Antidote to Infidelity (16 page)

Lacing my fingers
over the impressive bump before me, I know what I want alright. I want the
mistress treatment, or, as Bianca would say, ‘
the
good sex, not the
obligatory’.

So turned on it
’
s almost agony, I grab his
smooth, tanned buttocks, dragging him closer, blotting out Becky with a
possessive pinch.

“
I don
’
t want you to
make love
to
me,
”
I tell him,
“
I want you to screw me like you
hit Troy. Hard and fast like you really, really mean it.
”

Groaning, he covers
my breasts in yearning, passionate kisses, nipping my nipples as I wriggle in
ecstasy, running my hands through his thick, dark locks. Hard as a rock, eyes
ablaze,
now
he
’
s in the fantasy.
Satisfied, I let myself go as his burning caress sinks southwards.

Spread-eagled on the
hood, polished nails raking the length of his broad, muscular back, I raise my
knees in reckless abandonment, ready for the ride of my life . . . then squeal
with disappointment as he
stops, stands up and backs away.

“
Aaagh, er, Sally? Are you
sure
?
”

What? Are you kidding me, Will?
Oh,
come on
!

I can’t believe my ears.
Staring lustfully
down at me, weapon at the ready, it appears the hardened warrior needs
assurance that his timid young wife
really
wants banging on the bonnet.

I do, I do, I do! It
’
s got multiple
orgasms written all over it.

But, no. Typical
Will - I want to seize the moment, he wants written permission. Urrggh, give me
strength!

“
What do
you
think
?
Jesus,
I
’
m not lying here
waiting for a bus, am I? Don
’
t stop, don
’
t stop, please!
” I beg, needing manhandling
not manners.

Satisfied, he rips
off his armour and whips the pretty pink bobbles out of my hair.

“
If that
’
s what you want, that
’
s what you
’
re gonna get,
”
he growls.
“
Spread
’
em.
”

Dizzy with desire, I
oblige, images of nympho nurses and snarling super heroes exploding into
insignificance as he plunges in, slapping my bare bottom. Gasping, I pull him
deeper, locking my legs around his waist, losing control.

“
Oooh . .  . my . . . God!
”
I scream wildly, oblivious to
the neighbours.
“
Yes, baby, yes! Give
it to me! Faster . . . oooh God, yes, yes! Screw me
Mike
. . .
”

Mmmm. Bright. Ouch. Too bright.
What’s that? Ah - sun.

I awake dry-mouthed, aching and
curled up into a squinting ball as the mellow morning sunshine shines boldly
through the garage window. Wrapped snugly in the king-size quilt off our bed,
I’m surprised to find myself alone - and completely starkers - in the passenger
seat of a rather flash Mustang convertible, which, it suddenly dawns on me, is
mine.

Hooray!

As the crazy events of last
night flood back, I reach to soothe my delicate head, which is banging like a
drum, making me flinch. Then I realise it isn’t my head at all, it’s
actual
banging, drifting in from the open door leading up to the kitchen.

Saronging myself in my quilt,
bunching up the frills to miss the oil puddles, I set off in search of the
commotion, wondering why Will has left me out in the cold after our
mind-blowing moonlit session.

Tottering through the kitchen,
ignoring the pot-piled sink, I spot a tempting pan of bacon sizzling away, and
Will’s black holdall, stuffed with mucky clothes he’s obviously fished out of the
rose bushes.

Seizing a fork, I poke the
spitting frazzles, flick on the kettle and wander into the hall where Will,
dressed in a sharp black suit and best shoes, is struggling beneath the raised
carpet at the bottom of the staircase, tool box at his feet.

Fired up by a Roman-romp
flashback, I can’t resist pinching his bum.

“Whoa, there’s a sight for sore
eyes. Happy New Year!”

He doesn’t look up. Instead, he
snorts, whacking the troublesome third-from-bottom step with a vengeance.

“Happy (whack!) New (whack!)
Year (whack!).”

On the final ‘whack’ the
hammer’s wooden handle splinters, metal head twanging off the radiator beneath
the mirror. Swearing under his breath, Will throws back the carpet, slumping
onto the bottom step.

“There - your precious step,”
he pants, wiping beads of trickling sweat from his brow. “All fixed. Satisfied
now?”

Hello - what’s his problem?
Talk about getting out of the wrong side of bed. He should try tumbling out of
the passenger seat onto cold concrete!

Narrowing my eyes, I plonk down
next to him.

“Hey, what’s with you, grumpy?
You didn’t have to do it today, any time this year would have done.”

Chucking me a contemptuous
look, he roots wildly through the clutter cupboard under the stairs, producing
his leather briefcase.

“You really haven’t got a clue,
have you Sally? Not a clue.”

Choked by his accusing stare, I
shake my head. What on earth am I supposed to have done now? How can I possibly
be in the bad books already? I only woke up three measly minutes ago.

“Ab. . . about what?” I
stammer. “No, I haven’t, I really haven’t.”

Ahh. It suddenly dawns on me.
Despite our big kiss-and-make-up, his male pride is
obviously
still
stinging over my compromising tangle with Troy. Switching tactics, I rub his
shin but instead of taming, he jumps back hostilely, like my fingers are
red-hot pokers, chuntering as he collides with the telephone stand.

“Sally,” he says coolly,
keeping his distance. “What
exactly
do you remember about last night?”

Ah. I get it. It’s a test.

Lowering my eyes, I play for
time, studying my painted toenails apprehensively. Is he fishing for an
ego-boosting ‘the car’s great but the bonk was better’? I can’t tell. I know,
I’ll play it safe and hedge my bets with a favourable recollection of my night.

“Erm, well, I remember letting
Bi put me in a ridiculous costume,” I say, lazily finger counting. “
You
rescuing
me  . . . giving me a
gorgeous
Mustang . . . oh, and shagging me
senseless on the bonnet.”

I gaze up at him animated but
he misses my cheeky wink, snapping, “Humph. Pretty much everything then, yeah?”

Stalking into the kitchen, he
returns immediately, tossing the Saab keys in his hand. He’s frowning, looking
me up and down in distaste. I don’t care for his disapproving glare
or
his high and mighty attitude. I’m about to tell him so when he growls, “What’s
happened to you, Sally? When did you get so
crude
?”

I flinch, stung.

Crude? Moi? Never. I’m only
trying to have a bit of fun with the miserable bugger, like we usually do, but
it’s all going bloody Pete Tong.

Pressed and dressed, keys
clinking, it’s clear he’s all set to scarper, but where to?

And more to the point,
why
?
I honestly haven’t the foggiest idea. One thing’s for sure, though, somewhere
between christening my Mustang with our saucy Auld Langsyne sixty-nine and now,
I’ve rattled his cage good and proper.

“Will wait, don’t go!” I plead,
desperate not to burn the bridges we built on the bonnet. “What’s
wrong
?
I didn’t . . . I haven’t . . . just
what
am I supposed to have done
now
?”

Muttering inaudibly under his
breath, he starts to fasten his Christmas tie in the mirror then changes his
mind, whipping it off and twisting it round his fingers like a garrotte.

“You genuinely don’t know, do
you? That’s
shameful
, Sally-Ann.”

Uh-oh. Sally-Ann again, am I? I
must have been really naughty.

Unnerved by his tone, I try to
recall any wrongdoing as he yanks open the front door to silence the agitated
smoke alarm, which is filling the hall with an ear-piercing squeal. Unable to
hear myself
think
, let alone piece together cryptic clues about why I’m
suddenly in the dog house, I yell, “
What
is, Will?
What’s
shameful
?
You’re talking in riddles. Just
tell
me.”

Bolstering past me, he strides
out, slamming the door behind him, rattling the pictures on the stairs before
peering back through the letterbox. Eyes flickering angrily he hisses, “The
fact you can remember me making love to you, but can’t recall screaming ‘Yes,
yes, screw me
Mike
!’
Unbelieveable
.”

Ahhh! What?

Stunned, I clasp my hands over
my mouth. Wedged in my safe, warm perch, watching Will’s shadow disappear down
the path, I rock gently back and forth, shaking my head, convincing myself that
I
didn’t.

Nooo. Oh, no no. Surely not.
Surely my big, stupid gob isn’t
that
big and stupid?

Is
it?

Shuddering as an icy draft
sneaks under my wrap, I close my eyes, replaying our passion right up to the
point where . . . oooh, God. Yes it
is
. It
is
that big and
stupid.

Oh, Sa-lly. Oh Sally-Ann.

As the fog lifts, allowing
clarity and queasiness to strike simultaneously, I remember
everything
.
Ev-ery-thing. Stripping. Teasing. Losing myself in ecstasy before blurting it
out on the brink of explosion, ‘Oooh Mike, Mike, screw me
Mike
’.

Aaahh
,
damn it
.
Damn
me.
And damn sexy Doctor-Foster-from-Gloucester for getting into my hot
little head and making me commit the cardinal sin. No wonder Will’s steaming.
What self-respecting bloke wouldn’t be? I may as well have come right out with,
‘Oh yeah, oh, oh, that feels
good
. . . but if you
really
want to
get me going baby, be a sport and swap that sword for a stethoscope . . .’

Oh, what an
idiot
. It’s
not like I was even
thinking
that. At all. Well, not consciously anyway.
Oh, me and my big mouth.
Now
what am I supposed to do?

Today was meant to be a fresh
start. A new chapter. It’s New Year’s Day, I planned to drag him round IKEA,
buy as much flat-packed furniture as I could get my hands on, then hide the
instructions and leave him to screw away blindly.

A fitting punishment, I
thought. Now suddenly I’m the villain.

I’m about to bury my head in my
quilt and sob for the billionth time in a week when it hits me like a poisoned
arrow: an ugly vision of Becky’s mammoth bazookas bobbing like water buoys as
Will does her doggy-style on a plastic pull-down chair. As well as making me
feel sick (and exceedingly small breasted) it does the trick.

Freshly scorned I spring up,
guilt dissolving like a Disprol. What am I
thinking
allowing myself to
feel bad?
My
tiny mistake was a meaningless slip-of-the-tongue, not two
nights of carnal cavorting in the capital.

Damn
me
? Huh! No way -
damn
him
. Damn the pair of them, Will
and
his big-boobed bimbo!

I haul open the door in an
indignant rage, stumbling onto the doorstep in a quilted heap. Blinking in the
frosty glint, I take a deep breath but rather than clearing my head, the crisp
air feeds my anger.

“Shameful is it?
Shameful
?”
I yell lividly, not giving a rat’s ass who’s listening. “That’s a
fine
example of the kettle calling the teapot black, you callous
prick
!”

I
want
to leave it at
that, I really do, but repressed jealousy is blinding my judgement. My mouth is
running on auto-pilot. Reaching the car, Will turns in embarrassed alarm,
gesturing sheepishly at the twitching curtains next door, finger to his lips.

Did he just shush me? Am I
really being shushed? Patronising knob-head! The curtain twitchers can twitch
all they like, they’ll have an ornamental Chinese fountain through their window
in a minute if they don’t butt out!

“I will
not
shush!” I
shriek, banshee-style. “At least I’m screwing
you
and calling out
Mike
. . . which is a damn sight better than screwing
him
and calling
out
Will
. Ask your bit-on-the-side, I’m sure she’ll agree.”