Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (21 page)

my admittedly pneumatic chest and springs towards the (very cute) guy who’s followed her out, a tiny cell phone still clamped to his ear.

‘You fucking bastardV the girl yells at the cute guy.

‘You’re talking to her now, aren’t you? Nobody dumps me, you shit!’

I wince as she slaps his face with a crack that echoes

around Covent Garden.

‘You’re bloody welcome to each other! She’ll never

leave her husband, you know that, don’t you? I hope she

makes you fucking miserable!’

It’s mesmerizing street theatre. A crowd gathers

instantly; one or two actually throw coins, clearly under

the impression that this is staged entertainment. For some

reason, he looks strangely familiar, though I can’t begin

to place him. God, she has a tiny arse. You wonder how

girls like that sit down without perforating their buttocks.

She storms off, the crowd parting swiftly on either side

of her. He shrugs ruefully, and disappears back into the

cheese shop behind him.

As people start to drift away, I wander over to the

shop window. That bloomy-rind cheese in the front looks

killer. I press my nose to the glass to read the tiny flag

next to it. Brie de Meaux; God, I love that. And some

Brillat-Savarin, and another delicious-looking Fourme

d’Ambert. I’d know fuck all about cheese normally, but

they had pictures of these in that book I got at New Year’s

and what with that and Mum’s bloody cheese lessons-‘Shit, that was Trace Pitt!’ I exclaim. ‘I knew I’d seen his

face before!’

‘Hmm?’

“The guy who got slapped. Come on, you must have

recognized him—’

‘I wasn’t really paying attention Nick says vaguely,

peering over my shoulder at the cheeses. ‘Actually, my

wife used to be engaged to him. If it’s the same man.

Years ago. Can’t quite remember who broke it off—’

That ditzy woman used to be engaged to the hottest

man on the planet? ‘You’re kidding!’

He shrugs. ‘It was a long time ago.’

God. For a moment, I wonder if there’s more to Mrs

Lyon than meets the eye.

Nick smiles at me and squeezes my shoulders. I risk

slipping my hand casually through the crook of his arm

as we stroll towards Yuzo’s; to my delight, he doesn’t

flinch from my touch despite the fact that we’re out in

public and People Might See Us. Then again, maybe he’s

too busy thinking about what we’ll be doing once we’re

in private to really notice.

Sex with Nick was iiber-hot. I had this hunch it was

going to be seriously down-and-dirty with him, he’s just

got this sexy subliminal thing going on; but even I was taken unawares (oh, be still my beating knickers!) when he threw me down on the scuzzy communal stair carpet for our inaugural shag. Mercy, Mr Lyon, you’re so strong!

What’s a poor helpless girl to do but surmuier?

Four times in one night. (iotta say, that’s good for any

man, never mind one his age. And he was positively

bursting with pride; though he’d have cut his own throat

rather than say so.

I was shit-scared when the bomb went off. I know

Nick thought I was being all calm and cool, but that’s

just how I get when I’m terrified out of my skull. It’s like

my brain goes offline until the crisis is over. The shock

hits me later: three days after the bombings, I got the

shakes bad enough to turn my morning cafe latte into

yoghurt.

The thing is, the trouble is, when Nick threw me into

that shop doorway and protected me from the blast with

his own body, something unexpected clicked inside me.

He did it instinctively, without even thinking about it.

Much as I’d like to believe it was about me, I think he’d

have done it for Osama bin Laden if he’d been strolling

by, it’s just the kind of man he is. Which makes it even

more heroic. He probably has ‘Superman’ stencilled discreetly

on his Fruit of the Loom boxers.

And now I’m in a bit of a fix. Feelings-for-Nick-wise.

Such a pity the role of Lois Lane is already taken. I

can’t help it, I really like him now. And it’s not just the

smoking sex or the thrill of the chase. (Though I have to

admit to being meanly thrilled when he suddenly ducked

out of his daughter’s school thing to come to the opera

with me, even though it meant the only tickets available

at the last minute required my entire life savings and a

promissory note for my firstborn child. But I’m sure his

daughter didn’t even notice he wasn’t there, anyway.

Kids don’t, do they?)

He reaches past me to hold open the restaurant door,

sweet old-fashioned boy that he is. As I pass, him, he

drops the lightest, sweetest of Sunday morning kisses on

the shingled nape of my neck, and my knees practically

buckle with lust and longing.

He has no idea how hard it was to play it cool after

that first night together, to act like I wasn’t interested in

anything other than a one-night stand. But it was the only

way to keep him hooked. I had to Dear John him before

he got the chance to do it to me. He’d have run for the

hills otherwise.

I know Nick isn’t mine. I know I’m just borrowing

him; and I shouldn’t even be doing that. I am a very,

very bad girl and I will die a lonely spinster’s death with

my fourteen cats and go to hell.

But knowing it’s not allowed under any circumstances

somehow just makes it all the more sexy. And OK, call

me pathetic, but the fact that he’d risk so much to be with me makes me feel like a million dollars. He could lose a wife he presumably cares about, in his own way, and end

up stuck in some cruddy bedsit without his kids, whom

he clearly adores; all our lives could so easily become a

massive screw-up. And yet here he is. With me.

But I’m still going to give him back. I swear.

Nick starts to help me out of my coat; then suddenly

petrifies, his hands frozen on my shoulders. I glance back

at him. His face is grey, and for a horrified moment I

think he’s having a heart attack.

Then I follow his appalled gaze. A fat, middle-aged

woman in a totally minging flowered smock is steaming

towards us, trailed by a man in tweeds and - you have got to be kidding mo - a spotted red cravat. From the

appalled I Ve-just-dropped-my-newborn-on-its-head terror

in Nick’s eyes, I take it she knows him. Either that, or he

feels the same way as me about the cravat.

His hands fall from my shoulders as if scorched.

‘Nicholas! What a lovely surprise! Giles, look who it is!

We didn’t expect to see you here!’

No shit. And there was me thinking Nick had arranged

this little rendezvous between his wife’s friends and his

mistress on purpose.

‘Business meeting Nick manages. ‘Clients. Ran on a

bit.’

‘You poor thing!’ she sympathizes. ‘And isn’t it Evie’s

Open House tonight? Chloe’s year had theirs last week such

a shame, little Evie must be so disappointed you

couldn’t go—’

Shit, now I do feel guilty.

‘These things can’t be helped, Liz,’ Giles chides gently.

‘At least you had some company she adds guilelessly.

‘Makes all the difference, doesn’t it?’

She smiles at me, clearly waiting for an introduction.

Nick appears terminally fascinated with his briefcase handle,

so, feeling just a tad sleazy at dragging these people

into our mess, I stick out my hand and pray she’s as

clueless as she appears. ‘Sara Kaplan. I’m Nick’s junior

partner. One of those tedious cases that drag on, you

know how it is.’

‘Oh, yes! Well, no, obviously - you glam career girls,

I don’t know how you do it. Having it all. I’m just a

housewife. I’m sure that seems jolly dull to you.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Oh, Nicholas - sorry, Sara - but look at the time!

You’ll miss the last train if you’re not careful! Well,

don’t panic, no need to rush, we don’t mind waiting till

you’ve had a bite and giving you a lift back, do we, Giles?

As luck would have it, Giles brought the Range Rover up

today. We had to pick up his great-aunt’s whatnot, Sotheby’s

simply couldn’t shift it—’

‘No call for these things nowadays Giles says sadly.

‘We’d never have managed it on the train. Bit of a

squeeze in the car, to be honest, but there’s still a bit of

room in the back, so that’s all right,’ Liz smiles. ‘As long

as you don’t mind sharing with Chloe’s tack. Isn’t it

lucky we ran into you?’

‘Isn’t it?’ Nick echoes.

‘Can we give you a lift anywhere, dear?’ she asks me.

‘No, I’ll be fine. Couple of hops on the tube and I’ll be

home.’

‘At this time of night? Are you sure that’s safe?

Shouldn’t you get a cab?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, suddenly desperate to escape. She

seems such a decent woman. ‘Do it all the time. Not that

hungry anyway, actually. Better go. It was lovely to meet

you both. I’ll see you on Monday, Nick.’

I skitter down the tube steps in my hussy heels like the

hounds of hell are after me. Jesus Christ, that was close.

Thank heavens, if we had to run into anyone, it was

Pollyanna and Farmer Giles. Fuck, what are the odds? A

city of ten million people and of all the sushi bars in all

the world, they have to walk into ours-Nick’s never going to come within a ten-mile radius

of me after this. And frankly, I’m not sure I blame him.

This is suddenly all getting rather too complicated for my

liking. I’m beginning to feel a bit crappy, to be honest.

Less like the siren temptress I thought I was, and more

like a cheap little tart.

Shit shit shit.

‘La Perla?’ Amy whispers reverently.

‘La Perla I say, trying not to sound smug.

‘Terry’s never even got me M & S,’ she says wistfully,

fingering the exquisite wisp of coffee silk and lace poking

out of my gym bag. ‘How come he’s buying you La Perla

already? You’ve only done it once.’

‘It’s when you’ve only done it once that they buy you

La Perla,’ I observe.

‘So why on earth do you want to end it?’

‘What can I tell you?’ I sigh, shoving the silk teddy back

in my holdall. ‘Some of us are born with consciences, some

achieve consciences; and some have consciences thrust

upon them. Mine was very much of the thrust variety,

trust me. You have no idea what I’m turning down.’

‘You’re mad. It’ll be something from Tiffany next, I bet

you. See if you can hint about something from their 1837

collection—’

‘Good idea, Amy. He could give them, oh, I don’t

know - his wedding ring in part exchange.’

‘No need to get all narky. I’m only saying,’ Amy sniffs.

‘I just don’t know why you’re being such a martyr,

that’s all. It’s nothing to do with you if he’s unfaithful

to someone else. Sometimes a marriage just comes to a

natural end, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

Look at me and Terry—’

This is really not a comparison I’m happy with.

The truth is: I’m not sure why I’m being such a martyr,

either. Maybe it’s less my guilty conscience than a growing

fear that I’m in over my head. I need to get out now,

while I still can.

‘You two at the back a voice snaps. ‘Were you planning

to join us, or are they selling tickets to watch today?’

We jump guiltily. Roj, our sadistic Pilates instructor, is

balanced on his big rubber ball like a performing seal. The

rest of the class glare at us reprovingly. Teacher’s pets.

Heads down, we scurry to our allotted places: right up

at the front, where you can’t skive off and keep your arse

- sorry, sits bones - on the floor when he’s not looking.

We all adopt the Half-Dead Cockroach Pose: flat on

our backs, feet on the balls, hips raised twenty centimetres

above the mat. It’s a position I can hold for approximately

ten seconds, and only then when a man is making

it worth my while somewhere in the vicinity of my

(overdue) bikini wax.

I slouch. Roj pounces. ‘Ow!’ I yelp.

‘Hips up! It’s for your own good! Two minutes to go,

everyone.’

‘He hit me!’ I hiss to Amy. ‘With his pointy stick thing!’

‘He does that now she whispers back. ‘He’s allowed,

I checked. It’s in that thing we signed when we joined his

class

Oh, good God. What am I doing here? It’s not like

I’m going to need taut thighs and toned buttocks any

time soon. With Nick out of the picture, no doubt I will

soon be once more enjoying the Great Sex Drought that

preceded him. And finding a frog worth kissing will be

doubly hard now that I know what I’m missing. Call me

spoilt, but X-Mcti: The Director’s Cut and a quick bite at

Pizza Express no longer has quite the same allure as

dinner for two at Yuzo’s and a night at the opera.

OK. Bad example. But you get the point.

After Friday’s sushi bar fiasco, I spent the entire weekend

closeted in my apartment, guzzling Ben & Jerry’s and

watching the complete fifth season of 24 - I have a bit of

a thing about Kiefer Sutherland, what can I say? - on