Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club

the adultery club by Tess stimson

Life couldn’t be happier for Nicholas Lyon, divorce lawyer and

contented husband of the beautiful - if chaotic - Mai, a cookery writer who combines working from a comfortable home in Wiltshire with being mother to their three gorgeous young daughters.

And then Sara Kaplan, a bright, vivacious young lawyer, explodes into his life like a sexual hand grenade.

Nicholas is stunned and horrified by the extent of his attraction to her. But whilst the chemistry between them is palpable, it takes a terrorist attack to force him to recognize his own mortality and throw caution to the wind.

For Sara, what started as a harmless fling swiftly deepens into a painful battle for Nicholas’s heart with Mai, who is not quite as preoccupied in her world of food and school runs as

Nicholas had believed. As Mai faces temptations of her own, she realizes she has to decide what she wants - and whether it’s worth fighting for. The adultery club is the irresistible story of the perfectly balanced eternal triangle. It’s a club where membership comes at a very high price.

Also by Tess Stimson

Fiction

Hard News

Soft Focus

Pole Position

Non-Fiction

Yours Till the End:

The Biography of a Beirut Hostage

First published 2007 by Pan Books

an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London Nl 9RR

Basingstoke and Oxford

Associated companies throughout the world

www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-330-44520-7

Copyright Š Tess Stimson 2007

The right of Tess Stimson to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance

with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal

prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from

the British Library.

Typeset by SetSystems Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Mackays of Chatham pic, Chatham, Kent

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,

by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out,

or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent

in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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In memory of my mother

Jane Theresa Stimson 3 February 1942 to 3 December 2001

‘In my Father’s house

There are many mansions.

If not, I would have told you;

Because I go to prepare a place for you.’

So many people help with stories and advice when one writes

a book, but some have to be singled out for their special

contribution.

Without Carole Blake, my agent, I would never have

found the self-belief to write this book. Her encouragement,

knowledge, meticulous editorial advice, support and - above

all - her friendship have been invaluable. I would fly (indeed, have flown!) across the world to have lunch with her.

Imogen Taylor is the editor of whom every writer dreams.

Her enthusiasm and vision have been stimulating and infectious, her advice pithy, constructive and perceptive. And she

giggles at all the right places. It is a joy to work with her.

Efficient, reliable and always fun to talk to, Oli Munson

has also achieved the impossible: rendered conversation

about international tax forms entertaining. For him and the

rest of the brilliant team at Blake Friedmann, I give thanks.

I am deeply grateful to Trisha Jackson, and to the amazing

Pan Macmillan team, including Fiona Carpenter, Emma Grey,

Anne Newman, Caitriona Row, Marie Slocombe, Anna Stock

bridge, Michelle Taylor and Fllen Wood, all of whose verve

and enthusiasm have boon inspiring. Thank you!

Every girl should fri’l likr a million dollars at least once.

That most tempting man, Hugo Burnand, gave me my moment, when he took my author photographs. Bliss.

For anyone enduring the horrors of divorce, let me recommend

two people. Firstly, Simon Pigott, of Levison

Meltzer Pigott, the most charming, decent and tenacious

lawyer in the business. He made my divorce bearable, and I

will be eternally grateful that his honourable style allowed

my ex-husband and I finally to make peace. And Danusia

Brzezina, a loyal and compassionate lawyer and friend. Her

legal advice regarding this book was invaluable; her company,

as always, is a pleasure.

Eileen Gaulter, of Gaulter Technologies, Inc., interpreted

my vague and unhelpfully abstract ideas for a website with

creativity, practicality and skill, and I love the result. Please check it out: www.TessStimson.com.

To Georgie and Charlie Stewart, for their endless generous

hospitality every time I fly to London, I cannot say thank you

enough. You provide the fluffiest towels and the best company.

Your friendship means the world to me.

Thanks, too, to my father Michael and stepmother Barbi,

for the dawn airport pick-ups and for allowing my family to

wreak havoc in their beautiful home; to my out-laws, Harry

and Sharon Oliver, for kidnapping their grandchildren so

that I can work, and for providing raspberry martinis as and

when required; and to Henry, Matthew and Lily, for tiptoeing

away quietly when Mummy has a writing crisis, and for not

crashing my computer too often.

Above all, to my husband, Erik, for his thousand little

kindnesses - and the one very big one: marrying me. Here’s

to Melville and Milton, and the lifetime in between.

Tess Stimson Florida, 2006

Nicholas

Divorce is a difficult business. Never more so, may I

suggest, than when your client authoritatively declares all

men are bastards, and you’re left shifting uncomfortably

in your seat whilst your penis tries to make itself scarce.

‘Not all men, Mrs Stephenson,’ I venture.

My client ignores my genial smile, grey eyes flicking

dismissively around my oak-panelled office. Her gaze

briefly snags on the silver-framed photograph of my

wife propped beside the leather blotter on my desk; her

expression of pity for my spouse places me foursquare

with those unfortunates whose parents neglected the legal

niceties before bedding down together. Since I have just

secured her an extremely generous seven-figure settlement

from her ex-husband, I find her disdain for my sex

in its entirety a little unfair.

She stands and I rise with her, straightening my silk

tie. She extends a scrawny pink tweed arm; her hand sits

like a wet fish in mine.

‘You may be right, Mr Lyon she says drily. ‘Maybe

it’s just the men I marry.’

Her scent is pungent and overpowering: synthetic cat’s

piss. Far too much make-up; I can’t imagine kissing the

jammy red lips. She’s the kind of woman one would find

smeared all over the sheets in the morning, the pillowcase

imprinted with her face like the Turin Shroud.

Good legs, though. Slender, neat calves, with nicely

turned ankles. But no meat on her bones, and breasts like

a boy.

My professional smile does not slip as I escort her to

the door. I endeavour not to morally judge my clients:

it’s distracting and unproductive. There’s no place in the

context of divorce law for emotion or sentimentality; one

has quite enough of that kind of thing from one’s clients.

My wife, of course - being a woman - begs to differ. I consider myself merely objective. Malinche, however, asserts that my ‘brutal kind of truth’, as she emotively

puts it, is akin to judging a woman’s skin only in the

harsh glare of daylight, rather than by the softening glow

of the fire. I can’t quite see her point.

My client stops suddenly in the doorway; I almost

run into the back of her. Her head dips as if in prayer,

exposing pale, downy vertebrae beneath the stiff blonde

bob.

The nape of a woman’s neck - so vulnerable, so quixotically

erotic.

1 always thought - hoped—’ she chokes back a sob,

‘he’d change his mind.’

I’m at a loss. I certainly did not have this woman

pegged as a clinger. Still the right side of forty, she

has already acquired a remunerative trio of wealthy

Śm:

ex-husbands, which - despite every effort at objectivity leads one to make certain assumptions. Put simply: the

last thing I expected was for love to come into it.

The woman’s skinny shoulders start to shake. Oh,

Christ. I’m so hopeless at this kind of thing. My arms

twitch uselessly. Inappropriate in the extreme to hug, but

what to do if - God forbid - she starts grizzling all over

the place?

Suddenly her head comes up and she squares her

shoulders, reminding me of my eldest daughter Sophie on

her first day at school. Without another word, she marches

through the open-plan secretarial pool and into the hallway

beyond. I breathe a hefty sigh of relief. Thank God.

What on earth was that all about?

As I move to close my door, my secretary, Emma,

waves.

‘Mr Lyon, it’s your wife on line two. She says she’s

sorry to bother you, but can she just have a quick word?’

‘Of course—’

I hesitate in the doorway. There’s something I can’t

quite…

‘It’s my hair, Mr Lyon,’ Emma says patiently. ‘I had it

cut this lunchtime.’

A pity. I rather liked it long.

I return to my desk, glancing at the photograph of

Malinche that so aroused my client’s compassion as I pick

up the phone. It was taken a couple of Christmases ago by

Kit, irritatingly, rather than by me - at the moment she

glanced, smiling, over her shoulder, half-bending to pull

the turkey from the Aga. I fit-1 a thud of gratitude every

time I look at it. It’s foolish, I know, but even after ten

years I still thrill to the words ‘your wife’. Quite how I

won the heart of this extraordinary and beautiful woman

is utterly beyond my comprehension. I am merely eternally

thankful that I did.

‘Chocolate-orange sponge cake flavoured with vanilla,

orange and lemon zest, or apricot chequerboard cake with

chocolate ganache?’ Mai demands without waiting for me

to speak.

I can tell from my wife’s strangled tone that she has

the handset wedged between her chin and chest and is no

doubt stirring something mouth-watering even as we

speak. ‘May one inquire—’

‘Heavens, Nicholas, don’t be so pompous Mai says

briskly. ‘You’re not in Court now. Your surprise birthday

cake, of course. Metheny insists we finish it this afternoon

before you get home.’

I smile at the mention of my youngest daughter, with

whom I share a birthday, preternaturally long toes and a

wicked fondness for pistachio icecream. I had hoped to

share a great deal more, but the ultrasound proved itself

less than infallible and my much-longed-for boy and

potential fishing and cricket companion turned out to be

a surprise third petticoat. As a consolation prize I was

allowed to name her for my lifelong hero, jazz guitarist

Pat Metheny.

Ś ‘Let me talk to her and ask her which she suggests I

posit.

‘Don’t be silly, Nicholas.’

‘You were the one who said she was insisting—’

“There’s more than one way to insist on something, as