Antidote to Infidelity (51 page)

“
Chicken
,
”
I say, straightening the crafty
little bugger
’
s collar.
“
It
’
s
chickenpox.
And yes
baby, I
’
m
certain
.
You
’
re not contagious,
you
’
re not poorly and
you
’
re not going to
Splash Landings tonight if you don
’
t get that bossy
little bottom into school
right this minute
. Go on, scram.
”

He nods sulkily,
allowing his sister to drag him towards the smiling teacher by the door.
Blinking back tears, I blow them a kiss, waving my other hand at Liselle who
’
s consoling a distraught mother
under the netball hoops.

Spotting me, she
hands the mum a fresh pack of tissues, makes her excuses and dashes over, just
as the heavens open and it starts to tip it down.

“
Oooh, eeeugh, nooo,
”
she wails, hiking her beige
jacket to protect her pristine bun.
“
What a
monstrous
morning. This is
all
we need. It
’
s already raining in
the bloomin
’
library and I
’
ve been calling you
non-stop
for the past
two hours
.
”

“
Me? Why? What
’
s up?
”
I shout over the pelting rain,
watching Rosie and Ryan disappear into the infants
’
block as we dash towards the
main entrance to avoid being drowned.

Seeing a bolt of
fork lightening zig-zag off the playing field, I pick up speed. Grabbing
Liselle
’
s bony hand, I haul
her up the steps to the safety of the musty porch. Once inside, we stand arm in
arm, watching raindrops the size of tennis balls bounce off the Astroturf,
before Liselle turns and drops her bombshell.

“
Sally. There
’
s a problem, I
’
m afraid. With the kids.
”

“
Problem? What problem?
What
kids?
”
I ask, thinking she
can
’
t
possibly
mean
my
kids, who are safely schooled without a hint of tears or
tantrums. I
’
m just wondering if
sordid tales of Miss Whiplash and her Saturday night swing-a-thons are ripping
through the school like wild fire, when she adds,
“
Your
kids, Sal. They can
’
t stay. I
’
m afraid you
’
ll have to take them home.
”

“
I
’
ll
have to
what
?
”
I snap, jumping
into the air Basil Fawlty-style.
“
But . . . but . . .
but - why?
Surely
not because they
’
ve had chickenpox.
You
know
they
’
re better.
Mike
said
. . .”

“
It
’
s nothing to do with that,
”
she assures me, patting my
soaked black mac.
“
It
’
s just that they
’
re not
down
. At all.
Anywhere on the records. You have to apply for a place for them and by the
looks of things, Sally, you haven
’
t.
”

“
But, but - I
have
!
”
I squeal.
“
I filled the letter in myself.
”

“
Not according to the intake
list,
”
she says soberly.
“
I called the LEA this morning
as soon as I saw the sheets, and they said exactly the same. No mention of the
kids. I
’
m sorry but there
’
s nothing I can do. My hands,
unfortunately, are tied.
”

“
What do you mean your hands are
bloody tied,
”
I shout, getting
more than a little peed off with her doctor
’
s
receptionist tone.
“It’s
not Saturday now, you know.
Of
course
there
’
s something you can
do, Liselle. You can put them down yourself. Right now. It
’
s
obviously
some kind of
clerical error.
”

“
I
can
’
t
, Sally,
”
she grimaces.
“Oh, oh, I knew this was a bad
idea, I just
knew
it. I should have called you last night.”

“Last
night
? I thought
you only found out this morning?”

Shuffling edgily from foot to
foot, skin the colour of shiraz, Liselle just shrugs.

“I, well, that is . . . hmmm
look
.
The problem is, Sally, we’re
full
.
Chocca-block. The school
’
s at maximum capacity and there
’
s not a damn thing I can do
about it.
”

Huddled in our lounge
with
my best
friend and my sister
,
I’m through debating what could have happened and have finally accepted that -
as far as Goldwell Infants is concerned - the twins don’t exist.

I’ve also accepted
it’s all my fault. Probably.

Though Liselle’s
called four times, profusely apologetic and swearing she
’
ll resolve things over weekend,
the consensus is abundantly clear: I
’
m an absent-minded
bone
head
who
’
s simply forgotten
to fill in the placement request.

In fact, Rowan’s
suggested I probably filled in what I
thought
was the placement request
but was actually a monthly subscription to
Pick Me Up
, whilst Amy is
being strangely blasé about it, telling me not to worry, that it’s just a
simple misunderstanding which will ‘correct itself in due course’.

Don’t worry? Huh!
How can I not worry? I can’t help it. I’m
mortified
.

I mean, I know I’m
scatty sometimes but never where the kids are concerned. Surely I’m not daft
enough to have messed up something this important? I distinctly remember
completing the form the day it arrived, in my most legible handwriting, then
obsessively checking it 10 times before finally letting Will post it.

Yet they’re not
down. For some bizarre reason, my kids aren’t down and now the bloody school’s
full. When does
that
happen? Talk about shoddy luck! Will’s going to go
berserk.

***

Earlier, after
swearing at Liselle in the heat of the moment, I
stalked out of the school like
a woman possessed, before - unable to reach Will on his mobile - breaking down
in the car (tears, not tyres) and calling Mary and Clive.

Thankfully,
Super-Gran flew right over, appeasing the bemused kids in the best way
possible: by patting their little heads, packing a picnic and shooting off to
Splash Landings a day early for a fun-tastic weekend at the Alton Towers
resort.

“I
told
you
daddy said we didn’t have to go to school in the rain!” Ryan said victoriously
as I peppered him in kisses and explained the importance of keeping his cast
dry in the pool.

“Don’t worry mummy,”
Rosie said, giving me a hug. “Grandad’s got a
humongous
roll of cling
film hidden in his pocket. We’re going to wrap Ryan up like a sandwich so he
can whiz down all the flumes. See you on Sunday!”

Seeing the horror on
my face, Mary clipped Clive around the ear, assuring me that white-knuckle
pursuits were strictly off limits, that they’d stay in the shallow end and that
yes, she’d watch their every move ‘like a hawk, dear’.

So, after a monster
hug-athon, I waved them on their way, thrilled they’d be having fun yet gutted
that the family mini-break we’d planned to take together, for my birthday, had
been scuppered.

Along with
everything else.

I spent the early
part of the afternoon in an emotional flap, trying to convince myself that it
would all be okay.

Everything.

That schools
do
occasionally make mistakes and that husbands
do
disappear for six days
at a time without disclosing their whereabouts.

I’m desperate to
speak to Will but keep getting his answer machine. So far, I
’
ve left a grand total of seven
messages: two upset, one hysterical and four, well, borderline
obscene
,
actually
.
And he
’
s
still
not
had the decency to get back to me.

Just after five o
’
clock, as soon as they could
break off work, Amy and Rowan filed through the door armed with Milk Tray,
Blossom Hill and uplifting DVDs, but by then it was too little, too late. I
’
d already poured my heart out
to Mike, who listened to me curse the world for well over an hour before
promising to call back later, when he
’
d treated a certain
Wade Wallace for a dislocated shoulder.

Mmmm. Shame that.

I almost said,
‘
I hope he
’
s not in
too
much agony,
give it a sharp tug from me,
’
but refrained,
looking forward to a spot of twilight chit-chat with the doctor, later.
Thoroughly hacked off with my husband, talking to Mike is a marvellous vent for
my frustrations. I can really open up to him and he doesn’t seem to care when I
go off on one about Will, about how ridiculous he’s being, about how I could
wring
his neck
. He just listens – and more importantly, agrees.

I feel like he’s my
sole ally in a battle I didn’t start, but I’m suddenly losing. And yes, I feel
like throwing caution to the wind and inviting him round tonight because - even
though I know it’s wrong - I could really, really use a cuddle. A manly cuddle
from someone who understands.

Talking to Mike, you
see, is like smoking a spliff. He relaxes me and makes me want more, yet I feel
guilty as sin once the heady pleasure’s worn off and reality kicks back in.

***

Right now, though, I
’
ve got a room full of quirky,
chirpy friends who aren’t relaxing me at all. In fact, they’re doing the exact
opposite. As well as getting in the way, on my case and on my nerves, they seem
to be going all out to drive me round the twist.

Bianca’s just turned
up with a harassed-looking Liselle in tow, who’s not even
mentioned
the
kids but simply curled up on the rug, wolfing the last pack of my favourite
salt and vinegar peanuts.

Charming. I can’t
accept your kids but I’ll hog your rug and eat your nuts. Tut!

Normally, I
’
d be glad of the company with
Will
and
the kids away, but in truth, I
’
m
getting agitated, upset and increasingly volatile.

When did I stop
being the injured party here? Huh? I just don’t get it. Will’s shagged another
woman, trashed the house and not been home for six days, yet the sun shines out
of his arse. I so much as mention the word ‘Mike’ and I’m set upon by a pack of
piranhas!

I hope beyond hope
that he calls back
after
the girls have gone. That way, I can say what I
really
want to say to him without the pro-Will posse going berserk.

“
You know what, Sal, it could be
your age,
”
Bianca says,
suggestively scooping the yellow middle out of a Creme Egg.
“
When women get to thirty, they
start doing strange things. Look at BJ.
”

“
Blow job?
”
Amy asks, raising her eyebrows
as Bi
’
s extra long tongue
delves in for another lick.

“
No, idiot,
”
Liselle chides, with a frosty
gesture towards the television,
“
Bridget Jones.
Honestly
Amy, what on
earth
has a blow job got to do with women
doing strange things when they get to thirty?
”