Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (8 page)

of knowing I experienced the first moment I saw him,

in Covent Garden: that absolutely electric certainty,

beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was The One.

Dear Nicholas, so tall and fine and honourable; so sexy

and carnal and unaware.

It’s such a relief to be inside, out of the cold. Where is Nicholas? The train from Salisbury was freezing, and the cab from Paddington Station wasn’t much better. I can’t

imagine why Louise ever left California.

A waitress thrusts a glass of white wine at me, mumbling

something about my shoes. Where can Nicholas

have got to? The train was a bit delayed, thankfully, or I’d

never have caught it; but it wasn’t that late, he can’t have

left yet. He must be here somewhere. Unless I’ve got the

name of the restaurant wrong, of course. It wouldn’t be

the first time.

I scrabble in my bag for the envelope I wrote the

restaurant down on, scattering half the contents across

the floor. The waitress is still pressing her glass of wine

at me so I have no choice but to take it; still fumbling

through my bag, I end up spilling most of the wine down

myself. Thank God nothing shows on this dress and after

three babies it’s seen far worse. For heaven’s sake, where

is Nicholas? Oh, Lord, that wasn’t a clean tissue-‘Your shoes the girl hisses again.

I finally look down and discover that Kit has, quite

deliberately, let me walk out of the house in my pink

towelling slippers. He is an absolute swine. I will hang

him by the neck until he is near death and then cut him

down and eviscerate him whilst he is still conscious before

burning his intestines in front of him … or no, I will

allow him to babysit Metheny at his house.

I can’t bear to let this stunning girl - clearly not a

waitress after all; her shoes are far too expensive and far

too high - see how mortified I am. She is so pretty and

smart and clean, and I’m already well aware that she’s

written me off as barely a fingertip away from senile

dementia.

I summon an insouciant smile. ‘Oh, yes. Well, at least

the rain hasn’t ruined them.’

I shove the slippers nonchalantly into my bag as if I do

this all the time. Which, of course, I do. Not wear pink

towelling slippers to retirement parties in London, this is

a landmark snafu even for me; but get caught in the crush

as my two worlds - nurturing earth mother and career

wife - collide.

Although there is less of the career thing now, of

course, which is absolutely natural when you have three

children, absolutely to be expected; somehow the book

deadlines seem to slither through my fingers like egg

yolks. I didn’t realize how hard it was going to be just to

keep up.

Nicholas abruptly materializes, white-faced and agitated.

‘Malinche, where in heaven’s name have you been? It’s eight-thirty, Will’s been asking for you for the last hour! What kept you?’

‘Traffic1 say, surprised by his twitchiness. I’m not that late.

‘I told you to allow - oh, never mind. Now that you’re

here, you’d better come and be sociable.’

‘I was, darling, I was talking to this gorgeous girl here

- such a lovely suit, I hate chartreuse itself, of course,

the drink I mean, but that’s simply a delicious colour,

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

did you say your name was?’

‘Sara Kaplan she supplies.ŚŚŚŚŚŚ

She really is a very striking girl: not conventionally

pretty, the nose sees to that, but she has something about

her, a sensuality, an earthiness. She must be absolutely

freezing in that flimsy outfit, the silly girl: but then she’s

still too young, of course, to realize that when someone

is as lovely and vital as she is, she really doesn’t need to

wear tons of make-up and short skirts to get attention, she

could turn heads if she walked in wearing a dustbin liner

and a porkpie hat.

I smile. ‘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—’

I can feel the tension coming off Nicholas in waves. I

can’t imagine what has got him so distraught, it can’t just

be me, it must be something to do with work; but it’s not

like him, he’s usually so self-contained. It’s one of the

things that drew me to him in the first place, his assurance,

his total certainty of who and what he is - not

always right, of course, but certain none the less. There

are more layers to Nicholas than even he knows, aspects

of him I had rather hoped would come to the surface as

our marriage went on; but never mind that now, we are

still the best of friends, of lovers, so much luckier than

most couples these days.

I take his arm and guide him towards his colleagues,

chatter soothingly about absolutely nothing in his ear,

stroke him emotionally and mentally and even physically

as we stand talking and laughing with Will, and finally

he pulls me against him and 1 feel him relax beside me;

though not quite enough to totally erase that distant

stirring of alarm.

I realize that now isn’t the time to mention that Trace

is moving back to Salisbury.

Nicholas

I awaken from dreams of pale, long limbs and strawberry

gold hair with a tumescent erection that makes my balls

ache. It’s still dark outside, apart from the garish glare

of multi-coloured Christmas lights that Evie insisted we

hang along the eaves, and for which vulgar display of

infectious Americana I risked life and limb atop the

window-cleaner’s borrowed ladder.

I brush my palm across the warm vale that dips

between Mai’s shoulder and hips, cupping her buttocks

lightly with my hand. My middle finger curls between

her legs and strokes the soft fur around her pussy, sliding

into the welcoming wetness. Mai doesn’t respond,

but the change in her regular breathing tells me she’s

awake.

I slide closer, penis nudging the small of her back.

Gently I find her clitoris and increase the pace and pressure

of my finger, reaching my other hand over her

shoulder towards her breasts. Mai mumbles something

indistinct and rolls onto her stomach, taking both breasts

and pussy out of my reach.

‘Nicholas—’

‘It’s OK, don’t worry, we have time. It’s not six yet.’

Easing my way down the bed, I bury my head between

her flanks and describe small circles from her coccyx

down to her pussy with my tongue. Sweet, like the

lavender honey she harvests from our hives in the orchard

every June.

Rising up on my haunches, I replace my tongue with

my rigid cock at the entrance to her behind. Mai wriggles

and squirms in the bed beneath me and flips onto her

back, slender legs opening in welcome as she smiles

sleepily up at me. She’s always loved early-morning sex;

we both have. To wake warm and aroused and melt into

each other - there’s no better way to start the day. She

starts to draw me in to her, but I pull back and go down

on her again, opening her like a ripe fig. I can feel her

impatience as she tightens her thighs. Her juices dribble

down my chin as if I’ve bitten into a rich peach.

My cock throbs as I move my body over hers. It nudges

at her pussy and I slide in, savouring her tight, wet

grip. Her small breasts crush against my chest. I rock

my hips and thrust into her, feeling the familiar heat

course through my body, down my cock, sweat slicking

our skin together. My feet overlap the foot of the bed

and the headboard crashes timpani against the wall. Hot

- want - need - want-Sara.

Christ, I didn’t say her name aloud, did I? I glance

fearfully up at my wife. Her expression is as serene and

untroubled as ever. Thank God. But still.

I sag against Mai as release and shame wash over me.

It wasn’t my wife’s long, dark corkscrew curls I saw

spread out on the pillow just now, but Sara’s cropped

strawberry-blonde head. Even as I kiss Mai’s high, little

brown breasts, in my mind I am burying my head in

Sara’s pink, pillowy cleavage.

I haven’t been able to get the damned woman out of

my mind since she walked into my office. This has gone

beyond the reflexive, cursory sexual interest of a breathing

male for any attractive female who crosses his path.

It’s all-consuming. Everywhere I look, I see Sara. I feel as

if I’m going insane. It’s not as if I’m stuck in an unhappy

marriage, looking for an affair; that’s the last thing I’d

ever do, dear God, if anyone should know the damage

infidelity can cause, it’s me. Christ, I love Mai. Unreservedly.

No question. I don’t even know Sara.

“That was nice,’ Mai says, stroking my hair. ‘Again.’

‘Did you—’

‘No. But that doesn’t matter.’

‘It does, of course it does. Let me—’

She bats my hand away. ‘Lovely, but let’s wait till

tonight, Nicholas. The children will be up soon, we have

to get going. It’s the girls’ nativity play tonight, and

I’ve still got sequins to sew on the Button Dragon and a

pterodactyl’s wings to superglue.’

I take eager refuge in domesticity, hiding in its comfortable,

familiar folds from other, disturbing, thoughts.

‘Admittedly it’s been a long time since I played Balthasar

on the school stage I say, climbing out of bed, ‘but I’m

fairly certain the shepherds didn’t watch their flocks all

seated on the ground whilst a pterodactyl hovered overhead.

It would have eaten the sheep for a start.’ I knot the

I

cord of my navy dressing gown at my waist in preparation

for the dash down the polar corridor to the

bathroom. ‘I’m not convinced about the Button Dragon,

either.’

‘Just be grateful Baby Jesus still gets a part Mai says,

‘though after the disaster last year with Chloe Washington

and the three baby ferrets, I think they’re using a plastic

doll in the manger.’

I muffle an expletive as I step on a piece of Lego. ‘I’m

just grateful when we turn up at church for Harvest

Festival and it hasn’t been replaced by a mosque.’

‘You old fraud, you haven’t been to church for Harvest

Festival since they were using ploughshares instead of

tractors Mai calls after me as I hop down the hall. ‘Don’t

forget, the service starts at six; you promised you’d catch

the early train so you could get there on time.’

I sigh as I fill the sink with icy water and dip my razor

into it. I have a pile of work on my desk so high I’m

surprised it doesn’t have snow on the upper levels. Ten

days before Christmas, everyone wants their divorce

resolved before the country shuts down for its habitual

two-week holiday, and half the clerks and barristers have

gone shopping. I wish Mai realized that I want to witness

my progeny tread the boards as much as she does, but

someone has to keep the family in buttons and pterodactyl

wings.

It’s still dark and bitterly cold when Mai drops me at

the station just before seven. A biting wind skitters litter

on the platform and knifes straight through my clothes. I

bury my hands deeper in my overcoat pockets and stamp

my feet, exhaling plumes of smoke as I wait for my train.

On the opposite platform, a young woman shivers in a

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short denim skirt and lightweight summer jacket, her

bare legs almost blue with cold. It never fails to amaze me,

the level of discomfort women will endure in the name

of fashion. I’m astonished Sara hasn’t caught her death,

given some of the flimsy outfits in which she turns up to

work; though she does always look very attractive. Very.

But of course Mai has some lovely warm jumpers,

extremely pretty, in fact. And jeans are so much more

practical.

The seven-eight to Waterloo pulls in ten minutes late;

despite the early hour, the train is dense with Christmas

shoppers heading for the bright lights of Oxford Street.

The railways appear to farm their customers like foie gras

geese: the more they stuff the grubby, stale carriages, the

richer they become. By the time we reach Basingstoke,

daytrippers are overflowing into First Class, clutching

cardboard Starbucks beakers and perspiring in their Puffa

jackets. One or two have the grace to look guilty, but most

meet our eyes defiantly, grumbling loudly to one another

that they’ve paid for their tickets and there isn’t even

standing room in the coach. What does British Rail expect

them to do: climb on the roof like they do in India?

I have some sympathy with their position - battery

hens are more generously billeted - but the disruptive

invasion of crisp packets and chattering mobiles makes it impossible for me to concentrate on my case notes.

I work instead on my crossword until we get to Woking,