Antidote to Infidelity (20 page)

“Noooo” he adds hurriedly.
“It’s not his fault. I’ve known Ben ages, he’s a top bloke, his missus was a
wrong ’un. They’re split but not
sorted
if you know what I mean.”

I regard him doubtfully. It’s
never the guy’s fault, is it? No, they’re always the victim. Always married to
a complete bitch. Will must think I fell off a Christmas tree. Amy’s only
twenty-three for Christ’s sake, far too young to get her fingers burned by some
mystery divorcee who’s been round the block more times than the pizza guy.

Rolling his eyes, Will flicks
my forehead hard.

“Give over, Sal. I’m
tellin’
you, he’s bob-on.” Then, averting his eyes, “Sheesh, you remind me of your
mother when you pull that face. Stop it. Makes me knackers shrink like
raisins.”

Amy giggles, slipping off her
tight pink T-shirt to reveal a lacy, transparent Wonder Bra. Rummaging through
her stuff, completely oblivious to me - and Will, who doesn’t know where to
look (yeah, right) - she selects an immensely familiar lemon cashmere roll neck
and covers up.

“Oooh, Sal, I absolutely
adore
him,” she sighs, contentedly twisting her hair. “He treats me like a
princess. Makes my heart go skippety-skip.”

Seeing Will smirk, she giggles
coyly, “He’s a
tiger
in the sack, y’know. I call him Big Ben.”

Well, ding dong. Ain’t love
grand.

I sigh a concerned-big-sister
sigh but can’t resist a smile. Amy can’t be smitten already, it’s impossible.
It seems like only yesterday that she was poking round my room in pigtails,
scribbling on my Take That posters.

I pat the love-sick puppy on
the head.

“Well, you can tell big,
brilliant Ben that
I
want to vet him. And he’d better take good care of
you, or watch his big, sound back.”

Softening, I pull her in for a
hug. “Where did you meet him, sweetie? And why didn’t you
tell
me?”

She hugs me back then pops a
sticky bubble with the chewing gum centre of her lolly, just missing my fringe.

“At work. He does property
advertising with Will’s company. I was helping out on reception and he said I
looked
gorgeous
. Took me to dinner
and
bought me roses.”

Oh he did, did he? Quite the
Casanova.

“I see. How lovely,” I say,
tightening my ponytail a
teeny
bit enviously.

Smooth mover. Cocky. I’ll have
to keep an eye on him.

“And just what does Big Ben
do
,
exactly?” I ask. “Apart from make you tick?”

Amy laughs, “Well,
mother
,
he buys real estate abroad. He’s there now, or I’d have called
him
to
rescue me from the tower.”

Nuzzling into my shoulder, she
gives me a soppy hug. “I didn’t tell
you
because you’ve been such a
grumpy mess, I thought you might mum-out on me!”

She releases me, shrugging
matter-of-factly. “But hey, now you know. Oh, and thanks for the cash by the
way!”

I frown.

“Huh? Cash? What cash?” I
demand, shocked to see Will mouth “big gob” from behind his hand.

Narrowing my eyes, I regard the
pair of them suspiciously. It seems there’s a sneaky circle of trust going on
and for some reason, I’m not in it.
Humph!

About to demand immediate
entry, I bite my tongue as Will hurries out of the room. Almost immediately,
he’s back with an empty brown suitcase and matching cabin bag. Passing me my
passport, he winks at my sister.

“I gave Amy the down payment
for the apartment to get her out of your mother’s clutches. Four grand. She’s
gonna pay us back when she’s minted, aren’t you kiddo?”

Amy nods eagerly. “You betcha!
Now dab in or you’ll miss your flight!”

“
Flight
?” I squeak. “
What
bloody flight?
Four
bloody grand? Will, are you
nuts
?”

Oooh, this is bonkers! It’s
like being in a soap opera. Here I am, flustered in my scruffy cleaning
clothes, all set to ship my little sister off to live in sin, while my husband
- aka The Bank of England - has plans for an imminent departure!

High-fiving Amy, who’s
Charleston-style waving and humming ‘So Long, Farewell’, Will frogmarches me
into our bedroom, planting a lingering kiss on my lips.

“I’m putting my foot down Sally
Moss, as of right now,” he asserts sternly. “Starting with a romantic break in
the Costa del Sol. No doctors. No nurses. No bull shit.”

Kissing me lightly on the
forehead he snatches me close, whispering in my ear, “About earlier. Just the
thought
of you even
thinking
about another guy like that,” he shakes his
head, squeezing me tight, “I couldn’t take it, Sal. It really threw me, I’m
sorry.”

With a lump in my throat, I
gush, “No,
I’m
sorry Will. I wasn’t . . . I didn’t
. . . I’m sorry.”

Tipping my quivering chin until
our eyes meet, he places his index finger gently to my lips.

“Shhh. Get packing, we leave in
an hour. Three days of you, me, sand, sea and whatever else takes our fancy.
You’re gonna
love
it, promise.”

Seeing my eyes widen, he
pinches my lips closed, reading my thoughts.

“Stop it, Sal, the kids are
fine
.
Happy as bunnies. We had an hour on speakerphone this afternoon, they couldn’t
give two hoots whether we’re at home or in Timbuktu. I’ve got 19 picture texts
of the same sandcastle. Here, look.”

Weak at the knees, I start to
‘but, but, but’ and goldfish gabble but stop, flicking through a ream of
heart-warming seaside snaps on his mobile. Rosie giggling with ice cream on her
nose. Ryan with an ear-to-ear smile, dangling a fish on a line. Clive wrestling
an inflatable crocodile in the sea. Nineteen identical sandcastles with
coloured flags on every turret.

I smile, reassured. He’s right,
my babies are
fine
, so where’s the problem?

Exactly. Viva Espana! Come on,
chop-chop.

Hurriedly shooing Will off in
search of miniature toiletries, I flap round the room, wondering what
light-weight essentials to shove in first. Shoes? Panties? Sun cream? Oh,
where’s my mini hairdryer? Have we got travel insurance? Oh-my-God, who’s going
to feed the rabbits?

Aaah! Tick-tock-tick-tock.
Stress overload.

Within twenty seconds, I’m
hyperventilating.
Flying’s
bad enough, but flying in an
hour
?
Crikey, it takes me twice that to pack a picnic, let alone a suitcase!

Dashing to the wardrobe, I
rifle through my underwear Supermarket Sweep-style, pouncing on my emergency
brown paper bag. Keen to avert a meltdown, I push it over my nose and mouth and
breathe.

Why am I panicking? Am I
insane
?
It’s a
good
thing, surely. A golden opportunity to spend some
undisturbed quality time together. Pick up the pieces.

Ah. That’s better. Mmm. Calm.
Think pale blue. Think soft, soothing silence. Mmm.

Reassured by my level-headed
voice of reason, I stop clock-watching and lower my bag. Oh yes, a break is
just
what we need. It’ll be
rejuvenating
. Providing the air hostesses
aren’t
too
tarty and the plane doesn’t whistle back to earth like a
giant boulder. Honestly, how
do
they fly with three hundred folk and all
their bulky crap on board? How? How do they even take off, let alone stay in
the air? It’s not natural. It defies logic, not to mention gravity. On second
thoughts, I don’t think I want to . . .

Oh stop it, crazy girl.

As the palpitations return with
a vengeance, I flop to the carpet, pressing my head and shoulders against the
coolness of the wall. Planes are fine. Safer than cars. With whopping great
Rolls Royce engines to keep them afloat. Or aflight. Or whatever.

‘We’ll be
fine
’, I tell
myself, bag back on head.

Gradually, my panic subsides.
God, I hope Will’s booked wisely, he’s crap at impulsiveness and a real sucker
for desperate bargains off Teletext. You know, the kind that promise four-star
luxury then turn out to be skanky, ramshackle ruins in the middle of the
desert.

Now
that
I don’t need.
Marriage-mending whisk-away or not, I’ve got a funny feeling our turbulent
relationship might just combust in a cockroach-infested studio apartment in the
rain.

Despite feeling light-hearted
and loved-up when we took off, by the time our plane touched down at Malaga
Airport, I was weary, bloody - and ready to
stuff
Will’s reservation in
favour of a single room at the Riviera Grande.

Not a huge fan of flying at the
best of times, I spent the entire turbulent trip digging my nails into the arm
rests whilst my hubby, oblivious to my fear, slept like the dead, earphones
blurting out, lazy great head lolling against the window.

It wasn’t until we hit the
tarmac with a hefty thud that he jolted awake, shot out his arm in
disorientation and smacked me, right in the mouth. The result: a split bottom
lip and a blood-caked cream silk blouse.

Great . . . bloody . . . start.

As we disembarked - me with an
ice pack pressed to my chops, Will with his six-pack pressing through his
T-shirt - the stewardess smiled just a little
too
sweetly and said,
“Thank you for flying with us, sir. Tell your sister to keep her mouth shut,
it’ll keep the swelling down.”

Huh! Shut my mouth, indeed. Why
didn’t she tell me herself, I was standing right there, wasn’t I?
And
she knew I wasn’t his sister, cheeky cow! Then again, I’m surprised she even
noticed
me
at all . . . invisible at the side of my clumsy hulk of a
husband. And I’m sure it wasn’t
my
arse she was indiscreetly ogling as
we made our way down the steps to the terminal building.

***

We’re inside now, so I’ve sent
an apologetic Will (sorry about my lip, that is, not the brazen stewardess who,
apparently, he ‘hadn’t even noticed, babe’) off in search of the cases. I
meanwhile, parched and in pain, am about to get into a scrap with an Evian
machine which has greedily hogged my two Euros but declined to give me a drink.

I think I’m going to kick it.
It’s
asking
for it.

Yeah, that’s
exactly
what I’m going to do. I’m gonna give this continental coin-guzzler some British
welly. Show it who’s boss. Here goes . . .

Picking up my toe, I glance
over my shoulder to make sure no one’s looking, just as a young Spanish guy
dressed in oily blue overalls stops his trolley cart beside me.

Busted. Oooh, he’s nice. Mm mm.

“Buenos noches, se
ñ
orita.” he says, smirking as I
lower my offending foot. “¿Qué tiene de malo? ¿Hay algún problema aquí?”

Is there a problem?
Eh-uh. Not any more,
sunshine.

Wow, he’s
hot
. Mega hot.
So hot that now, I really
need
that water. He’s a little short, but
blimey - Bi would eat him alive. As tapas! Smiling, I curse my unsightly fat
lip as I give him the quick, obligatory once-over. You know, the one where you
look because you’re married, not
dead
, then deny it hand-on-heart when
spotted by your spouse.

He’s grinning at me playfully.
Now
I remember why I took that ‘useless’ Spanish A-level. Adjusting my wrap to
cover my crusty blouse, I gesture feebly towards the machine, trying to concoct
something vaguely translatable.

“Oh, hola se
ñ
or. Lo siento, Dos euros, no
hay agua.”

Ge-ni-us! I’m clearly a
bi-lingual mastermind.

Pleased with my cultured
display, I smile a little
too
sweetly at the olive-skinned
whippersnapper who’s young enough to be my son (well, almost). If I’d had him
when I was twelve.

With his wavy black hair,
bright smile and intense brown eyes, he reminds me of a teenage Antonio
Banderas. I can’t help wonder why he’s
in
the airport, not posing in
swimwear on a billboard
outside
it.

He flashes me a dazzling
pearl-drops smile.

“Ahhh, si. Un momento por
favor, señorita.”

Miss
. Hooray! Less than three weeks
shy of my big three-oooh, I’m still a ‘se
ñ
orita’, not a se
ñ
ora, in the eyes of a sexy young stud.

Clearly Oil of Olay and my
thirty-minute slogs on Thighmaster are paying off.

Feeling young and sprightly, I
look on amused as he hops off his cart and thrashes the living daylights out of
the machine until, reluctantly, it spits two bottles of water at his feet.
Giving the dented vender a look of superiority, he cockily tosses the drinks
Tom-Cruise-Cocktail-style into my spare hand and open handbag.