Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (40 page)

-she’d get on with mine like a house on fire, I think sourly

-so otherwise I’d never see Nick at weekends at all.

I watch his wife lift the baby out of her car-seat and

start to unload bags from the boot. I couldn’t believe it

the first time I saw all the baby shit heaped around my

tiny flat. All that paraphernalia for one small child. You

can hardly move for tripping over plastic sacks of nappies

and bottle warmers and buggy wheels. Not to mention

the moth-eaten old toy lamb that invariably gets lost five

minutes before bedtime and requires a two-hour search

before it’s finally located somewhere obvious like the fucking microwave oven.

‘Look, Kit-Kat I say, picking her up, ‘the iiber-hot sex

god is here again, too.’

I press my nose to the window as he takes the bags

from Nick’s wife, laughing at something she says and

throwing an arm casually around her shoulder. Jesus,

look at his cute butt in those low-slung jeans. I certainly

wouldn’t kick him out of bed. How the fuck does she

manage it? She’s only been single for a minute and she’s

got this shaggable babe warming her sheets. No wonder

Nick has steam coming out of his ears.

Happy for her, my arse. He’s so jealous, he wants to

eat his own elbow. Not that I’m in the least worried: it’s

just a macho guy thing. Territorial. Nothing to do with

how he feels about her. And it certainly makes things a bit

easier for me; a bit more secure. Even if he wanted to go

back to her, which he doesn’t, the fact that she’s playing

hide-the-sausage with a hottie like that pretty much closes

the door on the whole kiss-and-make-up routine. How

very Hollywood of us: a perfect happy ending.

Well; almost.

Sophie looks up from the street and makes a fingersdown-the-throat gesture in my direction that neither of

her parents sees. She’s a real piece of work, that one. I

scowl, resisting the temptation to stick out my tongue at

her. Maybe Nick’s wife isn’t being so altruistic letting

them stay here after all.

The baby’s OK - well, all she does is shit and cry, but

she’s quite sweet when she’s asleep. Which is fortunately

fairly often. And Evie’s not too bad either; we got quite a

thing going over The X Factor, she’s as much of an addict

as I am. But then Sophie put the frighteners on her I

heard the little witch telling her Daddy would come

back home and ‘love Mummy again’ if they could just

make me go away. I’m feeling less guilty about her by the

minute.

Last weekend, I caught her scrubbing out the loo with

my toothbrush. That was after finding glue all over the

keys of my very expensive new laptop (Pritt Stick, thank

God, not superglue, though it still took hours to get it off);

and then there was the full bottle of Chanel’s Rouge Noir

nail varnish that mysteriously spilt all over my new pale

pink L. K. Bennetts.

I could tell Nick, of course, but that’s exactly what

Sophie wants me to do. I run to Daddy, he bollocks them,

and we all sit and glower at each other over Pizza Hut’s

finest. Eventually Daddy gets tired of all the aggro and

decides it’d be better for the children if he saw them when

I wasn’t around. Before you know it, hey presto, he’s

going back home to her.

The very thought of it makes me feel ill. I shoot into

the bathroom and dry heave over the toilet bowl. Ten

days is nothing. Just an iffy chicken sandwich, that’s all.

Nick told me not to eat it, said it was a week past its

sell-by date. Next time I’ll listen.

Nick and the children tumble through the front door

as I wipe my mouth and go back into the sitting room.

The baby’s sweet face lights up with recognition. Nick

puts her down; holding out her chubby little arms for

balance, she toddles towards me, gabbling something

I hiit might, or might not, be my name. Despite myself,

my heart melts as I scoop her up. Precious. She smells so

sweet: for a change.

She snuggles into my neck, and I feel a bit of a lump

rise. I catch Nick’s eye over the top of her golden head,

and he smiles: the first honest, warm smile I’ve had from

him in days. The girls must be finding this whole thing

really hard. It’s no wonder they’re playing up a bit. Their

world’s been completely turned upside down; it’s bound

to take a bit of getting used to-‘Ooops,’ Sophie says, not troubling to hide her smirk

as a big orange felt-tip pen stain spreads outwards next to

where she’s sitting on my poor beleaguered sofa. ‘Sorry,

Sara.’

Enough is enough. My sofa is trashed, half my mugs are

broken, there’s crayon scribble all over my walls, a dozen

earrings - one from each pair - have gone missing, the

last ten pages of my new Grisham thriller have been

ripped out before I’ve had a chance to read them, an

entire pot of my Ł100-a-throw La Prairie face cream has

been wasted on nappy rash because somebody lost the

Sudocrem, my suede Joseph jacket is fit only for lining

the cat’s litter tray, there are sleeping bags and pillows

and inside-out pyjama bottoms all over the floor, dirty

nappies are stinking out the bathroom, and I haven’t had

a decent lie-in for weeks; never mind a fucking orgasm.

I defy any girl to come when three small children with a

propensity to barge in without knocking are supposedly

asleep on sofa cushions next door.

I tell Nick in no uncertain terms that I need a weekend

off. A barrister friend of Amy’s is having a party over in

Swiss Cottage and, for once, I want to forget about children

and responsibility and just go. I’m so tired of the

chaos and bullshit from the damn kids. We sound like an

old married couple arguing over the children. We need a

break; to have some fun.

To my surprise, Nick agrees. Maybe he’d like to get

hot and heavy again between the sheets, too. A good shag

is probably what we both need. Get things back on track

again.

I blow a fortnight’s salary on an amazing Matthew

Williamson dress, and borrow Amy’s GHD straighteners

to get my hair (finally out of its Pantomime Boyscary

dyke phase, thank God) to behave. Actually, the crop’s

done it some good, I’ve got all these cute little strawberry

gold kiss curls tumbling sexily onto my bare shoulders,

and my hair seems much thicker than usual. I blow myself

a kiss as I finish my make-up in the bathroom. Not even

the usual pre-party break-out of zits to ruin my day. I

look pretty damn good, if I say so myself.

Nick doesn’t even notice.

He’s unusually quiet (even for him) in the cab on the

way to the party. I begin to wonder if this was a good

idea after all. He hasn’t even changed out of his bloody

suit, for God’s sake. He looks like my father.

But we’ve been living together for nearly two months

now. Sooner or later, he has to meet my friends, mix in

my world; particularly as nearly everyone in his world

isn’t talking to him any more. Even Giles blew him off

when he called. No doubt Liz has threatened to withdraw

bedroom privileges if Giles dares to socialize with The

Shipper (i.e. yours truly); but Nick still took it hard.

Apart from one or two rather unsuccessful trips to the

movies (he loathed the Matthew McConaughey rom-com

I picked, and I fell asleep during his choice, some subtitled

Vietnamese crap) we haven’t been out at all since his

father died. Our social life isn’t helped by the fact that

Nick’s giving most of his salary to his wife out of guilt.

Which means I’m the one keeping us both. Much more of

this and I’ll be pawning the Tiffany bracelet to pay the

phone bill. So much for dirty weekends away at Michelin

starred country houses. Romantic it’s not.

The moment we arrive at the party, Amy drags me

away to meet this new guy who’s started working at her

office. Since it’s been five years since she dragged me

away to meet anyone other than Terry the Lying Slime

ball, I’m duty-bound to fan the flames of romance, however

feebly. Nick’s old enough (hah!) and ugly enough to

look after himself for five minutes. There are plenty of

lawyers around for him to talk to if he gets desperate.

But then I run into this girl from law school I haven’t

seen in years, it turns out she’s now engaged to a man

I used to date, how weird is that? And then on my way

back from the loo I get chatting to my opposite number

on a new case I’ve just picked up, and we get stuck into

one of those long, involved conversations on the stairs,

ducking and diving around people as they push between

us every two minutes. Then I need to top up my drink

again, and I’m laughing with my friends, with my young,

irresponsible, child-free friends, and I can’t help it, right

now I just don’t want to go back to Nick and his here-on

sufferance, well-if-it-makes-you-happy, miserable bloody

attitude. No doubt he hates the music, and the cheap

plonk, and the plastic cups, and the couples snogging all

over the room. Heaven help us if he finds out the bodies

writhing on the crappy velour sofa are both men.

Someone offers me a line of coke, throwing Nick a

wary look. Even though I decline, because I’ve never done

hard drugs, something about the awkward, pompous way

Nick is standing on his own, aloof from the rest of the

party, annoys the fuck out of me.

A small worm squirms somewhere deep inside my brain: this isn’t working.

I shock myself. After all the pain and misery we’ve

caused, after everything we’ve risked to be together, of

course it’s going to work. I’m getting all het up over nothing. It’s just one stupid party! This just isn’t Nick’s scene, that’s all. Let’s face it, this is barely one step up

from a student bash, and with the best will in the world,

it’s a long time since Nick was a student.

It’s nothing to do with us. We love each other. We’re

going to be fine. Absolutely fine.

I shake my head as someone else offers me a reefer

and thread my way through the crowd towards Nick.

‘Nick? Are you OK?’

He jumps, spilling his wine on the floor. ‘Sorry. Miles

away.’

I bend over to make sure he gets a good eyeful. ‘How’s

it going?’

He smiles absently. Come on, Nick, meet me halfway here.

My hand drifts lightly down his trousers, and I’m

gratified to discover that he’s rock hard already. That was

quick work. I must remember to wear this dress again.

‘I ,ooks like the party’s happening elsewhere,’ I tease.

Nick’s all over me in the back of the cab home, pawing

at my skimpy dress with an urgency that seems almost

frantic. We fall through the front door of my apartment

ripping at each other’s clothes. Naked but for my high

heels, I back towards the bedroom, pulling him with me.

He shucks off his shirt and kicks away his shoes. I lay

back on the bed as he steps out of his trousers, and

moisture floods me at the sight of his beautiful, big cock.

My body flames. I’ve never felt hungrier to have him inside me. It’s all going to be fine.

He falls on the bed beside me. Hunger zings up and

down my skin. He shoves my thighs apart with his knee,

cupping his hand over my pussy and bending his middle

finger to caress me as he slides his body over mine. Gently

he eases his cock between my thighs. Without entering

me, he lets the head of his dick rub my clit. My whole

being is now centred on the few inches of nerves and

sensation between my legs. Lust races through my body,

making my toes tingle, my whole body jerk.

Nick abruptly pulls away from me. Even as I grab for

him in frustration, he’s sliding a pillow beneath my hips

and slithering down the bed between my legs. He dips

his head and starts to kiss me softly, using only his lips as

though he’s kissing someone hello at a party. My fingers

twine through his hair, pushing him into me, but Nick

resists my pressure and holds back, teasing my clit with

his lips, lightly nibbling me with his teeth, swirling his

tongue around the very edge of my pussy.

My body burns with need. I feel as if I’ve been awakened

from a very long, deep sleep by a pornographic

Prince Charming. I’d almost forgotten it could be this

good.

He moves up my body, kissing my tummy, my belly

button, my breasts. I taste myself on his lips as he reaches

my mouth.

‘I want you inside me I moan.

I reach for him, and he’s firm, but no longer hard; I’ve

kept him waiting too long. I push him back on the pillows

and slide down his body to take him in my mouth. I suck

and tease and stroke, my fingers feathering across his

thighs and balls, and after a few minutes I feel his cock

spring to life.

I disengage myself and ease astride him, welcoming

him home, drawing him deeper inside me. His thrusts

grow harder and faster, and I feel my orgasm start to rise,