Antidote to Infidelity (41 page)

“
Ben?
”
I say slowly, trying to decide
whether he’s wearing eye liner.

“
Yep?
”

“
Can I ask you a question?
”

“
Yep. Ask away.
”

“
I
can
trust you, can’t
I?
”
I blurt, deciding
no, phew, his lashes are just very dark.
“
Because I
’
ve only known about you for a
week and already you
’
re living with my
baby sister and my husband thinks the sun shines out of your . . .
”

“
Sally
stop
!
”
he laughs, holding his hands
up to stem the flow.
“
I give you my word.
We
’
ve got some great
times ahead of us, business
and
pleasure. I want us to be friends.”

Nodding, I pour him
a JD and coke as Amy fishes a Smirnoff Ice out of the chiller. Amusingly, Ben
caps it with his belt buckle whilst she flaps around looking for the tin
opener. Just as I decide that, so far, his pros outweigh his cons and, in fact,
I quite like him, Ben says,
“
Can I ask
you
a question, Sal?
”

“
Er, sure. Shoot.
”

“
What were you doing on the
floor?
”

Aaah! God, I
’
m easily distracted.
No time for chit-chat, I
’
ve got calls to make
and I
’
ve got to make them
quick.

“
Thinking about tomorrow
’
s headlines,
”
I say honestly, hunting for
the phone.

“
Huh?
What
headlines?
” they chorus in unison.

As my sister and her
new squeeze look on, perplexed, I drag Amy close, muttering,
“
A
twenty-nine-year-old mother of twins hyperventilated and died last night after
catching her close friend
’
s partner getting
head-on-the-go from the local librarian.”

“
Whaaaaaat? Ben, go chat to
Will.
”

Spitting her lolly
into the sink, Amy practically frogmarches a bemused Ben into the lounge before
rushing back in, closing the door and demanding,
“
Who?
What, where, when?
Spill
’
em.
”

Taking a deep
breath, I wonder. Should I? Or should I just keep it zipped and turn a blind
eye?

No. Uh-uh.
Definitely not. That
’
s how they get away
with murder.

“
Phil,
”
I whisper, nose to nose with
my wide-eyed sister.
“
Twenty minutes ago.
Behind the wheel at the traffic lights by Lou
’
s
Booze.
”

“
Nooo?
”

“
Yep. For real. There
’
s me, waving like a nutter,
hoping for a lift. Then I got a bit closer, saw this
‘
oh, oh I
’
m about to come
’
look on his face and realised
he was, well, you know . . .
”

“
Getting a blowie?
”
Amy cuts in matter-of-factly,
adding a shot of whisky to her vodka.

“Well -
yes
.
”

“
But not from Liselle?
”

I shake my head
angrily.
“
No, the
pig
.
He didn
’
t recognise me at
first, then I saw Veronica
’
s ugly head pop up
and he just gawped, horrified.
”

Amy wrinkles her
nose in distaste, soaking up the details.
“
Eeugh. Nooo? Wonder
Woman? Tra-shy. And then what?
”

I shrug.
“
Then nothing. The lights
changed, off they shot and I ended up on the kitchen floor.
”

Drumming her
candyfloss nails on the microwave, she purses her lips, looking up at the light
fitting.

“
You know it
’
s all in your mind, don
’
t you?
”
she says sombrely.

I stare at her,
knocked for six.

“
You
what
? What do you
mean
in my mind? I
saw
them, clear as day, brazen as you like . . .
”

“
Not
Phil
, idiot,
”
she smirks.
“
Duh! The paper bag malarkey.
You don
’
t need a bag, you
just need to stop over reacting and remember to
breathe.
What a
shit
. Poor
Liselle.”

As riotous goal
celebrations spill in from the lounge, Amy mouths,
“
What
’
s the story with hot stuff in
there? Pretty cosy. You guys planning a threesome or what? If so, can we watch?
”

“
Don
’
t be disgusting,
”
I snap, secretly filing the
rude remark as an intriguing future possibility, but
obviously
without
my baby sister as a voyeur.
“
Will
’
s being a total arse. They’ve
been
glued
to each other all evening. I can
’
t get a look in.
”

Handing me the phone
from the centre of a punnet of kiwis in the fruit bowl, Amy looks glassy eyed.

“
Maybe it
’
s a good thing,
”
she shrugs.
“
Maybe he feels threatened?
”

“
Maybe he bloody well should!
”
I explode, punching Liselle
’
s number into the phone before
deleting it and deciding I
’
ll go round.
“
You were
right
, Amy. All
along. You
and
Bianca. I
am
frigid. I
haven
’
t
tried enough
chocolates. I
do
need to take a dip. If
he
can do it, so can
I
.
”

“
No, Sally. No - you
can
’
t
.
”

Tugging me into her
skinny embrace, Amy hugs me tight as a lone tear spills down my cheek.

“
I was
wrong
,
”
she whispers into my hair.
“
I was, I admit it. Way off
base. Will
’
s the guy for you,
Sal. Always has been, always will be. You
’
ll see.
”

Turquoise eyes
brimming, she gives me a feeble shake.

“
Don
’
t throw it all away, Sal. Not
for a meaningless shag that
’
ll be done in a
blink and destroy everything you have. He
’
ll never forgive
you. Never. And it
’
ll be
over
.
”

As the stark
sincerity of her warning hits home, I shove her roughly away, overwhelmed by
the unfairness of it all.

“
Why is it always the guy, huh?
”
I choke, scrunching up a ball
of kitchen roll in my shaking fist.
“
How come Will can
shag some little tart - twice - when he
’
s supposed to love
me
and the
kids
, and I
’
m expected to
pretend it never happened? How’s that
fair,
Amy?
How?”

Lost in my emotions,
unaware my voice is rising, I slam my crystal tumbler into the sink, scaring
the terrapins out of their shells.

“
And how is it
fair
that
Liselle will stay with Phil?
”
I gush,
“Because she will you know.
Even
though
he
’
s a lying,
adulterous
git
who
’
s getting his cock
sucked on the cul-de-sac whilst she
’
s at home baking him
muffins.”

Blubbering full on
with me, Amy blinks her mournful panda eyes, smearing her pretty pink cheeks in
shimmering navy mascara.

“
I don
’
t
know
, Sal. Please don
’
t . . . I don
’
t
know
,
” she wails, bottom lip
quivering like a chastised child.

“
Of
course
you don
’
t know,
”
I snap, more spitefully than I
intend.
“
You
’
re twenty-bloody-three, you
know
nothing
.
”

Ignoring Amy
’
s muffled wailing, and the
phone, which is ringing away in my hand, I whip the tinfoil off the caramel
profiteroles that our guest is probably, by now, too pissed to enjoy.

“
I
’
ll
tell you what
I
know, kiddo,
”
I shriek, galloping
off on my high horse.
“
Will thinks he
’
s won but he can
think-a-bloody-gain. I
’
ve had
enough
.
Mike wants me, I want him, and the second his big, stupid, football-obsessed
back
’
s turned, I
’
m
levelling the score
.
. .
”

Rant all but over, I
break off mid-sentence as Will marches in from the lounge with the second
landline clenched in his fist. Looking from me to Amy with tanked-up
bewilderment, he snatches a bottle of Jack Daniels off the side and snaps,
“
You have a ringing phone in
your hand, Sal, but you don
’
t answer it. What
’
s all that about?
”

As I shrug, dabbing
my cheeks with the tea-towel, he tosses me the phone, seemingly unconcerned
that I
’
m bawling for
Britain.

“
It
’
s for you,
”
he grunts.
“
Phil. Says it
’
s urgent.
”

“
Tell him I don
’
t want to talk to him.
”

Will shakes his
head, seizing the profiteroles and a bag of nachos with his free hand.

“
Tell him yourself,
”
he says, dead-pan, before
disappearing back through the door and kicking it shut behind him.

As the radiator
vibrates from the force of the slam and the two phones ring simultaneously on
the worktop, Amy lets out a low, eerie whistle, making my heart sink like a
runaway lift shaft.

“
He
’
s not daft Sal,
”
she says mournfully.
“
And he
’
s not
deaf
. You bloody
idiot, now you
’
ve gone and done it.
”

At first light, Will
was gone.

Well, actually no.
He was gone
long
before that, because as the first scrap of sun sneaks
through the jagged hole in the kitchen window, the house is deathly silent
again and I’m somberly surveying the aftermath.

Grappling around the
lino on my hands and knees, I reach under the breakfast bar for the last piece
of ripped-off-the-wall telephone, desperate to create an
‘
all
’
s well
’
environment for when the kids
wake up.