Antidote to Infidelity (12 page)

As salty tears soak my cheeks
and blend with the water, my head feels like a wall that’s just been stuffed
with cavity insulation - heavy, hot and full to capacity.

For the past hour, I’ve been
mulling over a million burning questions, like: What the
hell’s
happened
to my life? Where’s my cheating husband scuttled off to? And why, oh why, has
he chosen to rub my nose in it by knobbing a knockout nurse almost half his
age? And knobbing her
twice
at that! Not to mention taking his wedding
ring off to do it.

I could just sink under the
bubbles, put an end to my misery here and now, but knowing my rotten luck I’ll
just do a Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction: slowly drown, then jump back out for
a second stint.

***

Looking back, things started to
turn sour in the summer. June, I think, was when it really began to curdle. We
were happy as pigs in muck, all four of us, until one day Will declared, quite
matter-of-factly over dinner, he was quitting his steady nine-to-five insurance
job to launch a new magazine franchise which would take him away - a lot.

I was apprehensive to say the
least. Up until then our days were filled with love, laughter and adventure,
playing in the park, cake baking contests and surprise trips to the seaside . .
. then along came
Something for the Weekend?
and
our
fun weekends
stopped.

When I objected, he told me in
no uncertain terms that if we wanted to keep spending money like water, then
someone had to earn it. And that, was that. A few weeks later, bitten by the
business bug, his venture was off the ground and the kids and I were dropped
like hot potatoes.

Now we’re in a right old mess.
Formerly easy-going, carefree and fun to be with, Will has become an uptight,
relentless workhorse. A restless pit-pony . . . and I’m saddled with the
adverse side-effects. In short, if I see him for an hour a day, I feel lucky.
If I get to ride him, I feel
privileged
.

The really upsetting thing is,
Rosie and Ryan are beginning to notice too. Ryan’s even got a chart in the
playroom which he ticks when his dad comes home. Sadly, it’s mostly made up of
fat, black crosses, which makes me want to rip it off the wall and shove it
down Will’s throat. Three days a month that is, when I’m at my PMT peak. The
rest of the time, I can cope.

Though the kids plague my eyes
out when Will’s away, the
second
he walks through the door, they’ll give
him the cold shoulder and torment him like little beasts. I don’t think they
mean
to, they
adore
him, it’s just their way of showing how they feel.
Voicing their disapproval of his absence.

It’s pretty much the same with
me, sadly. My hubby and I have become distant and dysfunctional. We used to be
lovebirds joined at the beak, now we’re lone swallows flying in different
directions.

For some reason we’ve got the
bickering bug. Ten minutes in each others’ company and we’re fighting over
stupid, niggling things, from him missing the twins’ bedtime to me neglecting
to put out the dustbin! Then, of course, there’s our stale sex life, which
probably led to Will looking elsewhere in the first place.

‘I have
needs
, Sally,
and
you
don’t fulfil them. That’s why I shagged
her
. Twice.’

He hasn’t actually said that
yet, but I’m waiting for it.

It pains me to say it, as I
feel like a failure, but sneaking in steamy sessions has become a military
operation. Rather than indulging in spur-of-the-moment hanky-panky, like we did
in the early days, we’ve begun searching for synchronised time slots. You know,
‘I can squeeze you in at eleven on the fifteenth if you fancy it, babe’.

It’s highly unsatisfying. Bland
and monotonous. Mmmm, except for our intimate three-hour marathon on Saturday, but
that
was a guilty shag and therefore doesn’t count being as he was
probably screwing me, thinking of
her
.

Normally, you see, I don’t get
multiple
orgasms
. Not anymore, anyhow. Don’t get me wrong, I
used
to, but
just lately I’ve been subjected to un-spontaneous, un-fulfilling 3am fumbles
from a grumpy, knackered husband with a face like a slapped arse.

It’s better than nothing, I
suppose, but not as good as
The Rabbit
and that doesn’t shag around
.
Seriously
though,
I want more.
Much
more. I want romance and roses. I want
affection, devotion, passion. Perhaps Will should take a leaf out of Mike’s
book – I bet
he
knows how to treat a girl.

***

Sobbing, I place my empty glass
on the sink. As my old mate LeAnn launches into a doleful rendition of ‘You
Light up my Life’, I’m semi-contemplating yanking the CD into the tub to stop
the torture when my mobile buzzes, jolting me back to reality. I leap out to
answer it, nipped all over by the
freezing
air.

“Brrr. Brrr. Hello?”

“Well well, hello yourself.
How’s my favourite finger patient?”

Oh-my-god! It’s him.

The seductive tones of Mike
Foster are like soft, sensual kisses to my ear. My heart skips a beat as I
flick off the music and hop back into the suds.

All the better to hear you
with, my dear doctor.

“Oh, hi! Fine - and you?” I say
brightly. “I was going to call and thank you for the
beautiful
flowers
but you beat me to it.”

He laughs, deep and sexy, “I’m
pleased you liked them. Where are you, you sound all echo-y?”

Feeling coy, I sink under the
bubbles, making sure they’re covering my floating boobs, thankful he can’t see
me blushing.

“I’m, erm, in the bath
actually. Just getting ready for tonight.”

Maybe I’m mistaken but I’m
sure
he just groaned.

“The bath, eh?” he chuckles,
followed by a few more muffled, ‘aahs and grrrs’. “Ah yes, for the big fancy
dress bash at Savannah’s!”

I giggle shyly.

“Er, yeah . . . how’d you know
about that?”

“You
told
me. In the
car. Explained your outfit in explicit detail, actually.”

“I did?”

More throaty laughter. “You
did. In fact, you asked me if I’d like to stop by.”

“I
did
?”

Oh dear.

Appalled at my barefaced
audacity, I shrink further down, wondering what other outrageous offers I might
have made during my drug-fuelled journey back to Goldwell. I’m
terrible.
When I’m upset, my brain goes to sleep and my mouth runs riot. I could have
said
anything
. He probably knows my bra size, my ATM pin and how I like
my eggs in a morning!

“So, tell me doctor - did you,
erm, accept my invitation?” I ask nervously.

Flicking on the hot tap with my
big toe, I top up my fast-cooling tub, heart aflutter, willing him to say ‘no’
because, if the answer’s ‘yes’, I’ve got three huge hurdles to jump:

One:
How can I sneak Mike Foster
into a strictly ticket-only bash?

Two:
What will people think
if I do?

and

Three:
Will I be signing my own
decree nisi if I spend New Year’s Eve with ‘Mr Roses’ instead of Mr Moss?

Oh Lord, I’m sweating, and not
because of the influx of boiling water and rising steam. Waiting with bated
breath, I’m sure I’m turning purple when, finally, he pipes up and loosens my
noose.

“I didn’t I’m afraid, Sally.
And please, call me
Mike
. Interesting as an evening with
you
in a
naughty nurse’s uniform would have been, I’m driving back to Gloucester as we
speak.”

Phew. Lucky, lucky let off. So
why do I feel so gutted? And strangely besotted?

“I see,” I say breezily, trying
to make sense of my feelings. “Well, have a good one. By the way, I hope you’re
on the hands free?”

Flustered, thinking about
him
thinking about
me
dressed as a nurse (what
is
it with
middle-aged men and hospital hotties?), I blush again and I’m
certain
this time, I definitely hear a groan. More of a urrr, aaah, mmm actually.

“Argh, no,” he growls. “I’m,
grrrr, sprawled across the front seat, hands everywhere but where they should
be!”

I blink rapidly, trying to
decipher the dialogue. Sprawled? That sounds dangerous. And somewhat rude. What
if he’s got . . . company? Female company?

Staring at the phone like it’s
sprouted legs, I feel a jolt of disappointment then blot it out with a better
idea. What if the thought of me in the bath has got my wild, sexy doc ready for
love in the fast lane?

Mmm. More like I’ve been
watching way too much late-night ER!

Intrigued, I listen in silence
as he adds, “Jesus, aaah. Sorry, I’ve lost Lisa . . . under the front seat.
Can’t quite reach her . . . think I need to pull over. No wait, gotcha!”

“Lisa?”

“Yep. Lisa - my Sat-Nav. Could
have had Tom but women tend to be better with directions. She’s guiding me to a
friend’s housewarming in the back of beyond, though I’ll probably end up in the
middle of a field.”

Ahh.

Relieved he’s with a mechanical
mate not a flesh and blood floozy, I’m about to mention his new job when he
says, “Look, I don’t want to pry, but how’s things? You both looked pretty cut
up the other night, have you managed to work it out?”

Sucking breath sharply, I
contemplate my answer.

Well actually Mike, I’ve kicked
him out. Been shagging your sidekick as it happens. Small world, isn’t it? Oh,
but don’t worry about me. My best friend’s on her way over to dress me to the
nines and drag me on a grab-a-guy night. You know, floodgates, retribution,
oats to sow and all that.

Maybe not, eh?

“It’s complicated,” I explain,
de-fluffing my loofah. “We’re having a bit of breathing space, I’m spending
some time with the girls.”

“Ah,” he says knowingly. “So
hubby’s out with the boys, then?”

Probably. Best case scenario.
He could be anywhere. With anyone.

Hearing my heavy sigh, he adds
quickly, “Hey, sorry, none of my business. I didn’t mean to barge in on your
bath. You have a great night, let your hair down and we’ll catch up soon,
yeah?”

“Mike - wait!”

I don’t quite know why I want
him to wait, what I’m going to say next - all I know is I just want to keep him
talking. About anything. Flowers, fingers, heck, even the weather - but it’s
too late, he’s hung up.

Bugger!
I squeeze the phone
resentfully. What’s the
matter
with me? I shouldn’t be having naked
conversations with hot doctors anyway, let alone sulking when they end.
I
blame Amy and Bianca.

Before I can collect my
confetti of thoughts, the phone buzzes again. Butterflies fluttering, I assume
it’s Mike and try desperately to think of something intelligent to say.

“Mummy! Yay, mummy! Are you
missing us, mummy? We’re not missing you, we’re having waaay too much fun! It’s
great! Granddad let us bury him in the sand with a straw in his mouth and leave
out just his toes!”

Ah. Not Mike, but Ryan. And I
can hear Rosie fighting for the phone in the background. The sound of their
happy, innocent little voices makes me instantly regret my shameless fantasies
as I flick to mummy mode on auto-pilot. Aw, I want them home. Right now.

“Hey babies! Wow, it’s great to
hear you, I’m really, really missing you, so’s daddy! Is it nice and sunny? I
can’t
wait
for you to come home!”

My eyes fill up with giant,
yearning tears as Rosie wrestles the phone from her brother, squealing, “Mummy!
I can’t wait to come home either, ’cause I heard grandad say you’ve got a
lovely pair of puppies! That’s one each, mummy, yay! Hooray, thanks mummy! I’ve
always wanted a puppy, I’m gonna call mine Izzles.”

“. . . Er, that’ll do, that’ll
do,” Clive’s grunt cuts Rosie off mid-rant. “Er, better be off luv, it’s
costin’ an arm and a leg. Happy New Year!”

As the line goes dead I lie
perplexed, wondering why in the world Clive would think I’d bought them
puppies. Oooohhh! It suddenly dawns on me - he wouldn’t have meant
actual
puppies, he’d have been referring to my boobs.

Great. Eeugh.
Not only is my father-in-law a
letch, I’ve now got to get my hands on a couple of dogs by the weekend.

Oooh, I wish the kids had
pulled out his straw, it’d just serve him right.

Grabbing my favourite pink,
fluffy towel off the heated rail, I step out of the water just as the bathroom
door flies open, revealing me in all my glory - yet again - to Bi, who looks
exquisite. Seriously, she looks sensational.