Antidote to Infidelity (47 page)

I
’
ve done the nappy mountains,
the fun toddler mornings, the religious Balamory viewings - but in four days
’
time my nest will be empty and
I’m not really a Jeremy Kyle kind of girl.

Well, not prior to
last week anyhow. Now I’m prime-time viewing.

What I
really
want to do is grab life by the balls and show the whole bloody world
what
I, Sally Moss, straight A-student (well, almost) and redundant media mogul, can
do. I
’
ve got a number of
options on my tick-list but so far, no ticks. Just big, fat crosses where I
’
ve vetoed silly ideas, like
launching a hard-hitting newspaper to rival the Whistler.

Yeah, that
’
s right, screw you
Gerald.

I know the sensible
option is working with Will but I
’
ve burned my bridges
as far as that little avenue
’
s concerned. So far,
you see, I
’
ve been nothing but
negative about
‘
Something for the
Weekend
’
,
mainly because he
bulldozed ahead against my wishes and abandoned us for weeks on end to
‘
get the ball rolling, babe
’
.

Now rolling it is
and, judging by my new car and Amy
’
s loan, gathering no
moss. Fair play to the boss and his Big, Brilliant business partner, who seem
to be splashing their hard-earned cash in every direction. Long may it
continue!

In Will’s defence,
despite my
blatant
lack of interest, he
’
s
tried countless times to get me on board but, being naturally pig-headed, I
keep cold-shouldering the idea with sarky comments like,
“
Oh yeah, stick a brush up my
arse and I
’
ll paint the ceiling
too!
”

For some reason,
although he
’
s adamant it
’
s
a
team venture, I feel like it
’
s
his
, not mine. The
result is a stubborn communication breakdown that
’
s
driven an immovable wedge between us on the business front. I don
’
t ask any questions, so he
doesn
’
t tell me anything.
At all. What he
’
s working on, where
he
’
s going, how much
money he
’
s making, nothing.

The only thing I
do
know is that in November, whilst he was in London
supposedly
winning a
six-month advertising contract with a big-name cosmetics firm, he was busy
whipping off his wedding ring and bedding the first bit of fluff that winked
his way.

Which is
precisely
why, although I’m chomping-at-the-bit for a challenge, I
’
m not about to beg cap-in-hand
for an executive office with a water cooler and a panoramic view of the park.

***

To make matters
worse, my AWOL-again husband informed me late last night - via cowardly e-mail
none-the-less - that he won
’
t be back for a
‘
considerable length of time
’
as he needs to
‘
get his head right
’
and
‘
figure out what
’
s best for us
’
.

What’s to figure
out? It’s not rocket science. Surely what’s
best
is for him to come
home? And
surely
he can pick up a phone? Doesn’t he realise I’m worried
sick? Not to mention running out of absent-daddy excuses for the kids.

I know he’s cut-up
about his flip-out, but I’m blaming
that
on the crazy powder and
disappearing
won’t
solve the problem. I’m hoping flushing it down the
toilet
will
. Crikey, if
I
took off every time
I
lost the
plot, the kids would be orphans.

When I phoned his
mobile to ask a) if he was ok b) where he was and c) what the
hell
he
was playing at,
he apologised unreservedly for his behaviour but said we
needed to let the dust settle.

Dust? I
’
ll give him bloody dust! The
hallway
’
s still full of it
thanks to all the drilling and hack-sawing. Oh, and a stupid hoover that
’
s chosen a most inappropriate
time to stop sucking.

Instead, it
’
s spitting
everything
back out the second I switch it on (including, alas, ginger pubes) whilst the
washer, overworked and over-stuffed, is refusing to drain,
damn-the-useless-thing.

But I don
’
t need Will. Nooooo. Why should
I? Every domestic appliance I
own
is malfunctioning and the kitchen wall
has a hole in it bigger than the Watford Gap but hey, I can handle it.

In fact, I’ve
already set the correctional cogs in motion. With
enormous
effort on my
part, before setting off to meet Bi, I held my head high, rolled up my sleeves
. . . and, er, begged Clive to fix everything.

***

“
Sal, can I make a comment
without you shooting me down in flames?
”

What? Oooh, lovely.

Whilst I
’
ve been busy staring out of the
window with my tongue lolling, Bi
’
s refreshed our
coffees, with added marshmallows for good measure. She
’
s also made the mistake of
buying the twins two chocolate lollipops, which means they
’
ll be black as the ace of
spaces in seconds, bouncing off the ceiling in minutes.

“
Try me,
”
I say, not committing myself.

Knowing Bi it
’
s
bound
to involve sex,
or, rather, aimed-at-me insults regarding the lack of it, in which case my
pistols will be
smoking
.

“
Have you ever thought about
moving away?
”
she asks dreamily.
“
You know, just slinging your
hook and starting a whole new life somewhere else. Because Goldwell does get
dull, don
’
t you think?
”

Wow. Now that I
wasn’t expecting. I can
’
t even
begin
to imagine my life without the vibrant splash of colour Bi brings to it. I’m
suddenly wide awake, all ears, hoping to God she isn
’
t planning a moonlight flit to
Vegas with one (or all) of her monks.

“
No, Bi. Don
’
t do it!
”
I squeal, catching Rosie
on-the-hop with a WetOne as she toddles past with a runny nose.
“
Don
’
t tell me you
’
re jumping ship,
please
.
I
need
you!
”

Laughing, she pats
my hand, giving Ryan
’
s fuzzy felt Sonic
the Hedgehog the thumbs up over my shoulder.

“
Oh give over, drama queen. You
’
ve
got
me. Always,
whatever happens. I was just wondering if
you
’
d
ever fancied a
change, that
’
s all. You know,
somewhere hot maybe?
”

Wondering if she
’
s some kind of mind reader,
tapping into my nocturnal fantasies which, of course, involve Mike whisking me
off to a paradise isle on his private jet with a macho,
‘
hey doll, let me take you away
from all this
’
, I blink rapidly
and attempt to think blank thoughts. Just in case.

“
Of
course
,
”
I said guardedly.
“
Haven
’
t we all? Anything to put an
ocean between me and my mother. God, there
’
s not a day goes by
when I don
’
t wish I was living
the high life, lying on a beach all day, drinking ice-cold cocktails with
little umbrellas . . .
”

“
. . . working a cushy
three-day week,
”
Bi cuts in, merrily
riding my wavelength,
“
watching the sun set
on the sea with a Pina Colada in one hand and a good stiff cock in the other .
. .
”

“
Bianca!
”
I squeal, kicking her sharply
under the table as our teenage waiter blushes beetroot and scuttles back to the
kitchen.

“
Oooops! Sorry! Just me with
that last one then?
”
she grins.

Shaking my head, I
try to look reproachful but fail miserably as we burst into fits of giggles. I
should have known. There
’
s me thinking we
’
re just innocently
pie-in-the-skying, plotting the great escape from Goldwell, but no. No
conversation with Bi is
ever
complete without some graphic reference to
her favourite subject:
SEX
.

Honestly, she
’
s been chipping away at me for
so long to loosen my chastity belt, I
’
m surprised I’ve
never buckled. But I haven’t. I’ve suffered Bi-style repetitive strain injury
for
years
and not
once
been tempted to stray, yet suddenly my
husband’s infidelity has lit the blue touch paper. Rattled the cage, woken the
beast. I’m entertaining thoughts I’d never have
dreamed
of before and
the
really
annoying thing is - now I’m playing Will at his own game -
penalty shot, ball at my feet,
golden
opportunity to level the score,
Bianca’s suddenly switched teams and blown the final whistle.

No Sally. Eh-eh.
Game over. No extra marital nibble for you, my girl. What’s all that about?

“
I can see you
’
re thinking about lover boy.
Again,
”
she says cattily as
I return from my wander with the fairies.
“
I
’
m
warning
you, Sally,
you
’
re not the kind of person
to cheat on your husband. Plus you don
’
t
need
to.
Not really. It sounds like Will’s a total
stud
in the sack.
”

As I roll my eyes,
knowing full well it
’
s sex education time
again, she continues,
“
No, seriously, you
don
’
t know how lucky you
are. Married five years and still getting knocked through the bed on a
regular-ish basis. Most women in your position are getting through two Rabbits
a month and force-feeding their fellas Viagra!
”

When I twig that she
means Rabbits not
rabbits,
I throw a cushion at her, hoping she
’
s not been peeking in my
naughty box under the bed. Naaah. If she had, she
’
d
have been straight down, shaking the modest six-inch vibrator I keep for
emergencies in the air, declaring,
‘
This is not bloody
big enough
,
Sally, for heaven
’
s sake girl. If you
’
re gonna get off, get on a
ten-inch.
”

“
Bianca Wilson, you
’
re nothing but
rude
,
”
I smirk
,
wagging the
finger and crying with laughter.
“
I blame
you
for the fact I
’
m all mixed up.
”

It
’
s true. There
’
s no escaping the fact that
Bianca
is
rude. And crude and crass and even downright
filthy
sometimes . .  . but I love her. If she
’
s thinking
something, she speaks her mind and doesn
’
t give a flying fig
who she shocks. She shocks
me
with her lewd outbursts
at least
three
times a day, but I
am
getting better. I
’
m
starting to get used to it.