Antidote to Infidelity (44 page)

“
Well,
is
he?
”
I ask, before clocking her
disapproving frown and adding quickly,
“
No, sorry. Of
course
he isn
’
t. Ignore me. I
’
m just, well,
stunned
to
be honest. Delighted
obviously
that Phil
’
s
not fooling around, but stunned. You
’
re just so, well, so
pr . . .
”

I
’
m about to say
‘
prudish
’
but she cuts me off sharply
with,
“
Private
is the word I think
you
’
re looking for,
Sally. Phil and I are very
private
people. We enjoy sex, yes, but don
’
t feel the need to discuss our
nocturnal habits with every Tom, Dick and Bianca.”

I nod obediently. It
’
s clearly a dig at me and
obviously Bi too, but I let it slide as she adds,
“
What we do in our own time is a
private
affair and I
’
d appreciate it
staying that way.
Permanently.
It’d be instant dismissal if anyone found out, I’d never work again.”

Quite bloody right, too! Talk
about lessons in love: A is for Adultery, B is for Bonking, C is for Come on
over to my place . . .

I
’
m subjected to the headmistress
glare as she demands,
“
Have you told anyone
else you saw Phil?
”

I shake my head
automatically then suddenly remember - I have.

“
Shit! Yes, our Amy,” I tell
her. “But that’s all. She won
’
t say anything,
honest.
I’ll make
sure of it.”

Liselle phews,
neatly tucking a crocheted hankie into her tweed bag.

“
Ah, that
’
s okay, Amy I can handle. But
Bi,
”
she winces,
“
mmm, not so much.
”

As she gives me a
hug and a departing peck, I
’
ve got a stockpile
of questions, like: who
se
idea was it? How
long have you been doing it? How many partners have you had? And most
importantly of course, who else in town likes a bit of the old
swing-a-ding-ding, eh?

I know I haven
’
t got time to grill her. I’ll
just slip my
juiciest
neb in, really quickly, before she legs it to the
sanctuary of her unassuming assembly.

“
Who
’
s Veronica
’
s hubby, then?
”
I demand.
“
Is he fit? Is he
good
?
Anyone I know?
”

Lips pursed, I sense
she’s about to demerit me.

“
His name
’
s Stan. Yes, oh hell yes, and
not as
such
,
”
she says
mysteriously, cracking a smile,
“
but you
have
witnessed me whipping him black and blue.
”

“
I . . .
whaaaat
?
”
I gabble, but it
’
s too late. She
’
s pinched a handful of red
grapes and scuttled out the door, leaving me alone with an overactive
imagination and nothing but a basket of yesterday
’
s
muffins to keep me out of mischief.

Whipping him black
and blue? Huh? What the devil is she on about?

I give up trying to
guess as a surge of excitement currents through my veins. If the whole thing’s
not a wind-up, it’s
astounding
. There’s me thinking that (compared to
Liselle’s) my sex life’s tutti frutti, when really I’m just a Mini Milk. And a
vanilla one at that! Crikey, I’ve got some catching up to do.

A wise man once
said: ‘variety is the spice of life’, another ‘the more, the merrier’. They
were clearly talking about
sex
. Filthy philosophy. Maybe that’s where
we’ve
been going wrong. Flunking the foundation course.

I wonder if they
offer A-level adultery at the Comp? If not, Liselle could always introduce an
intensive night course, share the knowledge. Given my track record with Mike
I’d probably fail miserably, but not Will. No, he’s already got the GCSE.

Seriously, it seems
my ‘private’ pal could teach us a thing or to. Maybe if
I
bedded a few
strangers too, you know, jigged things up a bit, Will’s betrayal wouldn’t feel
so crushing. Not if we were
both
at it.

We could start by
inviting Mike to one of Liselle’s soirees, chuck the car keys in a pot and take
pot luck. Nah, bad call. I’d probably end up on a rag and bone cart with Steptoe
Senior whilst Claudia Schiffer dragged Will to her Jag by his tongue.

Unwrapping a bland
vanilla muffin, I realise my mistake and toss it aside, selecting a fruity
‘cherry and berry bliss’ instead.

Adultery is a
weakness. Swinging, it seems, is a once-a-week-ness. Maybe it’s just the tonic
our flagging marriage needs?

It
’
s not until I
’
m walking around Asda
mid-afternoon, with a wriggling twin under each arm, that the penny drops and I
suddenly realise. Whilst
I
’
ve
been worrying about
her
doomed relationship, Liselle’s been getting her kinky kicks from the
rear end of a pantomime horse.

Nay, you say? But it
’
s true. Fellatio Phil and
Stan-the-Man probably spent the whole of New Year’s Eve squabbling over who got
the head. So to speak.

Astounding
. Talk about
stimulating extra-curricular activities!

As well as knocking
my socks off, Liselle
’
s
Heat
-worthy
revelation has given me a clip round the ear. Rather than keep fretting over
other people
’
s love-lives, I need
to butt out and manage my own affairs.

Affairs
being the operative
word.

You
’
d have thought that after our
Clash-of-the-Titans slanging match I
’
d have learned my
lesson and given up the ghost, or rather, the doctor, but no. That’s just what
Will
expects
.

Well, he’s wrong.

Things got
grossly
out of hand last night and there’s simply no excuse for responsible parents to
conduct themselves in that manner. I’m ashamed. We behaved
appallingly
irresponsibly, Will in particular. What should have been a private argument
between man and wife turned into an episode of
The
Bill
because
he
lost his cool and went all fly-half with the telephone!

I can’t deny that in
the heat of the moment, I wanted to throttle him. Or at the very least, give
him a good wok-ing, but in the cold light of day, I’m concerned I’m getting a
bit too liberal with the face slapping.

Whether he deserves
it or not, it stops
now
.

That said, it
doesn’t alter my feelings regarding Will’s fling. I’ll admit, my ill-timed Mike
comment wasn’t the most sensible line to let my husband overhear, but he should
have known it was just bravado.

Or at least, I think
it was.

Whatever happens
now, he’s achieved one
thing – he’s disarmed my weapon. I bet Mike’s
still running. Will, on the other hand, will no doubt waltz back in at tea
time, tail between legs, armed with random guilty-gifts which he
thinks
will excuse his actions.

Wrong again.

God, why is married
life so bloody
stressful
? Why, why, why?

***

When Will read me
his solemn vows - which he
’
d written himself -
five years ago, he promised me the
world
. Seriously, the whole, wide
world. Shaking at the altar like a nervous penguin, with Rob hung-over at his
side, he swore in front of an abbey full of people that I
’
d want for nothing. That I held
the key to his heart. That he
’
d devote his every
waking moment to my future happiness.

The congregation
applauded.

The vicar cried.

My mother raised a
finely plucked, sceptical eyebrow and studied the floor tiles.

I, however - being
young, foolish
and in love - fell for it hook, line and sinker.

Ever the
romanticist, I
’
d read and re-read
everything Mills and Boon had to offer and on our wedding day, Will struck
gold. Translation: he wiped the floor with the lot of them.

Naturally, I was
expecting eternal bliss, a harmonious happy-ever-after, quite possibly a small
island and, oh yes, almost forgot . . . .
A FAITHFUL FUCKING HUSBAND
.

If I
’
d known it was going to be like
this
, honestly, I
’
d never have
bothered.

***

But I did, didn
’
t I? And today
’
s punishment is dragging a pair
of cheeky, octopus-armed kids around the shops for new school clothes, when all
I
really
want to do is sulk, hog Revels and stay in bed with Jackie
Collins (figuratively, not personally you understand).

Usually, I
love
shopping
with the kids, Rosie’s my mini style guru, but today they’re boisterous,
tittle-tattling - and hell bent on driving me up the wall.

Shaking my head and
saying
‘
no!
’
crossly as Rosie shoves a
life-sized Dora the Explorer under my nose with a pitiful
‘
please, mummy, pleeeese
’
, I plonk Ryan onto the ground
and shoo the protesting duo to the uniform section. Holding a navy pinny up to
Rosie, who sticks out her tongue and scuttles back to the toy aisle, brother in
tow, I shove half a dozen essentials into my broken basket before stomping
after them . . . and bumping straight into Mike.

Literally. Wham.
Head first, eyes down, right into his solid chest as my flailing arms send a
stockpile of Baby Borns clattering to the floor.

Grabbing my elbow to
make sure I don
’
t follow, Mike
scoops up my shopping, slipping the basket handle over his arm with a grin.

“
Sorry, my fault,
”
he says, even though we both
know it
’
s
me
who
’
s the clown.
“
Here, let me help, you look
like you
’
ve got your hands
full. I
’
ve got a bit of time
to kill as it happens.
”

I smile, thrilled to
see Will hasn
’
t frightened him off
with his amateur dramatics. Meeting like this is becoming a habit.

Not necessarily a bad
one, but a habit all the same.

Raising a
questioning brow, I say,
“
Oh, I see. And you
just
happen
to be killing it in my local Asda, eh?
”

“
Ah,
”
he says, running a nervous
hand through his fringe and waving at the twins, who are shovelling kilos of
expensive pick
‘
n
’
mix into bucket-sized cups.
“
You
’
ve got me. I followed you.
”

Followed me? Huh. He doesn’t
look like the stalker type but then again, do they ever?

“
You
followed
me? Isn
’
t that a bit
creepy
?
”
I joke, as Rosie bounds
gleefully over, stuffing a golf ball-sized éclair into his seriously snoggable
mouth.

He chokes a bit,
chews and manages,
“
Mmm, well yes. A bit
I suppose. Or you could call it, oh I dunno -
sweet?
I just wanted to
check you
’
re both okay. I
shouldn
’
t have left last
night, I wanted to come back.”