Antidote to Infidelity (35 page)

Naturally, he went ballistic,
mentioning Specsavers but I assured him my vision’s impeccable. Secretly
though, I’m waiting for the day when I wake up blind as a bat like my mother,
who refuses to ‘degrade’ herself by wearing such a ‘crude, common accessory’ as
glasses.

Instead she struts about, nose
in air - this all-seeing, all-knowing higher being - when really, she can’t see
a thing. Once, in a freak act of kindness, she offered a saucer of milk to a
scrounging black cat, only to find it was a bin liner blowing under the patio
table. Another time, she spotted my dad walking up the drive and put the kettle
on, only to realise ten minutes later, it wasn’t dad at all. It was a swaying
conifer.

No, seriously, a
conifer
.
But dad
still
got a bollocking when he came home!

***

Completing my careful manoeuvre
like a pro, I notice the drive is Saab-less. The house, however, is lit up like
Las Vegas with the kitchen TV blurting out three decibels too loud. Which means
Will’s either home and too tanked up to notice, or we’ve got deaf burglars.

Wondering whether I’ll be
walking in on mild-mannered Dr Jeckyl or mad-as-a-hatter Mr Hyde, I’ve got an
arsenal of responses at the ready: attack, apologise, defend or depart,
depending on his mood. Clicking on the car alarm, I push open the connecting
door to the kitchen and come face to face with the Strikers versus Wings replay
on Sky and liberated terrapins trotting merrily across the worktop.

Uuurrrggghhh! This is all I
need - amphibians on the breakfast bar and nice bout of Salmonella.

Seizing the detol, I wipe up
their webbed tracks before plopping them, sharp little legs kicking in protest,
back in the tank. Their beady eyes say ‘spoilsport’. Glaring back, I set off in
search of Will to see what other drunken stupidity he’s engaging in.

Half expecting to find my dozy
other half in the conservatory, swallowing the goldfish John Cleese-style, I
follow a trail of breadcrumbs (well, empty Fosters tins actually) into the
lounge, where the lazy great lout’s sprawled on the couch, snoring like a combine
harvester.

How is it that beer can turn
even the most respectable of blokes into little more than drooling zombies?
Bring back prohibition, that’s what I say. Male-only prohibition, of course. Eugh!
He’s slavering a spitty puddle onto my best brown cushion.

Swearing under my breath, I’m
about to slap his dribbling chops when he spots me out of the corner of a
half-open eye and springs to seated attention.

“Ugh. Sal. Hi. Uuugh. Jeeesus,
babe, what the
hell
happened to your face? Who hit you? I’ll
kill
’em . . .”

Standing before him, hands on
hips, toe tapping, I decide a rollicking’s on the cards.

“Never mind my face, William
Moss!” I bark, finger wagging. “Just
what
do you think you’re playing
at? Huh? Leaving me in Spain then gallivanting God knows where with Mike. Do
you
realise
you left the bloody iron on? We could be standing here
dead!”

Blinking rapidly, he jumps up,
clouting his shin on the coffee table. Groaning like a wounded grizzly, he
grabs my wrist and drags me down the hall, slurring, “Do
you
realise
we’ve got prehistoric turtle thingies?
Look
!”

Shoving me into the kitchen,
where all-out ice war is underway on the telly, he pushes my head down until
we’re nose to nose with the terrapins.

“Look Sal. They’re
wicked
.
You should see ’em go. That fat one’s like shit off a shovel.”

Oh, I’ve heard it all. What
kind of moron am I married to?

Shaking my head in disbelief, I
haul him up by the elbow, curtly informing him, “They’re not
turtles
,
Will, they’re
terrapins
. They’re not
toys
, they’re not
yours
,
and they don’t run around on my worktops, got it?”

Wounded, he shrugs nonchalantly
and wobbles, tapping the tank with his index finger.

“Sorry. I just thought they
might like to race, that’s all. They looked bored.”

Ferreting through the swing
bin, he whips out a greasy white wrapper, adding, “They
love
spicy
kebab, Sal - watch.”

“Nooooo!”

I slap the stinking meat out of
his hand, scowling at the chomping terrapins who regard me with red-eyed
contempt. Clearly they want some more cow-bits and a re-run of wacky races with
their new
friend.
Well, they can
all
think a-bloody-gain.

“I can’t
believe
you,
Will,” I rant, hopping mad. “Feeding them that crap, they’ll
die
. Of all
the stupid, immature things to do . . .”

I stop mid sentence. My eyes
have drifted to the TV, where the post-match press conference has just
appeared.

Oh, shit. Oh . . . double shit.

My stomach churns. Spotting me
at work, Will turns up the sound, impressed, as the commentator says, ‘
And
it seems the bad-tempered encounter spilled off the ice, too, as this young
lady, believed to be a member of the local press, hit out during the post-match
interviews . . . ’

As a full-blown image of
psycho-Sally, hopping up and down like Rumpelstiltskin, assaults a worldwide
audience on ‘mute’, Will laughs out loud.

“And you say
I’m
immature . . . oooh!” he gosters. “Ha haaaa. What were you
thinking
? Are
you on drugs?”

My hands shoot up to my mouth.

Ohh, boy. What was I thinking?
Lord knows. But one thing’s for sure, I look a complete twat.

I’m never, ever going to live
it down. Ever. Never mind getting sacked when Gerald finds out, I’ll never get
employment again. Unless, of course, Russell Brand decides he needs a new
sidekick.

Roaring uncontrollably,
clutching his sides, Will spots Wade’s sneering face and the hysterics subside.
I expect him to shout but instead, he takes a lingering look at my injuries and
pulls me into his arms, hugging me tight as I burst into frustrated tears.

“It’s okay, Sal. It’s okay.
Shush, I’m here babe, I’m here.”

Closing my eyes, I nuzzle into
his chest as he gently rocks me from side to side. Kissing the top of my head,
he asks, “What the hell happened tonight? Did you get in the middle, or what?
Have I got to go down there and bust some chops?”

Bawling hysterically, I answer
him in broken sobs.

“I . . . I fell down the steps
in Spain chasing after
you
, you mean bastard. Then Gerald made me work
and Wade was there . . .
and
Mike. And Jenson got his head bashed in . .
. and it’s
his
baby . . . and that
asshole
told everyone I slept
with him . . .”

He frowns. He’s probably put
two and two together, made six . . . and now assumes I’m pregnant with some
hockey jock’s lovechild.

“Whoa, easy babe,” he whispers
calmly. “Slow down, you’re losin’ me.”

Flicking off the TV, he
shepherds me into the lounge and pours a large brandy from the corner drinks
cabinet to stem my verbal diarrhoea.

“Right. Settle down Sal and
start again from ‘I fell down the steps in Spain’ . . .”

He drops onto the sofa, puffs a
cushion and places it over his knees, inviting me to talk shrink-style. I don’t
need asking twice. I wearily throw myself down, snuggle up to his hunky thighs
and pull the patchwork throw over me, finding comfort.

As Will strokes my hair and
caresses my bumps, I tell him everything that’s happened, home and abroad,
finishing on, “Mike said you were in a state. What’s going on Will, why did you
go out with him?”

I think I know why. SAS rule
number one: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I think he’s
tracking him before swooping in for the kill.

Will inhales deeply, a sure
sign he’s about to tell me something important.

“Look Sal . . .”

I hold my breath. I’m
dreading
what’s coming. The last time he gave me the old ‘Look Sal’ line, he’d been
playing hide the sausage with Becky-Big-Breasts. What now?

Look Sal, I joined the mile
high club with this flirty bit of skirt on my way home from Spain . . .

Look Sal, I’m on the run from
the Mob and speak five languages . . .

Look Sal, Becky’s pregnant.
With triplets . . .

I wait for a gut-knotting
revelation but none comes. Just another “Look Sal . . .”

Unable to bare the suspense, I
slam my tumbler down on the coffee table and jump up, snapping, “Oh, for God’s
sake
Will, whatever it is just spit it out.”

But rather than chewing his
bottom lip, he’s beaming in a way I haven’t witnessed since the twins popped
out.

“No,
look
Sal.
Look!”

So I look. Mmm. When I don’t
react with the desired hysteria to the bright red Man United shirt he’s draped
in, he pushes my head down until I’m on eye-level with an unrecognisable
squiggly black splodge.

I’m about to say, ‘Don’t worry,
Vanish’ll bring it out’, when he startles me with, “
Ronaldo!
Look! He
signed it with his own hand. Bloody Ronaldo! Can you
believe
it? It’s
his
original
. Game-worn!”

I shake my head, relieved,
amused and mildly irritated.

“No Will, I
really
can’t.”

I can’t believe you’re fannying
about with Portuguese winkers and my potential bit-on-the-side whilst I’m busy
fending off your flying floozies and my evil ex . . .

Stroking his new top like a
pet, he explains, “Mike called back after I’d marked his card. God knows why, I
was bang out of order. Right off the handle. Must have been the bubbly.”

He sniffs his armpit,
presumably to see if it still smells of Christiano’s stale sweat. His satisfied
smile tells me it does.

“Anyway,” he continues. “The
doc was really cool. Invited me to a charity meet and greet at Old Trafford
this afternoon, posh private box job. All the Man U
legends
, Sal - the
Gods.
Back-in-the-red, they were. Even Cantona!”

The doc? The bloody doc? Oh,
it’s ‘the doc’ now, is it? Not ‘that sneaky blue-eyed bastard’. I see.

I stare at him and - I swear -
he’s practically
erect
as he rambles on, “And get
this
, the
players were walking round freely and everything. Rooney, Ronaldo, Ferdinand,
Schmeichel, all of ’em.”

Freely, eh? You don’t say.
There’s me thinking they’re all kept in cages and only let out to perform on a
Saturday afternoon . . . even Fergie.

I eye him suspiciously. Typical
Will. If it’s round and kickable, it takes priority.

Mike might want to bend me over
the sofa and screw me every which way ’til Sunday, but it no longer matters one
iota.
Not now he’s a fellow Devil with connections.

Shallow sucker. Major own goal.

I tap my foot in annoyance,
demanding, “So, does this mean you’ve buried the hatchet with Mike, then?”

Stinking of smoke, beer and
kebab he nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah, he’s a top bloke. I’d
had a few, so he dropped me off. He’s bringing my car back tomorrow, I said he
could stop for tea.” Then, noticing my raised eyebrows, he adds quickly, “Oh,
if it’s alright with
you
, of course.”

I fold my arms, wondering what
kind of response I’d have got if
I’d
asked Mike to tea. I’d have been
branded a slut, a whore, a hooker . . . the biggest hussy that ever walked.

Head aching like crazy, I
almost say, ‘Yeah, no probs. Invite Becky too and we’ll finish it off with a
foursome’ but manage to hold my tongue. I like Mike. A lot. He gives me
butterflies, so why cut off my nose to spite my face?

Unable to resist acting on a
hunch, I instinctively dig my hand into the front pocket of Will’s best jeans.
Empty. So I try the back and - bingo. Caught napping, he puts up a half-hearted
protest as I hand him the tiny slip of pink, reeking-of-Pleasures paper.

“Hey! What’s your game . . .
huh? What’s this?”

Pursing my lips, I ask
seriously, “So? Are you gonna call her, or what?”

He stares at me perplexed, like
I’m one sandwich short of a picnic.

“Huh? Call who?”

“Why, Miss Annabel of course.
Don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes, Will, because I’m
watching
you. ¿Entiendes?”

Opening the heart-shaped scrap
(horny, unscrupulous
bitch
), Will smiles at me, rips it in half and
tosses it into the fire grate.

Half, you see. Not quarters. Or
sixths. Or un-Sellotapable shreds. Half. Nothing like hedging your bets.

“Sal, I can’t decide if you’re
psychic or psychopathic but I love you,” he says, tugging me in for a hug. “Not
her. Not Becky. Not Beryl at Barclay’s -
you
. Now gim’me a minute to
sober up and I’ll run you a nice, hot bath.”