Antidote to Infidelity (40 page)

He looks at me accusingly,
adding, “Dabbled with a bit of powder an’all to keep my finger on the trigger
and lift like our Rob. It’s bulked me up a load.”

I slam the empty whisky bottle
down on the coffee table, shocked. I’m about to lecture him for being a vain
prat and succumbing to sibling rivalry, when Mike pipes up, “Volterine?”

Will nods.

“Whoa, done it bud,” he admits.
“Couple of years back. Had to stop though. Fucking scary side effects. Oh,
sorry, ’scuse the language, Sally.”

I shrug. “Oh, don’t mind
me
,
you two just carry on. Sounds to me like you’re both as daft as each other!”

“What side effects?” Will cuts
in sharply. “I thought it was pretty kosher, just protein and stuff to decrease
your recovery time?”

Glancing at me warily, well
aware I’m narked, Mike mutters, “The serum’s better than the powder. That stuff
can hike your testosterone levels right up, turn you into a loose cannon.”

Will narrows his eyes, asking,
“You
sure
? Why? What did it do to you?”

For a split second, Mike looks
embarrassed then rises above it, folds his arms and laughs, “I knew you’d ask
that
.
It, well . . . let’s just say it put me out of action for a couple of months. I
could lift but no lift off, if you catch my drift.”

As Will flinches, I choke on a
potato wedge, mortified. Mike adds quickly, “I’m back on form now though, thank
God. Cookin’ on gas. I was just unlucky. Most guys go the other way. My mate
took it for a couple of months and was at full mast twenty-four seven . . .”

Lucky him. Lucky missus, too.
Shiver me timbers!

Looking at Will, the
horny-Hulk, hanging on to Mike’s every word, I can’t help but wonder. The
bonnet, the spa, the kitchen floor - I
knew
there was something fishy
about all the sudden sexcapades. Usually it’s five minutes’ missionary, ten
minutes’ spooning . . . then zzzzzz. Infinite snoring.

Has it been genuine passion for
me or nothing more than a false side-effect? Maybe this Volterine crap’s the
reason he resorted to bedding Becky? Because I - the boring filling of a twin
sandwich - just don’t ‘put out’ enough to feed his drug-fuelled passion.

Turning to catch Will staring
at me, I notice that the second we make eye contact he looks away.

Guilt? Embarrassment? Jealousy?
Who knows?

Wandering over to the TV, he
rifles through the dozens of sports DVDs on the stand. Do you know, the more I
think about it, the more it makes sense. The unpredictable behaviour, the
cranky mood swings, the short fuse. There’s no denying Will’s been a bit weird
lately and guzzling Volterine’s probably to blame.

Feeling unsettled, I’m keener
than ever to get a moment alone with Mike to ask his advice . . . and, of
course, find out if he’s ever slept with Bianca.

“Will,” I say sternly. “We’re
out of whisky. Do you want to run down to the shop before it closes?”

As Mike buttons up, necking the
dregs of his drink, Will shoots me a ‘do-you-really-think-I’m-that-stupid?’
glare before turning his attention back to the DVD player and inserting an
oh-too-familiar disc. The one I’ve seen soooo many times, I just want to whip
out of the machine and shove up his arse.

“Nope, you go babe,” he says
flatly. “Bring a couple. I’m gonna stick Mike ’ere at poker then we’re settlin’
in for the night with the top ten Champions’ League matches of all time.”

Urrrgh!

I want to swear. I want to
wallop him. I want to swipe the
stupid
telly off its polished stand and
drop kick the bloody thing right over next door.
Surely
Mike - desperate
to get me alone - will jump up any second and volunteer to accompany me.

Any second. Just you wait.

I hover stubbornly on the spot,
then realise his eyes are lit up like a fruit machine, glued to the screen as
the credits begin to roll.

Fabulous. Another sports nut.
Just my luck! Is it too much to ask, just for once, not to play second fiddle
to a bunch of overpaid foreign fat-heads chasing a pig’s bladder?

With a wistful glance at my
would-be weapon, I stomp out of the lounge incensed before stalking back in to
snatch the two twenty pound notes Will’s waving over his shoulder like a
victory flag.

Arrogant sod, he’s doing it on
purpose. SAS-style observation. Watching me like a hawk, practically
smothering
Mike. Utterly pathetic. If he didn’t want him near me, why invite him to
tea? Berk. It makes no sense. Then again, neither do a lot of things Will does.
It’s probably the drugs . . .

Rather than deter me though,
his childish antics spur me on. If
that
’s his game, I’ll just have to
raise mine. Pulling on my furry moon boots, I step out into the night feeling
like a coiled spring. Will might have won the battle but when I get back, I’m
bringing out the big guns. I’m confident I can win this war, with the help of
my old mate Jack, of course.

I’ve seen the sparkle in Mike’s
eyes. The hunger. The
passion
. A few large shots of cockle-warming
JD-on-the-Rocks and I’ll have him right where I want him.

Just because I load the gun
doesn’t mean I have to fire it tonight . . .

In the immortal
words of Chandler
’
s old flame: Oh . .
. my . . .
God
!

Scurrying back in
through the kitchen door, armed with whisky, ice and mixed nuts, I have to
cling to the work surface to keep from keeling over as my icicle fingers rustle
blindly through the cutlery draw for a brown paper bag.

Hiccupping from mass
oxygen overload, I breathe in and out deeply, pacing the kitchen like a drunken
clockwork soldier until I
finally
calm down.

What am I doing
wrong
?
What? Lord knows, but it has to
stop
. Since Christmas Eve, I
’
ve been nothing but a bad news
beacon, stumbling blindly from crisis to crisis, attracting trouble like
flowers lure bees. Honestly, anyone would think I
’
d
run over a black cat, on Friday the thirteenth, because I was too busy sticking
two fingers up at a lone magpie to watch where I was going.

As I slump against
the cooker, bag over mouth, lungs burning, Amy bursts through the swing door
dragging a reluctant Jarvis Cocker look-alike close behind.

“
Sally? Sally? Where
is
she?
I
’
m
sure
I
heard her come in? Must have been the wind . . .
”

She about-turns to
breeze back out then stops in her tracks as her pal, who
’
s spotted me sprawled on the
tiles, catches hold of her wrist and points.

“
She
’
s there baby,
”
he says, apprehensively
weighing me up from behind a pair of thick purple square-rimmed glasses.

I
’
m about to haul myself up when
Amy does it for me, giving me an eyeful of perfect cleavage as she strops over
in glitter heels and a virtually none-existent belt-of-a-dress.

“
Sally!
”
she says curtly, and
way
too Monster-like.
“
What on
earth
are you doing? Are you drunk? Did you fall? Shall I call Will?
”

When I swiftly shake
my head, three times, she drops the bone and shoves her mystery man forward,
beaming,
“
Sal, this is Ben.
Ben! Say hello. You
’
ll be seeing a lot
of each other.
”

Smoothing my top
frantically to remove stray toast crumbs off the floor and (gaaahh) a ginger
pube from earlier, I give Big, Brilliant, indispensable tiger-in-the-sack-Ben
the quick, obligatory once-over, coming to the swift the conclusion that if Amy
is
planning on keeping him, we’ll have to have a sisterly chat about
Specsavers.

“
Ahhh. Ben!
”
I say, a little
over-enthusiastically to compensate for my naughty thoughts.
“
It
’
s
wonderful
to meet you
at last. I
’
ve heard sooo much
about you. I
’
m Sally, and by the
way, I don
’
t normally look like
a gargoyle.
”

Glancing at Amy, who
’
s mid-rustle through her
handbag, I add,
“
And I
’
m
not
drunk. Nor did I
fall, nor do I need Will to dash to my rescue. Whisky?
”

As Ben stifles a wry
smile, I
’
m amazed to see him
reach into his pocket and pull out a strawberry crackle-pop, which he deftly
unwraps and pops into Amy
’
s sparrowing mouth.
It
’
s like a scene from
one of those cheesy old black and white flicks, where the guy suavely steps in
to light the gal
’
s chic, metre long
cigarette.

Marvellous. Amy
needs a quick fix and Big, Brilliant Ben
’
s got his finger on the button. Instant
compatibility. Now I see the attraction. As well as being the rampant-in-bed
dream partner in my husband
’
s business, he
’
s also got his own
sweet shop.

Shaking my hand, Ben
smiles warmly as a contented Amy melts into the nook of his arm. Then, as if
reading my naughty mind, he reaches up and removes his glasses, stashing them
self-consciously in his jeans pocket.

“
Hi Sal, great to meet you
finally. It
’
s okay to call you
Sal, right?
”

I nod. Amazingly,
without the specs, he looks stacks hotter and the stereo in my head stops
playing
Parklife
, allowing me to
actually
listen
to what he
’
s saying rather than
imagining him feeding the pigeons . . . and being rudely awakened by the
dustmen on a Wednesday.

Then I realise - I
’
m way off base anyway. Singing
from the wrong song sheet entirely.
Blurred
, you could say. You can see
how long it
’
s been since
I
watched MTV, or bought myself a CD for that matter. Better get to HMV ASAP and
swot-up.

Oh well, at least
I’m not as bad as Will who blurted out the other day, “I can’t
believe
Fergie’s doing so well in the charts. Bet Prince Andrew’s
really
pissed.”

Mmm.

“
We just popped in to say
‘
hi
’
,
”
Ben continues.
“
I shouldn
’
t really be here but I had to
see Amy. She
’
s like a drug. I
’
m hooked.
”

Join the queue,
mate. It
’
s a house full of
addicts tonight.

I can
’
t decide if he
’
s being sincere or sarcastic
but Amy, smitten as a kitten with a ball of wool, giggles and bounces on the
spot.

“
See Sal. He can
’
t get enough of me. Ahhh. I
told
you he was nice.
”

Kissing the crown of
her head, Ben blushes, then composes himself, catching my wary eye.

“
Sal, look,
”
he sighs, Cocker head cocked.
“
I know what Amy means to you
and I know you
’
re expecting me to
screw up but I won
’
t, I swear. I love
her, simple as that. And I
’
d, er, love a whisky
- thanks!
”

They
’
re looking at one another, lost
in each other
’
s eyes. Ahhh. So
sweet. So honest and open. So liberal with the
‘
L
’
word. He
’
s growing on me. I lower my
guard, feeling a tiny pang of regret.

It
’
s all well and good for my
sister, but I fail to recall the last time Will regarded me with such genuine
affection and desire. Nowadays, with the exception of a one-off bonnet top
bonk,
those
kind of breathless exchanges - where the rest of the world
just melts away - are reserved for nympho nurses and Portuguese footballers.