Antidote to Infidelity (2 page)

A bag which, with less than
three hours of Christmas Eve left, is, surprise, surprise, still stewing
merrily on top of the towels and spare bedding.

Marvellous. Obviously he meant
the
other
lunch. You know, that late night, nine o’clock lunch people
regularly partake of. Well, as far as I’m concerned, he’s rapidly burning his
bridges.

Half expecting Will - aka the
‘I Can’t King’ - to stumble at the final hurdle, I called his mobile
mid-afternoon to check he was playing postie but was fobbed off by the
irritating answer machine,
four bloody times
. Later, I phoned the office
in a strop, only to be informed by his prissy secretary that ‘Mr Moss left
hours ago’ because ‘it
is
Christmas Eve, you know . . .’

Oh, you don’t say?

At five, when the kids and I
arrived home to a dark, empty house, I huffed and gave up the ghost, carrying
on regardless until the clock struck seven and they started to pine for daddy.

Silently cursing Will’s
selfishness, I plopped them into a soothing bubble bath, pulled on their PJs
and told a loving fib:
‘Daddy sends you massive monster-kisses but he’s busy
helping Santa Claus. Okay?’

Thankfully, it was fine.
Fatigued yet full of beans from our day at the zoo, the little monkeys
swallowed my story and cuddled up to their teddies, content in the knowledge
that clever daddy was the fat red bloke’s right-hand man, mending sleighs and
feeding Rudolph.

Clever bloody daddy. I’ll wring
his bloody neck!

***

This morning, whilst I was busy
making yolky Santa soldiers with the kids, Will shot into the kitchen, swilled
down his cold coffee in one go and dashed out, blowing back three guilty
kisses. Then, conscience pricking, he reversed back in, grinning, “Who’s
excited for Santa, then? Not long now guys, come on, come on - smiley time.
Lucky you, you’re all off to the zoo-oo-oo!”

Lumbering gorilla-style around
the central breakfast bar, scratching his armpits, he was copied by a giggling
Ryan who stuck out his tongue and “oo-oo-ood” in unison, offering his dad a
chewed, soggy soldier. Rosie though, four-going-on-fourteen, just glared, angry
tears threatening to spill from her big brown eyes, before jumping off her
stool and stalking into the playroom without so much as a backward glance.

Coming to rest by the door, his
wavy black hair still damp from the shower and his silk tie characteristically
untied, Will reminded me of a heckled comedian whose gags were no longer funny.
All out of Jungle Book jokes, he looked wounded and desperate for an ally as he
snapped his briefcase shut, rooting through the cutlery draw for his wallet.

“Aw, don’t be like that guys,”
he pleaded. “I
know
we had plans . .
. (blah blah blah)
. . . I’m
up to my ear holes in adverts . . .
(blah blah blah)
. . . you know I’m
only doing it for us . . .”

By this time Ryan, blessed with
the attention span of a goldfish, sat mischievously drowning a miniature Power
Ranger in my cornflakes, oblivious to his father. And if I’m honest, I wasn’t
really listening either.

During the past few months, you
see, I’ve heard it all before, ten times over. The infinite scroll of pathetic
excuses that go in one ear, out the other:

I’ll be late tonight babe, I’m
cooking the books.

Henry’s turned forty so we’re
having sushi!

Count me out next weekend babe,
I’ll be in London.

Don’t wait up Sal, it’s sports
research night (translation: Man U are playing on Sky).

I’m stuck in the lift.

I’m shagging my secretary . . .

Okay, okay, maybe not that
old chestnut (being as, on my insistence, she’s a ripe old fifty-nine
and more like Miss Marple than Miss Whiplash) but you get the picture, right?
Work, work, bloody work. Long hours, seven days, nights away, all - allegedly -
for me and the kids. Which is funny, because all we
really
want
is the old Will back.

Whilst I’m juggling my job, two
lively kids, a well-meaning mother-in-law and a house that seems to mess up
itself, Will’s out having fun, guzzling pints, scoffing sushi and making a
whole new circle of friends.

So, I wasn’t the least bit
surprised when he announced last night, just before we clambered into our
separate beds, that he wasn’t coming to the zoo after all, even though our
tickets had been booked since October.

Sneaky bugger that he is, he
made sure he dropped the bombshell whilst I’d got a mouthful of toothpaste,
scuttling across the landing and shutting his door before I could spit and
insult him. Stewing all night, I considered kicking up a morning hoo-ha, then
decided at first light, as I trundled downstairs hand in hand with my babies,
that it wasn’t in the Christmas spirit.

Immune to his shenanigans, I
simply sipped my coffee, patted his bum and winked our wink, which he took as
the green light for a guilt-free scarper.

“Sal, you’re a real gem,” he
told me, fannying about with his laptop. “Back by lunch, I promise. One at the
latest. Don’t call, I’ll be busy. Kiss Rosie for me . . . and buy ’em something
nice, yeah?”

Grabbing his jacket, he shoved
an oat bar in his mouth and scarpered before I could inform him . . . I already
have. Bikes, roller skates, a karaoke machine, dressing up costumes - you name
it, I’ve hidden it. Countless magical gifts which, if he showed the tiniest bit
of interest, he’d know are scattered around the house, cunningly disguised as
inanimate objects.

As his black Saab pulled off
the drive, I’d got one eye on it as it disappeared around the corner, the other
on the TV where Lorraine Kelly and an entourage of stunning models debated
dressing to thrill for Christmas. Hah! Chance would be a fine thing, skinny
cows. My wardrobe’s in
serious
need of a Trinny and Suzanna-style sling
out, I’ve been saying so for ages. In fact, the best dress in there is the Snow
White costume I wore to the nursery summer fayre, which Will missed at the last
minute because ‘ugh, God, sorry babe, something’s come up’.

Lord knows why, but standing
alone at the sink, soaking up the merry frivolities of GMTV, I felt a stab of
despair. A pensive pang, almost as if something was wrong, but I couldn’t quite
put my finger on it. What I did manage to put my finger on, however, was a very
sharp steak knife lurking cruelly beneath a sink full of pots –
vicious
little sod
- because I’d been too exhausted to wash up before hitting the
sack.

Swearing under my breath, I
hunted fruitlessly for a plaster before resorting to vampire tactics and giving
it a good old-fashioned suck. Worktop crimson, tongue metallic, I could easily
have slumped by the washer and sobbed - but no. Not me. Not on Christmas Eve.
Instead, I called for back-up, rallying my merry little brood for some
happy-go-lucky animal magic.

“Kids! C’mon guys, coats on,
chop chop! Hooray! Let’s go see some monkeys!” I shouted, voice alive with
exaggerated excitement.

Out of the playroom burst my
two best buddies, Rosie-posie and Ryan-the-lion, clad in bright wellies, parkas
and trails of glittering tinsel. Buzzing with wide-eyed glee, they filled the
kitchen with laugher and infectious giggles before locking their mummy in a
delicious double hug, vanquishing my demons right down the plughole.

Unfortunately, my elation was
short lived for seconds later, hearing the letterbox rattle, they scurried out
to wave to Anushka, our friendly Polish postwoman and the twins’ daily Smarties
supplier. Solely responsible for the rampant post-breakfast sugar rush, she
often delivers me a Galaxy too, bless her, but today, troubled and covered in
blood, I just couldn’t face trying to translate.

Instead, I reached for the
Detol and began packing our yummy Twycross Zoo picnic for three, not four,
unable to ignore the sinking feeling that something was wrong. Call it
pessimism, call it premonition, call it what you like, I had a niggling inkling
our fabulous family Christmas just wouldn’t be the cracker I was counting on.

Lingering on the landing,
unable to believe my exhausting little night owls are really asleep, I flick on
the butterfly glow-lamp by Rosie and Ryan’s door. Well, my door actually as
they’re snuggled up in my bed (sorry,
our
bed) which - in my defence -
has seen some hot action over the years.

Mmm. Well, lukewarm at least.

Despite my good intentions and
the strict preachings of a dozen or so parenting manuals, I fell off the
bedtime bandwagon long ago, I’m afraid. Thanks to a combination of loneliness
on Will’s working-away nights and the desperate need for sleep on other
occasions, the twins have become accustomed to sleeping with me and now, like
tiny squatters, have no immediate plans to leave.

Try as I might they won’t
settle in their own room, so for the time being I’ve thrown in the towel,
relegating Will to the Tweenies bunk beds in the nursery, surrounded by Power
Rangers and Disney Princesses.

Padding down the stairs, I hop
over the squeaky third-from-bottom step, which has an annoying knack of waking
the kids, and flick on the outdoor icicle lights.

God, I love Christmas!

I’m just deciding whether to
pull on my coat and lug in the presents from the garage by myself, when the
phone rings. Assuming it will be Will, grovelling and on his way home, I snatch
up the handset, ready to rumble.

“Hello. Do you realise it’s
Christmas Eve? Huh? You
promised
. . . where on earth have you been
’
til
this time?”

“Oh, hello dear! The Peter Pan
matinee and oh, it was
wonderful
! Dozens of pert-bottomed pirates
gallivanting around in translucent Lycra. Do you know, when the spotlight
shone, you could actually see their dangly bits. They should call it
no-pants-omime!”

Ah, not Will - Mary. My
enthusiastic (if somewhat eccentric) mother-in-law.

“Oooh, Sally dear,” she gabbles
on brightly, as I imagine the eye-popping
view from the Dress Circle.
“That moustache-y chap from Only Fools and Horses. Not Del Boy, no no, the
other one, oooh, what’s his name, erm, oooh?”

Just as I say, “Boycie,” she
shrieks, “CLLLIVE! What’s his naaaamme?” down the earpiece at my father-in-law,
rattling my tab for good measure. Then, switching back to her mild,
plum-in-mouth tone, “Ah yes, that’s it dear - Boycie! Oh, he made a splendid
Captain Hook . . .
and
he had an absolute
whopper
. It kept
swinging in the way when he walked! No wonder
they gave him the lead.
You really
should have come.”

“Mary,” I say, smiling dryly,
“are you certain it was Peter Pan? Sounds more like the Cock-y Horror Show to
me - thank God we were at the zoo!”

Wondering if I have a filthy
mind and she’s merely referring to his sabre, I shake my head, awarding her
full marks for saucy Christmas spirit. Shame the same can’t be said for her
dirty-stop-out son.

I’m about to say we might give
it a whirl over the holiday, if Will-the-Grinch can spare us a few hours, when
she gushes, “Ah yes dear, the zoo! Oooh, how was the zoo? Did the children have
fun? Where there any white elephants, dear? Did you feed the monkeys? My
Will-ee-yum used to love the monkeys.”

As always with Mary, she
bombards me with a series of quick-fire questions, leaving me all tangled up
and unsure which to answer first. So I settle on, “Actually, it was just us.
Will had to work, you know, at the last minute.”

“Oh, poppycock dear!” she
gosters, light, tinkling laughter wafting gaily down the phone. “Out buying
last-dash Christmas presents more like! You know men, leave everything ’til the
last minute. Well, except
that
. Harharhar!”

As I wince, she adds, “Will was
supping with his brother at lunchtime dear. CLLLIVE! Where did Robert and
William go at lunchtiiime? Ah, yes dear, the StarBar, you know, in town? It was
Will I was after, actually dear. Could I possibly have a quick wordy-pie?”

I bristle, feeling wounded.
He’s going to get more than a bloody wordy-pie from
me
when he finally
shows up.

“You
could
Mary
but he’s not here,” I retort, a tad stroppily. “Haven’t seen or heard from him
since this morning. Sorry.”

I can visualise her wrinkling
her powdered nose, pulling the trademark I-smell-something-awful face she
always pulls whenever I say anything that doesn’t quite suit.

“Oh, how odd,” she sniffs. “Awfully
inconsiderate too dear, no wonder you’re so snappy! I’ll be sure to bollock him
tomorrow on your behalf.” Then, plum-back-in-mouth, “We
are
still on for
turkey aren’t we dear, Clive does so loooove your cooking.”

Great, well at least someone
does! Not Will though. He’d sooner blow four quid on a Big Mac meal than come
home for supper on Christmas Eve. I want to throw darts at his head, but
there’s something about Mary that I like.

Despite being a coal miner’s
daughter and living in a neat little two-bedroomed bungalow, she still manages
to dress like a star, spend like a sheik and speak like the Queen. Ninety-nine
per cent of the time that is, until she forgets herself and a rogue expletive
just rolls off the tongue. Like bollock. Or baar-staard. Or, my particular
favourite being last week, when she had me in stitches, innocently deeming the
new silver teapot she’d purchased ‘not worth a wank, dear’ before marching it
straight back to ‘John bloody Lewis’.