Antidote to Infidelity (53 page)

That’s my girl. Think of Becky.
Think of what he’s done to you. Think of what he did to her. Twice.

“
Ah, music to my ears,
”
he quips.
“
I
’
ll
see you there.
”

As I lay the phone
on the bed and begin rummaging numbly through the non-existent posh section of
my wardrobe, I
do
think of Becky. For fifteen long, cruel minutes, I
think of nothing else. I’ve reached breaking point.

When I finally put
down our wedding picture and stop crying, I feel a surge of raw energy and an
interesting thought strikes me.

Whatever you can do,
Will, I can do better. Move over Snow White, Horny Opportunist Hookers
’
sisterhood here I
come.

Perched at my
dressing table, preparing myself for the dinner with Mike that I’m guessing
might end with dessert upstairs, I
almost
bottle it and give the whole
thing up as a bad idea.

Almost but not
quite.

Having spent the
last two hours trying to make myself look irresistible - which includes sexy La
Perla undies, lace suspenders and golden three-inch heels - I slide into my
black halter-neck dress, hands too shaky to fasten the clasp.

For five years, I
haven
’
t been touched by
anyone but Will, and before him there was only Wade - but
that
doesn
’
t count because I can
’
t remember most of it. Neither
do my teenage tussles with Troy as I never let
his
groping paws past
second base.

Whichever way you
look at it though, this time tomorrow -
if
I hold my nerve - I
’
ll have slept with fifty
percent more men than I currently have.

Oooh-er. Just call
me Bianca.

As I slip on my
favourite diamante watch, I absentmindedly reach for the shimmering shell
necklace hanging beside the mirror, then realise my mistake and drop it like a
hot coal.

No. Too much.

It
’
s one thing to cheat on your
husband with a gorgeous doctor, but to do it wearing the pretty jewellery he
bought you in Spain? Eh-eh.
That
would be taking the piss.

Voice of Reason: Oh,
and I suppose this isn’t. I suppose doing it necklace-less makes it all
alright? Who are you trying to kid? Wake up and smell the divorce papers,
Sally. You know you’ll never do it. Never.

It’s also occurred
to me that settling the score whilst the kids are at Splash Landings with Will
’
s parents is below the belt
too. I can
’
t help but wonder:
did he think twice about shagging Becky, knowing full well that whilst he was
wedged inside another woman, his wife would be sandwiched between his babies at
home?

Shameless Whore: Evidently
not. No, he just slipped off his wedding ring and shagged her twice, without
putting his stupid brain into gear, and thought about the consequences after.
The only thinking he did beforehand was with his dick.

Well, two can play
at that game. In fact, that
’
s just what I plan
to do. Not think with my dick,
obviously
, but have a one-off evening of
pure, unadulterated passion and worry about what it will mean to my flagging
marriage
tomorrow
.

Walking oh-so-slowly
downstairs so as not to trip over my towering shoes, I pick up the keys to my
Mustang, and then the Saab, before dropping both sets with a clatter.

Ow - I can
’
t take the Mustang as it
’
s a gift from Will.

I can
’
t take the Saab as it
is
Will
’
s.

And I can
’
t ask Mike to pick me up
because the curtain-twitchers next door will stitch me up for sure.

Oooohh, problems,
problems!

Reaching into my
sequined clutch bag, I locate the card I keep for Andy Cabs and call a taxi to
take me the five-mile journey to Nottingham
’
s
stylish
Sinatra
’
s
restaurant. It
’
s the cheating connoisseurs
’
choice: far enough from home
to avoid being spotted, yet close enough to the
Crown Plaza
to avoid
being stumped.

***

Twenty minutes
later, as the giant clock on the City
’
s Market Square
strikes nine-thirty, I hurry past a procession of dancing purple fountains
towards the restaurant, passing a staggering Stag and his back-slapping buddies
on the way.

The condemned man -
a long haired hippy in his twenties - begs for a kiss to add to his tally. I
oblige, giving him a quick peck on the cheek to a chorus of inebriated cheers
before smiling and heading on my way.

I
’
m characteristically late but
only by half an hour or so and hopefully later, when we
’
re . . . you know . . . Mike
will realise: I
’
m worth the wait.

Voice of Reason: Or
you’ll realise you’re making a huge mistake and TURN BACK NOW.

Phew. God, I
’
m nervous. Short of breath too
and practically
shaking
as I reach the open-fronted entrance to Sinatra
’
s, realising with a pang of
panic that I
’
ve forgotten my
brown paper bag.

Shameless Whore:
Never mind, luv, you won’t need it. Just condoms and you’ve remembered those,
haven’t you? Concealed in the lining of your hand bag. That’s my girl!

I
’
m well aware I might be getting
way
ahead of myself, that Mike
’
s a
gentleman
,
that I might change my mind, that things might not go that far. But I
’
m also aware that they
might
,
and if they
do,
I don
’
t want my one
reckless night of meaningless get-even sex to result in a mini medic popping
into the world in nine months
’
time.

Walking nervously
through the arched doorway, realising I
’
ve reached the point
of no return, I spot Mike in the far corner of the crowded room at a candlelit
table for two beneath a signed photograph of Cindy Crawford in a silver bikini.

Gorgeous as ever in
a fitted black shirt and tight dark jeans, he notices me immediately. Standing,
he pulls out the chair beside him with a pulse-racing grin.

I falter, but only
for a second, then lift my head, throw back my shoulders and smile, breezing
across the restaurant like a woman completely at ease with her conscience and
totally confident in what she
’
s doing.

It is, of course,
nothing more than a façade, being as the Voice of Reason and the Shameless
Whore are thrashing out a last-gasp humdinger in my ears. It
’
s all I can do to keep
breathing
as I blot them out, accepting a warm squeeze and light, lingering kisses on
both cheeks.

“
Sally, hi - wow, you look
ravishing
,
”
he says, pouring me a large
glass of Claret from a bucket resting on the wall of the trickling fountain
behind him.
“
I hope you don
’
t mind but you
’
re a little late so I took the
liberty of ordering.
”

Mind? Is he kidding?
Oooh, such old school charm. Such manners.
Unlike Will, who would have
waited five minutes tops, then buggered off to the chippy.

Entranced by the way
the flickering candlelight illuminates the contours of his face, I manage a coy
eyelash flutter.

“
That
’
s fine,
”
I say,
“
Sorry I
’
ve kept you waiting. What am I
having?
”

Eyes locked on mine,
Mike reaches for the menu, reading aloud,
“
Pan-fried garlic
mushrooms in rich, white wine sauce, followed by succulent Derbyshire fillet on
a bed of mustard mash.
”

Oh no. Bad choice! I’m going to
stink of garlic. Oh well, hay-ho, I’m not going to bed with Dracula, am I?

“
Mmm, sounds delicious,
”
I say politely.
“
And you?
”

“
Tiger prawns,
”
he declares hungrily, kissing
his fingers bon appetite.
“
Then the lamb shank.
Followed by champagne on the terrace and a delicious dessert for two.
”

Caught off guard, I
choke on a sip of wine, blushing as he hands me a gold silk napkin.

“
Bones?
”
he enquires,
“
Take it easy, relax, we
’
ve got all night.
”

Oh, help.

As the sensual
background track switches to the Luther Vandross
’
s
If Only For One Night, I realise . . . I can
’
t
cope with this. I thought I could, but I
can
’
t
. He
’
s so laid back, so charismatic,
so
worldly
.

I start to panic.

What if I, Little Miss
Married, Little Miss Frigid, just don
’
t live up to his
past exciting conquests, because I
’
m
sure
there
’
s been plenty. What then?

What if he thinks I
’
m
fat
? Because compared
to Beanpole Becky, I’m a whale.

What if he thinks I
’
m
hairy
? I’m practically
Sherwood Forest!

Is he expecting a
Brazilian? Hah! He isn
’
t gonna get one!

What if he gets fed
up and fakes an orgasm to get it over with . . . because I
’
m crap in bed?
No wait, I
forgot, men can
’
t do that, can they?
Phew!

Or, what if, like Bi
suggested, I
’
m making a
huge,
irreversible
mistake? What if two wrongs really don’t make a right?

***

“
Sa-lly,
”
he says casually, pushing my
brimming goblet towards me as a tuxedo-wearing waiter deposits our starters.
“
You look like you
’
re about to be put to the firing
squad. Relax, unwind. Here, have some
wine
. Talk to me about Will.
”

Mmm. Wine? Maybe I
shouldn
’
t.

Or should I? You
know, go with the flow and all that. Oh God, what works best in these
situations? A clear head or Dutch courage? Definitely the latter, I’d say.
There’s no way people can do this sober.

Crumbling, I knock
back the entire glass gratefully, followed by another in sheer panic. Poking
miserably at my mushrooms, I feel the heady anaesthetic kick in before
informing him, through pained sobs, that my husband is a complete
bastard
.

That I hate his
lying
,
cheating
guts.

That the
lowlife
,
adulterous
shit head
hasn
’
t seen his children
for over a week and that I couldn
’
t care less if I
never clap eyes on him again in my whoooole life!

When I
’
ve
quite
finished, I
look up from the floor to catch him staring at me, nodding in agreement as he
tops and tails a tiger prawn.

“
I see,” he says. “Then as far
as I
’
m concerned, that
gives
me
the green light . . .
”

Dropping my knife
with a clumsy clatter, my breathing quickens as anaesthetic turns to
adrenaline.