Antidote to Infidelity (4 page)

“
No
,” he mumbles under his
breath. “Are you all mine?”

Head down, arms locked, he’s
practically squeezing the life out of me. Wriggling for air, I loosen his grip,
realising - hooray! - my mountain of carrots is down to just one.

“Always,” I beam, playfully
tugging at the damp hairs on his arm. “But it’s confession time, buster.
Where’ve you been all day? I’ve been ringing and ringing, Sandra said you left
at lunch.”

Was that a flinch? No, probably
a shiver. His lips have a blue tinge and he’s dripping a huge great puddle all
over the tiles.

“I told you not to ring. Didn’t
I tell
you not to ring?” he snaps, standing on my bare foot to stop it
tapping. “Sally. Aagh Sal, stop. Look, I’m sorry. I’m . . . damn it, there’s no
easy way to say this . . .”

Oblivious to the fact he’s
grimacing like there’s an invisible vice squeezing his balls, I bounce in his steely
embrace like an excited child.

“Oooh, there is, there is! You
just say, ‘I’m sorry for being a late, inconsiderate git and stinking in the
pub all day, but I’ve bought you some perfume and some panties and some . . .’”

I stop short. Something’s wrong.
He isn’t playing the Christmas game. Instead, I can see in the dim reflection
that his eyes are tightly closed and he’s battling to hold me still.

“For God’s sake Sally will you
stop
,”
he breathes. “Just stop bouncing. And babbling. Don’t speak,
listen
, I’m
trying to tell you . . .”

Backing clumsily into the
cluttered work surface, he looks me dead in the eye, muttering, “. . . I’ve
been screwin’ around.”

And it’s those four nasty
little words that cost me the tip of my index finger - sliced clean off with a
carrot knife.

I arrived at the Casualty
department of Nottingham’s City Royal Hospital an hour ago in a state of total
disarray, without a clue how I’d managed to drive and with Will’s best white shirt
wrapped around my hand. Looking like something from a bad stab movie, I
wandered dazed, confused and covered in blood into reception, where they took
one look at the mess I was in and rushed me through triage into a treatment
room.

Will tried to stop me, tried to
hold me, tried to catch me but I was too quick, and - even with half a finger
missing - way too lethal with a saucepan to argue with. And, thank God, he
couldn’t very well give chase, could he? Not with two sleeping children
upstairs and me having commandeered his car.

***

My mobile, which hasn’t stopped
buzzing all the way to the hospital, is going off again now, like a frenzied
insect trying to burst out of my pocket. Obviously, it’s Will.
Lying-shagging-cheating-son-of-a-bitch Will. Well he can get stuffed
,
as
far as I’m concerned, we’re finished.

Actually, no, stuffing isn’t
sufficient. I hope he frazzles for eternity in the hottest part of hell.

Sitting alone on a cold gurney
feeling miserable, numb and betrayed, I lean over and toss my phone - a brand
new Blackberry - out of the first-floor window. That feels good. My finger, on
the other hand, feels bad. Well, no, it feels okay-ish, which is weird, as it
looks as if it
should
feel bad.

You know, I never knew
emotional trauma could blot out physical pain but, bleeding like a tap, mangled
finger end in an egg cup beside me on the bed, it obviously has. I can’t really
feel my finger but my heart’s absolutely
killing
me. Will, my Will, love
of my life, father of my children, has massacred our marriage in thirty seconds
flat.

We’d always promised that, if
ever temptation came along we’d be straight and not make a fool of one another.
Humph! So much for
that,
Will. Well, more fool me.

Oh, how have we come to this?
How? I thought we were happy. Well, happier than most. Sure, we have our
moments, but nothing to drive him to this. I always assumed we’d grow old
together. Go the distance. Celebrate our Ruby anniversary in Cornwall with our
great-grandchildren.

We used to cuddle up on a
Sunday morning, plotting all the wonderful things we’d do together as a family.
How can we do them now? He’s ruined everything.

I can’t even think about what
I’m going to tell the kids. Or my friends. Oh God, or my mother.
I’ll be
subjected to her superior, lemon-sucking pout and a string of sour
I-told-you-so’s.

‘The warning signs were there,
Sally-Ann. You should have known’. Bla bla bla. That’s what she’ll say, I’ll
put money on it. But how could I know
?
I’ve been blindsided
.
Minor
faults aside, Will’s always been a loving husband and a doting dad. I’ve been
flattened by a juggernaut I never saw coming.

As the hum of the busy hospital
carries on around me, my mind goes on overdrive.

Who’s he sleeping with? And
why, God, why does he feel the need? Is it my fault? Something I’ve done? Not
done? Is it someone I know? Someone from work? Oh God, is it one of our
friends? Two of our friends? Together? Ohhhh.

I sit in sombre, reflective
silence, tears streaming down my face, brain conjuring up illicit visions of
Will bending our Amy over the photocopier, as the doctor walks in, bringing me
back to reality with a welcome bump.

Strikingly handsome with a
stethoscope snaked around his broad neck, his aqua eyes sparkle as he pulls a
biro from the top pocket of his medical whites, indiscreetly weighing me up
with a cheeky sideways glance.

Despite my despair, all I can
think as he runs a hand through his wavy brown locks, mulling over his notes,
is, ‘blimey . . . I’m in Grey’s Anatomy!’

Sadly, I’m not.

Flashing me a smile, he raises
a quizzical eyebrow, enquiring, “Mrs . . . Moss. Sally, right? Well now, what
have
you
been up to? Had an unfortunate run-in with a kitchen knife I
hear?”

I sniffle, accepting the tissue
he’s offering with my good hand, noisily blowing my nose as he adds, “I’m
Doctor Foster, a locum here at City Royal. From Gloucester, actually. There,
I’ve said it, now don’t laugh. And please, call me Mike.”

Oh, fabulous. Pissing it down
with rain outside, here I am, on Christmas Eve, waiting for Doctor Foster -
from Gloucester - to sew my poor finger back on.

Normally I’d see the funny side
but instead I burst into floods of hysterical tears, sending the dashing doc
dashing for the morphine.

By the time he returns -
hypodermic and pretty blonde nurse in tow - I’ve managed to compose myself and
begun to feel a dull, heavy throb in my finger.

“If you’re in a lot of
discomfort we can give you a shot,” he offers, waving his enormous needle like
a prize. Unsurprisingly, it’s enough to stop the snivelling.

“No, I’m fine,” I stammer quickly,
“I can’t feel much. Is that normal? Have I gone through a nerve? I’m sorry for
crying but, ooohhh, I’ve had one hell of a night.”

I assume I’m just thinking “and
my husband’s a cheating bastard” but gabble it out loud, after which the doc kneels
beside me, his little nurse gazing on, full of blue-eyed sympathy.

“Ahhh, I
see
,” he nods,
suddenly concerned. Only now though, why not before?

Maybe a hysterical female with
a hacked-off digit just isn’t enough to stir big, brave Doctor Foster.

Maybe, being from Gloucester,
he’s used to clumsy women.

Maybe, if I’d chopped up to the
elbow, Doctor Foster with his too much stubble and his too tight trousers would
. . .

“Sally, did your husband have
anything to do with this?” he demands, examining the gaping steak knife slit on
my other hand before adding, “and this?”

Oh, great. Just because I’m a
complete cutlery maniac, my husband (sorry, ex-husband) is a wife beater.

I shake my head, sad and fed
up.

“God, no. No way. It’s just,
well, I forgot to do the pots last night, ’cause I had to shave my legs and wax
my lip, and tonight, you see, I got some bad news and . . .”

“ . . . and thought you’d chop
off half your finger?”

Perfectly pruned eyebrows
tilted, he finishes my sentence and I realise how completely crazy it sounds,
but don’t care. I just want to go home. Well, no. I want to round up my babies,
their new bikes and all their lovely presents and pray Santa still finds us at
the Travelodge. Or, better still, change the locks and send dear Will-ee-yum
skulking back to his mother’s, tainted tail between his legs.

“Yes, I know it sounds stupid,
but yes,” I confess, feeling like an utter prat. “I was caught on the hop and
missed the bloody carrot.”

He nods understandingly, like a
piece of his own private little jigsaw has just clicked into place.

“I see. Mmm, that would explain
this
. . .”

I follow his glance down to my
egg cup where, icy, diced and all ready for replacing, sits a half-inch piece
of gunge-covered carrot.

“Oh shit. Shit! Do something -
help
me
!”

Reaching for a shiny, foot-long
scalpel, he dazzles me momentarily with the shimmer, chuckling, “We could try
to sew it back on, if you like, but you might look a little odd . . .”

As if aware of the blind panic
welling up inside me, he stops mid-sentence, downs tools and places a strong
hand on my trembling shoulder.

“I’m kidding! I’m sorry, wrong
of me, you’ve obviously had a rough night.”

Tossing my mutilated vegetable
into the clinical waste bin, he adds, “Your finger tip arrived just after you.
Hubby dropped it off, we had a chat. Doesn’t seem like a bad guy but hey, they
never do.”

I breathe a huge sigh of
relief. Oh, thank God for that. I won’t be forever fingerless as a cruel
reminder of Will’s infidelity. I’ve obviously scared the cheating pig just
enough with my hysterical ab-dabs to send him trotting off home without even
checking on me. Well, let him trot.

As Nice-Little-Nurse sets about
me with a vat of pungent, bright orange antiseptic, Doctor Foster gives my good
hand a reassuring pat, coaxing me to cheer up with, “Don’t worry Sally, I’ll
have you all stitched up in no time.”

I’m tempted to say, ‘Oh, I
think I’ve been stitched up more than enough for one day, thank you very much’,
but this time my mouth doesn’t run away with me.

Instead, I accept my
anaesthetic (quite) bravely, close my eyes and decide not to divulge that the
mystery buzzing noise they can hear, but not locate, is actually my Bee Movie
ring tone, humming merrily away on the grass outside.

Twenty-six painful stitches, a
nasty bout of projectile vomiting and one big, fat, precautionary antibiotic
later, I’m winging my way back to Goldwell Holt, trussed up like a chicken,
ready to face the music. Or, rather, to kick out my cheating prick of a husband
and cancel Christmas.

I feel like I’ve been chewed up
and spat into a pile of manure, but my silver lining, the one thing to salvage
from my evening from hell, is that I appear to have made a new friend.

Normally I’d be chuffed to
bits, but considering:

One
: This is the worst Christmas -
ever

Two
: I’ve lost Will to an unknown,
husband-thieving whore

and

Three
: I’m sure I’ve got an Alsatian
hanging off my arm

I don’t much feel like jumping
for joy.

“If you need to hurl again just
yell and I’ll pull right over, okay?”

Ah yes. My chauffeur. Maybe I
should explain. You see, the tricky situation is this: irresistible man-magnet
that I’m
clearly
not, I’ve nipped into casualty with a shredded finger,
lost the plot and - quite by chance, of course - picked up a hunky doctor.

Very cliché I know. My friends
will have an absolute field day with this juicy titbit, innocent though it all
is. That is, they
would
had I not got a much tastier morsel to feed them
. . . like wanker Will and his despicable Christmas bombshell.

Maybe he thinks that by
confessing at Christmas he’ll get away with it, knowing what a merry pushover I
become at this time of year, all amiable and forgiving. But he couldn’t be more
wrong. And we couldn’t be more
over
.

Seething, I sit back in my
climate-controlled seat, comforted by the dark satisfaction that, in about
twenty minutes, Christmas Day or not, he’ll be out on his cheating arse,
clothes and all following closely through the bedroom window.

***

Doctor Foster, out of the kindness
of his heart, stayed well beyond his shift to patch me up after my minor
surgery, only to be rewarded by me throwing up the entire contents of my
stomach all over his starched white jacket.