Antidote to Infidelity (13 page)

Clad in a breathtaking,
diamond-embellished cat suit which hugs her curves like a dazzling second skin,
she grins from behind a set of dark, crystal whiskers and dances in, six-inch
heels clacking away on the tiles.

“Ta-da! Am I a genius, or what?
Whadda ya think?”

I stare in mature, responsible,
almost-thirty alarm at the flimsy strip of red, silver and blue material she’s
holding up, obviously intended as my outfit.

“I think, Bi, that I don’t
recall giving you a key,” I tell her crossly, reaching Rosie’s squeaky duck out
of the disappearing bubbles. “Or maybe you climbed up the drainpipe? You look
fantastic
. . . but I’m seriously hoping that’s my headband! I’m not sixteen you know!”

With a raunchy purr, she waves
the miniscule costume at me, triumphant and defiant.

“No way honey, you’re not
getting out of it that easily. This is your stuff-Will-show-stopper and you can
soooo
pull it off with those legs!”

Fishing into her Gucci travel
bag she pulls out her deal-sealer, tempting me like the snake in the Garden of
Eden with a bottle of Smirnoff and four icy cans of Red Bull.

Wrestling with my nagging
conscience, I feel like I’m being ripped in half: dressing gown, Toblerone and
bed? Hot Lycra headband, alcohol and out?

Mmm, tough call.

As Bi hands me my favourite
tipple, I crumble. Oh, what the hell? Why not? The kids are having the time of
their lives and their father’s probably having the time of
his.

In triage. Suffocating in
Sticky Becky’s bowling ball cleavage.

Knocking back the heady shot, I
twist my wet hair into a makeshift turban, deciding I will
not
be a
victim.
Not
. I’ll simply rise above it, hold my head high and  show Will
- in a controlled, dignified manner, of course - that New Year’s Eve is
much
more fun without him.

Oooh, I must admit,
I
’
m quite excited.
Freezing my ass off, but excited. This could be a
good
idea after all.
Or, it could be Bianca’s ‘Vodka Enticer’ clouding my judgement. Oh, who cares?
I feel a damn sight better than I did half an hour ago, that
’
s for sure. But that
’
s Bi for you!

We can see the
spectacular strobe lasers circling the roof of Savannah
’
s from our front lawn, searing
the sky with an array of dancing lights like the breathtaking
Aurora Borealis. Bianca and I
are standing side by side, coatless in our tiny costumes, braving the Arctic
chill. We watch in awe before our transportation - a luxurious stretch limousine
- rolls up, ensuring we’ll set tongues-a-wagging with our grand entrance
(cheers, Howard)!

Clambering in, I tug at my
bum-brushing costume, wishing I’d put on some thick, respectable PE knickers
instead of a thong. After all, it’s not as if anyone’s going to
see
it,
is it? Or pass comment. I’m husbandless, so why subject myself to a draught?

As we drive across the Square,
giggling and sipping champagne from quaint crystal goblets, Bianca winds down
the window, waving gaily at the passers-by on the high street, who smile and
wave back.

They probably think it’s Halle
Berry. Until she opens her smutty mouth that is, then they’ll think it’s Jo
Brand.

Squealing with delight, Bi
claps her hands as the throb of distant music fills the car.

“Do you hear that, Sal? It’s
coming from Savannah’s, oh, we’re in for one hell of a night - roll out the
cock!”

As she stretches out like a
contented feline on the white leather seat, I notice a wry smile flickering on
Cat Woman’s glossy, scarlet lips and wail, “Oh God, no -
what
?”

“What do you mean, what?” she
purrs, winding up the window to preserve her flawless hair.

“I know that look, Bi,” I
insist, “it normally means you’re up to no good or thinking something filthy.
Or both!”

Laughing, she tops up my glass,
which I make a mental note
not
to touch because I’m already
dangerously
close to my two-drink limit. One word: lightweight.

“I was just thinking, Sal,” she
sighs. “I could
really
get used to this, riding around in limousines all
day, drinking champagne, eating Belgian chocolates. D’you know, I’m seriously
thinking of becoming a high-class call girl!”

Well, yes. I must admit, I see
her point. We’d all like to get paid top dollar for doing what we enjoy most
nine-to-five, wouldn’t we?

I shake my head and, forgetting
my plan to pour my champers out the window, take a gulp, tiny bubbles tingling
my nose.

“I don’t think there’s much
call for that in Goldwell, hon. Sorry and all that. You could commute? To
London, perhaps. Or even New York. Say, do you realise this is real, actual
crystal? Wow.”

Tinging the decanter with my
nail, I add coyly, “Bi?”

“Yeeeesss?”

“Do you think Will might show,
or have I blown it?”

As I gaze enviously at her
inch-long lashes, trying to make mine curl too by poking them upwards with my
thumb, she laughs wickedly, adjusting a peeping boob.

“From what I hear, princess,
your marriage is on its knees because you
haven’t
blown it!”

“Bianca!”

Hearing our suit-clad chauffer
stifle a laugh, I tut, pressing the ‘privacy’ button.

“Bi, really! Don’t be
crude
.
I think high class hooker, your filthy mind’s permanently in the gutter.
Seriously, do you think he’ll turn up?”

Clearly wishing I’d change the
record and chill, Bianca blends snugly into the leather, drumming her jet black
talons on the frosted window as we roll past Asda, reminding me I need to buy
school uniforms.

“Honey, if he does, he’ll be
blown away,” she assures me confidently. “If he doesn’t, it’s his loss. Either
way, dressed like that, you won’t be going home on your lonesome . . . you’ll
be humpin’ up a cricket score.”

Oh, fantastic. Just bloody
great. On the say so of a high-class hooker, I’m guaranteed to see the New Year
in with a shag! Awesome, talk about sitting duck.

With more flesh on show than
the Morrison’s meat counter, I’m locked in a limo with the Queen of Casual Sex
. . . and I’m her lady-in-waiting. Either that, or the court jester.

Squinting at Bi, regarding me
with what can only be described as optimistic pity - you know, poor sex-starved
Sally, only had two guys in twenty-nine years, let’s get her laid,  pronto -
I’m half expecting her to whip open her handbag, reveal an assortment of
condoms and declare, “Here you go, honey, this one’s got your name on it!”

Shaking my head, I mouth “no”,
at which she raises her eyebrows, nods and whispers “Oh, yes.”

Uh-oh. I
know
that look.
It’s a look that says, ‘You’re shagging tonight Sally-o, even if it kills me.
Even if we have to pay for it’.

Feeling cornered, I’m
seriously
contemplating begging the driver to turn round and take me home so I can ditch
this ridiculous dress, slip on my slippers and call Will and the kids, when the
intercom buzzes and the car rolls to a halt outside our venue.

As the driver, clearly a
well-bought-up gentleman, holds open the door, I turn to thank him, clinging
onto Bi’s arm for dear life as we head up the lush red carpeted steps into
Savannah’s.

I gaze at the sky, thinking the
twinkly lights seem even more beautiful close up . . .
   Bmmmmph! Ouch! Ow.

That’s me. I’ve tripped over
the laces of my new silver trainers, tumbled up the last three steps and
careered uncouthly into the grand ballroom. Cursing my stupid shoes and my
not-so-gracefulness (inherited from my father) I allow Bi - who’s shaking her
head at the hunky bouncers like I’m some sort of halfwit - to drag me off in
the direction of the bar.

God, this place looks fab! It’s
all white and gleaming. I feel like I’ve wandered through the back of the
wardrobe and into Narnia. Oooh, there’s a walrus. How bizarre. And a penguin.
Two penguins! Aaah, I get it - it’s meant to be the North Pole. Good job,
designers!

The enormous room has a
dazzling diamond glint, glistening artificial snow and towering ice sculptures
every which way we turn. All around, immaculately-dressed revellers dart in and
out of illuminated igloos, accepting cocktails and nibbles from scantily-clad,
tray-bearing Eskimos.

Surely they don’t wear bikinis
in the North Pole? Even fur ones?
Oooh, look! That buffet in the far corner would feed an army . . . for a
month. I’m starving.

The dance floor, complete with
mini Northern Lights rainbowing off the ceiling, is
heaving
, but it’s
hard to recognise familiar faces as, obviously, everyone’s come as someone
else!

All around us, colourful,
gyrating bodies are bumping and grinding provocatively, whilst the DJ - clearly
getting jiggy with it - fixes his mix from the centre of a giant, rotating
snowball.

I love it, I love it, I love
it! God, I’m glad I’ve come.
Mmm. I wonder what Bi thinks?

Revelling in the electric
atmosphere, my friend does a 360-degree spin, grinning with wicked delight as a
saucy Sinbad slaps her bum.

“Wow!” she whistles, scanning
the room for prey. “They must have spent
thousands
, this is outrageous!
And
he’s
fit-as-fuck. Ooh, Sal, look up, look up!”

I do, realising the roof, which
previously split Savannah’s two floors, has been removed and replaced with
ice
.
Well, no - clear reinforced glass, obviously - but we can see everyone
dancing around on the level above.

As the room is filled with
Freddie’s ‘Mr Fahrenheit’, causing a stampede for the dance floor, I’m about to
join Madonna, George Bush and Scoobie Doo for a boogie when Bianca squeals,
“Sally. Look up, look up! Isn’t that Veronica, you know, the librarian? Look,
she’s got no
knickers
on! My God, a knickerless librarian. It’s
diabolical, I love it!”

It’s true. Yikes. Even dressed
as Wonder Woman, I recognise Veronica from my toddler book mornings and her
bush is, indeed, free as a bird.

Diabolical - yes. Draughty too,
especially for December. Talk about having to watch the quiet ones! Stoking the
ammo for the next time she haughtily shushes me and the twins in the library, I
tap Bi’s shoulder, shouting over the booming music, “Hussy! Never judge a book
by its cover, eh? Shall we ask her to come downstairs? It’s enough to put you
off the buffet . . .”

Giggling as Penelope Pit Stop
wanders by, with a mean green Incredible Hulk in tow, I grab an exotic looking
pink cocktail off a passing Eskimo and hand it to Bi. If I have one, I’ll be
sick, but she’ll be fine, she’s got hollow legs and a cast-iron stomach.

As we push our way through a
mass of bald headed monks, Bi’s eyes are on stalks. And so, it seems, are the
eyes of a desperate-looking Desperate Dan, loitering by a smoking block of
violet-coloured ice.

I’m not surprised. This
outfit’s
obscene
. This igloo’s authentically chilly too, my nipples are
sticking out like chapel hat pegs. Brrrrr. Now I
definitely
wish I’d not
let Bi talk me into ‘being a devil and going braless’. I feel self-conscious.
Exposed. I should have come as a polar bear, then at least I’d have a
three-inch thick fur coat on, not a paper-thin strip of translucent elastic.

Dragging Bi out of the freezer
before we turn into glaciers, we finally reach the bar,
bumping right into
Liselle and her partner, Phil. At least I
hope
it
’
s Phil - being a successful
racetrack bookie, coming as a thoroughbred would show great form!

Liselle, looking
more boyish than ever in jodhpurs, checked shirt and black leather riding
boots, is merrily waving a whip at the clodhopping pantomime horse beside her,
which is dancing around blindly, careering into all and sundry.

“
Hey guys, you look great!
”
I yell above the din,
sidestepping a wayward hoof.

“
Thanks! You too, sensational!
” she hollers.

Cracking the whip
expertly down on the horse
’
s bony hind, Liselle
laughs,
“
This is Red Rum,
otherwise known as Phil and his mate Stan. I
’
m
Kieran Bracken.
”

Stamping its right
hoof in a strop, the horse whinnies, hopping up and down on the spot.
“
Fallon! You
’
re Kieran
Fallon
,
champion jockey! Bracken
’
s a rugby player.
Well, used to be, now he
’
s a bloody ballet
dancer!
”