Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (6 page)

especially with that corn-gold hair, how clever of you what

did you say your name was?’

‘Sara Kaplan1 supply faintly.

‘Of course, Sara, well, Nicholas, I was being sociable as

you can see, I was talking to Sara, she very kindly got me

a drink, I was just about to come and find you and Will,

and then here you were—’

Does the woman never draw breath? I can’t believe

the stuffy-but-cute Nick is with this hippy, style-free Alzheimer dingbat. He doesn’t look very comfortable either

as she latches onto him and grabs his arm, and suddenly

I can see it all: the childhood sweetheart he married when

he was too young to know any better, the kids that

followed before he knew it, the albatross of a mortgage,

the arid sex life, the whole nightmare. Poor sod. He looks

like he needs some R & R big time.

Hmmm. Now there’s an interesting thought.

All of a sudden, Monday can’t come quickly enough.

Malinche

Kit can be such a total wretch sometimes, really he can.

I flick the end of a tea-towel at him, but he ducks and

instead I catch the saucepan chandelier hanging over

the island in the centre of the kitchen, setting pans and

ladles clattering against each other. I cover the telephone

mouthpiece so that Nicholas won’t hear the din,

and stick out my tongue at Kit as he sits there shaking

with laughter and doing absolutely nothing to stop my

wilful baby daughter from putting the rabbit down the

waste disposal.

‘Oh, God, Metheny, don’t do that I gasp, quickly

rescuing the trembling creature and steadying the saucepans. ‘Poor rabbit. Sorry, Nicholas, I have to go. I’ll see you at the station. Usual time?’

Nicholas yelps in my ear. ‘For God’s sake, Malinche,

it’s William’s retirement party this evening! Don’t tell me

you’ve forgotten! You’re supposed to be on the five

twenty-eight from Salisbury to Waterloo, remember?’

Oh, Lord. I had completely forgotten. It’s three forty

already, Liz will be dropping the girls off from school at

any moment, I haven’t made their tea yet - I thought ravioli di magro would be nice, I haven’t done that for a while; a little fresh ricotta seasoned with nutmeg, sea salt

and black pepper and blended with Swiss chard and pancetta stesa, and of course freshly grated Parmesan over the top. I haven’t sorted out a babysitter, I need to wash

my hair, what to wear, how on earth am I going to get to

the station in time for the five twenty-eight?

‘So I am. I hadn’t really forgotten I fib, crossing my

fingers behind my back, ‘it just slipped my mind for a

moment. Hold on a second—’

I put the receiver down and thrust Don Juan de Marco

back in his cage in the scullery with a couple of wilted

leaves of pak choi as consolation, firmly securing the latch

with a piece of twine so the baby can’t let him out again.

Metheny instantly stops what she is doing - picking up

spilt Cheerios from beneath her high-chair and putting

them one by one into Kit’s outstretched hand - to crouch

plumply by the rabbit cage, nappy in the air, fat gold curls

clinging to the nape of her neck as her chubby little fingers

poke and pull at the string. I cross my fingers that the

twine holds for at least the next five minutes and throw

myself theatrically onto my knees on the kitchen flagstones

in front of Kit, hands clasped in supplication as I

try my best to look pathetic.

He ignores my amateur dramatics, fastidiously heaping

the Cheerios into a small pyramid on the counter before

dipping an elegant pale finger into my cake mix to taste

it. I’ve flavoured it with vanilla and orange and lemon

zest, darkened it with cocoa and spiced it up with candied

orange peel. The meld of tangy rich scents drifts around

the warm kitchen like fog on the moors.

‘What?’ he says sternly.

I flap my hands at him to be quiet. Nicholas knows Kit

is my best friend and comes over to visit, of course he

does, but he doesn’t have to know quite how often.

‘What?’ Kit mouths.

I intensify my importunate expression, although I suspect,

from the twitch at the corner of Kit’s mouth, that the

net effect is one of constipation rather than entreaty. He

rolls his eyes but nods, as I knew he would. I struggle up

from the floor. Dramatic gestures are all very well, but

then of course you have to live with the consequences; it’s

rather like having sex on the beach, not nearly as romantic

as you imagine, and of course the sand gets everywhere. I scoop up Metheny in the nick of time - my delicious yummy baby, she smells like warm fresh-baked bread and

retrieve the phone. ‘I really must go, Nicholas—’

‘You did remember to arrange a babysitter?’

‘Mmm. Yes, Kit very sweetly said he’d do it.’

Quickly I ring off so I don’t have to listen to the pained

silence that invariably follows any mention of Kit. I’ve

spent the past twelve years variously cajoling, begging

and banging heads together, but it’s no good, the current

wary standoff between my husband and my dearest

friend is clearly as good as it’s ever going to get. I have

the deepest sympathy for everybody at the UN if the

Palestinians and the Israelis are anywhere near this bad,

though of course neither Nicholas nor Kit are anything at

all like that difficult man Arafat - no, he’s dead now,

there’s a new one, what’s his name, I really must read the

paper a bit more often. It’s all a question of finding the

time, of course: I get to Saturday evening and I still

haven’t worked my way through last Sunday’s papers,

though I must say things aren’t made any easier by the

number of supplements they have these days. Those poor

paperboys, I don’t know how they carry them up the

path: we’re creating a generation of twisted spines. I used

to think Nicholas didn’t like Kit because he was gay, and

perhaps in the beginning - though Nicholas isn’t like that,

he’s not racist or sexist or homophobic or anything, well,

except in a background wallpaper sort of way, you can’t

help the way you’re raised. But of course it wasn’t about

that, really, not at all-‘Mai, what an absolutely delicious smell,’ Liz says,

pushing open the top half of the kitchen stable door. A

cold blast of November air carries the scent of bonfires

and rotting leaves into the fuggy kitchen warmth. She

reaches in to unbolt the bottom half and steps smartly out

of the way as Sophie and Evie race past her into the

kitchen, throwing coats, lobbing satchels and dropping

lunchboxes. ‘Hi, Kit. Ooooh, yummy, chocolate and

orange, are you doing something Christmassy?’

I retrieve the mixing bowl from Kit’s elegant grasp and

scrape the lovely gooey chocolaty mixture into a greased

baking tin. ‘It’s supposed to be a birthday cake for Nicholas

and Metheny tomorrow, although at the current rate

of progress it’s going to end up something Christmassy.’

‘Oooh, save me a slice. No, no, on second thoughts,

don’t, I’m supposed to be on another bloody diet for

Christmas.’ She drools over the photograph on the open

page of my recipe book, looking for all the world like

a starving Victorian orphan with her nose pressed to a

pie-shop window. ‘Does look scrumnty, though. It is nearly

Christmas now, and I’m going to do South Beach in January, it’s my New Year’s resolution. So perhaps one slice

‘One slice for Nicholas, and one for Metheny,’ Kit

purrs.

Liz looks flustered. Kit seems to have this effect on

women even when they know which way the wind blows

for him, bedroom-wise. I haven’t yet worked out if it’s

because they find him so hopelessly attractive - hard not

to, with those knife-edge cheekbones and Restoration

curls - or because he’s just so wickedly louche you can’t

help but think of s-e-x whenever he’s around.

‘I don’t know how you stay so slim, Mai,’ Liz complains.

‘It’s not fair, you cook such jolly wonderful food

and you’re as thin as a rake.’

‘Family life I say, not entirely joking.

‘Never works that way for me,’ Liz sighs.

Covetously she eyes a platoon of gingerbread men, still

warm, that I baked earlier for the school’s Christmas Fayre

and left out on racks to cool. Dearest Liz. She spends her

life locked in an epic battle with temptation, for she adores

food, all food, with unbridled passion, but is cruelly fated

to wear every bite she eats. I love her dearly, but she’s

built to last, as Kit mischievously puts it, with childbearing

hips squeezed, come rain or shine, into the same pair

of worn jodhpurs, a wide, open face with rosy cheeks like

two scrubbed apples, and the warmest heart of anyone

in the village. She and I share the school run, with me

dropping the children off - my older two, her lone poppy

- in the morning, after I’ve taken Nicholas to the station,

and Liz doing the afternoon shift so that I can get on with

scribbling down a few of my recipes for the new book

while Metheny has her nap. At least: that’s the theory.

“Gosh, must dash Liz exclaims, glancing at her hefty

leather-strapped wristwatch. ‘Chloe’s got a riding lesson

at four, it’s the gymkhana in a couple of weeks. Cheerio,

Kit. See you tomorrow, girls.’

Sophie and Evie jump guiltily, their mouths full of

gingerbread men whom they seem to have eaten bodily

in one go, like little human boa constrictors. I whip the

rest out of their reach as, unabashed, they yell an enthusiastic farewell to Liz, scattering a fine mist of crumbs and

saliva across Kit’s burnt umber suede jacket and very close-fitting brown jeans. No wonder poor Liz doesn’t know where to look. You could divine his religion from

the tightness of those trousers.

‘Oh, God. You two infants are utterly vile.’ Kit grimaces,

brushing himself down.

‘Serves you right for being such a peacock,’ I retort.

The girls giggle. They adore Kit, who, for all his posturing,

has been an extremely good godfather and will, I’m

quite sure, introduce them to all sorts of delightful vices

like smoking and baccarat as soon as they are old enough

for him to take up to London without me.

‘I found a cat today, but it was dead,’ six-year-old Evie

announces.

I suppress a shudder. ‘How do you know it was dead?’

‘Because I pissed in its ear and it didn’t move Evie

says.

‘You did what?’

‘You know she explains impatiently. ‘I leaned over

and went “Pssst!” and it didn’t move.’

Kit and I shriek with laughter. Evie looks crossly from

one of us to the other, then stomps from the room in a fit

of high dudgeon. At nine, Sophie may be the one with the

knockout looks - thick chestnut hair, huge black sloe eyes,

and tawny skin the colour of caramel, a throwback to my

Italian father’s roots - but I have the feeling it’s Evie’s

zany interpretation of life that’s going to leave a trail of

broken hearts when she’s older.

Last month, I overheard her doing her maths homework

at the kitchen table, muttering to herself, Two plus

five, that son of a bitch is seven. Four plus one, that son

of a bitch is five …’

Aghast, I asked her what on earth she was doing.

‘My maths,’ Evie said calmly.

‘Is that how your teacher taught you to do it?’ I gasped.

‘Course. Three plus three …’

The next day I marched into the classroom and

demanded to know what Mrs Koehler thought she was

teaching my child. When I explained what Evie had been

saying, she laughed so much she had to sit down.

‘What I taught them Mrs Koehler explained, ‘was two

plus two, the sum of which is four.’

Kit now unfolds his long, lean body from the kitchen

counter as I pull an onion from the rope overhead to chop

for the girls’ ravioli. ‘What is it exactly that I’ve agreed to ce soirV he asks languidly.

‘Only babysitting. Darling, you don’t mind, do you?

Only it’s Will Fisher’s leaving do and I promised Nicholas

I’d be there and then of course I forgot all about it Metheny,

no, take Uncle Kit’s lovely hat out of the rubbish

- and now I have about an hour to get ready and find

something to wear and catch the train—’

‘Forget the crocheted pasta pillows or whatever it is

you were planning Kit says firmly, taking the onion out

of my hands, ‘and get your pert little derriere up the stairs

and into the bathtub PDQ. I’ll sort out the girls’ tea.

Sophie, Evie—’ this as my middle daughter wanders back

to the kitchen with Halibut the cat in her arms, tantrum

forgotten already, ‘what would you like Uncle Kit to cook

you for tea?’

‘Pizza!’ Sophie cries.

‘Frozen! From a box!’ Evie adds for good measure.

‘Charming,’Kit huffs.

I have walked many a mile in these particular shoes.

It’s one of those immutable facts of motherhood: the

length of time taken and trouble spent preparing a meal

is inversely proportional to the enthusiasm with which