce she
‘might’ have shagged him? It’s obscene. Mike Foster just isn’t the kind of guy
you might have shagged. You’ve either had the pleasure, or you haven’t, simple
as that.

I scowl at her, all fake and
flouncy in the hue of the security light. The curiosity cogs are still ticking
away.

Well they will be, won’t they?
She’s a shameless sex machine with millions of casual one-nighters to wade
through.

Speaking of Wade, I wouldn’t
put it past her if she does draw a blank to breeze back in and blurt out,
“Didn’t we once fuck, darlin’?”

Eeugh. Sheeshh. Aaaggghhh.

“Well?” I snap, hands on hips.
I’m desperate to hear ‘no, I’m mistaken’ so I can get back inside and make sure
I’m not being talked about.

“Well
what
?” Bi frowns.
“I don’t
know
, alright. I know I
know
him, Sal, but I don’t know
how
.”

She retreats a step, adding
with a predatory grin, “And if I know him and
haven’t
shagged him . . .
hell, I’m slipping.”

In no mood for silly games, I
shoot her a look. This time, it’s a reproachful ‘leave it’ look. I’ve cloned it
from Will.

“He’s a
doctor
, Bi.
How’d you know you didn’t just meet in passing?” I say hopefully. “Have you
ever been to City Royal?”

Amused, she nods. “Yeah, but
only for laser eye correction and I balled the bloke who cured me the second I
could see . . .”

“Right, that’s it!” I say
shrilly, throwing my arms in the air. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?
Siblings to see?”

Bianca, taking the
not-so-subtle hint, sticks out her jewelled tongue and struts down the path,
turning to shout, “You could ask him Sal. I’m
intrigued
. He might have a
better memory than me . . .”

“
Goodnight
Bianca,” I
say coolly as she ducks into her Audi. Waving a carefree bangled arm out of the
window, she shouts
“hallelujah!”
and roars off down the street.

Hallelujah? Hallelujah? What
the blazes is she on about?

Hurrying back inside, I lean
for a second against the closed door, sulking, then smile wryly as the penny
drops.

Bi’s brothers. Her . . . aah.
Now I get it.

Not only am I gullible, I’m
also incredibly dense. And
she’s
incredibly rude. She didn’t mean her
actual
brothers, she meant her New Year’s Eve conquests
,
the
monks.
Obviously
they
made a lasting impression. Unlike Mike, who
might
have
done the evil deed but clearly hasn’t humped his way into Bi’s top hundred.

***

Stalking back into the lounge,
feeling inferior, I find the kids charging round the room in Man United kits,
munching on sticky chicken, whilst Mike and Will sit sardined on the couch,
eating wedges and swilling Kronenbourg Blanc, deep in conversation.

Oh, that’s just fabulous. Not
only has my greedy hubby pinched
my
hug and
my
flowers, he’s now
wolfing
my
share of the combo, too. Fan-bloody-tastic.

“So, that’s about the size of
it,” Will’s says, mid-wedge. “It’s still early days but we’ve got stuck in.
Ben’s a dream,
really
got his head screwed on. Don’t know what I’d do
without him.”

Mike, looking riveted and at
ease, whistles and loosens his top button.

“You must have
some
balls mate, taking on a challenge like that with a mortgage to pay
and
a
family to feed. Risky business, eh?”

Plucking eight or so sucked
Smarties off the rug, I sigh, remembering the days when Will used to smile and
say, ‘God Sal, you’re swell. I don’t know what I’d do without you’.

Now, he probably doesn’t know
what he’s doing
with
me. He prefers
Ben
. Big, indispensable, tiger-in-the-sack
Ben, who I’ve never met and didn’t even know
existed
until Amy announced
she was shagging him and Will revealed they were partners.

Well, it’s nice to be in the
loop.

Insulted by Mike’s insinuation
that I’m somehow a burden, I’m about to inform him that
I
am NCTJ
qualified. That I
had
a promising full-time career before I was
ruthlessly impregnated, and that I’m
quite
capable of feeding myself,
when Will - oblivious to me tab-hanging on all fours - chuckles and nods.

“Tell me about it! It’s put a
strain on me and Sal for sure, she’s used to having all the attention,” he
says. “We kinda did things back to front with the kids, made ’em before we made
the nest. And the nest egg. Didn’t go down well with the mother-in-law.”

Mike cringes, walking the beer
cap over his knuckles.

“Umph, I’ll bet. I don’t
do
mother-in-laws. My brother Tom’s wife’s sweet as pie but her mam’s got him by
the googlies. Cracks the whip, boy jumps like a bullfrog. It’s put me off good
and proper . . .”

Will raises his eyebrows,
tapping Mike’s bottle with his.

“You’ve seen
nothing
mate ’til you’ve seen Sally’s mam,” he scoffs. “Talk about . . .”

“. . .
Will
, really! I’m
sure
Mike doesn’t want to talk about my
mother
,” I snap, scooping
up the twins and shushing my big-gobbed husband before he can achieve his goal
and send Mike running for the hills. “C’mon cutie-pies, grown up time.
Upsie-daisy, mummy’s gonna put Ben 10 on in the den. You can have a super
stake-out but no . . . more . . . Smarties.”

Lugging the protesting pair
into the playroom, I pick up a bag of sulk-curing Maryland cookies on the way.
Then, making sure they’re snug as bugs on their miniature sofa bed, hurry back
to the boys, afraid the potent mix of alcohol and paranoia might be getting the
better of Will.

As I poke my head around the
door frame, it’s
abundantly
clear I needn’t have bothered. All done
bitching about attention-seeking wives and ball-ache relatives, they’ve moved
onto the whisky and are standing by the drinks cabinet, casually comparing
physiques Mr Universe-style. I hazard a guess that Will instigated it, probably
to give our guest an inferiority complex ensuring he daren’t make a move on
me
.

Acknowledging my presence with
a wicked wink, Mike, shirt unbuttoned halfway, whips out a muscular arm and
flexes, copping a feel of Will’s clenched bicep with his free hand before
conceding grimacing defeat.

“Damn it, you’ve done me,” he
laughs, slapping Will’s broad back. “I thought I was a decent size but you’re
killing
me. What the hell are you feeding him, Sally?”

“It’s nothing to do with
me
,”
I say curtly. “He eats the same as us when he’s home, which isn’t often. He
keeps McDonald’s afloat the rest of the time.”

Topping up Mike’s Jack Daniels
and adding a few more rocks, I fish a rogue chicken bone from beneath the sofa
and force a smile despite being thoroughly hacked off with Will. The evening is
not
going as planned. I’m the obliging
hostess
, damn it, the rose
between two thorns. I want wicked whispers, wanton glances, or - at the very
least - the chance to have a chat with Mike.

Alone.
Oh well, at least I got to see
his chest.

Ignoring my dig, Will sinks
onto the sofa and, pointing to his empty glass, clicks at me like I’m a serving
wench.

“Fill her up, Sal. Cheers.”
Then, turning to Mike. “I’ve been giving the gym a bit of hammer lately, mate.
Pumping iron, venting the old frustrations on the punch bag.”