Antidote to Infidelity (43 page)

***

And the rest, as
they say, is history.

I emerged sheepish
and soggy-bummed to find three officers - one armed with our battered kitchen
phone - standing on ceremony in my bedroom, answering multiple reports of a
disturbance.
All
from a
‘
disgruntled
’
Mr and Mrs Westwood, the nosy
neighbours on the left.

The fifth call
resulted in a red alert and my front door - which Will, the idiot, had locked
behind him to protect us - being barged off its hinges with a battering ram.

Just . . . bloody .
. . great. Talk about overreacting!

When the rescue squad
tumbled in to see one hundred and seventeen DVDs strewn across the floor, blood
on the sofa and a hefty great hole in the kitchen wall, they expected to find a
body. Naturally, they were relieved (and yes, more than a little suspicious)
when I emerged from the bathroom insisting that it was all just
‘
a huge misunderstanding officer
’
.

Thankfully, after an
hour of interrogation, I managed to convince them that:

One
:
No, I didn
’
t wish to press
charges against Will

Two:
No, he wasn
’
t a wife-beater and
he wasn
’
t responsible for my
black eye

and

Three:
No, I didn
’
t need a female
chaperone to A&E. Heaven forbid!

They did, however,
request I phone a friend, insisting that in future - if we really
must
throw during rows - that we refrain from breaching the boundaries of our
property and keep the noise to a minimum.

Mmm. Foghorns and
flying phones considered, they had a point.

Duly admonished, I
waved them on their way from the sanctuary of my alarmingly door-less doorway,
whilst Liselle, who
’
d hot footed it
round in her nightgown, thumbed through the Yellow Pages in search of emergency
housing repairs.

It was all
upsetting. All unnecessary. And all because I said something
stupid
in
the heat of the moment that I didn
’
t really mean.

Or did I?

As Will
’
s cockerel alarm crows
annoyingly from upstairs, I
’
m watching a good
natured, gold-toothed skin-head sup a steaming coffee whilst adding the
finishing touches to his handy work.

He
’
s from Fast-Glass and
fast
he is, so speedy in fact that he turned up on the doorstep, tools-at-the-ready,
before we even rang him.

I needed help, yes,
but
I
didn
’
t make the call.
Will - afraid someone might sneak in through the shattered kitchen window and
brutally murder us whilst we slept - obviously
did
.

I can only assume he
attempted to throw the phone into the sink but missed, hitting the glass,
before following up with a grossly misguided kick into next door’s garden. Bone
head. At least when I throw, I aim
right
. Or even dead ahead, but
never
left. I get a rollicking when leaves off our sycamore land in their precious
fountain, but a
phone
? Boy oh boy, I bet they went ballistic.

Still, getting the
police involved was a bit extreme. What happened to neighbourly comradery? You
just wait, that compost heap at the bottom of their garden stinks to high
heaven in the summer, but do I complain? I do
now
. The council’s going
to be so
inundated
with calls, they’ll need a switchboard just for me.

They’re demanding an
‘immediate replacement’ for their glorified bird-bath. The cheek! They’ll get
one, of course, to keep the peace, even though I think it’s an
obscene
request – a smidgen of Bostik would more than suffice.

My door, however,
wasn’t so fortunate. Luckily, the perky chap
’
s
already replaced it and, sensing I
’
ve had a rough
night, waived the hefty call out fee in exchange for two aspirin, a Wagon Wheel
and a packet of Jammie Dodgers.

You see - fast
and
generous. I like him, he
’
s my kind of guy.

***

So far, I haven
’
t had chance to break the bad
news to Liselle, who
’
s upstairs scrubbing
muddy boot prints off the landing carpet. I tearfully filled her in on every
aspect of Will
’
s jealous
throw-a-thon as soon as the police departed, along with an ever-so-slightly
hammed-up account of Mike
’
s gallant rescue
attempt. But when it came to shopping Phil, the words just wouldn
’
t come out.

The truth is, I don
’
t have the heart to tell my
gracious friend that whilst she was at home last night marking short stories,
her randy fella was getting lip service at the wheel from a hot-legged super
hero.

It just doesn
’
t seem
fair
. But then
again, what does? They
’
re
all
at it.
Troy, Howard, Phil, Will . . . it
’
s only a matter of
time before Jenson jumps on the bandwagon and Amy catches Ben bonking his way around
Thailand, or wherever the hell he
’
s based.

Unlike the rest of
us, my love-struck sister has age on her side, so she needn
’
t be unduly concerned.

Yet.

Will opted for a
strumpet eight years my junior but if Big, Brilliant Ben tries the same trick,
they
’
ll haul his bony ass
to jail and throw away the key!

***

Liselle joins me at
the breakfast bar, tossing a pair of grubby yellow marigolds into the swing
bin. Hearing a knock-knock-knock, I turn to see Mr Flash-Gnashes tapping
lightly on the fixed open window with his screwdriver.

“
That
’
s it, me duck. Job done,
”
he informs me proudly,
rounding up his gear and handing me a luminous yellow business card.

“
Just like lightening, eh?
”
he boasts, stiffening his
collar.
“
If you want
’
owt doing again in the middle
of the night luv, just give us a tinkle . . . but make sure you ask for Larry,
yeah?
”

Nodding and thanking
him, I flip the dazzling card absent-mindedly over and over in my palm,
watching him saunter across the backyard, down the path and out of view.

Hmmm. Charley
McCullen, Fastest Window Fitter in the County.
Bold claim . . . so why do
I need to ask for Larry?

Taking a hungry bite
of the French toast Liselle
’
s waving under my
nose, I smirk as it dawns on me. Crafty old Charley might be
swift
, but
he isn
’
t
stupid
.
Domestic disturbances? Graveyard shifts? Naah, leave it all to Larry.

Awarding him full
marks for initiative, I
’
m about to boil up a
saucepan for Liselle
’
s cuppa being as the
kettle still hasn
’
t put in an
appearance, when she slides onto the stool beside me, tugging me back into my
seat.

“
Sally,
”
she says softly, pulling her
amber locks into a tight bun and pinning them in place,
“
I have to be at Sunday School
in an hour. We should talk. About what happened.
”

Before I can say
‘
there
’
s nothing more to tell, you
’
ve seen the aftermath
’
, she surprises me with a
prissy,
“
Phil isn
’
t having an affair, you know.
”

Taking her marble
hands in mine I try to stay calm, but it
’
s tough. I just want
to horsewhip the smooth-tongued stallion for conning my pal into denial.

“
Honey, I assure you
he is
,
”
I insist.
“
I don
’
t know what he
’
s said to wiggle off the hook,
but I
saw
him Liselle. With my own eyes. Last night. And
he
saw
me
,
which is why he came home with some lame excuse to . . .
”

“
Sally,
”
she shrills, pulling her hands
away.
“
I know
you
saw
him
. But did you see
me
?
”

Eh? See her? Now I
’
m confused.

A flush of colour
washes across her chest and up her neck before illuminating her freckled
cheeks.

“
I . . . well, er, no,
”
I stammer.
“
But I saw that
super
slut
Veroncia alright, sucking his . . .
”

Digesting what she
’
s just said I break off,
asking,
“
What do you
mean
‘
did I see you
’
?
Why? Where were
you
?
”

Toying with the salt
cellar (obviously a nervous habit) she stares directly at me before looking
away embarrassed.

“
In the back seat,” she blurts.
“Under a pile of coats. With Veronica
’
s husband.
”

Inhaling like a
hoover, a sharp piece of toast almost chokes me.

“
Whaaaat?” I splutter. “
Why
?”

Stalling, she
wanders over to the purifier, returning with two cool waters.

“
Because that
’
s what we
do
, Sally,”
she confesses. “On Saturdays . . .
”

“
What
?
”
I implore, still not getting
it.
“
What
do you do?
”

Sighing, she smiles
at me like I
’
m a naïve child and
gushes, “We
swing
, Sally. Phil and I. At weekends . . .
”

“
Swing?
”
I repeat, dumbstruck,
imagining them dancing the night away in their gladrags to the Best of the Rat
Pack.
“
What . . . you mean
like,
swing
? As in
swing
swing? Noooo?
You’re winding me up!”

Revelling in my
genuine shock, an amused smile lights her face.

“
Yes, Sally,” she chuckles. “
Swing
swing. Swap partners, play games, put the car keys in a bowl and go home with
other people.
Or
sometimes,” she flutters her lashes demurely, “we just stay in the car.”

Well, blow me!

Pushing my gaping
jaw together, she adds,
“
It
’
s alright Sally.
Really
.
You don
’
t need to look so
terrified. I
love
it. I just don
’
t go shouting it
from the rooftops,
”
she blushes
furiously,
“
for obvious reasons.
”

I try to appear
unphased but fail miserably, envisaging the graffiti rampage the teenagers will
embark on if
this
little gem ever gets out.

“
Yeah but, yeah but, yeah but .
. .
”
I gabble, downright
riveted but
still
not swallowing it.

“
Oh stop it, Sally,
”
she snaps, losing patience.
“
Honestly, you sound like you
’
ve wandered out of Little
Britain. Anyone would think I
’
d just told you I
’
m a dominatrix and Phil
’
s into choir boys!
”