Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (22 page)

DVD in one sitting. I don’t know if it was the chronic

sleep deprivation or if I’ve got a fraction more emotionally

involved with Nick than I thought I had: but when I

found his red braces under my bed I couldn’t help thinking

about the last use we put them to; which made me

remember the easy way our hips slotted together when he

pulled me towards him, and how he smiled in his sleep

when the sunlight slid through the blinds and striped his

face, and before I knew it I was howling for two hours

straight.

I lower my bottom back onto the mat. How can I miss

him this much when the two of us barely even got off the

ground? It’s not like I was falling in love with him or

anything. I mean, it was just a fling, after all. Just sex. And I was going to give him back.

Just not quite yet.

A pair of ridiculously tiny feet stop ominously beside

my left ear. (Christ, does he bind them or something?)

‘Miss Kaplan. If you can’t be bothered to squeeze your

tush, how can you expect anyone else to want to?’

Oh, please. Give me a break and go back to California.

‘Up. Up! Better. Everybody, dynamic squeezing. And hold.’

I was so convinced Nick was henceforth going to treat

I

bme like I’d got an advanced case of bird flu, I’d (almost)

resigned myself to that night together having been a great

one-off.

A really great one-off. But a onetime-offer, no-repeat

special all the same.

So the flowers on Monday threw me a bit. It was a

very lovely thing of Nick to do - if a little cliched - but

since he didn’t include a note, I had no idea what they

bloody meant. Kiss-and-make-up or kiss-off?

The boxed set of Wagner on Tuesday was a very

romantic thought (and, fortunately, easily exchanged for

the Arctic Monkeys). By Wednesday - a book of First

World War poetry: how sweetly resourceful, he must’ve

checked out my book shelves to see what I like - I was

getting the picture; and then the La Perla yesterday dotted

the i’s for me. I’m absolutely not going to get drawn back

in by his unexpected and rather touching twelve-days-of

Christmas routine, I’ve made up my mind: it’s over, it’s

too complicated and dangerous and messy, and more

importantly my mother would kill me if she ever found

out; but all the same, I can’t help it, I’m curious as all get

out to know what he’s got planned for today-‘It’s not how many you do, it’s the quality Roj scolds

as I fake quick little crunches.

I hiss at Amy, ‘Are we talking men or muscles here?’

Nick slipped a Claridge’s keycard in with the silk

knickers; very sexy, very discreet, very not allowed. I’ve

never stayed at Claridge’s. I’d love to try their health

and fitness spa: it’s supposed to be fabulous. Not that I’m

going to change my mind, obviously.

I can’t believe this is the same man who practically

hid in the document vault every time I walked into the

room just a few weeks ago. Now it’s like he’s one part

Mr Chips to two parts Casanova. It’s a bit disconcerting,

to be honest. There’s hidden depths; and then there’s

schizophrenic.

Or maybe - and this thought gives me the kind of rosy

glow Pilates has never achieved - maybe I just bring out

the crazy wild romantic in him.

Amy is exactly the kind of friend a girl needs when she’s

having an inconvenient attack of conscience.

‘Passion isn’t something you can help she says for

the ninth time. ‘It’s not like you wanted any of this to

happen.’

Not entirely true, as I recall, bringing to mind the lethal

little Donna Karan dress I wore in Manchester. But let’s

not split hairs.

There’s a ping from my computer, and I switch the

phone to my left ear so that I can access my emails while

I talk. ‘He’s sent me another one. I can’t believe he’s doing

this at work. Supposing someone else saw them?’

‘What’s it say?’

‘Hang on, let me open it - God, something in Latin,

he’s always doing that. It’s weird, but kind of cute, really. Amans, sicutfax, agitando ardescit magis. Whatever the fuck that means.’

‘Say again?’

‘Amans, sicutfax, agitando—’

‘“A lover, like a torch, burns brighter when shaken.”

Oh, that’s clever. After the shock of what happened on

Friday at the sushi bar, he—’

‘Yes, yes, I get it. How’d you know what it means?’

‘Classical education says Amy. ‘I blame my parents.’

‘You’re the one who should be having the affair with

him I grumble. ‘You’ve got the temperament, not to

mention the languages, for it.’

‘But it’s you he’s buying Tiffany bracelets for Amy

points out crossly.

When I got back from the gym earlier, Friday’s present

was waiting on my mouse mat in its trademark yummy

blue box and white satin ribbon. I wiggle my left wrist

back and forth delightedly. I have wanted this silver

bangle - from the 1837 collection, natch - for about half

my life. It’s the one thing my mother’s always been

annoyingly firm about: no matter how much I pleaded,

she insisted a woman should only ever be bought jewellery

by a lover. Not that a bangle is going to change my

mind about ending it with Nick, clearly.

Amy showed commendable told-you-so restraint when

I informed her of my latest love token; though she

couldn’t resist emailing me the link to Tiffany solitaires.

‘But he’s married I tell her again, without much conviction.

‘And

you said you’re happy for him to stay that way.’

‘Ye-e-e-ss1 say.

‘So what harm can seeing him do? Let’s face it, if they

break up over you, it can’t have been much of a marriage,

can it? It’s not like you’re dragging him into bed. He’s a

grown up, he’s made his own decision. And if it isn’t you,

it’ll be someone else she adds cynically. ‘Once they start

screwing around, they don’t just stop.’

I gel Ih’ living Amy i? enjoying my comeuppance

,i lilllc loo iiiik’Ii-I r.uikly, I .ml Miime her; my hubris

regarding affairs with married men has certainly invited

it. But it doesn’t mean I have to like eating humble pie.

And I’m not going to change my mind.

‘You think I should see him again, then?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake she snaps, sounding uncannily

like me in a previous life. ‘You’re going to do it anyway,

and you know it. End it, my arse. What are you waiting

for, me to talk you into it so you don’t feel bad later?’

Yes, actually.

‘Fine. I’ll write you a note. Look-‘ she sighs- ‘if you

really like him and you want this to work, take some

advice from someone who’s been there, bought the T-shirt

and knitted a matching sarong—’

‘What? What? Don’t mention his wife? Never ask him

to stay the night?’

‘Don’t ever forget to wax.’

Amy is a professional mistress (I don’t mean she’s got an

S & M dungeon in her basement or anything; just that

she’s been doing this for four years now, so she presumably

knows what she’s talking about) and I therefore take

her at her word. If she says wax, I’m saying how high.

I glance up at the clock. I’m supposed to be meeting

Nick at Claridge’s in an hour. Buggery buggery fuck. A

little notice for our much-postponed hot second date

would’ve been nice. But I suppose he wasn’t to know that

his new client would suddenly cancel and create a nice

hotel-bedroom-shaped hole in his schedule. The kind a

wife doesn’t notice.

I open my bathroom cabinet and dig around until I

locate the cold wax kit Amy gave me two Christmases

ago. (Now I think about it: an odd choice for a present.)

No way am I putting hot wax on my bikini line, thank

you very much. With this you just rub the strips together

in your hand until they’re warm, peel them apart and

press them to your inner thigh (or wherever). No muss,

no fuss. I’ve never done this myself before, I usually go to

the salon, but how hard can it be?

I nip back into my bedroom and use the hairdryer

instead of rubbing the strips together to save time. Would

my new fuchsia silk dress be too much? It’s a bit tight,

but it makes my cleavage look sensational. And I could

always tone it down with a pair of kitten heels instead of

my usual skyscrapers.

Back in the bathroom, I put my hair straighteners on to

heat, get naked and prop one foot on the toilet. I scan the

instructions again, then apply the warmed wax strip to

the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of

my girly bits down to my thigh. I brace myself for the

pain. God, these strips are long-Jesus H fucking Christ! I’m blind! Blinded by pain!

Slowly the world stops spinning and my vision returns.

I glance down, and realize I’ve only managed to pull half

the strip off. Another deep breath, and the bathroom disappears into a renewed swirl of lights and stars.

When consciousness returns, I peer at the wax strip for

evidence of my endurance. It’s as blank as a newborn’s

diary.

I look down. The hair - and the wax - is still there. On

me. The most sensitive part of my body is now covered

with congealing wax and matted hair. Oh, for God’s sake.

I’m just going to use my razor and have done with it.

With any luck, my shaver’s rash will blur with stubble

rash if I play my cards right tonight.

I take my foot off the toilet, put it down, and instantly

realize my mistake.

I am now - not to put too fine a point on it - sealed shut.

I penguin-walk around the bathroom trying to figure

out what to do. Six-twenty-five. Oh shit, oh fuck. Water!

Hot water, melt the wax. Then shave, dress, run. I’ll get

into the hottest water I can stand, the wax will melt, and

I’ll just wipe it off with a sponge. Simple.

I run a bath hot enough to sterilize needles, and step

into it. Not the fuchsia dress, I decide, as I start to steam.

Nick won’t be able to see where it leaves off and I begin.

It’s at this point I discover there’s one thing worse

than having your nether regions glued shut with wax:

and that’s having your nether regions glued shut and then

sealed to the bottom of a cast-iron bath of scalding water

- which, by the way, may sear human flesh but does not melt cold wax. So I am now stuck to the bottom of the fucking bath. Ťť

When I call Amy for help on my mobile - thank God

I brought it in here with me in case Nick called - it takes

her a full two minutes to stop laughing long enough to

take a breath. ‘Have you tried calling the customer help

number on the side of the box?’ she suggests eventually.

‘Great idea, Amy,’ I say, leaning over the side of the

bath and trying not to pass out from the heat. Steam billows

around my shoulders and I nearly drop my phone into the

water. ‘I could be the joke of someone else’s night.’

‘What about emptying the bathtub and just yanking

yourself free?’

Five minutes later, I am still glued to the bottom of an

empty and rapidly cooling bath. I start to shiver. This

could only happen to me. It makes forgetting to change

out of your bedroom slippers look positively chic. ‘OK.

Next bright idea?’

‘Is there a lotion in the box?’ Amy queries. ‘They

usually give you one to get rid of excess wax. You could

try rubbing that on—’

It takes a complicated bit of maneuvering with a

loofah, but eventually I knock the bottle of lotion near

enough for me to reach it from the bath. I take a sniff as

I open the lid: it smells foul. I rub it on my bits doubtfully, hoping I haven’t just ruined my chances of multiple orgasms forever.

‘It works! It works! Oh, thank God, thank God. Amy,

you are a star. And if you ever, ever tell anyone about

this, I will strangle you with your own intestines.’

‘How very interesting,’ Nick says, raising his head from

between my thighs an hour later. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever isn’t there a name you girls have for this?’

7 believe the technical term is Monumental Fuck-up. ‘It’s called a Brazilian wax.’

‘Ah. After the girl from Ipanema and her thong, presumably.

Doesn’t it hurt?’

‘Less than being superglued to an cast-iron bathtub I

sigh. ‘Never mind. It’s a long story.’

Nick grins, and dips his ht’iid again. ‘Well, it looks very

tender to me. Very much in need of some careful attention.

Here. And perhaps here—’

‘I think you missed a bit I say, arching my back

against the pillows.

‘You can always stay here, if you want Nick offers; as

he has done on each of our five previous visits to the

hotel. He towels his hair dry, then drops it carelessly on

the bathroom floor. ‘You don’t have to leave with me. I’ve

paid for the night, you might as well enjoy it.’

‘I’ve told you, we could just go to my place, this must

be costing you a fortune.’

‘Not your problem.’ Naked, he sits on the side of the

bed and picks up my hand, tracing patterns on my palm