Antidote to Infidelity (7 page)

Rowan’s been a rock. Very
understanding. She knows what I’m going through, you see. Her hubby’s got a
droopy zipper too, but
he’s
major league. I should know, I used to date
him in high school. Lord only knows why, I can’t stand the mortal sight of him.
The terrible thing is, neither can she. I’ve promised to pop round tomorrow
with a big box of Thorntons so we can dissect our rotting relationships and see
where we’re going wrong. I know where I’m going wrong, though - I’m a bloody
soft touch.

Ever the smooth-talker, Will’s
already back in our bed. Platonically at first (sex is tough, you see, with two
snoring midgets in the middle), then last night passionately, for the first
time in over a month.

Very
passionately, actually. Talk
about release. It was like the Hoover Dam bursting its banks or Mount St
Helen’s erupting after fifty dormant years . . . oh, but don’t think just
because Will’s having his wicked way, I’m having the wool pulled. Don’t think
I’m daft enough to forgive and forget in the wink of an eye - I’m not.

I’m
hurting
.

I’m
angry
.

So angry, in fact, that if I had
one of those sadomasochistic knacker clamps, I’d dangle him from the ceiling
fan by his cheating nuts and hit ‘spin’.

Will might
think
he’s
got away with it just because he gave me three mind-blowing orgasms but he can
think-a-bloody-gain. A rampant roll in the hay, no matter how hungry the
kisses, how intense the euphoria, is
not
going to make me forget what
he’s done in a hurry.

I didn’t
want
to sleep
with him, you understand. I
had
to. Somewhere deep inside, beneath the
urge to mince his manhood whilst still attached and turn his testicles into
Christmas tree baubles, I felt the need to reclaim him. To make my husband
mine
again.

I’ll be honest, Rowan thinks
I’m insane for allowing him back in the marital bed. I just don’t know
what
to think. I can’t trust my head or my heart at the moment, so I’m acting on
instinct - and instinctively, it felt right.

At the time, that is. In the
cold light of day, I have my doubts.

***

Nevertheless, in reflective
post-coital morning-after mode, with the cringing memory of pie-eyed Clive
still fresh as a daisy, Will and I are standing outside our house in the crisp
midday sunshine, waving the kids off on a winter-warmers trip to Tenerife with
their grandparents.

Rosie and Ryan, passports
tucked safely in the pockets of their matching denim dungarees, are electric
with excitement, their eager little faces pressed up against the back window as
they happily wave a medley of buckets and spades, thrilled to be off to the
seaside.

Clive, on the other hand, is
getting more exasperated by the minute, trying to make them sit down, turn
round and belt up so they can bugger off and begin their holiday.

Finally, he wins the battle
and, satisfied with his efforts, scrambles into the driver’s seat of his new
gold Subaru, mopping his shining brow with what he
thinks
is a clean
hankie but is actually the greasy window leather.

“Phew! Dear me,” he pants,
forehead covered in grimy fluff. “It’s worse than herding cattle. Right gang,
are we ready at last?”

But it’s a case of three in,
one out, as Mary (dear), clad in luminous Hawaiian florals and reeking of
Chanel, totters around the car and seizes us, squeezing us tightly together.
Cutting off my air supply with a chubby forearm, she peppers us alternately
with sticky pink kisses.

“Mmwaa! Ahh, you kids have a
wonderful, wonderful time . . . all on your own.”

She winks a bright green
eyelid, reminding me of Will.
Another winker
.

“Mmwaa! I wouldn’t be adverse
to another little grandchild you know, dear.”

Huh! Fat chance. I wouldn’t be
adverse to a villa in the Costa del Sol but guess what, we’re not getting one
of those either!

“Oh Sally dear, you look sooo
much better,” she gushes, patting her rigid grey roller-curled crop. “You did
look quite ghastly on Christmas Day but all the colour’s come back to your
pretty little cheeks!”

Not missing a beat, Clive
gaffes and sticks his balding bonce out the window. “Haaa! Ha - which cheeks?
Haaa! Mary, for heaven’s
sake
, will you please get in the bloody car?”

Almost as if she’s swatting at
a fly, Mary shushes him with a dismissive royal waft of her hand, planting
another smacker on Will. “Mmwaa! Ignore him, dear, he’s a pig, not like my
Will-ee-yum.”

She coo-che-coos her eldest
son’s cheek, clucking, “Be good to her, you brute, or you’ll wake one morning
to find she’s wised up and run off with someone half your age! Byyyeee!”

As Will flinches, she flounces
back to the car where, engine revving, Clive sits tut-tutting and tapping his
watch, flanked by the kids who are also getting impatient, giggling and bouncing
in their booster seats. Angelic little faces aglow with mischief, they catch my
eye, chorusing in boisterous unison, “Bye mummy! Bye daddy, see you in a week!
If there’s any wankers in the sea, we’ll have a good look at ’em - with mamma!”

“Whhhaaatt?”

Poor Mary. She really does look
as though she’s about to choke, but quick-thinking Clive just blasts the
hooter, sticks his thumb up and shoots off down the street. Waving madly until
the car disappears around the corner, Will suddenly grabs me, hoists me up and
throws me, fireman-style, over his left shoulder.

“Well, well, sexy Sally, what
are
we going to do with ourselves for seven whole days?”

Giggling as he bounces up and
down on the spot, I battle to stop my rising top displaying my boobs to all and
sundry.

No way. Eh-eh. Sex is off the
menu, buster. You’ve been reclaimed.

“Not what
you
think,” I
say sternly. “Because you,
Will-ee-yum
, are still very much in the dog
house - indefinitely.”

Pinching my bum in protest,
making me squirm, he sneaks a roaming hand under my jumper.

“Pity that,” he growls. “What
better way to grovel than to drag my young wife upstairs and show her just how
much I love her? All afternoon.”

Ooooh promises promises.

Blood is rushing to my head. I
feel like I’m on that horrible ride at Alton Towers that rattles you about a
bit before flipping you upside down and scaring the living crap out of you.

“You can’t, you can’t, I’m at
the hand clinic in an hour,” I squeal giddily. “Instead of Tuesday ’cos it’s
shut for New Ye-aaargh! Put me
down
you bully. And get
off
,
people can
see
.”

Ignoring my plea, he caveman
lugs me half way up the path before spotting something out of the corner of his
eye, about-turning and walking back to the kerb edge to greet the white
InterFlora van that’s just pulled up. Making a parting in my mass of unruly,
upside down curls, I see the driver check his clip-board, wind down the window
and ask, “Is this number eleven?” before reaching into the back and presenting
an exquisite bouquet of glittering, snow-covered red roses.

Oh! Oh-my-God . . . flowers!
Real, actual flowers - for me! Unless, of course, being upside down for so long
has made my brain malfunction, in which case they’re just a cruel mirage.
Suspicious,
I pinch myself, just to make sure. Nope - still there. Hooray!

Despite the fact they’re
obviously
a big, fat guilty-gift, I just can’t hide my excitement at what is only my
fifth bunch of posies in as many years of marriage. He
must
be feeling
bad to buy me flowers. They’re really nice ones, too. Expensive. Not the limp
garage forecourt freesias guilty guys buy as an afterthought.

“Oooh, flowers!” I gush
dramatically. “Oh Will, they’re absolutely
gorgeous
. Thank you.”

But instead of smiling proudly,
he plonks me back on the pavement and snatches the bouquet from the driver,
thrusting me the tiny card.

“That they are Sally, but
they’re not from me.”

Without another word, the tubby
InterFlora guy jumps hastily back in his van, makes a clumsy U-turn and whizzes
off down the street in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Talk about sensing trouble. He
obviously thought we were about to shoot the messenger!

Legs tingling, I frown,
anticipating a bouquet-induced bust-up.

“They’re not?” I stammer.

Stony-faced, Will taunts me
with the flowers, meanly holding them hostage.

“Nope.”

“You’re kidding? If they’re not
from
you
. . . who are they from?”

As the butterflies in my tummy
flare up and flutter, Will, playful mood caput, stands simmering, chewing his
lip and tapping his foot. I know the stand-off stance well.

“How should I know?” he shrugs,
fingering one of the roses. “Why don’t you open your little note and enlighten
us?”

Oh, please be from Rowan.
Please be from Rowan . . .

I tug at the tiny envelope but
my bandaged hand keeps getting in the way. Will waits impatiently for several
seconds before taking it from me and reading aloud:

 “To Long Tall Sally, thanks for the ride! Hope
you’re feeling better. I’ve still got your shirt! Much love, Mike, kiss kiss.”

No way! He hasn’t? How lovely!
How thoughtful. How . . . uh-oh.

Cheeks aglow, I look sheepishly
at my husband, staring at me expectantly. Then at the flowers. Then at the
floor. Then at the sky. Then, finally - when I’ve run out of things to look at
- reluctantly back at Will.

It’s bizarre. I can’t help
feeling
energised
. Absurdly empowered. Flower power-ed! I’m itching to
say, ‘Jealous, are we? Stinging a tad? Like how it feels?’ but he’s already
blazing, I don’t need to add petrol.

Silently scanning the card, he
inhales deeply, like a stern professor preparing to bollock a troublesome
pupil.

“Sally.”

“Mmm?”

“I don’t mean to be a jealous
prick, but . . . who the
hell’s
Mike?”

Shit. Bugger. Arsehole. Stupid
card. Why couldn’t he just have put ‘from a friend?’ Then I’d have guessed who
– and fibbed. Surely he knows husbands and other bloke’s bouquets don’t mix.
Ever.

“No one!” I squeak, cursing my
flaming cheeks as next door’s curtains twitch. “Well, no, obviously he’s
someone
.
No one important, just that doctor who brought me home, you know, the one you
gave my finger to.”

As he looks accusingly from me
to the roses and back again, I know he’s thinking ‘bet that’s not all he gave
you’ and I’m certain he’s about to throw a famous Will-wobbler. But no. He just
shakes his head reproachfully, like I’m some lost, helpless cause, thrusting
the flowers into my arms.

“Long Tall Sally, thanks for
the ride indeed. Huh! And why, may I ask . . .” he reads the card again,
incensed, “. . . has he got your shirt?”

“It’s
your
shirt,” I
declare, realising as the words tumble out that it doesn’t make a blind bit of
difference to my defence.

“Oh, that’s just
great
,”
he simmers. “Why has he got
my
bleedin’ shirt?”

“Because some adulterous git
made me chop my finger off!”

“What’s
that
got to do
with my shirt, Sally-Ann? Christ, I
thought
he was staring me out.
Now
I know why! He was weighing up the competition. He was on the bloody make.”

Oh dear. Oh, dear, dear me. He
never
calls me by my middle name. Definitely . . . not . . .
good. I’m up the creak without a paddle. A whore without an ore. Not that I
am
a whore, you understand, but that’s how he’s making me feel.

Seriously in need of a fan, or
better still, a vodka, I tell myself I’ve done nothing wrong, yet still feel
horribly guilty, like I’m clutching at straws and walking on eggshells. Like
I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar . . . without ever having been
in the kitchen.

“I wrapped your shirt round my
hand, didn’t I?” I remind him lamely. “It was gushing, we’d got no bloody
plasters! And he was
not
on the make.”

Upset and unconvinced, Will has
a face like thunder. Had he been a puffer fish, he’d just have puffed. Thirty
silent seconds pass and here we stand, nose to nose, at loggerheads yet again,
jousting in full view of the neighbours, crazy-paved path running between us
like an invisible referee.

Shivering in my flimsy jumper,
I’m about to break the deadlock and stalk righteously inside when he suddenly
perks up, strokes his chin and smiles.

“I see. Right then, c’mon
Sally, let’s get the car keys shall we?”

Uh-oh. Car keys? What’s his
game, then?

Eyes narrow, he’s making me
nervous. Very. Out of nowhere, he has the gloating look of a man who, seeing a
mouse under his washer, has just laid out a pound of cheddar. Well, he can just
whistle.
He’s
the lousy love rat, not me!