Antidote to Infidelity (25 page)

As I enter the shop, the
elderly Spanish lady behind the counter rushes to the window, clearly
recognising me from my morning spree. Wrinkled olive face set in a knowing
smile, she returns with a tray of diamond shells before I even open my mouth.

Now that’s what I call service.

Captivated by a dainty pearly
bracelet and matching teardrop earrings, I hand over three of Will’s crisp
twenty Euro notes, feeling the instant buzz of retail retribution. As I accept
the tiny gift bag, I debate whether to squirrel my purchases or confess
outright – and wear them tonight.

Mmm, decisions decisions.

***

When I reach the top of the
stairs the penthouse door is open (clearly my husband doesn’t believe in
Spanish burglars) and the air is thick with Armani, my absolute
favourite
aftershave.

Senses aroused, I poke my nose
around the frame to see Will saunter from bedroom to bathroom, razor in hand,
towel around his waist. Confident the coast is clear, I’m about to slip in and
stash my accessories when I spy a bottle of Blossom Hill by the mirror, along
with a box of Belgian chocolates and a gift bag identical to mine.

No way. Surely he hasn’t? Nooo.

Oh, but he has. I peep inside
where, beautifully presented in an open velvet box are my new bracelet and
earrings, along with a hurriedly scrawled note:

Sorry babe, you’ll dry. Wear these tonight, love
Will xxx

Aw, sod it!
I mean . . . oooh, how lovely.

Feeling greedy, I scurry down
the steps planning to return my duplicate bling, play dumb and coo over my
gifts when I get back. But as I walk into the shop, the welcome I receive is
considerably cooler than five minutes earlier, particularly when I ask for my
money back.

Like the early evening sky
outside, the woman’s wizened old face clouds over as I place my bag on the
counter and explain what’s happened. Drumming her podgy fingers on the glass,
she slams the till shut, making me jump.

“Refund - no. Credit note -
siii,” she grunts. And try as I might, she won’t budge.

“But that’s not
fair
,” I
cry. “My husband bought the very same items less than twenty minutes ago!”

She shakes her head defiantly.

“Is too bad, then. Refund - no.
You buy more . . . yeeees?”

Shoving a conveyer belt of
delicate trinkets under my nose, she coaxes, “Se
ñ
ora like preeety ankle charm also, no?”

Se
ñ
ora? Se
ñ
ora? Huh.

Angry and wringing wet, I want
to fight my corner, but in a foreign country with a stubborn shopkeeper and no
receipt, I’m up the proverbial creek without a paddle.

“No. Absolutely not. Nada,” I
say, scanning the glass cabinets. Determined to learn my lesson and buy
nothing
else for myself, no matter how shimmery, I select a stylish black leather watch
for Will, pay the difference and plod back upstairs for a nice hot bath.

Creeping into the penthouse, I
find Will - clean shaven and dressed to die for in a crisp Duck and Cover shirt
and formal trousers - half way down the Blossom Hill.

Spotting me in the doorway, he
fills a second goblet, plants a kiss on my forehead and hands me the tiny bag,
proud as punch.

I accept it, feigning
Oscar-style surprise.

“Oooh, thank you. Whatever’s
this
?
Oooh, Will, they’re lovely . . . they match my necklace!”

He smiles his Great Hunter
smile, sipping his wine.

“I
know
they do. Sorry
for soaking you, babe. I couldn’t resist. Forgive me?”

As I nod, trying on my gifts,
he adds, “Good, then go get gorgeous. I’ve booked us a table at La Met on the
marina. Pretty swanky.”

Gazing at my immaculate
husband, who looks like he’s just stepped out of a catalogue, I spot my no
make-up, recently-dragged-from-the-sewer reflection in the mirror.

Ghastly. I’m Worsel Gummage.

“Hey buster, you don’t think
I’m gorgeous enough already?” I demand, knowing full well the answer is ‘yikes,
no’. “My fat lip’s thinned out . . . see?”

Playing my trump card, I coyly
hand him his watch.

Surprised and unsuspecting, he
unwraps my guilty-gift, studies it, then proudly slides it onto his wrist.

“Sally Moss, you
always
look
gorgeous to me. Wow, this is
great
, a perfect fit.”

He chinks his goblet down on
the antique pine cabinet, holding open his arms. Chilled to the bone, knackered
and vulnerable, I fling myself into his warm embrace.

“
You’re
a perfect fit.”
I whisper into his chest, wondering where it all went wrong. “Give me half an
hour with my vanity case and I promise, you won’t recognise me.”

Ah.

Yes, well, maybe in hindsight
half an hour was a
little
ambitious, but as a wise man once said: better
late than never. Right? Right.

Four hours later, surrounded by
the sensual glow of scented candles, Will and I are soaking up the ambiance at
the romantic Met en el Mar, playing footsie as dreamy Spanish ballads drift off
into the night.

Somehow - Lord knows how, as
the restaurant is
full
of semi-famous faces - he’s managed to secure a
prime location on the water’s edge, where the continental chocolates and pink
champagne are going down a treat.

Despite a chill in the air, I
feel
hot
in my black silk cocktail dress and, for the first time in
ages
,
worthy of being on my handsome husband’s arm. Well, almost. I’ve
really
gone to town on my hair and make-up, you see, opting for smoky eyes and
face-framing ringlets, which tumble softly onto my shoulders.

Mucho glamouroso. Or better
than I usually look on a Wednesday night at least!

***

Earlier, when I emerged from
the bedroom in my chic gown and three-inch diamante heels, Will - who’d
normally have thrown a wobbler because I was too tall - didn’t protest one
iota. He merely growled, staggering onto the terrace to ‘settle the old boy
down with some air’.
Result!

But, typical Sally, rather than
be flattered, it really knocked my duck off. Seriously - wham! Duck - knocked
right off. Not because I didn’t
want
to be growled at, far from it. It
was exactly the wow-wee response I crave
all the time
. . . not once in
a blue moon when the kids are away and I actually get a minute to dedicate to
my flagging appearance.

Pushing thirty, you see, it’s
getting tougher, the laughter lines are starting to set in. I can still just
about attract the odd wolf whistle if I
really
work at it, but it takes
hours
of pruning, waxing - and yes, I’ll admit it, half of bloody Boots!

Will, however, could be
trampled on by a herd of rhinos, dunked in a gunk tank and dragged through the
jungle by his
hair
, yet still come out of it smelling of Armani and
looking like the Gucci-guy. He’s low maintenance, the lucky git, always has
been. Practically a Chippendale already, like a smooth malt, my husband seems
to be getting better with age, not to mention the fact he’s suddenly become a
secretive, sex-mad stud. Which, incidentally, would be fine if it was just me
who was getting studded.

Sadly, it’s not, so I
seriously
need to step up my game. Get glamorous. Get gorgeous. Get Botox. Maybe even
another nurse’s outfit, give him what he craves.

Stop it, Sally. Think forwards.
Think raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens. What shall we do tomorrow? La la
la.

***

Gazing at Will across the
table, all dark and debonair in the candlelight, I
hate
how he’s
troubling me right now. His natural multi-seasonal tan suddenly seems, well,
browner, and bugger me, unless the light’s playing tricks he’s beefed up, too,
around the shoulders. Well, either that or he’s bought himself a medium to give
that impression.

With a rippling six-pack to
rival The Hulk, Will’s ‘green’ dress sense is improving by the day too, which
is ultra-alarming as it coincides with him barring
me
from choosing his
clothes.

Mmm.

Absentmindedly rubbing my
almost-healed finger (
masterful
stitching may I say) I down my champagne
way
too quickly, wondering if I should see a doctor. About my mixed-up
head, that is, not my hand.

Here I am, holidaying in a
penthouse, mingling with movie stars, dining with Bond, positively
lapping
up
the ultimate female fantasy - yet my subconscious is being plagued by
sickening thoughts of adultery . . . and revenge. Lucid images of my husband
and his chit-of-a-nurse blended with fleeting shades of Mike Foster and his
oh-so-suggestive smile.

Sure, I’m putting on a brave
face, joking my way through the days, but sooner or later, the mask’s going to
slip. It’s inevitable. Being alone with my thoughts is like being clawed apart
from the inside. It’s
agony
.
Mind
you, using champagne as anaesthetic isn’t the brightest idea. I’m already on my
third glass in the scant hope that the answer to
all
my problems
might
just lie in the bottom of the bottle.

I know it won’t, not really.
Alcohol’s not the answer, but tonight, it’s my saviour. The truth is, sweet as
Will’s being at the moment, it doesn’t erase what he’s done. Believe me, I wish
it did, but I can’t shake the feeling that - if I’m
not
leaving over his
fling - I should at least be fighting back.

With his flowers, calls, texts,
Mike would be the
ideal
weapon. I wonder if he likes blondes or
brunettes? Beckys or Sallys? Oh, I
saw
the way that tight-skirted little
tart gazed at him, all ‘shag-me shag-me, doctor’. Call me neurotic, but I can’t
help but wonder . . . if he
has
.

Along with Will and half of
bloody Nottingham, probably.

***

Oblivious to the lustful
glances he’s attracting from all directions, Will signals for more champagne.
Gratefully accepting my fourth glass, I gaze forlornly across the ocean.

God, he’s a handsome bugger
alright. Far too fit for me. Did I really expect to keep him all to myself?
Yes, actually. It’s called marriage.

Sadly, I know from experience -
and spending
far
too much time with Bianca - that the world is full of
‘fishing’ women. Or, as Bi prefers to call them, HOH.

Horny, Opportunist Hookers.

Will’s
always
been a
good catch, regardless of my poisonous mother’s opinion. I knew that when I met
him. But browner, bigger, better, he’s positively a king-size carp, hence the
flurry of fisherwomen tailing us. Honestly, it’s like being on a deep sea
trawler!

Scrutinising him innocently
indulging in his banoffi pie, I want to whip a
‘back off bitch, he’s mine’
stamper
out of my clutch-bag and brand the bulky bastard. Blowing me an oblivious kiss,
he raises his glass. Cheers!

Yeah. Cheers Will. Cheers for
making me an insecure fruit bat.

Maybe he really hasn’t noticed
the crimson lips being licked, the darting eyes illicitly devouring him as he
devours his dessert. Who knows? But
I
bloody have. Oh yes, I can see
them
all
. . . and it’s driving me up the wall!

Of
course
it is, and
it’s not paranoia, either. It’s realism. He’s already been hooked once, and I’d
never have known
that
if his nagging conscience hadn’t got the better of
him. What if he takes the bait again? Where will it leave me and the kids?

Hung out to dry, that’s where.

Sighing heavily, I try to think
logically –
soberly
- but it isn’t helping my sanity that half the coy,
crafty glances raining in are from gorgeous girls half my age and twice my bust
size! How can I
possibly
compete with that?

A wise man once said, ‘I may be
fat
but you’re
old
and I can go on a diet’.

Too true. What he
didn’t
say is, if you’re fat
and
old, you’re fucked.

I breath in impulsively,
straighten my back and stick out my boobs then give up, exhale and sag. Oh,
what’s the point? However perky my posture, I’m never going to see twenty-one
again, am I? Or the inside of a size ten jeans for that matter.

Humph! So much for hot and
worthy.

You know, I’ve always trusted
my husband implicitly but now, I just
can’t
. He’s made it impossible.
Our marriage is
tainted
and it’s all his fault. And
hers
. God, I
hate
that skinny little bitch. I don’t want to be an elephant, I truly don’t - I
want to forgive, forget and look
forwards
, but it’s tougher than I could
ever have imagined. Because I also want to scream, sob, smash things and
slaughter
people.