Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (13 page)

CNN, since Improved New Labour has successfully

fucked up the fun in Trafalgar. One thing I was most

definitely not doing: attending the St Howard’s cheeseand-wine

New Year’s Eve parish supper with my parents.

I’ve got to hand it to my mother. She’d have Machiavelli

canvassing for proportional representation if she put

her mind to it.

First came the Christmas presents: the latest Black

Berry, a Bose docking system for my iPod, half the Chanel

make-up counter (actually, I prefer MAC, the colours are

funkier, but my mother insists Chanel is more classy),

and a gorgeous Hermes scarf (though I can’t imagine

what I’ll wear it with; I’m not really a scarf sort of person,

they make me look like a landgirl). And then, the coup de

grcice: a Christmas card containing my latest statements

from Visa, Amex, River Island, Gap - all of them paid off. Fuck, that must be several thousand pounds right there.

More, probably. Agnes B was having a sale last month.

Mum must have gone through my in tray - aka my

knicker drawer - to find them last time she came to my

flat; but I am too busy revelling in the novel sensation of

being solvent to object to the invasion. Too much.

Gratitude secure, she moves on to Guilt.

A whispered conversation about Dad in the kitchen:

‘Do you think he’s lost weight, darling? It’s all the stress

at work. Hot water first, dear. Warms the pot. Of course

he misses you dreadfully, it’s always lovely for him when

you come home to visit. He really perks up. I know you’re

terribly busy with your “career”—’ damn her, I can hear the quotation marks. ‘I don’t blame you for not coming back home very often. No, skimmed milk, darling. Such a

pity you can’t stay longer.’

And, ‘Mrs Newcombe’s daughter won first prize for

her sponge last month at the WI Harvest Festival Fayre,

did I tell you? Joan was so proud. Libby makes the most delicious chocolate cake, simply melts in your mouth-f

‘Would you mind just getting the tea-cosy down from

that shelf for me, dear? My sciatica has been playing

me up dreadfully, I’ve never been right since I had you,

of course. What a nightmare that was. Did I mention,

Muriel’s daughter had twins? That’s four grandchildren

she’s got now—’

So when she asked me if I’d like to come to the bloody

cheeseand-wine supper with them - it would be such a

treat for Dad, we’d love to show our clever girl off, we

hardly get to see you these days, darling! - I knew I was

screwed.

Now I get it. I am so never going to live this down.

‘I don’t need you fixing me up with anyone, Mum!’ I

hiss furiously as Martin pumps my father’s hand enthusiastically and shoots me a triumphant leer. ‘And for God’s

sake, why him?’

‘Don’t blaspheme, dear, there’s a church on the other

side of that wall my mother says calmly. ‘And I always

thought you rather liked Martin.’

‘What on earth gave you that impression?’

‘You did, dear. The night your father caught the two of

you in the greenhouse and had to have words with young

Martin.’

I swear, I don’t remember any of this. It’s either early

onset Alzheimer’s or the little twat did slip me a roofie.

Although - now I think about it - there was the night I

experimented with those little blotting paper tablets; he might have been there.

‘Be nice to him my mother says firmly. ‘He only agreed to come at the last minute as a favour.’

This is such a gross misrepresentation of the facts that

for a moment I am rendered speechless. And a moment

is all it takes for Martin to slide his skanky ass into the

plastic chair next to me, trapping me between the wall

and a hard place. His hard place, to be precise.

‘Well, I’ll leave you two to it,’ my mother says brightly,

getting up from the table.

‘Mum—’

‘Come along, Vincent,’ she says to my father. ‘I want

to get to the cheese before they run out of all the nice

ones. Muriel said there’s a lovely Crottin de Chavignol,

very earthy and flinty, our cheese coach says, and there’s

the Tomme de Savoie I want to try—’

A cheese coach? Did my mother really just say that, or

have I actually fallen down a rabbit hole?

My father throws me an apologetic glance as she drags

him away. I want to throttle him. For God’s sake, Dad,

could you just stand up to the Gorgon for once?

‘Well, isn’t this nice?’ Martin says, oozing closer. ‘AH

on our own at last.’

‘With a roomful of people,’ I point out. Witnesses, Martin.

He pushes his glasses back up his nose with his thumb.

‘You were a bit of a tease the other day. Running off like

that. You gave me a chest cold, keeping me out in the

rain, you know. Mum was quite cross about it. But I know

you girls like to treat a man mean, keep him keen, hmm,

hmm?’

Oh, God. He’s Fisher’s secret love child. I grab the

bottle of cheap red on the table and fill my water glass

with it, then drain it in a single gulp. This could be a very, very long night.

Libby Newcombe sniggers as she dumps a book from

the pile in her arms onto the holly-sprigged paper tablecloth

Briefly I lift my head from the table to glower at her retreating back. If you’re so fucking cool, you cow, how come you’re here on New Year’s Eve too?

‘Fancy a quick spin on the floor?’ Martin asks hope

fuUy.

u i u

‘Can’t. Got to read this very interesting book about er

- cheese.’

‘I didn’t know you were interested in cheese.

‘Oh, yes, very. My cheese coach is terribly strict,

though, won’t let us just dive in half-cocked. Have to read

all about, urn—’ I flick it open, ‘the blue-veined cheeses

first.ir,

‘Wouldn’t mind being a little half-cocked myself,

Martin leers, ‘if you get my drift.’

‘Sorry. Got to concentrate. Test on Tuesday.’

I suddenly catch sight of the author photograph on the

inside jacket flap, and my knickers skip a beat. Shit, but

he is hot. Talk about fallen angel. Square-jawed, hot-eyed,

just-tumbling-into-bed-with-you-if-you‘11-let-me expression.

Who the hell is he?

I flip the book over again. Trace Pitt - oh, of course,

I’ve heard of him. Pitt’s Cheese Factory, it’s that famous

de luxe cheese shop in - God, where is it? Covent Garden

somewhere, I think. It’s the Harvey Nicks of cheese shops.

There’s only one other, in New York. Actually, I vaguely

remember Mum saying something about the committee

getting their cheese from Pitt’s this year after the fiasco

with the mouse last Christmas.

That is one hot man. Dumb name, sounds like some

comic book private eye - Tract-Pill, Ace Detective, what

were his parents thinking? - but with a face like that he

could call himself Mother Teresa for all I care-I yelp in shock as Martin sticks his tongue in my ear.

Right, that’s it. I whack him with The Cheese Lover’s

Guide, drop to the floor, slither under the table, and flee to

the other side of the room. I am not, repeat not, staying

here a moment longer. Even if I have to walk all the way

home to London.

Well, maybe not in these stilettos. OK, where are my

fucking parents?

Of my mother there is no sign - probably next door

reading from the Sacred Cheese Text with Muriel - but I

spot my father straight away.

He’s sitting at the bar, and he’s not alone. I watch

Libby Newcombe cross her legs so that her ridiculously

short skirt rides up her thighs, giving Dad a bird’s eye

view. Her lips are parted as she hangs on his every word

with rapt attention - yeah, right, my dad: specialist subject,

Motorway Cones on the M25 - flicking her long

blonde hair all over the place like she’s in a damn shampoo

ad. Little tart. Don’t you lick your lips and flaunt

your cleavage at my dad. He’s a happily married man.

Against all reasonable expectations, admittedly. But still.

I’d like to know what the little ho thinks she’s playing

at. Blonde hair, legs up to here, no bra: it’s like shooting

fish in a barrel. He hasn’t got a chance. Look, you home

wrecker, he’s taken. It’s hard enough holding a marriage

together without some twenty-something totty putting

pressure on its weakest link. Which, let’s face it, we all

know men are.

I march over and slide my arm possessively through

my dad’s.

‘Oh, hello, love,’ Dad says, clearly surprised by thisť sudden display of filial affection. ‘What happened to young Martin?’

‘Nothing fatal,’ I say regretfully. ‘Look, Dad, can we

go now? I’m really tired and I’ve got to drive back to

London tomorrow.’

‘What, leave before midnight? What happened to my

party girl?’ He ruffles my hair. ‘Used to be a time we

couldn’t get you into bed before dawn.’

‘Well, she’s not twenty-one any more Libby says

sweetly. ‘You know, I can’t believe you’ve got a grownup

daughter, Vinny. You look much too young.’

Vinny? Vinny? Since when has my dad been called

anything other than Vincent? (Or Dad, obviously.)

‘You flatterer,’ Dad scolds, the tips of his ears turning

pink.

‘Dad, please, I’m really tired—’

Libby knows when to beat a retreat. I scowl as she

kisses Dad’s cheek and wishes him a happy new year. Vinny. God, men are just so oblivious.

‘You didn’t need to do that, love,’ Dad says quietly.

‘She’s got a bit of a thing for me, I know, but it’s harmless.

Just a silly crush. She’ll grow out of it.’

‘Dad, she’s not thirteen. And it’s not bloody harmless,

she was all over you—’

- ‘Your mother’s enough for me,’ Dad interrupts, eyes

softening as they rest on Mum, holding court by the

cheese table. ‘Always will be.’

‘I don’t know how you put up with her I mutter.

My father looks at me with an expression akin to

disappointment, and I suddenly feel about twelve years

old again.

‘You kids are obsessed with being in love these days

Dad says coolly. ‘You think it’s all butterflies in the

tummy and romantic walks along the beach.’

‘I’m not quite that naive, Dad. I know it’s got to get a

bit boring, after a while. But as long as you love each

other—’

‘You think that’s enough? Love?’

I shrug crossly.

‘There have been days when I’ve woken up and your

mother has irritated me just by still breathing. No doubt

she’s felt the same about me. There have been weeks months,

even - when we could scarcely stand to be in the

same room as each other. But you work through it. You

build a life together and you stick with it, no matter how

hard it gets at times. You don’t dig up a garden every five

minutes and replant with something else if the flower

you picked out hasn’t bloomed, do you? You make your

choice, you water and feed it, and then you wait. The

point I’m trying to make, love, and I’m making a right

hash of it, I know, is that marriage is about commitment.

And compromise. A compromise with each other; and ‘

he sighs - ‘a compromise with what you thought it was

going to be.’

Not me, I think firmly. I’m not going to settle for

second best. I’m not going to end up like Mum and Dad,

staying together out of habit and fear.

I want passion! And fire! And romance! The kind of

legendary love you read about. Bogart and Bacall. Hepburn

and Tracey. Christopher Reeve and - well, Mrs

Reeve. Dad’s wrong: it doesn’t have to be a compromise.

II you really love each other, you can keep the butterflies.

You just have to find your soul mate, and when you do,

hang onto them with everything you’ve got.

The question is: what do you do if someone finds your soul mate first?

Life isn’t all neat and tidy. Sometimes people make a

mistake and end up with the wrong person. Does that

mean they have to stay with them forever? Surely it’s

better to take their chance at true love, wherever they find it? Even if - even if people get hurt.

Dad gives me a quick hug. ‘I’m just going to have a

dance with your mother before we go. She loves Sinatra.

You be all right for a minute on your own?’

I watch my parents take to the floor. They’re young

enough to be fairly hopeless, shuffling in the same spot

whilst toothless pensioners twice their age spin gracefully

past like they’re on wheels. My parents fit together

nicely, covering each other’s mistakes and doing the odd

safe twirl with the ease of long practice. But they’re

waving hello at friends as they pass and chatting about

the weather, not gazing lustfully into each other’s eyes. And I want more.

Suddenly everybody starts moving, laughing and jostling,

and I realize it’s just a couple of minutes to midnight.

Everyone’s in couples - even Martin has managed to

trap Libby Newcombe in a dark corner. As midnight

strikes, I know Dad will give Mum her special Christmas

present, the one he saves for the first minute of the