Antidote to Infidelity (37 page)

Thinking Rosie-Posie might nod
back off, I’m about to make my third and final call, cancelling tea with Mike
due to quarantine, when Ryan bounces upright, making me jump.

“Yay! Mummy! We’re back!
Hooray!” he roars, louder than Concord. “Rosie, wakey! Where are they, where
are they?”

Thinking ‘uh-oh’ I hug my
precious little leopards tight, buying time and playing dumb.

“Where are
what
?” I ask,
stalling. “Where are my
monster kisses
, that’s what I want to know?”

Oblivious to my bruises, they
leap around the room like Spring lambs, covering me in kisses and splodges of
foundation. Dizzy just watching them, I beam. God, I’m glad they’re back.
Safely back in the fold, give or take a broken bone or two. One thing’s for
sure, they’re not going again. Not without me and that spare pair of eyes in
the back of my head.

Rosie, sun-bleached ringlets
running wild, grins from ear to ear and bounces excitedly into my lap,
squealing, “Our
puppies
, mummy! Yay! We want
puppies
. We want
puppies
!”

As my wounded soldier merrily
takes up the chant, I stroke his potted arm, tugging them in for a three-way
hug.

“Now listen kiddos, this is
very
important,” I whisper. “I’ve got a
humungous
secret, okay?”

Remarkable. Utterly unheard of.
Instant wide-eyed silence. I’ll have to try that old chestnut more often.

Thinking on my feet, I decide
my only chance is to pass the terrapins off as some kind of webby wonder-pets
everyone wants. So I go for broke and tell a little white fib.

“Well, you see, they’d got no
puppies I’m afraid,” I say, apologetically. “Not
nice
ones anyway. What
they
did
have though was two Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, just hatched
from magic eggs. The
very
last ones in the
whole wide world
. But
I told them you wouldn’t want
those
. . .”

Imaginations reeling, Ryan and
Rosie look at each other, eyes on stalks, conferring telepathically.

“Really
real
ones?” my
son asks sceptically.

I nod, feeling a bit rotten yet
highly inventive.

“And they’ll really, truly grow
into proper Ninjas, mummy? With swords and shields and everything?” Rosie
enquires.

Oh what the heck? In for a
penny, in for a pound. I’ll never get to heaven anyway.

Half expecting my speckled nose
to shoot out and sprout leaves, I nod firmly, assuring my sparkly-eyed duo,
“Yes.
Definitely
. Without a shadow of a doubt. They’ll talk, too, but
not for many years . . . and only if they’re
extremely
well cared for by
extremely
well behaved children.”

Wavy dark curls impish and
unruly, Ryan’s brown eyes shine like saucers as he squeals, “You
did
get
them, didn’t you mummy? You did, didn’t you? Yes mummy?
Yes
?”

I slowly shake my head, then,
seeing their excited little faces drop, clap my hands like a seal.

“Of
course
I did,
they’re in the kitchen. Go, go! Go say hello, they’re waiting for you to name
them!”

As they bound out of the room,
thundering down the stairs like a herd of elephants, Will walks in, hooks his
jacket on the back of the door and tosses his keys onto the dressing table.

“Well, they seem happy enough.
We’ll bath them in a minute and paint them white. They’ll love that. Here you
go, babe. Did you cancel Mike?”

Wondering how he can look so
sexy and spotless when I looked so shitty and zitty, I pat the bed for him to
sit.

“Not yet. But I called my
mother. She’s a bloody nasty piece of work.”

Will grins, “Tell me something
I
don’t
know. I’m waiting patiently for someone to drop a house on her.”

Opening the chemist bag, he
takes out the calamine, shakes it and dabs a chalky dot on the prominent spot
on the tip of my nose, making me go bozeyed.

“There. That’s better. I had a
word with the pharmacist, she says chickenpox is doing the rounds. You must
have picked it up before the kids went away. Probably contaminated half of
Spain!”

Tossing myself back onto the
pillows, I pull the quilt over my head and groan. Then, remembering I have a
burning question, shoot back up.

“Hey! That reminds me,
Mr-Spanish-speaker,” I say. “I almost forgot. I want to know how you know Greg?
You said in Puerto Delfina it was business, but that’s not good enough.
What’s
going on?”

His face clouds over. Turning
his back on me, presumably to chew his lip unnoticed, he hesitates before
answering.

“I . . . well, I could tell you
but then I’d have to kill you.”

I sense he’s smiling, trying to
make a joke of it, but I smell a rat and I’m not about to let it drop.

“No,
seriously
Will. He
said he didn’t know you were
back
. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Work Sal,” he sighs, edgily.
“That’s all. No biggie. Don’t concern yourself.”

“Work?” I repeat, deadpan.
“Surprise, surprise.”

He shuffles and stands up. Hand
on the door handle, he throws me one of his infamous ‘leave it’ looks.

“It’s just
business
babe. Nothing to get all paranoid about, let it lie. I’m going down to play
with the kids and their turtles. Call Mike and I’ll make us a fry-up.”

Staring at the ceiling, I shout
“terrapins” after him as he pads down the stairs, leaving me considering the
scant possibility I’m married to an MI5 agent. Or, much more likely, MFI.
‘Cross me, punk, and I’ll cross-thread your cupboards’.

Mmmm. Tricky culinary question:
What’s the
polite
way to cut tomatoes when you’re having guests for tea?
Do you chop them into chunks? Neat little slices? Pickle them in vinegar? Or
fanny about with those fancy, flower-shaped thingies no one eats at wedding
receptions?

Hmmm. Decisions, decisions.

Standing by the sink with a
vine full of ripe red fruit (or vegetables, or whatever they are), I just can’t
decide how best to dissect them for my posh mixed salad. So I wash them, dry
them,
polish
them . . . and ask Will.

Strapping and sexy in a
peck-sculpting charcoal shirt and dark denim jeans, he stares at me like I’m
due a stint in the nuthouse then snatches the carving knife with manly
assertion.

“Sally. Babe. They’re
tomatoes
.
It’s Mike Foster not the Prime bloody Minister. Go and get dressed,
I’ll
do them.”

“Fine.” I agree, reluctantly.
“But make sure you do them
properly
. Okay? It’s important.”

Grunting, he sets about his slap-happy
chopping as Rosie, dressed in her favourite floor-length golden Belle ball
gown, follows me upstairs.

“Shall I help you curl your
hair, mummy?” she giggles, “I’ll do it
properly
.”

“Thanks, baby.” I say, kissing
her freckled nose. “You can do the spraying, okay?”

She nods, humming ‘be our
guest, be our guest’ from Beauty and the Beast as I pull the towel off my head,
releasing a mass of damp ringlets.

Mmm, hair I can handle. The
rest of me, however, is going to take a bit more work. Oh, who am I trying to
kid? A
lot
more work. In fact, it’ll take a miracle. I could be
sitting here with John Freida and Gok Wan and they wouldn’t know where to
start.

Perhaps if I overcompensate
with a sultry outfit, like a tight, revealing Annabel top and an equally bum-hugging
Becky skirt, Mike’ll be too bowled over to care about my obvious flaws.

Or maybe - much more likely -
he’ll be too glued to Sky Sports with his new best bud to realise I’m even in
the house.

As my rancid reflection stares
out at me from the dressing table glass, Rosie carefully hands me my curling
tongues, singing, “Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”

Popping a glittering silver
butterfly pin in her fringe, I sigh, “Not mummy, that’s for sure! You know, I
think it might be
you
, Miss Belle. Can you go check Ryan’s dressed for
me?”

Nodding, my miniature princess
dances out, floating across the landing into the twins’ room before shattering
her angelic image with, RYAN! Ryyyaaan! Mummy . . . says . . . get . . . ready!
Or she’s gonna come and smack your stinky bum!”

Charming. Get dressed or mummy
the ogre’s gonna kick some ass.

Feeling more like one of the
Ugly Sisters than Cinderella, I pull on a tight black angora jumper and my
girls’ night out silvery jeans, glancing at the bedside alarm.

It’s five forty-five. Fifteen
minutes until show time.

Trowelling on my make-up, I
rustle my hair into chunky waves, selecting my best sparkly heart necklace,
matching bracelet and earrings out of my jewellery box. Painting my lips
‘Scarlet Seduction’, I cover myself in Light Blue, thinking I’ll just about
pass (if we eat in the dark) when a pantomime voice booms,

“ . . . The fairest one, it is
not thee. But you’d still get . . . a shag . . . off me!”

I whirl round to see Will
standing in the doorway watching me, transfixed, a sombre expression on his
face.

Silly great bugger. He’s seen
me get ready a
billion
times before and never batted an eyelid. Why the
sudden hot-brush infatuation?

Then I realise - the jealousy
cogs will be ticking away. He’s regretting his
keep-your-friends-close-enemies-closer ploy. He thinks I’m dolling myself up
for Mike.

As if.

Of course I’m not.

Not at all.

Not really, anyway.

Well, maybe just a little bit.
But only because I’m the hostess.

Walking slowly over and leaning
in to smell me, Will smiles warily, pushing a ringlet out of my eyes.

“You look lovely, Sal.
Stunning,” he fibs. “I’ve put the quiche in on the timer. Oh, and Bi’s in the
lounge.”

Frowning, I click my tongues
off at the plug, flirty curls complete.

“Look. Down there. See that?
It’s an ‘off’ switch,” I tell him sarcastically. “Bi? In the lounge? What’s
she
doing here?”

Will shrugs. “How should I
know? She’s got an envelope. Shall I send her up or what?”

I nod, adding a tiny squirt
more perfume. Will knowingly rolls his eyes and trudges downstairs,
complimenting Ryan on ‘the battiest Batman outfit ever’.

I inhale nervously. Bugger the
bats, I’m more concerned with the butterflies that are warping around my chest
like bald eagles. Why oh why am I getting so het up over Mike Foster? It’s only
Mike Foster, for Christ’s sake. Not the Prime-bloody- Minister as Will so
kindly pointed out. So why am I making such an effort?

‘Because,’
says a wicked whisper inside my
head,
‘you know that the second Will’s back’s turned and your spots aren’t
so spotty, you’re going to forget the fact that your gorgeous husband’s falling
over himself to make amends, get your own back and shag him senseless . . .’

Hearing Bi’s approaching
footsteps as she bounds up the stairs, I fight to silence the Jiminy Cricket
consciences bickering in my ears: the
Shameless Whore
and the
Voice
of Reason
.

It’s pointless. They’re having
a right old humdinger. I’m no match. I close my eyes and concede defeat.

Shameless Whore (SW):
You’re tarting up, you tart,
because you
want
him . . . and you want
him
to want
you
.
Admit it, huuusssy.

Voice of Reason (VR): Rubbish!
I merely want to look presentable. For Will’s sake.

SW: Boll-ocks! You want to look
shaggable. For revenge’s sake.

VR: I do not! I’m happily
married.

SW: So’s Willy Boy . . . but it
didn’t stop him, did it?

VR: No . . . but he’s really
sorry.

SW:
Is
he though? Or is
he just smart?

VR: Look, he made one mistake
and he told me.

SW: Hmm. I think he’s sneaky.
If I were you, I’d want to see the receipt for that ‘new’ wedding ring . . .

VR: Oh, don’t be ridiculous!

SW:
And
I’d ask where he
was until eleven on Christmas Eve . . .

VR: Stop it! He was busy
shopping. You’ve seen the bag he bought . . .

SW: The shops shut at five, luv
. . .

VR: Shut up! I’m not listening,
I trust Will.