Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (29 page)

towards the window, parting the blinds with one finger

and exhaling moodily. ‘I’m fed up with being fitted in

between lunch and conference with Counsel. It’s like you

get here, we have sex, and then you leave. It’s not exactly

romantic, is it?’

‘We have dinner - we went to the opera—’

‘Fucking Wagner!’

‘I thought you liked Wagner. Tristan und Isolde was your

idea—’

She drops her cigarette into a revolting mug half-full

of cold coffee and sits back down on the bed beside me,

her expression instantly contrite. ‘I do, Nick. I’m sorry. I

don’t mean to be a pain in the arse. I just like being with

you, that’s all. I hate that it has to be like this—’

‘How else do you expect it to be, Sara?’

‘I’m not asking for anything she answers quickly.

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I stay here as late as I can I say tiredly. ‘I missed the

last train from Waterloo last week, I had to get a taxi from

London all the way to bloody Wiltshire; do you have any

idea how much that cost? I’m sorry that I can’t stay here

more often, and I’m sorry that I can’t stay all night; but

you knew it was going to be like this.’

She gives a light half-laugh that doesn’t quite come off.

‘You could call me a bit more often at the weekend.’

‘It’s not that easy. I can’t call you from the home phone; it’s too risky. Mai could overhear me, or the children could pick up the extension.’ I throw a pillow behind my

head. ‘And my mobile doesn’t pick up any reception at

home, we’re in a network-dead zone. I have to drive

halfway to Salisbury to use it, and there’s a limited

amount of excuses I can come up with to do that. I’m

sorry.’

‘Nick, I know the score. I’m not asking for any kind of

commitment, you know that.’ She averts her gaze. ‘I’d just

like to wake up with you once in a while, have breakfast,

read the newspapers, that kind of thing.’

No, I want to tell her, those are the kinds of things you do

with your wife, and I already have one of those.

I watch her picking fretfully at a loose thread in the

sheet with a mixture of pity and exasperation. She’s in

too deep. She is starting to have feelings for me, whatever

Hiti’ m.iy HŤiy now; and I am going to end up hurting her.

JJinvr to end it. I have to end it.

Hut f.iri’fully. I can’t risk her running to Mai afterrtiŤIm

IVrh.ips if I take her away, explain it all, let her nwn ciilly.

I uttk,’ I N.iy, ‘Mai mentioned something about a trip to

[niliiiI luiHlor - some sort of sourcing trip for her

liiiiint, I didn’t pay much attention. She’ll be

away for a few days, the girls will be with her mother. I

might be able to arrange something then.’

Her naked left breast is an inviting two inches away

from my shoulder. Jesus. My cock stirs, and I reach for

her; but she pulls away from me, chewing her lip and

looking down at her nails. ‘Nick?’

Christ, what now?

‘Nick, do you and Mai - do you still, you know?’

‘Do we still what?’

‘God, do I have to spell it out?’ She flushes. ‘Do you

still have sex?’

There’s no right way to answer this question. I’m married, I want to tell her, of course I still have sex with my wife; not as often as we did once, our bedroom could not be mistaken for a French brothel, but yes, we have sex,

and yes, it’s very nice, thank you, sometimes quite a bit more than nice. And it’s very different from sex with you, which is to nice what interstellar travel is to a trip to

Bournemouth; but I’m a man, which means that sometimes

I’m in the mood for a trip to Bournemouth, and

sometimes I want to don a spacesuit.

But this isn’t what Sara wants to hear. And I want to

keep Sara happy, for her sake, because I truly like and

respect her, I don’t want to hurt her; and for my own.

‘She’s not really that interested in sex any more,’ I say,

flinching inwardly at this new betrayal. ‘What with the

children and everything, she’s never really in the mood.

And since I met you,’ and this time Sara doesn’t move

away when I roach for her, “I haven’t been in the mood

either.’

She slides astride itu satisfied now. ‘Really?’ she says,

easing me inside her. ‘I can’t say that’s a problem I’ve ever

noticed.’

Three weeks later, I pad barefoot down the narrow stairs

of our rented cottage in Rock and find Mai already busy

in the kitchen. Something rather foul-smelling is cooking

on the stove. I lean over to peer into the frying pan and

do a double-take.

There, being skilfully sauteed to a crisp, is one of my

black wool socks.

‘Mai, what on earth are you doing?’

‘What you asked me to do last night,’ she says, flipping

it expertly with a fish-slice, ‘when you came to bed very

drunk.’

‘I don’t remember asking you to cook my sock.’

She grins wickedly at me, her dark eyes dancing, and

the penny drops. ‘Oh, very funny,’ I say, grabbing my

burnt sock out of the pan and blowing on my fingers.

I low long have you been waiting to set me up with that

willy little play on words?’

‘Since about eight this morning Mai giggles.

Sometimes my wife seems little older than the children.

lt’ťi sit moments like this I realize from whence Evie has

jiilivd her unorthodox sense of humour and attitude to

f I ttrirtnged this long weekend because I’d promised it

UťM p.u Red for it with a heavy heart and deep sense

!iťh 1’our days together at close quarters, without

linn of children and work, lacking even the

[hold chores or television to dilute our

Inllmmy. A delightful scenario for newly

weds; a testing one for even the most devoted longstanding

marriages. How much more so for a husband in

the midst of an adulterous affair?

I expected it to be awkward, difficult, even; with long

silences and stilted conversation. I thought the distance

between us would be painfully obvious to us both.

What I did not expect was to fall back in love with my

wife.

I stayed up into the small hours last night, trying to

make sense of the chaos in my heart and head. Intoxicated

as I am with Sara, I am not such a fool as to mistake

my feelings for love; or anywhere close. The nature of my

betrayal is entirely sexual; there is no question of any emotional involvement. I’m not sure whether that makes it

better or worse.

Sex with Mai is pleasant. Tender, in a way it never is

with Sara. But with Sara, it’s like nothing I’ve ever known.

I can ask for anything, be anyone, I want. There’s no fear

of being judged, of being thought dirty, or perverted, or

selfish. She won’t look at me as I slice the tops off the

girls’ boiled eggs at breakfast and remember what I did to

her the night before. To have to turn my back on that

sexual freedom forever, to give her up; it’d be like waking

up blind and knowing you’ll never see a sunrise again.

When Mai goes away, I remind myself. I have to tell Sara it’s over then. If I don’t, sooner or later, Mai is going to find out, and I will lose her. And I love Mai: more than I

crave Sara. It should be easy.

It won’t be, of course.

I wrap my arms around my wife and kiss the top of

her hiMil. ‘Mm culpn. I guess I got through rather more

of thi1 mall than I realized after you went to bed—’

‘My own fault for not staying awake and supervising

you. But it’s not like the ending to Casablanca is ever going

to change, and I was so tired after yesterday—’

She blushes, and I can’t help but smile. My wife of ten

years, the mother of my three children, reduced to flushing

like a teenager when she’s reminded of our agreeable

afternoon in bed. ‘I meant the climb down to the cove,

Nicholas.’

‘Ah. Fancy doing it all again today?’

‘We don’t want to keep going down the same old

paths, do we, Nicholas, that would get rather dull,

wouldn’t it?’

‘Would it?’

‘It would.’ She pulls a freshly baked pie out of the oven

- even on holiday, my wife the cook - and bats my hand

away. ‘Wait. A little anticipation will do you the world of

good. This is for lunch. I thought an alfresco picnic would

be fun, and the weather is supposed to be rather nice,

later, for March; we can wrap up warm and sit on the

beach.’

‘Alfresco works for me.’

She giggles again. ‘Nicholas—’

My mobile telephone shrills. It’s on the windowsill

beside Mai; she reaches for it, but in a moment that lasts

a lifetime I just manage to get there first. ‘It might be a

client,’ I say quickly. ‘I had to give Mrs Wasserstein my

number; it was the only way to get Friday and Monday

off.’

Mai looks surprised. ‘Don’t do that too often or you’ll

never get a break.’ She covers the pie with a linen tealowel.

‘I need to get my tennis shoes out of the car boot if

wc’iv Koing to go for a walk - have you seen the keys?’

‘In my jacket pocket, on the banister.’

I take the phone out into the back garden, shivering in

my dressing-gown and bare feet. ‘Sara, what the hell are

you doing calling me at home?’

She sounds stricken. ‘Oh, God, Nick, I’m so sorry. I

didn’t mean to call you; I must’ve hit redial by mistake.

Jesus, I hope I didn’t cause a problem - I’m really sorry.’

I sigh. ‘Never mind, I’ve done that enough times

myself.’ The incriminating potential of my mobile terrifies

me: the text messages, the call records. I’ve started charging

it at the office, just in case Mai should see something

on it she shouldn’t. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘I suppose. I’m at my parents. Dullsville, you have no

idea. They want me to come down on Easter Sunday for

some village egg race or something; as if. How’s it going

in Wiltshire?’

‘What? Oh, yes, Wiltshire. Fine, fine. Look, I’ve got to

go. I’ll see you on Tuesday—’

‘Can you come round after work?’

‘Maybe.’ I glance up as Mai appears in the back doorway.

‘Look, I have to go.’

I click the phone shut. I always knew having an affair

involved deception; that I would end up lying to not just

one woman, but two, I had no idea.

Mai waits until I reach her, and then holds out her

hand palm upwards, her eyes never leaving my face.

‘Nicholas,’ she says evenly, ‘whose lipstick is this?’

Sara

‘Oh, Nick. You fucking bastard I breathe.

I tap my finger on the urgent DHL package Emma

has left out on her desk for the courier to take to Nick for

signature. He’s not at home in Wiltshire with his ditzy

wife and cute photogenic children. The lying shit is in

bloody Cornwall getting his - forgive the pun - rocks off.

Well, aren’t you a quick learner, Nick Lyon. Amazing

just how fast you’ve got the hang of this lying-through

your-teeth shit. You’re right up there with the pros.

I do what I always do when the Big Bad World gets

too much for me: I decamp to my parents’ for the weekend.

There’s

something deeply reassuring about sleeping

in my tiny single bed with its Barbie-printed sheets. My

old, cuddly teddy bear (from Harrods, natch) is waiting

for me on top of my pillow, still wearing the holey jumper

I knitted for him the Christmas I turned ten on my new

.iiitomatic knitting machine (Nagged for: 364 days. Used:

forty-seven minutes). I wouldn’t mind growing up if it

was all late nights watching cartoons and chocolate icecream

for dinner, like you think it’s going to be when

you’re seven. I just don’t want to end up like my mother,

stuck with a ton of carrots to peel and an ironing basket

the size of Everest. Where’s the fun in that?

By the time I show my face downstairs on Saturday,

it’s gone eleven. My mother is at Sainsbury’s. (Planning

Your Meals: another very good reason not to grow up. I

prefer to hit the local 7-11 approximately fifteen minutes

prior to dinner. Nick practically had a coronary when he

opened my fridge to make a post-shag sandwich and

beheld the sum total of my larder: two out-of-date plain

live yoghurts left over from my last failed diet, three cans

of Red Bull and, in the freezer section, a half-empty bottle

of vodka.) My mother actually aspires to be a Waitrose

shopper, but she can’t bear to pay their prices when

Sainsbury’s does the same things so much cheaper. She

consoles herself with the fact that at least she hasn’t sunk

as low as Asda.

Dad, however, is very much in evidence: propped up

at the breakfast bar with bloody Libby Newcombe.

Then give love to get sex,’ Dad opines as I walk in.

‘Women give sex to get love. There’s your battle of the

sexes in a nutshell.’

‘But Vinny, he said I was The One!’ Libby wails.

“They all say that Before. Hello, love,’ Dad says to me

as I slouch towards the kettle. ‘Libby and young Martin

have just split up, I’m afraid. Made off with the fancy