Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (11 page)

I was always Nicholas. I think I rather like the diminutive;

it sounds younger, a little less dull and middle-aged.

She pushes her untouched plate away and leans earnestly

towards me. Thank God for the files between us, or

I’d have a view straight down her cleavage to her navel.

‘The Hopewell case changed divorce law in this

country forever she says. ‘No wife had ever been

awarded a third of her husband’s future earnings until

that ruling. Did you have any idea going into it that

you were about to set such a significant precedent?’

‘Actually, that was a very interesting case for several

reasons, very shrewd of you to bring it up—’

A waiter interrupts to ask if we want coffee.

‘I’d love some,’ Sara says. ‘Let’s have it in the bar,

Nick, chillax a bit. And maybe a cognac?’

Chillax? Of course: chill out and relax. Christ, she speaks

a different language.

‘Nick?’

I’ve had more than enough to drink already, and I

should go back to my room to reread my case notes and

get some sleep.

But I find myself following Sara’s swaying hips -five

eights are forty - to a couple of pseudo-distressed leather

sofas at right angles to one another in a corner of the dim

bar next door. I dump the legal files on a side-table as

Sara kicks off her fuck-me red heels and curls her feet

beneath her. She props her chin on her hand and leans

on the arm of her sofa, accidentally presenting me with

an eye-popping view of her breasts in their lacy black

bra. I swear I can actually see the dark pink tint of her

nipples-“The Hopewell case she prompts.

Once again, her professionalism saves me. I shift in my

chair and mentally conjugate Latin verbs, multiplication

having worn out its welcome.

Her silver gaze is interested as I delineate the details of

the complex case; it really is a pleasure to have such an

in-depth discussion about work with someone who really

understands and is interested in, rather than bored, by the

minutiae. I can’t blame Mai for losing interest beyond

the headline facts of my cases; she’s always happy to

listen when I talk shop, but clearly only a fellow lawyer

can truly appreciate the technical detail. In parallel, I

adore Mai’s spring pea soup, of course, happy to lap it

up; but the genesis of the homemade chicken stock that

constitutes its culinary base isn’t necessarily the most

fascinating of conversations.

‘Did you always want to work in divorce law?’ Sara

asks as a companionable silence finally falls between us.

I watch her roll the cognac glass between her palms,

mesmerized by the sensuous movement of her long

hands. The amber liquid, refracted through the crystal,

casts gold darts across her face that bring out the tawny

glints in her cropped blonde hair.

‘Pretty much. I toyed with corporate and tax law for a

brief moment—’

‘I know.’ She laughs a laugh I can feel in my trouser

pockets. ‘Don’t we all?’

I smile with her. Despite the excruciating sexual tension

- I have the worst case of blue balls - I feel surprisingly

warm and mellow: due in no small part, I realize, to

the alcohol I’ve consumed; but due, also, to her relaxing

and attentive company. She has cleverly deferred to me

and allowed me to ramble on at length all evening - I’m

not a total innocent - but that deference itself is rather

flattering. And she really is extremely easy to talk to. As

well as being exceptionally easy on the eye.

I loosen my tie and braces, sinking back into the

comfortable sofa with a contented sigh.

‘There have been times I’ve wished I’d sold out and

taken the Corporate shilling,’ I admit, ‘usually around the

same time the next set of school fees fall due.’

‘It’s cool you didn’t, or I’d never have got to work with

you.’

‘Well, that’s very kind, but—’

‘I told you, Nick,’ she says, lightly brushing my forearm, ‘you were the reason I joined the firm.’

Somehow, her hand lingers. I should pull gently away.

I should thank her now for a pleasant evening, pick up

my files, and go upstairs. Alone.

I don’t move.

Seconds pass. I’m acutely aware of her touch on my

arm, of the fact that only a few millimetres of cotton

separate my skin from hers. The mellow feeling of just a

few moments ago is a distant memory. My cock is as hard

as rock.

I’m overwhelmed by the urge to pull this woman - so

very different from my wife - into my arms, crush those

i J

i

shiny, pliable pink lips beneath mine, to bury my face in

those full breasts and plunge myself into the warm wet

core of her. I want to lose myself in her, to get hot and

dirty with her; I want to do things to her I’m too ashamed

even to put into words.

Her grey eyes meet mine, and I see permission in them.

‘So, Nick she says, very softly, and her voice is as

intimate as the rustle of sheets, ‘would you like to come

upstairs for a nightcap?’

&Ś

Sara

The words throb in the air between us. Come on, Nick, I will him silently. Come on, say yes, say yes, you know you want to.

Those ditchwater bedroom eyes of his are clearly picturing

me spread-eagled naked on a four-poster bed and

covered with blood-red rose petals a la Mena Suvari, but

there seem to be roadworks on the information superhighway

between his brain and vocal cords. God, Nick,

how difficult is it? Short of lying down on some Royal

Doulton flatware and sprinkling myself with parsley garnish,

could I be offering sex on a plate any more obviously?

If I have to hold this relaxed, inviting smile much

longer I’m going to get lockjaw. Shit, I can’t believe how

much I want him to say yes.

I touch my tongue lightly to dry lips and don’t miss

the responsive judder in his pinstriped trousers. I don’t

know if the public-school poker up his arse is doing

something to his prostate, but this uptight, repressed,

I’lllll

ŚI I

Śiiiriij

missionary-position Englishman also happens to be the

most sexual man I’ve ever met. He just doesn’t realize it

yet.

And fuck, do I want to be the one to show him.

Naturally Amy thinks it’s hysterical that I’ve got

the hots for my married boss. After all the grief I’ve given

her over her affair with Terry, I suppose I can’t blame her.

The difference is, know what I’m doing, and more

importantly, how this will end, even now, before it’s

begun. Especially before it’s begun. You borrow the other

little girl’s toy for a while until you get bored playing

with it and then you give it back. No keepsies in this

game.

I’m only going to borrow him, I tell the tiny voice

needling my conscience. No one’s going to get hurt. No

one’s even going to know.7

I lean forward to pick up my bag, treating Nick to

another tempting glimpse of my tits, and throw him an

amused, cool look: Coming? I daren’t touch him again,

much as I’m longing to. One crass move and he’ll run for

the hills.

My stomach is fizzing with nerves and excitement. The

twanging in my damp knickers is vibrating all the way to my toes. Say yes say yes say yes.

Let me tell you, if I didn’t fancy the pants off this man,

I’d never be going to this much trouble. It was funny at

first, the way he kept shooting out of a room every time I

entered it, or walking up four flights of stairs if I got into

the lift - no wonder he’s lost weight. But in the last couple

of weeks, it’s stopped being so amusing. I really like Nick.

I want him to like me. How is he ever going to do that if

he never sticks around long enough to hear the second

syllable of my ‘Hello?

I’ve got to say, this is all messing with my head a bit.

I’ve never had a man get under my skin like this; I’m not

sure I like it. I just wish to God I knew what it is about

Nick that’s clicking my mouse.

Professionally, he’s confident, surefooted; arrogant,

even. I’ve seen him wring concessions from other lawyers

that make our clients want to cast his image in gold and

after Nick’s finished with their exes, they can afford

to. What’s more, he knows how good he is: which is so

erotic. When he’s in full flow, tearing the opposition a

new arsehole, I almost feel scared of him myself .Certainly

in awe. A brilliant older man at the height of his power,

secure and certain of himself - yep, knicker-wetting, no

doubt about it.

Then there’s the other Nick, so frigging hopeless with

women, acting as if he wouldn’t begin to know his way

around a bedroom; blushing, even.

And of course he’s totally, but totally, off limits. Married,

kids, way older than me, and my boss to boot.

Oh, this is so not a good combination. And it so is.

I could’ve kissed that lech Fisher when he gave me this

Manchester gig, except I’d never prise him off me again.

Finally, the chance to scratch the itch that is Nick. So I

pulled out all the stops for this evening. The Donna Karan

dress set me back a month’s salary - shit, sweet Nick, no, I’m not ‘going out’ anywhere afterwards - but way worth it. I borrowed the scarlet Jimmy Choos from Amy - two

sizes too small, but this is the twenty-first century: ugly

sisters with big feet get to go to the ball too, or we’ll sue.

Between them, the dress and shoes did most of the

work - with a little help from my Wonderbra - but Nick’s

so bloody clueless, he couldn’t flirt to save his tightly

clenched arse. Which means I’ve had to do it all this evening:

draw him out, get him to talk about himself, guide

us back onto safe conversational territory whenever he

got nervous - and then cut the ground out from under

him with the tried-but-true crumbs-down-the-cleavage

trick. (About the only food I actually ate tonight. I’m

bloody starving: I didn’t want to eat too much and put

him off. Men hate women with an appetite.)

OK, it’s all anti-feminist crap straight from The Rules; but then let’s face it, so are men. I can impress him later with my sparkling intellect and flair for case law. The way

to a man’s heart is straight through his ego via his dick:

which is what this evening has been all about.

The question is: have I pulled it off?

Only one way to find out. Since he now seems to have

lost the power of speech altogether, I stand up, throwing

down the bedroom gauntlet with a final flourish.

Do something, Nick. I’m out on a limb here, and it’s

bloody windy-Alleluia, he stands up with me. ‘I think he says

hesitantly, ‘I think—”

The phone in his pocket rings.

Oh, shit. Not his wife, please, not now. Not when I’m this close.

‘Good evening, George - no, absolutely not, not too

late at all.’ Nick mouths Wainwright at me, and I breathe

again. Our client. It’s nearly midnight, but you can’t blame

the man for being nervous; his whole future is on the line

tomorrow. ‘How can I help? Of course, fire away—’

It’s only the usual last-minute panic-and-reassurance

Q & A; but ten minutes later, as Nick snaps shut his

phone, I suddenly realize from the rigid set of his shoulders

and the shutters screening those muddy eyes that

I’ve lost him. It’s more than the moment having passed.

He’s just had a brief encounter with the Ghost of Divorce

Future - all custody battles, maintenance cheques, bedsits

and Pot Noodles - and it’s terrified him shitless. No doubt

he sees that phone call as a Nick-of-time reminder of all he has to lose. Fuck, fuck and double fuck.

Or rather, not.

So, isn’t this lovely. A happy family Christmas with Ma

and Pa, a mixed nuts selection of uncles, aunts and

cousins, various freeloading friends and neighbours

and - I’ve stepped into Bridget Jones hell - their ‘eligible’

collective offspring; not forgetting, of course, the vicar.

Who is wearing a paisley Laura Ashley smock, a fashion

crime rendered only slightly less shocking by the fact that

she is at least a woman. Or so we are given to understand.

It’s a little hard to tell.

All I need now is for Colin Firth to turn up wearing a

hand-knitted jumper featuring Christmas trees and robins.

Actually, that is all I need. That, and a right good-‘Sara, love, there you are! It’s all right, Muriel, I’ve

found her, she’s by the sausage rolls. Did you drop

something, dear? Almost didn’t see you there behind the

sofa. No? Well, out you come then.’

‘Pearl, sorry, no, actually I was just on my way to

the—’

‘That’s Auntie Pearl to you, Little Miss-AU-GrownUp!’

Great-Auntie, if we’re going to be picky.

I smile weakly. ‘Sorry, I—’

I’m enveloped in a hug reeking of eau-de-mothball and

menopause. ‘Not too old to give your Auntie a kiss at