Antidote to Infidelity (5 page)

Nice. So much for gratitude,
eh?

Unperturbed, he simply switched
clothes behind the curtain, like Superman, emerging in tight jeans and a trendy
black-shine sweater, car keys at the ready.

Having flat-out refused to let
him ring Will to collect me, as they’d agreed in the waiting room when my poor
finger changed hands, I wanted to call a cab (as I’d sooner have walked home
over broken glass than rode with my husband) but the good doctor wouldn’t hear
of it.

“Absolutely not,” he insisted.
“If you really won’t let me call your hubby, the very
least
I can do is
deliver you to the door. I’ll sleep better. Plus there’s more chance of being
hit by a meteor than getting a taxi on Christmas Eve.”

Protesting half-heartedly as I
staggered dizzily through reception, I knew he was right. He assured me that I
wasn’t putting him out and that he wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. He was adamant
and, in spite of everything, I couldn’t help feeling a little flattered that a
gorgeous doctor wanted to take me home.

Yeah, that’s right. Up yours,
Will.

As we passed the payphone, I
considered calling my mother but she’s a right old drama queen - any excuse to
kick up a fuss and indulge in a bit of cruel, uncensored Will-bashing. Oh, I
assure you she’d have been round like the clappers, bollocking me for the
billionth
time for my ‘appalling choice of husband’ before clobbering Will for being
so useless and unreliable.

Hmmm. When I think of it like
that, maybe I should have given her a quick tinkle.

But no. Doctor Foster and I
exited the hospital as one, his strong arm steadying me as we made our way to
the staff car park and his (very flash) car.

Despite the throbbing in my
hand and the gnarling in my chest, I felt safe.

And
special
.

And it felt good.

***

Sadly, the goodness (definitely
drug-induced) was short lived. Now, hurtling along in silence, rain lashing
against the windscreen, wipers in a frenzy, I feel increasingly queer. Eeugh,
and queasy. Oh, and I absolutely
reek
of stale sick.

“If there’s anything else you’d
like to talk about Sally; husbands, kitchen utensils, anything at all, I’m a
great listener,” my Good Samaritan offers with a smile as I - no doubt a vision
of absolute beauty - slump in the passenger seat, bandaged up like a
blood-splattered mummy.

Oblivious to my repulsive
state, his eyes shine like gemstones as grins in a way that I’m certain has
nailed him countless easy lays.

“No,” I say indignantly. “We
only met
six
hours ago. Just ’cause I broke myself and
you
just
happened to be there, like all the king’s horses, hardly makes us friends.”

Feigning insult at my outburst,
he finally crumbles and laughs out loud, stroking his stubble.

“Ohhh, I see. Okay, well,
thanks a bunch. I don’t quite know what
I’ve
done to deserve a whack
with the wanker stick, but at least I know where I stand.”

Shaking his head (obviously I’m
somewhat entertaining), he turns the heater down a notch, offering me a Polo
out of the glovebox.

“Right then,” he says, popping
one in my open mouth as I nod. “What about the fact that I live in Sheffield,
yet I’m driving you halfway across the country just to make sure you get home
in one piece. Does
that
make us friends? Or do we need coffee and Joey
Tribbiani?”

I grin stupidly, blinded by a
billion stars dancing around the inside of my eye lids.

“Halfway across the country,
indeed. It’s only Goldwell,” I argue lamely, still feeling like a libertine for
turning him into a taxi-service.

As we fly over a speed bump,
already dizzy as a fruit bat, I feel like my kidney has lodged itself in my
throat. Gasping, I grasp his arm, my vision distorted by TV-on-the-blink style
fuzz.

“Eeugh! Oh, oh no, stop, I feel
a bit strange!”

Thinking he might pull over,
I’m a tad unsettled when, instead, he pushes a button on the dashboard,
lowering my seat like a dentist’s chair into a near lying position. Flat on my
back, staring through the sunroof at a spooky crescent moon, I can’t help but
wonder how many times he’s done
this
before. Obviously with women who
are pretty and coherent, not potty and covered in puke.

Regarding me with a mixture of
concern and amusement, he pats my hand and winks.

“Just relax. You’ll be yourself
again soon, it’s all the anaesthetic and painkillers. They’ll make you feel a
bit out of it.”

I nod obediently, fighting the
sleepy waves washing over me. I’m not sure if it’s the trauma, the anguish, the
drugs or the fact it’s almost 4am, but I just want to hop into my big, safe bed
in the middle of Rosie and Ryan and shut out the world.

***

Yawning like the Channel
Tunnel, I wipe a rogue tear on my sleeve, forcing a watery smile.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Mike. Ignore
me, please, I’m a snappy, nasty wreck.”

Blinking for clarity and
finding none, I add, “Thanks
reeeeally
much for re-fingering me (yawn)
and not abandoning me by the roadside (yawn) for being a total maniac.
Friends?”

“Friends,” he assures me,
chuckling and launching into the theme tune. “Anything for a damsel in
distress. Especially a beautiful, bonkers one.”

I roll my eyes. Or, rather,
they roll themselves. Plunged unwittingly into pitch darkness, I can just about
make out his silhouette through my leaden lids. Chivalrous Doctor Foster with
his big, hypnotic blue eyes. If I wasn’t so drugged up (oh, yeah, and so married
. . . but not for much longer, eh?) I could easily sit staring into those all
night.

Shit! Have I said that or just
thought it?

Sheepishly pulling open one
peeking eye, I check his reaction but he appears unphased, concentrating on the
road as we hurtle round a vaguely familiar roundabout.

Good. I’ve obviously not
activated my motormouth.

Truthfully though, I like him.
He reminds me of Will but a bit more talkative, with much better taste in
clothes. In different circumstances, I’d pencil him in for a date with Amy. A
doctor. A
real
one. I’m sure
he’d
get the royal seal of approval,
unlike my cheating snake-of-a-husband.

Oh-my-God, what if my mother
was right all along? Ohh, ohh . . .

“Doctor Foster,” I say,
desperate to distract myself, “I thought you lived in Gloucester, not
Sheffield?”

I try to stop but, nope, it
just spills on out in an immature sing-songy voice, “Or did you just go there .
. . in a shower of rain?”

Insanely hot, head banging, I’m
in fits of inexplicable, uncontrollable giggles. What next, a knock-knock joke?
Silly, silly Sally. No more drugs for you my girl!

Scrutinising me with amusement,
he shakes his head. “I
do
, but not for the next six months. I’m renting
a nice pad just off Junction thirty-two of the M1.”

He pauses for a moment, adding
with a wink, “I do still have to be careful though, when it rains. Not to step
in a puddle . . .”

I cut in, delighted, “. . .
right up to your middle! Ha ha! Oh stop, please! I feel sick.”

As I turn kerbside to wind down
the window, I realise where we are a moment too late.

“Oooh turn right here! Quick,
onto Oakham. Oakham!”

Heeding my shriek, he brakes,
far too hard for the miserable driving conditions, sliding into Oakham Close on
the wrong side of the road, missing an oncoming white van by inches. Holding on
for dear life, I momentarily forget I’m a lady, allowing the f-word to slip out
before the pavement-mounting jolt kick-starts my senses.

Swinging from the handrail I
drag myself upright, feeling I’ve spent quite enough time on my back in the
nice doctor’s car.

“Third house from the end,
number eleven,” I mumble, “The one with the purple garage and the twinkly lights,
thanks!”

A moment later Mike Foster’s
car pulls up, in a giant puddle, naturally, outside our house. He switches off
the engine and we sit in awkward silence beneath the amber glare of the
streetlights as he cracks his knuckles, delves into his jacket pocket and
produces my mobile phone.

“I found this little beauty on
the smokers’ lawn.
Yours
, I believe?”

Oh-oh, rumbled.

Feeling foolish, I blink
rapidly and squirm in my seat.

Oh, now he’ll definitely
think
I’m a prize prat. I bet he can’t wait to get the sicky, psycho phone-thrower
out of his car.

But instead of asking prying
questions he slips my phone, complete with eleven missed calls and seven
messages, into my good hand.

“I hope you don’t mind but I’ve
added my number to your friends’ list. Put you in mine, too. Just in case.”

As my windpipe tightens, I
battle to keep my head.

“Er, just in case?”

“Yeah,” he grins, “just in case
you happen to chop anything else off, you know, over Christmas. And need a bit
of help. I’m under D, for doctor.”

I smile nervously. The phone
police – aka Will – wouldn’t approve, but hey, what do I care?

“Erm no, that’s fine.” I tell
him. “I’m sure I won’t but yeah, cheers. Dr Who?”

“Exactly!”

Unclicking his seatbelt he
gently slaps my knee, quipping, “Knock knock. Who’s there? Get it? Jesus, I’m
in the wrong job, I’m a riot!”

As I stare at him, baffled, his
suave smile reaches his eyes and, before I can speak, I’m helpless in his arms
once more as he steadily leads me up the garden path to my front door.

 “Mummy, mummy, look! Hooray,
we’ve got bikes. Santa bought us shiny bikes in big red bows . . . Muuu-mmmyyy!
Get up and see!”

Rubbing my bleary eyes, I awake
in darkness to the welcome sound of Rosie’s excited little voice, and the
not-so-welcome sight of a glowing light sabre shoved hostilely under my nose.
It belongs, I assume, to the gleeful red Power Ranger bouncing up and down, up
and down, up and down on the bed.

Good hand aloft, I’m about to
surrender when the ceiling light flicks on, bringing me face-to-face with Ryan,
who’s clearly off the charts and in the iron grip of yet another
Smartie-induced sugar rush.

As I heave, a mangled flashback
of blood, pain and despair washes over me, making me aware of my heavy head, my
throbbing hand and, worst of all, my unfaithful husband lurking sheepishly in
the shadows by the door.

Naturally, I ignore him. Ouch,
ouch, ouch! Boy, do I need some painkillers. Evil hand. Bastard Will.
Beautiful, bubbly children. It’s Christmas morning, my favourite
day of
the year and, oh Lord help me, I’m shortly to be serving up dinner for eleven,
though how I’m going to do it one handed I’ll never know!

Collecting my thoughts, I pull
down my mental shutters, giving the twins what they need to see - a genuine
mummy-style smile.

“He did? Oh boy, wow, you’re so
lucky!” I crow, as spiritedly as I can muster. “Come ’ere kiddos and gim’me a
giant monster-kiss. Merry Christmas. Hooray! It’s Christmas!”

Right on cue, Rosie shoots
across the room, drapes her arms around my neck and pecks away lovingly,
closely followed by Ranger Ryan, who - at last - stops bouncing, drops to his
knees and squeezes me tightly before bounding off the bed and across the
landing to ‘duff up some baddies’.

All tight little auburn
ringlets, red bows and bright smiles, my adorable daughter stays by my side,
giving me a concerned once-over before trotting to pull back the curtains,
revealing the drizzly, depressing blackness outside.

Just as I’m wondering how many
hours’ grace I’ve got until my (ex) mother-in-law and co descend upon us, Rosie
whispers, “It’s a good job you’re up, mummy, you really nearly missed it.”
Then, beaming and toying with her hair, she squeaks, “We played twister . . .
and darts . . . and granddad Clive got drunk . . . and daddy got cross at
Auntie Amy, so mamma Sylvia told him off. Your dinner’s in the microwave, mummy
. . . I can get it, shall I? I can reach if I stand on tippy-toes on the wash
basket.”

Cocking her pretty little head
like a spaniel, she kisses me on the cheek, frowning, “You won’t like it
though, ’cos it’s got coal-flavoured parsnips and weird red carrots and big
yuck bumps in the ’tatoes . . . oh but the pudding was
yum
!”

What? What? Dinner? Wait a
minute . . . oh, no. Surely not?

Heart sinking, I’m struck with
such stinging clarity it brings tears to my eyes. It isn’t morning at all, it’s
evening
. I’ve missed it. All of it. Every magical moment. Just slept
through Christmas Day like some lazy, snoring layabout, whilst everyone else
has clinked glasses, pulled crackers and carried on regardless. Three whole
months of shopping and wrapping, and it’s just shot by like a number nine bus.
No squeals of delight, no ear-to-ear smiles, no Queen’s speech, no
tira-bloody-misu . . . oooh, where’s Will? I’ll thrash the living daylights out
of him for not waking me.