Antidote to Infidelity (9 page)

There’s no denying I’m a little
disappointed I’ve not bumped into Doctor Foster (okay, a
lot
disappointed).
I’m trying to figure out his motives, decide if they’re honourable. I kind of
hope they’re
not
but it’s a tough one to call. Is he indeed ‘on the
make’, as Will insists, or just being friendly?

Who knows? I’m not
used
to flowers, don’t speak the lingo. How am
I
supposed to guess if they’re
innocent buddy-buds or ravage-me roses? No wonder the NHS is cash-strapped if
all
his patients get a ride home, bouquets and their dry cleaning paid for!

As far as I’m concerned, it’s
irrelevant; Will’s
not
going to give
me
the guilt trip. Eh-eh. He
should be grateful I’m just arranging posies, not thumbing through the Yellow
Pages for male escorts. Fair’s fair, after all. So what if I’m getting a bit of
attention? It’s harmless, flattering - and
nothing
compared to what
he’s
done. The Doc could whisk me off to Paris for a weekend of wild debauchery and
Will still wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. He’s had
his
fun.

Conscious my clodhopping shoes
are making more racket than a herd of rhinos on the polished floor whilst
Florence Nightingale just glides along gracefully, I attempt to tread lightly
as we march through the swing-doors into the bustling reception. Spotting
Will’s shirt hanging proudly in a see-through Imperial bag behind Bula Ball
Breaker, I shudder involuntarily.

“Well, thanks again, I’d better
scoot,” I tell my stunning companion. “Great to see you, er . . .”

Oh, bugger! I’ve forgotten her
name. I think it’s Bonnie. Or it could be Betty . . .

“Becky,” she giggles, as I slap
myself on the forehead.

“Becky! That’s it, sorry. Did
you have a nice Christmas? Or was it all blood and gore?”

She nods enthusiastically,
leans over the desk and, ignoring a filthy look from Miss Berlin Shot Putt
1963, hands me the shirt.

“I had a smasher, thanks.
Worked a half-shift on Christmas Day, which was pretty grim, but they gave me
Boxing Day off for my twenty-first.”

She frowns, wrinkling her cute
button nose. “I
hate
having my birthday at Christmas, everyone forgets
and you end up getting second-hand crap nobody wants.”

“I know what you mean!” I
laugh, tickled by her child-like complaining. “Mine’s January twentieth and
that’s bad enough. Plus I’m thirty this time, which makes it twice as naff!”

Oh, to be twenty-one again!

Seriously, it’s not like I
think thirty’s particularly old or anything, but compared to that, it’s
positively
ancient
. I feel like a shrivelled up prune at the side of a
ripe, juicy peach.

Sensing we’re being scrutinised
by at least a dozen sets of eyes, I realise that - as
Little-Miss-Key-to-the-Door reached over the rotunda - I wasn’t the only one to
have noticed her pert, perfect little bottom bulging sexily beneath her tight
blue uniform. 

Good job she isn’t on the heart
ward, she’d finish the poor buggers off!   

Glancing at the oval clock
above the exit, imagining some stick-toting Super Gran road raging Will over a
parking space, I know I should leave – but the pristine shirt in my
bandage-less hand tells me otherwise.

“Becky, would you mind paging
Doctor Foster for me? Just so I can say thanks.”

Admiring her immaculate
reflection in the window, she smoothes an invisible crease from her blouse,
running a darting pink tongue over her teeth.

“Oooh, didn’t you know? He
doesn’t work here any more . . . not since Christmas Eve. Been offered a more
‘hands on’ job, apparently . . .”

The automatic doors whirr open.
In walks Will, looking flustered and wind-swept in scruffy grey combats and the
black FCUK T-shirt I gave him for Christmas (the one I
didn’t
cut up).

Clocking me, he puts his hand
up and makes his way over, at which Becky, eyes on stalks, does a double take,
waves back and squeals excitedly.

“Will! Ooooh Will, what are
you
doing here?”

Bouncing boisterously up and
down, she’s clapping her hands together like an over-wound clockwork clown. As
I watch, intrigued, she throws her arms around my husband’s neck, planting a
happy smacker on his cheek.

Visibly embarrassed, Will
untangles himself quickly as though her very embrace is acid to his skin. Face
a flush of colour he grips my elbow, attempting a nudge towards the exit.

“Sal, c’mon we need to go. Now.
I’m parked on double yellows.”

God, he’s rude. Whatever’s the
matter with him? Becky obviously knows him, so why’s he being such a berk?
Clearly that whack with the wok has had the desired effect. No women: period.

Assuming she’s one of his baby
brother’s old squeezes - after all, she’s
definitely
his type – I
attempt to jog his memory.

“Will, this is
Becky
,
she helped fix me up on Christmas Eve. Do you two know each other?”

“No. No no. Definitely not,” he
chokes.

Grinding his teeth, he
scrutinises her for a second, still nudging me away. Back pressed to his chest,
I can feel his heart thrashing against his ribcage.

Undeterred by the snub,
bra-less Becky reaches for his hand.

   “Yes we
do
, fibber!”

Innocently clutching his paw,
she looks over to me, beaming, “We spent a
lovely
romantic weekend
together in London last month.” Then, to Will, “I didn’t know you had a
sister!”

As she gazes at me expectantly,
glued to my husband - all tight arse, big boobs and long, fluttery eye lashes –
the penny drops.

Oh God no.

Bile rising in my throat, I
feel sick. And
stupid
. And like I’ve just been walloped with a wrecking
ball. I want to run screaming into the filing cabinet, close the doors and
never come out again.

How
could
he? How could
he do this to me? How could he bring me
here
.

As my mouth dries up and I
struggle to swallow what feels like razor blades, Will, gasping like a beached
guppy, has the doomed expression of a rabbit caught in headlights.

“I think you’d better explain,”
I tell him coolly, reaching for the wall as my knees buckle.

Go on, wiggle you adulterous
worm. Let’s see you squirm out of this one.

Looking at me pleadingly, Will
takes a deep breath.

“We kind of . . . she kind of,”
he stutters. “I mean, she
said
she was a nurse but
God
Sal, I had
no idea where. You gotta believe me.”

Seeing my lip curl, he glances
at Becky, head hung in shame.

“Rebecca, Sally’s my
wife
,”
he adds quickly. Then, desperately, “Sal, babe, I’m so sorry.”

Appalled, Becky drops his hand
like a hot coal before snatching it back up to examine it. Bursting into tears,
she sobs hysterically, attracting the attention of everyone in the waiting
room, including the brick-shithouse security guard, who eyes us suspiciously.

“Your
wife
?” she wails.
“But . . . but . . . you don’t
have
a wife. You can’t have a wife. You
never said. You weren’t wearing a ring. And it’s Becky, you
shit
!”

Glassy eyes overflowing, she
blinks at me indignantly and for a split second I feel
half
sorry for
her, before reminding myself that the vain little bitch has been balling my
husband.

“Ooh, I checked! I
always
check,” she squeals. “I never would have, I honestly, truly
never
would have. Oh God, I’m so sorry . . .”

“Is everything alright, nurse
Harris?”

The over-inflated security
guard has taken up a menacing position behind Will.

Great. Another one with a
Barbara Windsor fetish and a hot nut for busty Becky.

Feeling like my lungs have
collapsed, I inhale sharply, wishing I could disappear into thin air.

Did she really just say
romantic? Romantic? Huh! Will doesn’t do romantic. Not with me, anyhow. She’ll
be telling me next he bought her tulips.

Breathing in-out-in-out in an
attempt to stem the wave of dizziness washing over me, I plunge my hand into
Will’s trouser pocket for the car keys, making sure I jab him right in the
knackers. I stamp on his toe, too - hard - just for good measure.

As he doubles up, I decide I’ve
seen enough.

Raising a firm hand to silence
his little tart as she tries to gabble a red-faced explanation, I thrust Will’s
shirt into his arms. Not just shagging, but shagging young nurses? Who does he
think he is, Sid-frigging-James?

Oooh, we are sooo over.

Head held high, cheeks ablaze,
I turn on my heels and stride off, sliding doors closing behind me with a sharp
snap. And no one but the ticket-happy parking attendant sees my tears because,
unlike Lott’s wife, I never look back.

Usually, to get a table in
Route 66 - the town’s hot new American diner - you have to be on your toes and
book at least a week in advance. Even then, you have to be lucky . . . or well
connected
at least.

Situated in the heart of
Central Square, following a glowing ‘five-fork’ review by my best friend Rowan
Scott - chief reporter on our local rag, The Whistler - Route 66 is officially
the ‘in’
joint for eating and meeting in Goldwell.

Much to the delight of its
owner, Mr Clooney (sorry ladies, that’s
Bob
, not
George
, just in
case you’re wondering), hungry customers pack out the bustling bar and grill
seven days a week on a promise of all-American delicacies like; spicy,
finger-licking chicken platters, mama’s home-made chilli and mouth-watering
Mississippi mud pie to die for.

I have to hand it to good old
Rowan, not only has the article forever endeared her to Mr Clooney, it also
means that, as her fellow reporter and best bud, I’m guaranteed a table
en-Route whenever I want one.

In short I, Sally Moss, am
officially
connected
. No more queuing at KFC for
me
.

Having just ended yet another
domestic ding-dong by throwing every item in Will’s possession out of the
bedroom window; including toothbrush, condoms and a nondescript DVD I found at
the bottom of his sock draw (and decided must
be porn), I don’t
just
want
a table, I
really
need one.

It’s a matter of life and
death.

Well no, but it easily
could
be, considering that if I ever see my husband’s miserable mush again, I swear
I’m going to chop him into cheating little pieces . . . and feed him to next
door’s Chihuahua.

Crying out for moral support
and calorie-filled comfort food by the bucketful, I’ve called the girls,
pleaded desperation and arranged to meet them at noon, leaving plenty of time
for going home and glamming-up. Plenty of time for
them
, that is, not
me. For tonight, you see, is the main event - the night we’ve all been looking
forward to for months.  Tonight, pirates, cavemen, fire-fighters and French
maids will be out in force, swilling champagne and singing in the New Year at
the town’s exclusive nightspot, Savannah’s.

A complete sell-out since June,
tickets are like
gold dust
for an evening billed to be ‘a spectacular
soiree of glamour, glitz and good old fashioned fancy dress.’

I’m gutted. Seriously. My
mojo’s never been such a no-go. We’ve spent
weeks
perfecting our
outfits, and right up until Christmas Eve - well, even up until yesterday if
I’m totally honest - I’d been
really
excited about pulling on my black
fishnet stockings, my saucy pinnie, and strutting my stuff as a ‘naughty
nurse’.

Excited for
Will
, that
is. I thought, with the kids being away, it might be nice to let my hair down
for once. Take a walk on the wild side. Be adventurous. Let my husband live the
fantasy . . .

Total
waste of time. He’s beaten me
to it. Of course, after my torrid encounter with Becky-Blue-Eyes at the
hospital, the outfit’s in the dustbin. In strips. I put it through Will’s
shredder, couldn’t stop myself.

So, considering I have:

One:
Zero self-esteem (and never
will have, ever, ever again)

Two:
An empty purse (like half the
post-Christmas country)

Three:
Horrific new age/beauty
hang-ups (thanks to Will’s immaculate, twenty-one-year-old bit-of-fluff, who
looks seventeen if she’s a day)

and

Four:
No husband to accompany me (as
of five o’clock this morning)