Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (39 page)

so from me.’

I flush.

‘Do you have to make it sound so sordid, Mum?’

Scrape. Scrape.

‘Those poor children. Never mind his poor wife. I don’t

know how you sleep at night.’ A soft phlish, as she drops

a potato into the pan. ‘Imagine how you’d have felt, if

your father had upped and—’

‘If you ask me, it’s a bloody miracle he didn’t,’ I retort,

‘I certainly don’t know how he’s put up with you all these

years.’

I fling the phone on the sofa. Shit, I shouldn’t have said

that. Now I’m doubly in the wrong. I’ll have to phone her

back and apologize for being rude and hanging up on

her; and then sit through another of her pocket sermons

on Sins of the Flesh and Why Married Men Are Not Fair

Game.

I don’t know why I feel so bloody guilty about it. After

all, I’ve been praying for months that Nick would leave

his wife. OK, the thought of his three little girls sobbing

themselves to sleep at night because Daddy’s gone didn’t

exactly make me feel good about myself - I’m not Cruella

De Vil - but I never thought it’d bother me this much.

Some nights, I toss and turn for hours, picturing their

pale, tear-stained faces, whilst Nick sleeps like an innocent

babe next to me. It seems my mother has managed to

hamstring me with a bloody conscience after all.

I kick the damp towel Nick has left in the middle of

the sitting room floor out of my way and go into the

kitchen. Coffee grounds are scattered all over the counter,

and the sink is full of dirty cups and plates from last

night. He made enough bloody noise clattering around in

here at six this morning when I was trying to have my

Saturday morning lie-in. You’d have thought he could’ve

managed to load the freakin’ dishwasher, for fuck’s

sake—

I shriek as a cockroach the size of a small cat shoots

out from behind the fridge.

It stops in the middle of the floor halfway between me

and the door, its disgusting antennae things twitching

back and forth. I shudder, acutely conscious of my bare

feet. If that thing runs over them I’ll have a fucking heart

attack, I swear.

Gingerly I reach for something to throw at it. Christ

Almighty, where’s a man when you need one? Although

Nick’s more the type to leap up on the kitchen counter at

the sight of a mouse. Somehow I can’t quite imagine him

scooping up cockroaches with his bare hands.

I lob a wet J-cloth. The cockroach skitters beneath the

sink. Well, that’s washing up out for the rest of the day.

I’m not going near the sink till I know that thing’s dead.

Keeping a wary eye out for other roaches hot to party,

I make myself a mug of tea - ‘Good God,’ Nick said, ‘not

tea-bags, don’t you have any loose Earl Grey?’ - and curl

up on the sofa, keeping my feet safely tucked up under

my bottom. The cushions still smell of puke. I’ve bleached

the sofa so many times it’s started to hang out white flags

when I approach, and I still can’t get rid of the stink.

It kills me to say so, but I’ve got to give Nick’s wife

props. Spewing all over the pristine white nof-bought-in

the-sale Conran is one helluva way to diss your rival.

Aw, sod it. She can have the sofa. After all, I’ve got the

man.

A swirl of pleasure whisks its way down my body and

I grin into my mug. Conscience be damned. He actually

left his wife. OK, so he was pushed a little bit; but still, I

urn the stuff of urban legends. The mistress who got to

waltz off into the sunset with her man. No wonder Amy’s

spitting blood.

I couldn’t believe it when she crashed my flat and

handed him to me on a plate. Just like that. Didn’t even

put up a fight.

Nick muttered something about finding a hotel, but of

course he was just saying that so I didn’t feel I had to ask

him to move in. As if I was going to let an opportunity

like that slip through my fingers. It’s not quite the way I

would’ve liked it to happen - it would’ve been nice if

he’d left his wife by choice and told me he couldn’t live

without me, begged me to let him stay, rather than ended

up here by default; but it comes to the same thing in the

end. The important thing is we’re together.

Every relationship has a few teething troubles at the

beginning. It’s only to be expected. Things are a bit

cramped with two of us in the flat, and Nick isn’t exactly

house-trained. Too many years having someone run

around after him, cooking him hot dinners and ironing

his shirts. And it’s a bit of a strain having to look sexy

and fabulous twentyfourseven; I keep having to get up

early to sneak in the bathroom and shove on some slap

before he sees me. He looked a bit shocked when he beat

me to it the other morning and caught sight of me au

naturel. It’s his own fault: I was having my own There’s

Something About Mary moment after some rather pervy

sex the night before.

But actually, I think he’s finding it all rather romantic,

really. Bohemian. Sort of like being a student again, young

and footloose and carefree. I bet it makes a nice change

from all that family responsibility.

I pick up the phone and dial. ‘Hey. S’me.’ v Ś

‘If you go all loved-up on me again, I’m hanging up

Amy says warningly.

‘Sorry, doll, the honeymoon’s over. Didn’t I tell you?

He leaves dirty clothes all over the floor and wouldn’t

know an ironing board from a vibrator.’

She snorts. ‘No wonder you need a king-size bed.’

‘D’you fancy going to Camden Market this morning?’

I ask. ‘If we get a wiggle-on we could get there before

eleven. I was thinking about trawling round the covered

market for some silver earrings, I think I lost one of my

Indian ones at the gym.’ I giggle. ‘Roj probably nicked it

for his Prince Albert.’

‘Eeuuw. Do you mind? I haven’t finished my breakfast.’

‘Meet you there?’

‘I don’t know. I was going down to my parents’—’

‘Oh, live dangerously, Ames,’ I wheedle. ‘C’mon, it’s

a lovely day. And we could do lunch at the Dome, we

haven’t been there for ages.’

I feel her weaken at the thought of bouillabaisse.

‘Where’s lover boy, then?’

‘He’s seeing his kids. It’s the first time since they split

up; his wife is dropping them off at his Mum’s for the

weekend. He won’t be back till tomorrow night. Please,

pretty please? I’ll lend you my new James Blunt—’

‘Throw in your Oasis dress for a week and I’ll see you

in forty minutes.’

She’s already waiting for me when I reach the entrance

to the covered market. We stroll round the stalls of knickknacks, bric-a-brac and vintage crap for while, pawing

over the junk of yesteryear and muttering ribald remarks

to each other. For some reason, a kitsch nest of chamber

pots - his ‘n’ hers - reduces us to tears of mirth. Eventually, I buy a delicate pair of amber and silver earrings

- ‘God, look at the tiny fly stuck in that one Amy

marvels, ‘can you imagine how old it must be?’ - whilst

she bargains for an antique game of bagatelle for Terry’s

next birthday. ‘I know it’s not very romantic Amy

admits, “but at least he can take this home without his

wife suspecting it’s from another woman.’

‘I have to say she adds crossly as we sit down to

lunch, ‘you look positively glowing. Living the happyever-after, are you?’

‘More or less I grin, flipping open my menu.

‘Tell me the less she sighs, ‘I don’t think I’ve the

stomach for more right now.’

‘Well, his father died last week, so to cheer him up I

dressed as a schoolgirl and shagged him over the back of

sofa in full view of the neighbours I start.

Amy chokes on her sparkling water.

‘And I whisper, leaning across the table, ‘he shoved

his - you know - up my bloody arse.’

‘You’re kidding? What, without even asking?’

‘Without any bloody lube, either1 say feelingly. T had

to perch on one cheek for three days.’

‘Well, he did go to public school. I suppose it’s only to

be expected.’

We drop the subject of anal sex as the waiter takes our

order. I don’t really feel like wine, though Amy opts for a

glass of Sancerre. I guess I’m not in the mood.

I snap a breadstick between my fingers. ‘Joking apart,

I do sometimes wonder, Amy. I know Nick and I have

always been about sex. I mean, obviously: that’s the whole

point of having an affair. But sometimes, especially lately,

it seems so impersonal. We do all this wild stuff in bed and

out of it, come to that - and generally I’m cool with

whatever he wants to try as it doesn’t involve lit cigarettes

or live goldfish up my fanny.’ I lick my forefinger and

dab restlessly at the crumbs. ‘But there’s not much tenderness.

He hardly ever kisses me. I just - I don’t know,

Ames.’ I surprise myself by suddenly feeling close to

tears. ‘It’s just this feeling I have. It’s like he doesn’t even see me sometimes.’

There’s a short silence. Amy looks understandably

bewildered at the speed of my transition from smug

unmarried to oops-worms-in-Paradise.

I’m a little confused myself. I didn’t realize that was

there until I opened my mouth and it all spilled out.

‘Are you sure it’s not just you,’ she says, ‘wanting more

from him? Now that you’re living together.’ She moves

the bread basket out of my reach. ‘Having an affair is one

thing. Now you’re in a relationship. Everything’s changed

all of a sudden. Of course you want more than a good

seeing to over the back of the furniture. And I’m sure it’s

going to be fine, but it’s just going to take a little time,

that’s all. It’s a big adjustment for both of you.’

I recover quickly. After all, I’m the poster girl for Other

Women. The proof it can all work out in the end.

‘I’m sure you’re right I say brightly. ‘After all, what

goes on in the bedroom says a lot about the rest of

your relationship, doesn’t it? As long as things are good

there, everything else will fall into place eventually.

It’s just a question of us getting used to living with each

other.’

‘I’m sure everything’s going to be fine she echoes.

I narrow my eyes. ‘What? Spit it out’

She leans back as the waiter places her soup in front of

her, choosing her words.

‘It’s just - I’m not sure I’d let him spend quality time with his wife and kids yet. No need to remind him what he’s missing, if you see what I mean.’

I stare at her, surprised.

‘Look she says. ‘The kids are his one weak point.

Come on, Sara, how many times have you had a client

change his mind and go back to his wife once it gets

down to custody and a week at Christmas and two in the

summer?’

I realize Amy has prodded precisely where it hurts.

‘I’m not saying for a minute he’d go back to her,’ she

reassures me. ‘But why take the chance? She knows

him better than anyone, remember. She’ll know which

buttons to press. She could be cosying up to him in

the kitchen right now, dandling that cute little baby on

her lap, getting him all nostalgic for family life.’ She stirs

her bouillabaisse. ‘It’s a really delicate time, the first few

weeks after they leave. And he’s just lost his dad. If I were

you, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight.’

‘I can’t stop him seeing his kids - I wouldn’t want

to—’

I’m not saying you should. Just make sure you’re

part of the picture, that’s all, rather than her. The battle’s

not over yet. Don’t give her a chance to talk him round.

I know kids aren’t your scene, but you’ve got to play it

like they are for a bit. Take them out to - I don’t know,

Chessington or something. You can always ease up later,

once things are more settled.’

I look down at my plate of calamari. ‘I don’t feel all

that hungry, Ames. I think it’s your fish soup, it’s making

me feel a bit sick.’

Amy cheerfully digs her fork into a deep-fried baby

octopus.

‘At least it’s not morning sickness she grins.

Ten days late. That’s not much, surely? I know I haven’t

missed a pill. I checked. There could be lots of reasons my

period’s a few days late. That dodgy Chinese, for example,

I was as sick as a dog for two days. Lack of exercise:

I’ve barely seen the inside of the gym since Nick moved

in. He likes me to be there when he gets home. Not

to mention the bloody stress. This flat is a little on the

crowded side with two adults sharing; throw in three

children every weekend as we’ve been doing for the past

few weeks and it’s total fucking chaos.

I part the blinds with my finger and peer down into

the street as Kat winds around my ankles. Chessington

was a freakin’ fiasco, it pissed with rain and the kids

hated me, but at least I was there. And I suppose I should

be grateful Nick’s wife lets the children come and stay here

at all. His mother refuses to allow me to darken her doors