Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (10 page)

‘Girls I say firmly, confiscating the pterodactyl’s

wings before somebody gets hurt.

Mai gathers our brood and shoos them gently towards

the exit. She smiles wearily at me over their heads, but I

can tell from the set of her shoulders that she is annoyed

with me, and feel a rare flash of irritation. It was hardly

my fault I was late.

On the way home, I explain about the waterlogged

station, and later, in bed, she signals her forgiveness by

pulling me towards her; but I’m too jittery to do more

than kiss the top of her head and hold her close as I stare

into the darkness. It’s ridiculous to be so nervous about

next week; whatever emotional silt Sara is kicking up will

soon settle down if I leave well alone. It’s just a question

of self-control.

My life is perfectly harmonious. I have a wife I love

and desire, three beautiful, healthy girls, a job I find fulfilling, satisfying and profitable, a substantial home in an

exquisite part of the English countryside - I am truly

satisfied with my lot.

And yet, from nowhere, this young woman has suddenly

been lobbed into my life like a sexual hand-grenade.

I don’t sleep well, and the next morning I’m a bear

with the children and distant and uncommunicative with

Mai. When she sends me into Salisbury on a fool’s errand

for red crgpe paper to get me out of the house, I detour

into one of those upmarket shops that handcuff their

clothing to the rails in the midst of a sea of ash flooring,

and purchase an expensive coffee-coloured sheepskin coat

that Mai would never consider buying for herself. Only

when I have expiated my guilt in an orgy of Christmas

shopping do I dare to return home.

On Monday morning, I awaken in more optimistic mood.

There’s no doubt that Sara is a temptation - or would be,

were there the slightest danger of her reciprocating, which

obviously there is not; but even if she did, I’m not going

to give in to this. I made promises to my wife before God,

and I have no intention of breaking them, now or ever.

I do so loathe that modern euphemism, ‘the inevitable

happened’. To borrow from Benjamin Franklin: nothing is

inevitable but death and taxes. Certainly not infidelity.

For the past four weeks, I’ve run away from Sara,

ensuring I have minimal contact with her at work, and

that we are never for a moment alone. Whilst technically

successful - there has been no opportunity for Fisheresque

furtive glances or ‘accidental’ physical contact on the

stairs - this policy of avoidance has merely reduced me to

a seething mass of teenage angst and hormones.

Since denial has simply stoked the fires, clearly a

change of tack is required. I can’t possibly avoid Sara

now, so I’m going to have to confront the issue head on

and deal with it, once and for all. What am I so afraid of,

anyway? Nothing’s going to happen. No doubt being

thrown together at such close quarters will break the

fever, and I will be able to return to my untroubled,

comfortable domestic life with no harm done.

I sincerely hope so; my constant hard-on is making it

extremely difficult to concentrate on anything other than

the chronic ache in my balls.

Sara and I are travelling to Manchester from different

parts of the country, so I spend a surprisingly pleasant

train journey alone reviewing my case notes and reinforcing

my resolve. By the time I arrive at the Piccadilly

Hotel in the centre of the city, I realize I have allowed

myself to blow this entire matter out of all proportion.

What man approaching his mid-forties, married or otherwise,

would not be visited by erotic thoughts when such a

voluptuous, youthful siren appears in his office? The

appropriate response is not to panic that moral degeneracy

is imminent, but to daydream for a wistful moment of

one’s youth, heave a regretful inward sigh, and wish the

hopeful young pups snapping at her heels the best of

luck. Surely the sin is not in being tempted, but in

yielding. And I am more fortunate than most; I have a

beautiful and sexy wife waiting for me at home.

I can’t deny that Sara has awakened disturbingly erotic

feelings, yes; but this doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad

thing. It’s just a question of redirection.

Over the years, I’ve learned from my clients that boredom

is a far greater threat to most marriages than the

turn of a pretty ankle or a washboard stomach. It’s all too

easy to slump indifferently into impending middle-age,

quarantining sex to weekends and opting for a quick

bite at the local Italian on your anniversary so that you

can get home in time for Midsomer Murders and an early

night. Perhaps I needed a jolt like this to remind me that

I’m only forty-three; it’s not quite time for tartan slippers

and a mug of cocoa at bedtime yet. Christ, I do still have

my own bloody hair and teeth! Even a pair of jeans,

somewhere. Maybe Mai and I should try to get away for

a weekend soon, leave the children with her mother for a

night or two. Might even splash out on some silk French

knickers and whatnot.

This whole Sara thing will die down as quickly as it

blew up once I deal with these risible feelings of mine

head-on. In fact, I’m almost looking forward to the next

couple of days. It’ll be a relief to meet the challenge and

get things back into perspective, back under control.

I check in and leave a message with the hotel receptionist

for Sara to call me when she arrives later this evening,

then go up to my room to shower and freshen up. Once

I’ve conferred with the office in London and the local

barrister handling our case here tomorrow, I telephone

Mai to wish the girls goodnight.

‘You missed Evie’s Bible class recital my wife tells me.

‘Christ, I’m sorry, I’d completely forgotten—’

‘No, I mean you missed it Mai lilts. ‘I haven’t had so

much fun in years.’

I tuck the handset under my chin and start to lace my

shoes. ‘Come on, then.’

‘Moses - and I quote - “led the Hebrew slaves to the

Red Sea where they made unleavened bread, which is

bread made without any ingredients. Then he went up

Mount Cyanide to get the ten commandos. He died before

he ever reached Canada but the commandos made it.”’

I snort with laughter.

‘No, no, wait, it gets better.’ Mai giggles. ‘“Ancient

Egypt was old. It was inhabited by gypsies and mummies

who all wrote in hydraulics. They lived in the Sara Dessert.

The climate of the Sara is such that all the inhabitants

have to live elsewhere.”’

Out of the mouths of babes-‘She didn’t actually write that I exclaim.

‘She did, I have it here. I can’t wait until half-term,

they’re tackling medieval history then.’

When I ring off later, I discover that Sara has left a

message on my voicemail whilst I’ve been discussing the

finer points of Egyptology with my middle child. Since it

is below freezing outside and I have no desire to compete

with office revellers for a taxi the week before Christmas,

I am happy to accede to her suggestion that we meet

in the hotel restaurant downstairs at eight to discuss

tomorrow’s case over dinner. We do have to eat, after all.

Fifteen minutes later, at precisely two minutes to eight,

and armed with a stack of legal files, I stand in the hotel

lobby and glance around for my colleague.

Oh Christ. Oh bloody Christ. I am in deep, deep trouble.

She’s waiting at the entrance to the restaurant, her back

towards me as she talks to the maitre d’. Her statuesque

frame is sheathed in a soft, black wool dress that manages

simultaneously to skim and to cling to every voluptuous

contour. It ends demurely enough at the knee; but she is

wearing black seamed stockings and a pair of scarlet high

heels that either ruin the outfit or set it off beautifully. I

suspect you need to be a woman to tell.

I realize I am gaping, and close my mouth. Jamming

my files across my poker-hard erection, I take a deep breath and go over to her. This is business. Just business.

Oh, Jesus.

She turns at my approach and smiles. ‘Great. You got

my message.’

A deep V of honeyed skin plunges to a generously

displayed cleavage. Between her breasts, a silver heart

shaped pendant nestles. I wonder if it is warm from her

skin; or perhaps she has only just put it on, it’s still cool

to the touch.

My cock bucks and for the first time since I was fifteen

I wonder if I’m actually going to come in my pants.

‘—I said, is a booth all right with you, Nick?’

I nod dumbly. The waiter escorts us to our table, and

for a few moments we fuss with napkins and menus

and breadsticks. I clear a space on the tablecloth for my

files, building a manila rampart between us. It’s the only way I can tear my eyes from her breasts.

A silence descends. Awkwardly I clear my throat,

squaring the heap of the files in front of me with military

precision. ‘So - ah - are you going out somewhere later?’

She gives me an odd look. ‘No, why?’

Girls are different these days, of course: they dress for

themselves. The appreciative physical response they elicit

from hapless males is just so much collateral damage.

She snaps a breadstick in two, and puts it to her mouth.

Instantly I picture those full pink lips wrapped around

my throbbing cock. Grimly I cross my legs and recite my

eight times tables.

A tiny crumb falls into her cleavage, and negligently

she licks her forefinger and dusts between her breasts to retrieve it. Six eights are forty-eight-‘So, have we heard anything back from the other side?’

she asks, glancing up.

‘Nothing official I say, gratefully seizing the conversational

lifeline. ‘But our barrister, Roger, happened to

be in Court on Friday on another case opposite Sandra

Reizen, who’s representing the wife in our case tomorrow.

Sandra couldn’t comment directly, of course, but she

gave Roger the distinct impression she’s going to push

the wife to settle out of Court.’

‘Interesting. You think the wife will agree?’

‘It’s certainly possible—’

We spend the next thirty minutes discussing the case;

safe on neutral legal territory and with a swift couple

of Scotches soon under my belt, I finally allow myself to

relax a notch or two. There’s no doubting the alarming

physical effect this woman has on me, but she’s all

business, brisk and efficient, and I realize with relief that

however lurid my fantasies may be, they are just that: fantasies. Unreciprocated schoolboy crushes are hardly a threat to anyone’s marriage.

She scans the wine list and orders a decent but inexpensive

bottle with dinner; I am impressed by both her

savoir-faire and her taste. Mai always defers to me over

wine. I’m not entirely sure I’d appreciate a woman taking

control like this on a permanent basis, but it is certainly

an interesting novelty.

During the meal - lamb cutlets for me, fillet of sea bass

for her - our conversation broadens to encompass the

legal profession in general, and our firm in particular;

she permits herself an expression of amused tolerance

when Fisher and David are mentioned, but is otherwise

commendably discreet.

In fact, appear to be the one doing all the talking; but

it’s a pleasant change to have such an appreciative audience.

Almost hanging on my every word. Especially when

the audience in question is so very young. And attractive.

Sara barely touches her meal, which surprises me;

she doesn’t look like a picky eater. I prefer a woman who

tucks into her food; it shows enthusiasm for life.

‘Is everything all right?’ I ask. ‘We can order something

else if it doesn’t pass muster—’

‘No, no, it’s fine. I’m just not that hungry. Too many

breadsticks, probably.’ She leans back and smiles - to

dazzling effect - as a waiter tops up our glasses. ‘Tell me,

Nick, how long have you been with Fisher’s?’

‘Good God. Let me see. I joined just before my thirtieth

birthday, so that’s thirteen - no, it’ll be fourteen years this winter.’

She regards me for a moment, her clear grey eyes

considering. ‘I’d only have put you in your mid-thirties

now, tops. Although I suppose if I sat and worked it out,

you’d have to be older to have gained such a reputation.’

‘Reputation?’

‘Look, you were the main reason I applied to the firm,’

she says frankly. ‘I kept hearing your name mentioned

around, and of course you have acted in some landmark

cases. I know it’s probably not the thing to say, but I

couldn’t think of a better training than working with you.’

I feel ridiculously flattered. “That’s terribly sweet of

you, but—’

‘Sweet has nothing to do with it, Nick. It’s the truth.’

No one has ever called me Nick before. Even at school,