Antidote to Infidelity (24 page)

“I see. Catch anything?”

“Huh?”

“I said, did you catch
anything? You know, minnow? Mackerel? Movie star?”

Choking on a sharp piece of
hash brown, I spit my bucks fizz oh-so-charmingly over his foot.

“What the . . . how did you?
Will, are you spying on me?”

As he dips his flip flop in the
pool, I’m relieved to see a quirky smile on his face, not the usual jealous
sulk.

“Nope, not at all. I woke up,
you weren’t there. I thought you’d be in the pool but spotted you off the
balcony,” he gestures casually over his shoulder, “on Robert Redford’s yacht.”

Giggling, I push aside a
wayward curl that’s dipping in my tomatoes.

“It’s not Robert Redford, you
berk
.
His name’s Greg, he was just helping me fish my shoe out of the marina. I was
going to tell you but thought I’d get a bollocking.”

Laughing out loud, Will
shepherds me over to the far corner of the terrace, where the billionaires
store their jewel-encrusted vessels when they’re not sailing off into the
sunset. He has a suspicious ‘victory-is-mine’ look about him that’s making me
want to slap him.

“Sally-Ann Moss, you’ve been
had my girl!” he gaffs, pointing out a giant bobbing yacht, the finest of a
rare and beautiful fleet. “I hate to break this to you, but it
was
Robert
Redford. He’s got a mansion in Marbella.
That’s
his three-million dollar
cruiser, right there. What you’ve been gallivanting around on this morning is
his bath toy. You really are gullible, Sal!”

No, no, no!

Watching the grand boat dip and
sway, I feel like my numbers have just come up on the lottery . . . and I’ve
lost my bloody ticket. It
can’t
be true. Not fair! Oh, it’s just not . .
. hey, wait a minute. It might
not
be true. I
am
gullible.
Immensely. Under ‘gullible’ in the dictionary there’s a picture of me, looking
vacant.

 “Oh, I can just imagine your
mother’s face!” Will gosters. “Wasn’t he on the ‘wanted’ list? First round
draft pick for son-in-laws? Tut! Cavorting with your betrothed and you didn’t
even realise. Haha, hahaha.”

Scowling, I open my mouth, then
snap it shut. He’s got this irritating
‘I’m-pulling-your-leg-but-you’re-so-dippy-you’ll-hop’ expression - but I’m
still not sure if he’s winding me up or just elated he’s got one over on my
mother.

My thought process spaghettis.
If he’s serious, I’ve just been within
touching
distance of a near-naked
A-list
legend
and not even pinched a chest hair, let alone a kiss! Plus
I flashed him like a Hollywood Boulevard hooker!

Now
that
my mother would
approve of. ‘
Show him the goods, Sally-Ann. Reel him in, I’ll call the
vicar’.

Feeling like a
million-dollar-mug, I screw up my face, refusing to look at Will, who’s
tickling me and squawking like a kookaburra. Robert bloody Redfern, indeed. I
knew
it was him. Why oh why didn’t I accept his offer? The drink and the tumble dry
that is, not the infamous movie line. I can’t be bought
that
easily. I’d
want at least
two million
. . .

Following my wistful glance to
the swaying ships, Will stems his hysterics realising he’s on dangerous ground.
Translation: I’m about to cloth him one. Taking my hand, he gives me a swift
consolation kiss before luring me, silent and star-struck, back to my cold,
fattening breakfast.

Three hours and three heavenly
mango and pineapple smoothies later, I’m relaxing on a wicker sun lounger,
gazing out across the ocean from the sanctuary of a golden, sandy cove. The
only thing spoiling my tranquillity is Will, who’s clowning around on a jet
ski, zooming back and forth like a cocky James Bond baddie.

I can tell by the whoops of
delight drifting back to shore that he’s having a whale of a time. I half wish
I’d joined him, I
love
jet skis. Unfortunately though, I don’t love deep
water - or, more to the point, what’s lurking in it - and my morning tangle
with the seaweed has put me off ‘el mar’ for the rest of the day, at least.

Instead, I’ve opted for some
safe, relaxing sunbathing – an unfortunate choice considering a gusty breeze
has blown in from the mountains and it’s enough to freeze your bristols off.

Brrr. I knew 20 degrees in
January was too good to be true!

Giving Will the thumbs up as he
frolics in the spray, continually eyeballing the shore to check I haven’t
missed his latest death-defying stunt, I glance at my mobile.

One missed call.

Realising it’s from Bianca, I
decide to give her a quick tinkle and check up on things at home. You see, not
only have I left her official foreman of Amy’s move, I’ve also begged her to
feed Bugsy and Tallulah, the kids’ beloved dwarf bunnies, and pop in on Rowan
for moral support. Knowing Bi though, I wouldn’t put it past her to give the
rabbits a shoulder to cry on and offer Rowan a carrot.

No, seriously.

Eager to brag I’m rubbing
shoulders with half of Hollywood (exaggerate? Moi?), I burrow my feet into the
sand, settling in for a lengthy chat as Bianca and her machine pick up at the
same time.

“Hello? Sal? Is that you? Hang
on, oooh, bloody answer phone . . . doesn’t give you chance to get your
knickers up!”

What? Urrrgggh.

How is it that the very
second
Bianca opens her mouth, she has my cheeks a-glow, wondering (in awe) what
illicit misadventures she can
possibly
be engaging in at three o’clock
in the afternoon. On a week day.

“It’s a blessing it
is
me by the sound of it, and not your mother,” I tell her sternly. “Why in the
world are they
down
again, that’s what I want to know?”

As I blot out visions of my pal
rampantly riding the gardener whilst casually taking my call, Bi tuts crossly,
“My
mother’s
in Mayfair, you’re the only international I know who’d be
calling. And I was
weeing
if you must know - shame on you! I almost
broke my neck on the stairs.”

Oh, shame on me, eh? Shame on
me? Not the one who brazenly bedded half the faux English Church on New Year’s
Eve without batting an eyelid?

Nevertheless, I chide myself
for my sordid assumption.

“Oh, well in that case -
sorry,” I offer. “I just wanted to check in, you know, make sure everything’s
alright. How’s Row doing? Is our Amy in yet? Are the rabbits still alive?”

I wait for a reply but the line
stays silent.

“Bianca? Bi, are you still
there? Oh
please
tell me you’ve not bumped the bunnies off, you’ve only
had them a
day
. . .”

“What? Oh, sorry Sal. No, of
course not, I was nodding. I forgot you can’t see me. Everyone’s here actually,
I’m just fiddling with our mum-to-be.”

“You’re what? Rowan?” I ask,
feeling a teeny bit left out. I can’t imagine why they’re all at Bi Unique,
especially without
me
, being as I normally instigate all our
get-togethers.

Oooh, maybe they’re plotting my
birthday party, in which case - hooray! Carry on, girls, carry on. I think I’d
like a stripper this year, considering.

Bi sighs impatiently.

“Of
course
Rowan, duh.
How many other plain pregnant women do we know? We’re having a working lunch. I
think you’ll be pleasantly surprised when you get back.”

Cogs ticking, I sense she’s
mulling something over before she gabbles, “Or then again, maybe not. Maybe
you’ll go nuts. Amy’s nicked half your house, I tried to stop her, honest!”

There’s a kafuffle, squeals and
rustling, followed by my sister hollering in the background, “Aw Bianca, you
big snitch! It’s only a vase and a few cushions, Sal, don’t listen to her. Oh,
and some plates and stuff. And a bedspread, and a ke . . . oooh, that’s
nice
.
Mmm. I like the black. Yeah, definitely the black. Wow, coral! Oooh, I can’t
believe
it!”

Envisaging returning home to an
empty shell and burglar-style carnage, I glance up just in time to appease
Will, as he smashes into the rough for the
fiftieth
time, with a yes-I’m-still-watching-and-
really
-impressed
nod.

“What’s nice? Can’t believe
what
?”
I demand. “What’s going on? Bianca Wilson, do
not
let my sister take
anything else from my house, I’m holding you personally responsible, okay?”

Suddenly remembering my hot
gossip, I forget I’ve been robbed and rewind to happy-mode, taunting Bi in the
sing-songy voice that drives her nuts.

“Oooh . . . bet you can’t guess
who
I’ve
been with this mor-ning? Come on, have a guess.”

“Who?” Bi snaps. “Stop pissing
about. Pass me that Liselle . . . no, no, not
that
. Duh! You can’t get
the staff.
That one
, over there.”

I can tell she’s not really
listening but plough on regardless.

“Robert Redford. Can you
believe it?
The
Robert Redford! He fished my shoe out of the sea and
asked me to spend the night on his yacht. Tell the girls, quick.”

Bi mutes me for ten seconds or
so, presumably to share my huge news, before cackling like a hyena, followed by
whispers and giggles.

“What’s so funny?” I demand,
expecting to be hit with a monsoon of eager questions. “What did they say? Are
you impressed? Bet you’re dead jealous, huh?”

I’m
sure
my friends will
be clamouring for more details. Just wait. Any minute now . . .

But no.
To my dismay, the next voice
on the phone is Liselle’s, taking the piss.

“Sorry Sal, Bianca’s gone to
tip the pizza guy. She might be a while. I’d love to stay and chat but Elvis is
coming round and we’re all off to Graceland. Have a nice hol, Pinocchio!”

There’s an explosion of riotous
laughter then - click.

She’s hung up. Oooh, the cheek
of it!

They obviously don’t
believe
me. Humph! Well, they bloody
will
, even if I have to hunt him down and
get him to sign my chest. In permanent marker.

Miffed, I’m about to call back,
set them straight and
insist
Amy return my belongings
immediately
being as her new beau’s got a penthouse, when - yaaahhh! Brrrrr! Rrrggghhh! - a
gulf of freezing water is dumped on my head from behind.

Grinning like a cat,
Wet-Suit-Will plonks down on the sun bed.

“Hey! You absolute
shit head
,
why’d you do that?” I squeal, taking an angry swipe at him. “I’m soaked, you
pig
.
I’ll have to go back and change now.”

Running my Playboy towel
roughly over his surfer locks, he turns to dry me off.

“Because you weren’t watching,
were you? I thought we said no phones, remember? Quality time. No
interruptions. Ring any bells?”

Uh-oh. Rumbled. I suppose
buggering off on a jet-ski doesn’t count.

Actually, he’s got a point. We
made a pact last night that, for three whole days, we weren’t going to make or
take any calls whatsoever, except from the kids, of course.

Slipping my mobile guiltily
into my beach bag, I wrap Will’s towel around my shoulders.

“Of
course
I was
watching,” I insist. “It was
Rosie
! She was just telling me that they’re
off to the water park and . . . and . . . erm . . .”

“Utter bollocks Sally.” He
rifles through the bag for my phone. “I’ll bet our
mortgage
it was
Bianca and I’ll bet you were bragging about Robert Redford. I’m keeping this
’til we get home.”

Flipping my phone open and
shut, Will winks and sprints up the beach, leaving me with no choice but to
round up our beach clobber and follow. Assuming he’ll head to the apartment for
a shower, I meander along the promenade, senses awakened by the quaint little
fish restaurants sizzling their catch on makeshift barbeques lining the shore.

Famished, I savour the smell,
clutching Will’s towel tighter as the wind blows through my wet top.

Brrrr. I’ll get him back, the
childish bugger. I’ll wax a section of his chest while he’s asleep and see if
he sees the funny side of that.

Reaching our main gate, I
ferret through my bag for the code, but . . .
oooohh . . . pretty. Must . .
. buy.
Yes, once more, I’m being unscrupulously lured by the magnetic pull
of the jewellers. It’s ridiculous. My flip-flopped feet are on auto-step.

No no! About turn! No more
extravagance.

Then I remember Will’s
sea-slinging and allow myself to be lured. He might have nicked my phone but
he’s left his wallet and by my reckoning, a bucket of water on the head is
worth, oooh, a bracelet at least and perhaps even a pair of dangly earrings to
match.