Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (20 page)

She grins pertly. ‘Oh, dear. In the doghouse, are we?

What did you do?’

‘I didn’t do anything I say stiffly.

‘Never mind.’ She winks. “This should earn you a few

brownie points.’

Mai looks astonished when I walk into the kitchen with

the flowers, which are roughly the size and weight of a

small child. She tightens the belt of her ratty candlewick

dressing-gown before opening her arms to receive them.

‘What have I done to deserve this?’

‘Do I need a reason to give my wife flowers?’ I say,

stung.

She hesitates. ‘It’s because of what happened in London,

isn’t it?’

I thank God that her back is turned to me as she

reaches for a vase. The shock must surely register on my face. She knows. How can she know?

‘Ah - London?’

She cuts open the cellophane and buries her face in

the blooms. ‘Oh, gorgeous! The bombs, Nicholas. Post

dramatic stress or whatever it is. You come close to death

and suddenly you start to value what you could have lost,

it’s like you’re born again or something, there was an

article in the Daily Mail.’

My relief is such that for a moment I cannot speak.

‘Yes I stumble. ‘Yes. In a way

‘It’s dreadful about those poor people - they’ve identified

a hundred and seventy-nine, so far, and you know

there’ll be more, it doesn’t bear thinking about - but we

were lucky, darling, nothing terrible happened to our

family yesterday. We can’t let these people win, we can’t

give in to them.’

I smile awkwardly and reach past her for the pile of

post on the kitchen table. Mai turns back to the flowers,

giving a satisfied murmur as she tweaks the final bloom

into place.

‘I can drop you at the station on my way into Salisbury

she says, hefting the vase towards the sitting room. T guess you’ll be needed at the office to get things back up and running again.’ She hesitates on the kitchen

threshold. ‘Nicholas. I’ve been meaning to tell you, I saw

Trace Pitt yesterday, he stopped by to - actually, to offer

me a job.’

b

I sift through the brown envelopes, pulling out the

renewal notice for my subscription to the Lawyer. I must

make sure Emma doesn’t forget to deal with it. ‘Mmm?’

‘Working at - well, managing, really - his new restaurant.’

Emma

has sent out emails asking the staff to return to

work today; apart from the broken windows, which she

has already had replaced - ‘I know a charming man in

Epping, Mr Lyon, cash in hand, but he’ll get us sorted in

a jiffy’ - our office suffered little damage. I feel mingled

terror and reluctant excitement at the thought of seeing

Sara again.

‘He’s very keen - silly amounts of money really - and

he promised no late nights, plenty of staff to cover for me,

but of course I wanted to ask you first—’

‘Ask me what?’

‘If I should do it.’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course you should.’

‘I should?’ She sounds surprised. ‘Really?’

‘Absolutely I say absently. ‘I really do need to get

going, Mai.’

‘Sorry, sorry, yes, let me just go and get dressed.’ She

brushes by the cork noticeboard next to the Aga; a sheaf

of yellowing papers flutters to the ground and Mai picks

them up and re-pins them with infuriating slowness.

‘Oh, yes, that reminds me. It’s the girls’ Open House next

week, Nicholas, you need to be home early that day, we

absolutely can’t be late. Not after the school play.’

I don’t need reminding of that little fiasco. ‘Fine. I’ll

make sure I’m there. When?’

‘Friday the nineteenth. It starts at seven. And please

don’t be late, Nicholas. I’m not sure I can stand Evie

wearing her Wellingtons to bed for a month again in

protest.’

‘Friday the nineteenth?’

Sara grimaces. ‘I know it’s short notice, but press

tickets are always like that. Michele can’t go, she’s working

in Paris that weekend, but she knows how much

I love opera and wondered if I’d like them. I know it

doesn’t float everyone’s boat - Tristan und Isolde can be a

bit heavy—’

‘Good Lord, no, I love Wagner! My favourite composer,

in fact. And I haven’t seen Tristan for years.’

‘Really? How funny, he’s my favourite composer too.’

Christ, she looks amazing in that plum shirt. So

decadent; so bedroom. Tiny beads of sweat glisten in the

shadowy vale between her breasts.

I sigh. ‘It’s just—’

‘I’m sorry, Nick, you’re probably busy. I shouldn’t have

asked.’

‘Any other night and I might have been tempted,’ I say

truthfully. ‘But the nineteenth is out, one of my daughters

has a thing at school, I have to be there—’

She shrugs. ‘Another time. Probably just as well,’ she

adds, her grey gaze direct, ‘since I can’t guarantee you’d

have made the last train home.’

It sounds like a statement.

We both know it’s a question.

Sara

Fuck, I hate opera. I don’t know what possessed me to

suggest this; I must be off my head. And Wagner, for

Christ’s sake. So bloody dark and depressing. I’m not

exactly into the fat-lady oeuvre at the best of times, but at

least a cheery bit of Mozart would have been bearable. Figaro, maybe; I almost like that. Wagner was great mates with Nietzsche, according to my programme blurb; which

explains a good deal about the pair of them. No wonder

poor Nietzsche came all over nihilistic if he had to listen

to this misery all the time.

I pinch a sideways glance. Nick’s tipped forwards in

his plush velvet seat, long fingers steepled, absolutely still

as he gazes up in rapture at the stage. Bless.

I stifle a yawn behind my programme. The things

we do for love. Look at wfcer-citygirl Princess Diana

schlepping off to Balmoral in her green wellies to convince

Prince Charles there was nothing she liked better

than standing around in the pissing rain all day, whilst

men who smelled of horses and women who looked like

them took pot shots at innocent pheasants.

And OK, there’s no denying I have a developed a

certain fondness for Nick. A penchant, as it were. Or I

wouldn’t be here. Mind you, the grief he gave me over

the tickets! Jesus. He had a total shit fit when we were

shown to the best seats in the house, ranting that no

wonder the BBC was in trouble, we all end up paying

for these press junkets, it’s taxpayers’ money after all, do

I have any idea how much front row orchestra seats cost?

Er, yes, actually, Nick. Nearly four hundred quid. I

could have bought that gorgeous russet chiffon corset

from La Petite Salope; they had it in my size.

(Note to self: next time am inventing freebies from

imaginary journo friend to facilitate shameless seduction

of boss - again - make sure they v. cheap freebies.)

I swear I’ve aged ten years by the time the lights come

back up and the audience - average age: ninety-five and

three-quarters - creaks to its bunioned feet to applaud.

The fat woman next to me almost knocks me out as her

pink taffeta arms pump like fleshy pistons. Somebody

shoot me if I ever end up with bingo wings like that.

Another encore and she’ll take off.

Thank God I’m not married to Nick. Imagine having to

sit through this on a regular basis-And then he turns and smiles at me with such boyish

pleasure that my heart flips and trades places with my

stomach.

‘You really enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ Nick says fondly

as we thread our way along the crowded aisle. ‘You

looked as if you were absolutely lost in the music’

I’d sit through anything for you, lover. ‘Mmm.’

‘It’s unusual to find a woman who really appreciates

Wagner. He appeals to a more sophisticated musical

palate. Very much your red Zinfandel, as it were. Mai uh

- many women prefer something a little more frivolous.

Mozart is very popular. That’s if they like opera at

all.’ His hand on the small of my back guides me through

the crowded foyer. ‘Not that one can dismiss Mozart out

of hand, of course, but to my mind one cannot compare The Magic Flute with the solid genius of Der Ring I turn another yawn into a cough. Killing the sex buzz

here, Nick, with all the opera chit-chat: sweet-talk it is not. And don’t think I missed that little Freudian slip, either.

Ouch.

Not that hearing her name makes me feel guilty, or

anything. I mean, what goes on between Nick and his

wife isn’t any of my business. Is it? To be honest, I feel

sorry for both of them. She obviously can’t keep up with

him, poor thing. She must feel totally out of her depth

when she ventures into his world. And how frustrating

for a man as bright and sophisticated as he is to be stuck

with such a dull, suburban sort of woman. I mean, what

do they find to say to each other? Conversation in their

house probably revolves around the children and what

joint to have for Sunday lunch. He must be so bored: in

and out of the bedroom. No wonder he has to look elsewhere.

When

you think about it, I’m probably lightening

the load for her too. Having me to talk to must take the

pressure off, even if she doesn’t realize it. I bet he goes

home in a much better mood when he’s had a chance to

offload some of his stress with a woman who really

understands him. And it’s not like I’m ever going to break

them up, or anything. I’d never do that.

I thank God I boned up on the bloody opera at the

weekend. Got to stay one step ahead if I want to be Ms Simpatico.

‘Of course, you can’t ignore the fact that Tristan und

Isolde changed the course of musical history I offer.

‘Driven by his unconsummated passion for Mathilde, the

wife of one of his patrons, Wagner took the iconographic

adulterers of medieval literature, and underpinned their

tragedy with Schopenhauer’s quasi-oriental philosophy—’

‘—and as the end result rewrote the entire harmonic

rulebook! Absolutely! A woman who’s beautiful and bright. Now, tell me, do you think—’

Shit, don’t ask me any questions, I only memorized the

one paragraph from Opera for Morons.

But beautiful and bright: I like that. And I especially like that he likes it, too.

Why is it savvy women usually want men with smarts,

but most intelligent men are happy with the dumbest of

fuck puppets on their arms? Is our biological imperative

for a protective hunter-gathererpneumatic walking womb

(delete as appropriate) really that strong?

Nick Lyon is a very unusual man. I just hope his dippy

wife appreciates him.

I spin on my four-inch heels - I am so going to pay

for these tomorrow: I have blisters you could trampoline

on - and allow the jostling crowd to crush me right up

against Nick’s chest as we spill into the Covent Garden

piazza. ‘You know, Nick, all that passion has left me beyond starved I say. ‘I know this cool little sushi bar 758

round the corner, Yuzo’s, it’s always open late. Their

sashimi is out of this world, though of course if you don’t

like sushi—’

A pinstriped-wool rod of iron presses against my thigh.

‘Not at all Nick chokes out, turning puce. ‘Perfect choice,

actually: my favourite restaurant, in fact. Extraordinary

coincidence—’

Not that extraordinary, to be honest. Marvellous search

engine, Google. Can find all sorts of useful little nuggets

when you type someone’s name into it. Like interviews

they gave to law magazines a couple of years ago in

which they listed all their favourite things for some boring Desert Island Discs thing. What, you think I plucked the wretched German miseryguts out of thin air?

Sushi was a bit of a surprise, I must admit. I had Nick

down as a steak-and-kidney pie, spotted-dick-and-custard

school dinners kind of man. Still waters do indeed run deep.

My stomach rumbles as if I haven’t eaten for a day

(which I haven’t: it’s the only way to get the zip on this

satin cocktail dress of Amy’s to close) and now it’s my

turn to sizzle with mortification. Well, shit, a vociferous

digestive tract, that’s attractive. Men don’t like women

who actually eat to stay alive. At least raw fish is a

minimalist kind of food (as opposed to Italian, which

should only ever be eaten in front of people you never intend to have sex with). My enthusiasm for opera may be complete bullshit, but fortunately, I do really love sushi.

I’m not sure even Princess Di could’ve choked down raw

eel for love alone. Mind you, I suppose she could have

always thrown it up again.

As we reach the far side of the piazza, the general

vague thrum of background chatter suddenly distils into

the distinct sound of (female, screechy) yelling, and the

next moment I’m nearly knocked off my feet as a skinny

blonde girl in chocolate suede hotpants and bronze kinky

boots barrels out of a nearby shop and straight into me.

Without even bothering to apologize, she ricochets off