Antidote to Infidelity (3 page)

I squirm uncomfortably, needing
to get off the phone. Twelve ‘dears’ in two minutes, it’s like being on safari.

“Tomorrow’s fine, dear.” Grrr!
Thirteen. Now she’s got
me
at it.

Exasperated, I wipe sticky
little finger marks off the tepid hall radiator, adding, “I mean Mary. Fine.
Lovely. The kids can’t wait. About twelve okay? Or come earlier and see them
open their pressies.”

As we say our goodbyes, I know
my bubbly in-laws will be banging down the door at first light, unlike my
toffee-nosed parents, who’ll leave it right until the last minute before
setting off. My younger sister Amy, far too pissed to see morning, will pull up
as I dish up, along with Will’s burly brother Robert and his hot Goth
girlfriend, no doubt squeezing in a last-gasp shag before the inconvenience of
dinner.

But I don’t mind. Well, maybe
just a little . . . but only ’cause I’m jealous.

What I
do
mind though,
is that whilst I’m running around like the proverbial blue-arsed fly, wrapping,
zooing and preparing a three-course Christmas banquet for eleven, Will - caught
red-handed pissing it up the wall - is still unaccounted for.

Suppressing a burning urge to
leave a strict ultimatum, like ‘be home in five minutes or bugger off back to
your mother’s’ on his answer machine, I make my way to the kitchen, willing
myself to focus on his good points, and, of course, my own culinary genius.
Pulling my frizzy brown waves into a bobble, I turn on the tap and begin
peeling a mountain of potatoes, carrots and parsnips so I won’t have to mess
about in the morning.

This year, I’m determined
there’ll be no mistakes. This year, I trust no one and have shopped early - by
hand, not bloody Internet.

***

I’ll never forget last year, my
first attempt at a Nigella Lawson-style Noel. Keen to impress, I decided on
three delicious courses: creamy garlic mushrooms, turkey and sticky caramel
profiteroles. Yum.

Yum that is, if Sainsbury’s
Home Delivery hadn’t rolled up at 6pm on Christmas Eve and announced, seemingly
without a shred of concern, that the eight pots of double cream I’d ordered -
the main ingredient to my lovely starters and puddings - were ‘soz like, out of
stock duck’.

But I didn’t panic, I simply
sent Will to Tesco’s. Who, it turned out, had also run out. As had Somerfield.
And Morrisons. And Asda. And the Co-op. And
every
other shop on the face
of the earth. Masterchef glory evaporating in potato steam, I sobbed a pan full
of tears, but hey - the outlaws had to settle for prawns, turkey and vanilla
ice cream . . . and like it, or else!

This year there’s been no such
drama, thank God - so far, so good! I’ve surpassed myself with Brussels pate,
beef, turkey, pork, gammon, bacon-wrapped chipolatas and an abundance of tasty
trimmings. All set for an elegant Christmas carvery in the conservatory, my
pièce de résistance is a delicious, home-made tiramisu, with lashings of cream
and amaretto liqueur. Mmmm.

The fact I’m just a big, fat
fraudster isn’t putting me off one bit. It
is
home-made, just not in
my
home and not by
me
. My good friend Liselle presented me with the posh
pud yesterday, quite by chance, just as I was screaming at egg whites for not
whipping into light, fluffy meringue. How the heck was I supposed to know you
need to add bloody sugar?

Gazing at her heavenly Italian
indulgence like it was a mirage, I binned my shell-infested slop, begging
permission to pass it off as my own masterpiece. She agreed - cunning but
crucial, considering my poor track record.

You see, visions of my mother
Sylvia’s hatchet face, giving Will the evils at last year’s bodged banquet as
she poked contemptibly at her Cream of Cornish, still haunt me. Honestly,
anyone would think I’d presented her with a lump of steaming dog shit.

Tomorrow, she’s in for a shock
- not a micro-chip in sight. The job’s almost done
and
I’ve sprinkled
cinnamon on the perfect tiramisu, which I plan to graciously offer as, ‘Oh, you
know, just a little something I whipped up last night . . .’

***

Looking at my reflection in the
steamed up window, I make a mental note to rescue my neglected complexion ASAP
with a bucket of Revitalift. No make-up, unploughed brows, quick-fix pony tail,
I’ll never make the cover of Vogue, but hey - I guess I don’t look
too
ropey for twenty-nine, mother of twins.

My friends think I look a
little like Julia Roberts. Ha, I wish!
She
has elegant, flowing locks,
endless legs and dazzling smile –
I’ve
got mad curls, circus stilts and
a massive gob. In fact, I’m sure that if I ever trace my origins, I’ll find I’m
a descendent of the wide-mouthed frog from the old Maltesers advert.

Despite my lanky legs, I’m
still a fair few inches shorter than Will, who hates it when I wear heels as he
likes to look taller than me. Naturally, I have a rogue stash stowed away for
girly nights out, which I slip on the second the cab’s cleared the corner.

Glancing at the clock above the
cooker, I sigh. Nine thirty-two and still no sign of him. Perhaps it’s time to
introduce some ground rules of my own, instead of being a soft touch and
letting him get away with murder. Mmm, that’s easier said than done though, as
- have I mentioned? - Will’s
gorgeous
. Too gorgeous for his own good and
definitely too gorgeous for me.

At thirty-six, with jet black
hair, square jaw and mellow brown eyes, I’ve always said he’d be much more at
home in a Hollywood gangster blockbuster than editing a lifestyle magazine.
Well over six feet tall, dark skinned, not a wrinkle or grey hair in sight,
he’s got an irritating, youthful aura about him, attracting wanton, yearning
glances everywhere we go, making me mad as a hatter.

Thick set and clean cut, he’s
also mastered this unique Sally-controlling
stare -
reserved for
wriggling out of bollockings - that shuts my trap and turns my legs to mush
whenever I try to reprimand him.

Which lately, if I’m brutally
honest, is quite often.

That being said, one thing I
can’t fault him on is his modesty. Some men know they’re hot and milk it for
all it’s worth. Will, bless him, seems graciously oblivious. The scores of
women falling over themselves to catch his eye are like water off a duck’s
back. I notice, he doesn’t - and if I mention it, he calls me paranoid.

It’s a different kettle of fish
though, when the boot’s on the other foot. If a cute guy so much as glances in
my general direction, Will keeps him under SAS-style observation.

Okay, okay, I’m exaggerating,
but while I suffer from PMS three days a month, Will’s plagued by PMSS -
Potential Marriage Saboteur Syndrome - all year round. Even Facebook, or
Snakebook
as he calls it, is frowned upon because, ‘there’s always some sneaky bugger
trying to steal your wife’.

I ask you - what can you do
with
that
? Mind you, in today’s flirty cyber society he’s probably
right. Turn your back for a second and your partner’s changing passwords,
swapping explicit e-mails with their old PE teacher!

***

The first time I clapped eyes
on my absent other half was at a charity bungee jump in the summer of 2005,
when a handful of daredevil businessmen were leaping off a crane in the grounds
of Nottingham Castle in aid of Cancer Research.

Having sworn myself off blokes
for life, I tried to ignore the butterflies he induced, but there was something
magnetic about this hunky stranger, dangling fifty feet in the air at the
petrified mercy of a dubious looking length of elastic.

As they lowered him headfirst
to the ground, where I waited shyly with a camera to snap him for the local
newspaper, he took one look at me and quipped, “Holy shit - an angel! I knew
that was a bad idea . . .”

And that was it - wham. Just
like that. Any scepticism surrounding the old ‘love at first sight’ myth
shattered as he smiled, asked my name . . . and begged for a bowl to throw up
in. Right there, right then, on a lush green lawn in the sunshine, surrounded
by Robin Hood, Maid Marion and their merry men, I knew
he was
the
one
.

Six months later, on a frosty
December afternoon, we tied the knot at historic Newstead Abbey in front of a
quirky collection of family, friends and passing Chinese tourists. Already
pregnant with Rosie and Ryan, and chucking up around the clock, I looked like a
washed-out Weeble as I wobbled down the aisle in elasticated ivory. But it
didn’t matter, we were blissfully happy.

The blissful
we
,
however,
didn’t stretch to my sour-faced mother. Whilst everyone
else celebrated and sipped champagne, she stewed beneath a weeping willow by
the lake, sulking and knocking back the Valium.

It wasn’t that she particularly
disliked Will, she just detested the fact he didn’t boast a title, or, at
least, a grand chateau in the south of France!

When I was little, my mother
would chat for hours with my Auntie Grace over tea and scones, selecting ideal
husband material from a procession of distinguished (or not-so-distinguished
but filthy-rich) suitors, such as wee Prince William, any of the Rothschilds,
Robert Redford or George Michael, later scratched from the list for obvious
reasons. Deep down, the gruesome twosome always expected me to marry ‘well’ and
‘go far’, when in actual fact, I married Will, went into motherhood and never
got so much as a mile out of Goldwell, let alone Nottingham!

Needless to say, having
callously cheated her out of the doctor, lawyer or Prime Minister son-in-law
she so openly desired, I was relegated to ‘the doghouse’ - aka Will’s
smart,
three-bedroomed semi - where we’ve been merrily residing ever since.

Well, who could blame the old
dragon? Allegedly, I’d exhibited ‘blatant stupidity’ in my choice of husband
and ‘dragged the proud family name into disrepute’.

Quite, mother.

That being the case, it was
decided that my parents couldn’t possibly
contribute towards a ‘mixed
class’ wedding. Mixed class? I ask you? Anyone would think I’d shacked up and
bred with Stig of the Dump.

Despite my indignant protests,
instead of chipping in, my mother buggered off on a luxurious three-week cruise
to recover from her ‘ordeal’, dragging my downtrodden father along for the
ride. Or, much more likely, to carry her luggage.

Bullied into submission over
the years, my father realised long ago (probably on his honeymoon) that
standing up to my mother is like attempting to extinguish a forest fire with a
thimble of water.

He showed silent acceptance of
Will by slipping him the coveted key to his potting shed, but sadly has never found
the voice to openly express his approval of our marriage and put my mother in
her place.

I continue to draw solace from
the fact that, despite hailing from such peculiar stock, I’ve actually turned
out quite well.

***

Mmmm. There’s something
therapeutic about running water and peeling carrots. It makes you soft. Makes
you forget you’re angry, or at least me it does. Six saucepans on, I’ve relived
the lot: our upside-down attraction, our first date, our first kiss, our
wedding day, the birth of Rosie and Ryan, and I’m feeling reminiscent and much
in need of a cuddle.

Tottering merrily over to check
on the turkey, which seems to be cooking nicely, all crisp and golden, I hear
the back door creek and in slips Will, or at least I
hope
, just the eight
hours
late. Fortunately for him, I’ve mellowed somewhat and am no longer
hell-bent on stringing him up by the knackers.

Drying my hands on my jeans, I
switch on the CD player to fill the house with carols, meeting him in the
dimly-lit hallway beneath our twinkling fairy arch. Throwing my arms around his
neck and giving him a forgiving kiss, I guess it’s raining cats and dogs
outside as he’s freezing, dishevelled and even wetter than when he left this
morning. Awol or not, he’s home now, and it’s Christmas - time of giving, not
goading - so I figure bollockings can wait until Boxing Day.

Instead of questioning him, I
help him out of his saturated coat and he follows me like a lost puppy into the
kitchen. I toss him a warm towel to dry off. I’ve got three carrots left and
the tap’s still trickling.

“I’ll quickly finish these
Will, then I’m all yours,” I assure him.

“Are you Sal?” he cuddles up
behind me as I chop.

Nuzzling my shoulder, he buries
his head in my neck, hugging me tightly around my waist. And there he stays,
all soppy and silent. Squeezing his hand, I gaze at us in the murky window,
trying to get him to share our cheeky wink and assure him he needn’t have that
bad-dog feeling, but he doesn’t look up.

“Am I what?” I strop. “Feeling
like Gordon Ramsey? Wondering where you’ve been whilst I’ve been cooking
monkeys and feeding turkeys? Oh, you know what I mean. I’ve been rushed off my
feet.”

Still no response, so on I
ramble on Sally auto-pilot, “The kids are fast asleep
and your
mother
called to shop you. Apparently she’s been perving at pirates’ willies at the
panto. They’ll be here at the crack of dawn, you know. Er, your parents, that
is, not the pirates.”