Antidote to Infidelity (27 page)

Three:
Make way mate, I wanna screw
your missus

or

Four:
You should keep her on a lead,
she’s like a bitch on heat

Oh God, it’s
excruciating
.
I want
him to want me, yes, but I don’t want him to tell
Will
that he wants me. And I don’t want Will to think that
I
want him. Even
though I do.

Or do I? Urrggghh!

In truth, I really don’t know
what
I want, except a long lie down and some Asprin. That’d be nice. That and to
turn the clock back to October.

What if Mike really, actually
does want to . . .
you know
? What if he just throws caution to the wind
and declares mad, undying love for me? Over the phone. Causing Will to suddenly
snap and leap off the balcony in jealous despair?

Right! Stop it Sally.
Seriously, no more champagne for you my girl.

Wobbling towards the headland,
I toss my bottle into a glass bank on the promenade, planning to walk up to the
hills and clear my head before taking a cab back to face the music.

Ingenious plan.

It’ll give Will time to mellow and
me
time to sober up, allowing us to talk things over civilly, like
adults, without the loose lipped interference of Don Perignon.

Or is it Dom? Mmm, no idea. I
clearly don’t belong in high society.

Cursing my high heels - easy on
the eye, killer on the calves - I stumble upon an illuminated stretch of sand,
stopping to catch my breath on a way-too-comfy cushioned sun bed. Rubbing my
throbbing feet, I lie back, arms dangling, gazing up at the clear night sky, soothed
by the therapeutic sound of gentle waves lapping the shore.

Ahhh. Mmm. That’s more like it.
I like horizontal. Horizontal’s goooood.

Uurgh. Maybe not. Who started
the waltzer? Stop, quick, I wanna get off . . .

As the spinning gets faster and
faster, my eyes, head and stomach collide. Drifting in and out of sickly sleep,
I spot Orion’s Belt, The Plough, The Kite and, ooohh, the Big Dipper, before
going bozeyed, rolling over and throwing up.

At the crack of dawn, with the
sun slowly rising and the birds in twittering harmony, I realise with cringing
horror I’ve done a bang-on impression of Bianca at university - and I don’t
mean passed with distinction.

Instead, I’ve made a complete
fool
of myself, lost seven hours in the champagne Bermuda Triangle (cheers Dom)
and woken up in a strange bed God only knows where.

Marvellous. The model wife and
mother.

Trying desperately to get my
eyes to focus, I spot a two-seater sofa, a tiny porcelain sink and a miniature
chest of draws, all cramped into a Hobbitt-style chamber of which my pokey bunk
is the centrepiece. I smell coffee. I taste sick. My mouth feels like a dirty
pub carpet and my hair has the heady aroma of coconuts. Which is strange,
considering I’m in deep
shit.

Despite the sun creeping in
through the closed blinds and the soft hum of a distant radio telling me ‘don’t
worry, be happy’, I
am
worried.

Very. And claustrophobic. And
most certainly
not
happy.

Where the hell am I? And
where’s Will? This is all
his
bloody fault. If he hadn’t stalked
off and left me sitting in the Met like a spare prick at a wedding, none of
this would have happened.

As I slowly haul my aching
bones upright, it all comes flooding back: the meal, the staring slappers, the
phone call, the argument, the reckless champagne guzzling. All of it. Piece by
nasty little piece until last night’s jigsaw - right up to me flaking out on a
sun bed - is complete.

Racking my brain, I’m appalled
to find I can’t recall anything post-beach. Lying Lord knows where, wrapped up
in black silk sheets, without the foggiest idea how I got here, or what grisly
misadventures might have occurred between midnight and morning, I start to
panic.

This is most definitely not
good. Will’s going to kill me.

Assuming, that is, the mystery
person I can hear rattling pots in the next room isn’t also sharpening knives
and preparing to slice and dice me Hannibal Lecter-style, thus beating
him to it. Being in the doghouse with
Will
is one thing, being the unwitting
star of
Hostel
is
another.

Scrambling frantically round
the floor for my shoes before realising the vicious little cripplers are still
on my feet, I’m about to make a bolt for the door in the corner when it creaks
open and in trudges Robert Redford. Well no, not Robert Redford. Duh! Greg,
obviously
,
or whoever he bloody well is, but luckily for me, not Sweeny Todd or Jack the
Ripper.

Relieved to see a familiar face
(and no weapons) I instantly forgive him for
not
being a movie star,
then glare suspiciously in light of my more recent rude awakening.

You see, in a rare moment of
bathtub clarity last night I reluctantly admitted to myself that Will
had
been pulling my leg with the whole Robert Redford saga, the immature arsehole.
He must have spotted us from the balcony and realised I’d take one look at the
fit blond yacht owner, who
still
looks
uncannily
Redford-like . .
. and jump to daft conclusions.

It’s no big secret that, from
time to time, I suffer from clinical stupidity. In short, I often have
extremely
gullible Playboy Bunny episodes during which I put two and two together . . .
and make fifty-six. I just assume that if it walks like a duck, quacks like a
duck, it’s probably a duck.

Sadly in my case, nine times
out of ten, it’s something else entirely.

***

Smiling warmly, Greg - dressed
in scruffy sleep shorts and a dark grey T-shirt - places two steaming coffees
on the bedside table and sits down beside me, blue eyes fixed on mine.

Is it me, or is there a sudden
influx of gorgeous, lagoon-eyed guys? Jees, give a girl a sporting chance to be
monogamous. It’s like an erotic epidemic.

“Hey Cinderella, remember me?
Greg? Your
sole
mate?” he grins. “Seems I didn’t need a million dollars
after all, eh?”

He runs his hand over my foot,
which is safely buried under the covers, causing me to flinch. Feeling
embarrassed and genuinely coy, I shrink back against the wooden headboard,
getting a nasty stab of Christmas morning déjà vu.

Greg pulls his hand away, taken
aback.

“Whoa, hey, relax! Don’t look
so terrified, you’re fine with me, I’m a nice guy. I’m just gonna give you some
coffee and get you home. Okay?”

Nodding and checking for
clothes (I’m not about to make my Clive cock-up again), I find I’m dressed,
which is
something
to be thankful for at least.

Scrutinising my posh little
squat, I figure we’re either:

One:
In the honeymoon suite of
an upmarket Umpa Lumpa hotel

Two:
Shipwrecked in Lilliput

or

Three:
Below deck on the Big
Dipper

The latter, being the most
likely, would also explain my sickliness.
Obviously
it’s sea legs, not a
blinding hangover, making me feel so rocky.

Shuffling to join him on the
edge of the bed, I lower my shield.

“Sorry, of course I remember
you,” I tell him, raw throated. “I’m just a bit . . . vague. And a
lot
embarrassed.
Why am I on your boat? Oh, I’m Sally by the way.”

Handing me a sludgy black
coffee in a ‘What the Croc?’ mug, he adds cream when I nod, grinning, “Well,
hello there Sally. Can I just say, I usually insist on knowing a young lady’s
name before manhandling her back to my lair.”

Oh, fabulous. So I’ve been
manhandled. Wonderful. I can hardly wait to hear the rest.

Oooh, it’s worse than the
morning after my twenty-first birthday – one of only three times I’ve been
drunk in my
whole
life - when I woke up on the bathroom floor, only to
be told by my sniggering fifteen-year-old sister that I’d written my phone
number on my thong and thrown it at the DJ.

Funnily enough, he never called
. . .

Seeing me twitch, Greg chuckles
as I gingerly add four sugar lumps to my coffee in a bid to stifle the
champagne shakes.

“That bad, eh?” he laughs. “I’m
not surprised, you were completely zonked. I thought you were a gonner.”

Oh, it just gets better and
better.

Mortified, I screw up my face,
asking sheepishly, “You thought I was a gonner?”

Beaming mischievously, he pats
my hand.

“Too right I did! I was gonna
call an ambulance and start CPR, then you regurgitated beef bourgeon all over
me on the beach and I realised you were just drunk.”

My rattling hands are making
castanets of the crockery.
Fabulous
, so not only have I rowed with my
husband in full view of half the resort before buggering off (
God, I hope
Will paid the bill
) and falling asleep al fresco, I’ve also thrown up on a
second
cute guy in just over a week.

Way to go, Sally!

It’s not like I haven’t been
warned either, by everyone from my gin-guzzling mother to the nagging
Government.
‘Stick to 14 units, or you’ll be sorry . . .’

Sensing I need more sugar, Greg
hunts though the cupboard below the sink, fishes out a box of pan au chocolat
and hands me the biggest.

“You asked to go home,” he
explains, “but you couldn’t remember where home was, so I carried you here. Got
some bloomin’ strange looks, too.”

I’ll bet. No stranger than me,
mate, staggering up the promenade like a brazen Sue Ellen…

Nibbling my pastry, I nod
gratefully, trying not to spill crumbs on the carpet. Though his gentle
demeanour has put me at ease, my mind’s a hive of troubled thoughts.

Where was Will while all this
was going on? Did he stalk off to bed after our set-to? Or has he been out
looking for me all night? Where is he now? Is he angry? Or sorry? Jealous? Or
worried sick?

A lot will depend on how the
conversation went with Mike. Knowing Will, if he hadn’t liked what he’d heard,
I wouldn’t put it past him to have packed up and buggered off back to Blighty
without me.

Conjuring images of my hubby
scouring the island, flanked by a torch-bearing search posse, a worrying notion
strikes. What if, in my inexcusable state, I did something stupid?

Really
stupid. Like forgot I like
strawberry, let down my guard . . . and tasted a toffee? On a subconscious
level, it would make perfect sense.

Have I forgiven Will for his
fling? No.

Do I want to get back at him?
Maybe.

Am I afraid that every time we
make love, it’s Becky’s flawless face he sees at the height of passion?

Yes, definitely.
Bitch
.

Rescued from the beach in the
dead of night by a hot movie star look-alike, the ideal opportunity to get back
at Will presented itself on a plate. I could
easily
have listened to the
girls and levelled the score.

But
did
I?

Raking my brain for clues, I
try to imagine Will’s reaction when I waltz in and confess I’ve spent the night
on Greg’s yacht. It doesn’t make pleasant thinking. Hell, I still get stick
over a hockey player I bedded in my teens, not to mention Mike Foster - who I
haven’t bedded
at
all
- so he’s hardly going to take
this
little
revelation with a pinch of salt, is he?

Eh-eh. He’ll go apeshit.

Coughing nervously, I realise -
I have to
ask
. Did we? Didn’t we? Are my wedding vows intact or in
tatters? Whatever Greg’s answer, as far as Will’s concerned, the story is this:
I fell asleep on the beach - alone - and spent the night under a wicker
umbrella.

“Er, Greg?”

“Yesss?”

“Please tell me we just
slept
,
or I’m in immeasurable trouble,” I beg, spilling it out as fast as I can. “I’m
appalled
at myself. Really, truly appalled but I just can’t remember. I was drinking to
stop
thinking
, you see. I guess I overdid it.”

Head cocked, he contemplates
his answer.

“You’ve gotta be
kiddin’
me,” he grins. “You mean you don’t remember our
shower
? Things got
pretty steamy . . .”

Ohhh, bugger.