Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (12 page)

least, I hope? That’s a good girl. Oh, dear, your hair really is very short, isn’t it, lovey? You look like a boy. Your mum did warn me. Never mind, it’ll grow back. Now,

then, stop skulking in a corner and come and say hello to

everyone. No need to be shy.’

Actually, having to say hello to everyone is precisely why I’m skulking in a corner, and trust me, shyness has never been the problem. I cut my teeth on the boys in

this room, and from the way most of them are either

(a) glaring at or (b) studiously avoiding me, I’d guess

they’re still nursing the bite marks.

My mother has been throwing her Christmas Day

soirees since the days when I still believed that having an

old man in red pyjamas sneaking into your bedroom at

night with presents was a good thing. It combines her two

favourite occupations: showing off (to the downmarket

relatives) and social climbing (with the upmarket neighbours).

It also gives her a very good excuse to replace the

carpet every January because of wine stains.

God knows why my father goes along with it. Poor

Dad. He hates parties. He usually slopes off to the greenhouse

with Uncle Denny once HRH has addressed the

nation, where they while away the afternoon leering over

the collection of soft porn Dad thinks no one knows he

keeps in a plastic bag under the cucumber cloches. Way

to go, Dad; though I’m not sure about the Busty Beauties mags. Some of those girls look positively deformed.

Every Christmas the usual suspects pitch up clutching

their homemade trifles and hideous poinsettias (what

is it with these loathsome mini-triffids?) plus or minus

the odd newborngranny at either end of the mortal coil.

Which means that over the years, I’ve played snakes

and ladders, doctors and nurses, Monopoly, PlayStation,

blackjack, and doctors and nurses again, with the same

assortment of cousins and neighbours’ sons. In fact, due

to extreme amorous laziness on my part, at one point or

another I’ve dated most of them, for periods ranging from

an hour to a year. These annual festive get-togethers are

an excruciating exhumation of my romantic roadkill.

First was Gareth, who, every time he met my parents,

hugged my dad and shook hands with my mother. He

was a bit odd, to be honest. I told him I loved kittens and

he took me to see a lion cub at the zoo. And he zigzagged

when he mowed the lawn.

Mark had even smaller nostrils than me. Our children

would have had gills. I dumped him forty minutes after

our first snog before one of us suffocated.

Cousin Jonathan was - and still is - the most gorgeous

man I’ve ever dated; a less stroppy Jude Law. He came

out three weeks after we started seeing each other Jonathan,

that is. I suppose I should have guessed when I

signed us up for a dirty dancing course at the Y, and he

asked if they offered ballet.

Daryl was sweet. But dim. I told him I needed space

and he spring-cleaned my wardrobe.

And then there was Andrew. Women have a dozen

mental channels, and manage to keep all their thoughts

separate in their heads. Andrew had only two. The first:

‘Can I get sex out of this?’ And the second: ‘I’m hungry.’

Quite often, the two coincided rather nicely.

Andrew and I lasted almost a year purely because of

the sex. It was sensational. No problems with that side

of our relationship at all. Unfortunately, there weren’t any

other sides. Things were very simple with Andrew. When

he said: ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ he meant I want sex. When he told me I had a pretty smile, he meant I want sex. It didn’t take a PhD to master the lingo. Trouble was, he didn’t believe in limiting classroom size. I wanted one man to fulfil my every need. Andrew

wanted every woman to fulfil his one.

I’m guessing - from Auntie Pearl’s sotto voce infomercial

that having just obtained his second divorce at the

age of thirty-one, Andrew is newly eligible, ‘so it’s not

too late, love’ - that he hasn’t changed in the six years

since I caught him teaching linguistics to Mrs-Newcombe

from - two - doors - down’s seventeen - year - old daughter,

Libby, in my parents’ bed.

Looking around, it’s clear I’m the tribal bike. But

frankly, I think the number of notches on my bedpost

is fairly modest, all things considered. It’s not my fault

that three-quarters of them are currently in the same

room.

Oh, God. And Martin. I’d forgotten about Martin. And

let me tell you, that hasn’t been easy.

If English schools did those American yearbook things,

Martin would be voted Most Likely to Die Alone. Put it

this way: if he were on fire, I’d toast marshmallows.

‘Well, hell-ooo Martin says to my breasts.

Nice glasses, Martin. I particularly like the Star Wars band-aid holding them together. Neat touch.

‘Sorry, just leaving—’

‘Leaving? I thought you were staying the night?’

I pull the half-chewed piece of coronation chicken that

has just fallen out of his wet mouth from my cleavage.

Trust me, this time I’m not doing it for erotic effect.

‘I am, but I - er - just have to check in with the office;

no reception on my mobile - have to go outside—’

It’s Christmas Day. Isn’t the office shut?’

‘Yes, it is, but I’m the - ah - duty solicitor. Lot of

divorces at Christmas. All that family time. And indigestion,

often a trigger.’

‘Really? I never realized. Well, we must catch up some

time,’ he calls after me as I leg it towards the back door.

‘Pick up where we left off, hmm, hmm?’

Where exactly did we leave off? For the life of me, I

can’t remember. Little shit probably used a roofie.

I’m halfway up the back garden before it clicks that it’s

four o’clock on a December afternoon and I’m wearing

thin silk jersey and a fixed smile.

Shivering, I plonk myself down on the stone bench

beside my mother’s new ‘water feature’, a hideous stone

abortion that would be spouting fluid from every orifice

if it wasn’t frozen solid. Bloody Ground Force, they have a

lot to answer for. My mother doesn’t need any encouragement.

I’m really not sure the seven-foot nude bronzes

are very Reading, to be honest. We should never have

let her go to the Chelsea Flower Show. Talk about putting

the chateau into shantytown.

I stamp my feet to get the blood flowing and blow on

my hands. Oh, God, what am I doing here? My life sucks.

I’m twenty-six years old, with my own job, flat, friends

and glow-in-the-dark vibrator, and here I am spending

Christmas Day shivering in my parents’ back garden with

assorted pieces of faux classic statuary.

At least when I was a kid there was still the hope of

escape. I’d pass round plates of turkey vol-au-vents and

dream of one day spending Christmas with a bronzed

Adonis on a sun-drenched, white-sugar beach somewhere.

I’d watch the twenty-something losers slinking into our

sitting room with their parents and sneer at their total sadness with all the worldly superiority of my fourteen years. Like, get a life. I couldn’t ever imagine choosing to

come back once parole was granted. I’d certainly never

have mashed lips with GarethMarkJonathanDaryl

AndrewMartin if I’d thought there was the remotest

danger that ten years later, I’d still be pulling crackers

with them.

There was a glorious window, somewhere between

sweet sixteen and a year or two ago, when all my friends

were single too and we’d spend Christmas skiing in

France, surfing in Oz, getting fucked in Phuket. It never

occurred to me that it’d ever end. Suddenly they’ve all

paired off, some of them even have kids, and most of the

time I so couldn’t care less; but at Christmas, how can you

help but notice you’re still on your own? So it’s either a

turkey Ready Meal for one in front of the Only Fools and

Horses Christmas Special or a trip back to the suburban

shagpile-and-pelmeted mock-Tudor nest, where I fit as

seamlessly back into my childhood landscape as a Shiite

in a synagogue.

I glare up at the nearest Greek statue as it starts to

drizzle. God, you really do have a divine sense of humour.

You know this is not what I meant by a bronzed Adonis.

And it was sun-drenched.

Oh, why the fuck does Nick have to be married? And

why did I have to let him get to me like this? And why,

in the name of Manolo, does he have to be the one married

man on the planet apart from my dad who’s faithful to

his wife?

I don’t even try to kid myself we can pick up where

we (almost) left off once UK pic re-opens for business

after Christmas. You can’t reheat a souffle.

Nick called my room the next morning to say that the

other side had abruptly caved - ‘Never mind, Sara, the

work wasn’t wasted. Si vis pacem, para helium: if you seek

peace, prepare for war’ - and he’d be on the next train

home as soon as he’d completed the relevant paperwork.

Back to his dippy wife with a heartfelt sigh of relief at his

lucky escape from the office Jezebel, no doubt. I didn’t

even see him check out.

Even now he’s probably carving a perfectly cooked,

moist turkey at the head of a groaning table as his three

pretty little girls excitedly pull crackers in their clean,

new party dresses. Beneath the exquisitely decorated

tree (real, natch) in the corner is a heap of still-unopened

presents, carefully rationed to prevent over-excitement.

‘Hark the Herald Angels’ is playing quietly on the sound

system. On the sideboard, a bottle of Chateau Latour ‘85

is breathing. And upstairs, on her pillow, ready for when

the children have gone to bed, is the tiny velvet box

containing - oh, God. Enough already.

The drizzle suddenly turns into a downpour. Martin is

still lurking in the rockery near the kitchen waiting for

me, so I make a run for the greenhouse. It’s in total

darkness as I burst in; it takes a moment for my eyes to

adjust to the gloom. It smells of damp earth and compost

1:

and dead spiders. Dad is at the far end near the potting

shelves, and with an inward smile I make a big show of

flapping out my rain-soaked skirt to give him and Uncle

Denny time to hide the porn magazines.

But it isn’t Uncle Denny who shuffles past me with an

embarrassed murmur a few moments later.

It’s Libby, Mrs-Newcombe-from-two-doors-down’s

daughter.

‘She sneaked me out a piece of chocolate cake Dad says,,

handing me the crumb-strewn plate. ‘You know your

mother’s got me on another of her bloody diets—’ he

breaks off as he catches sight of my expression. ‘Why,

what did you think she was doing in here? Slipping out

for a quick bit of nookie with your old man?’

Of course I bloody did, she’s got form.

‘Of course not,’ I snap.

Dad snorts with laughter. ‘You did, didn’t you? You

bloody did! I can’t wait to tell the lads down the King’s

Arms. Good Lord, I should be so lucky! The girl’s young

enough to be my daughter!’

‘Younger1 mutter crossly.

I’m obviously losing it, of course. It’s this thing with

Nick that’s done it: I’ve got affairs on the brain. As if my

Dad would ever mess about. He and Mum have been

together so long they’re starting to look like each other.

She so drives me up the wall, but she obviously floats his

boat. So, whatever.

He gives my shoulders a warm squeeze. ‘There you

are, then, love. A girl like that wouldn’t look twice at an

old man like me.’

Wouldn’t she? I look at my dad, look at him properly, in his creaseless khakis and the light blue jumper Mum gave him this morning ‘because it matches your eyes’ as

if - and try hard to be objective. He’s not as slim as he

was in their wedding photos; but, on the plus side, not

as spotty either. All right to look at, I suppose; quite

nice, actually, if he wasn’t my dad, despite that crappy

geek haircut, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed since

he was seventeen. At least he hasn’t got Uncle Denny’s

beer gut like the rest of his brothers-in-King’s Arms. But

he’s past it, surely? I know he and Mum must occasionally

- well, let’s not go there. Not a pretty thought. But

otherwise. Twenty-six years in, settled, sorted, well-and

truly married; past all the flirting and butterflies and

assignations in potting sheds.

And then I realize with a shock that he’s only forty

three years old: exactly the same age as Nick. Who is most

definitely not past it at all.

New Year’s Eve is worse.

I had planned to escape to London and shake down

some of my friends to find a cool party to go to. Failing

that, I was even considering throwing one (inevitably

somewhat less cool) if I could round up enough takers;

or, as a last resort, staying up till five a.m. with Amy like

all mistresses, forced to fly solo at holidays and

weekends - to watch the ball drop in Times Square on