Antidote to Infidelity (48 page)

Spending time with
Bi, you see, is like watching hardcore porn. The first time you watch it,
you’re
stunned
. Speechless. Appalled. The second, third, forth times,
you blush, tut and turn away. But watch it a
hundred
times and you know
what to expect. You’re become immune and it’s just like water off a duck’s
back.

With Bi, I know
exactly
what to expect: heat, comedy and uncensored vulgarity. Will, being a prude at
heart, thinks I spend far too much time with her, that she
’
s
a
bad influence
.
And maybe she is. Maybe I do.
But at least she
’
s available to
spend
time with. Never more than a whisker away when I need her. Always at the other
end of the phone to console me when
he
buggers off, or trashes the
house, or shags another woman . . .

The truth is, I look
forward to Bi
’
s visits like women
on Special K look forward to a proper dinner. She fills me with cheeky, bubbly
happiness and when I crave a little extra excitement, she never fails to
deliver.

***

 “
Honey, I
’
ve gotta go,
”
Bi declares.
“
Gotta persuade a deluded IRS
inspector that green slacks and red tank tops just
don
’
t go
.
”

As my giggles
subside I’m subdued again, wondering who I
’
ll turn to, to lift
my spirits, if Bi follows her dreams and flits. 

Shrugging on a
fitted cream Vivienne Westwood jacket that matches her trousers, Bi reaches
into the DiddyDepot and ruffles the kids
’
hair. Then, blowing
me a blasé air kiss, she tips the pot collector she frightened half to death
before sweeping down the staircase without a care in the world.

Watching her skip
across the Square towards Bi Unique, I smile as she blatantly checks out the
traffic light team, like a famished tigress choosing her supper from a herd of
unsuspecting buffalo.

She
’
ll make a Bi-line for one of them,
I
’
m certain. Possibly
two? Compliment them on their
‘
splendid erection
’
. Maybe she
’
ll squeeze them
all
into
her busy schedule before moving on to pastures new.

Somewhere enticing.

Somewhere exciting.

Somewhere
hot
.

Oh, my little sweet
babies. Off to school already! They
can
’
t
be . . . it’s barely two minutes since I was
waddling around like a miniature Dumbo with my boisterous twin bump kicking
away under an XXL jumper.

With tear-streaked
cheeks and a heavy heart, I
’
m on my first ever
school lunch-packing shift, lovingly stuffing carrot sticks, Cheese Strings and
heart-shaped ham sandwiches into Dora and Diego boxes.

Drying my eyes with
the tea towel, I tell myself that
this
Friday won
’
t be freaky and that, compared
to the last fortnight, the past three days have been pleasantly uneventful.

I know
normal
people with
normal
lives, however, would most certainly beg to differ.
True, no body parts have been chopped off, nothing
’
s been smashed up and there
’
ve been no further eye-popping
sexual revelations to report.

That being said, I
’
ve still been surprised,
shocked and downright
astounded
on numerous occasions, leading me to
believe that my existence as I know it is
over
. . . and that I
’
m somehow doomed to live each
day trapped in
EastEnders.

***

To recap, I
’
ve been buzzing around like a
blue-arsed fly making sure everything’s in order and the twins have all the
unnecessary clobber on the school list - bags, lunch boxes, PE kits, pencil
cases, rulers, protractors, partridges in pear trees - whilst Will, the selfish
pig,
remains AWOL and flat-out refusing to come home.

It’s driving me up
the
wall
. He won’t even tell me where he is but he’s sworn on the kids’
lives he’s alone.

Hmm. He’d better be,
that’s all I can say because I’m not as generous as Rowan. Two strikes and he’s
not just out, he’s under the patio.

He’s been ringing
every day but mainly to speak to Rosie and Ryan, who dash off to the den with
the phone, then emerge half an hour later all giggly and secretive. I just
can’t fathom it out. When I asked last night just when he planned to
bless
us
with his divine presence,
Will said he didn
’
t know. Seriously, on the
eve
of his babies’ first day at school, he said,
“
I
don
’
t know, Sally. I
just don’t know, okay? Why don’t you leave it until next week?”

“Next
week
?”
I fumed, livid. “It’s
school
, Will. A legal requirement, not a bloody
drop-in centre.”

“I
know
that,”
he sighed. “Look, I gotta go, just trust me on this one, okay?”

Before I could
demand an explanation, he hung up, claiming he was
driving
and that a
police car had just pulled in behind him.

Huh! A likely tale.
Well, you know what, I hope it
had
. I hope they caught him chatting at
the wheel, spread-eagled him on the bonnet and carried out a roadside body
cavity search. It
’
d serve him right.
In fact, when he calls tonight he
’
s got a rude
awakening coming. I plan to tell him that if he’s not home by tomorrow, he
needn
’
t bother coming back
at all. That this isn
’
t a hostel and that
he can
’
t just waltz in an
out whenever the mood takes him.

AAAAAAGGGH!

Realising I
’
ve heard those
exact
words somewhere before, I give myself a hard slap to exorcise the demon (or
rather, my mother) as the twins rush in looking adorable yet tear-jerkingly
tiny in their pristine new uniforms.

Rosie, fresh-faced
and excited with curly pigtails, thick woollen tights and a tartan pinafore,
dances around the room like she
’
s just stepped out
of a nursery rhyme, whilst Ryan, rebelliously scruffy in black trousers and a
red Goldwell Infants
’
sweater, just
sulks.

“
Where
’
s
daddy
?
”
he moans, stomping around the
breakfast bar.
“
He
said we didn
’
t have to
go
to school,
so how come we have to? It
’
s not fair. I
’
m telling.
”

Looking down at the
huffy little Will clone deliberately trying to scuff his new shoes on the
tiles, I scoop the huggable pair into my arms, peppering them with mummy-style
monster-kisses.

“
Daddy
lives in his own
little world,
”
I tell Ryan firmly.
“
You
’
ve gotta go, kiddo, it
’
s the
law
. If I don
’
t take you, Miss Lawrence
’
ll just come and get you. With
the
Schoooool Bobbies
.
”

It does the trick.

At the mere mention
of the dreaded School Bobbies
,
Ryan
’
s at the door in a flash,
lunchbox in hand, shouting,
“
Come on mummy, off
we go, we
’
ll be
late
.
”

Rosie, sharper than
a pack of knives, just giggles, tugs on her Peppa Pig coat and joins him on the
step. Giving me a smile, she whispers,
“
Oh mummy, you do
tell
fibs
.
”

Smiling back, I pick
up the car keys mournfully. Oh, they’re so cute and smart and snuggly, I just
want to
play
!

You see, now it
’
s crunch time, I don
’
t really want ‘two minutes to
spin round in’
.
I don
’
t want ‘my independence’ and I
certainly don
’
t want my ‘bloody
life back’. No, all I really want is to lock the door and keep my baby birds
safely in the nest where they belong. Surely four is far too young to start
school anyway? Surely, being friends with the headmistress, no one will kick up
a fuss if I just keep them with me for a bit longer. Like a few more years or
so . . .

Oh, my little-tiny-babies.
Off to big school without their mummy. Ooohhh!

Silently cursing
Will for leaving me to cope with such a traumatic milestone alone, I bawl
inconsolably into the dishcloth before realising I
’
m being watched intently by two
pairs of big, brown eyes about to overflow.

Mortified
I
’
m unsettling the kids, I pull
myself together. Smiling and clapping my hands, I lead them out to the Saab,
allowing myself one last sniffle when I
’
m
sure
they’re
not looking.

Oh, it
’
s no good being a blubber-mum,
I know that. Standing at the school gates, teddy bear in hand, crying into a
hanky like you
’
re waving them off
to war. I
’
ve witnessed
that
little heart-breaker many times and I
’
m not about to put
myself, or the kids, through it.

Eh-eh.

Picture the scene,
you know which one I mean. The one where the child
’
s as happy as a bunny playing
hopscotch in the schoolyard, until he spots mum waving through the railings,
wailing like a banshee.

All of a sudden his
eyes fill up and the railings, why, they don
’
t
look like
railings
any more, they look like a
cage
. And he sobs
and sobs, clinging to mum
’
s leg through the
bars, begging her not to go, begging her not to
leave
him.

But just as mum
’
s about to crumble and her
heart
’
s about to break,
the mean old teacher prises him away, leaving her in a howling heap on the
pavement. Pitiful, pointless and
definitely
not for me. Everyone knows
kids cry on the first day of school, just to make you feel even more
despicable than you already do. But the second your back
’
s turned, hey presto, they
’
re happier than an army of ants
at a picnic.

***

Fixing my wriggling
monkeys into their booster seats, I decide to grit my teeth, drop them off
without
dramatics and come straight home. That way, I
’
ll
be able to find out why I was woken at the crack of dawn by an early bird at
Premier Properties wanting to let our house.

Backing off the
drive, missing the far side gate post by luck rather than judgement, I set off
in the direction of Goldwell Infants, replaying the conversation in my mind.
The brief chat was weird to say the least, not to mention the third
strange
phone call I
’
ve taken in as many
days. It went as follows:

‘
Woof! Woof, woof, woof.
Grrrrrrr. Woof! Woof, woof, woof. Haaaa-wwwooooo!
’

Me:
“
What the . . . what the?
”
(groggily looking under the
bed for a stray dog)
“
Uuuurrrgg, Bianca!
”
(recognising the ring tone )
“
Hello? Hello? Will?
”

Chirpy female voice:
“
Ah, hi, sorry to
call so early. It
’
s Jill at Premier
Properties. I just wanted to check tomorrow at ten
’
s still okay for the letting
snaps?
”