Antidote to Infidelity (57 page)

Waiting impatiently
for the pips, I kick off my shoes and run a towel through my hair, thinking I
’
ll put the kettle on. Then I
remember: I haven
’
t got one.

“
Will, it
’
s me,
”
I gush emotionally.
“
Please, please,
please call me back as soon as you get this because . . . I love you! I truly
do - I’ve been an idiot. No, worse than an idiot, a total prat . . . but I see
that now, and I’m sorry, so please come home. I won
’
t whinge or whine or
take you for granted . . . and I
’
ll show soooo much
more interest in the business from now on, I swear. I know you tried to call me
last night but you
’
ve got to believe me
when I say, I didn
’
t . . .
”

Obviously, I
’
m about to say
‘
sleep with Mike
’
but the beep cuts me short.
Again.

You
’
d have thought, by
now, the brain-boxes at Orange would have realised that women need more than
thirty seconds to finish. These things can
’
t be rushed.

Redialling
immediately, I
’
m gutted to hear,
‘
The person you are calling is
temporarily unavailable. Please try again
’
.

So I do - and get
the same answer.

Grrr.
Bring back
carrier pigeons. Cheaper, quicker and a lot less crap.

Thinking I
’
ll give it five minutes before
ringing again, I decide, if I
still
get no joy, I can always phone Amy
and grill her. I sensed she wanted to tell me something earlier but was bullied
into silence by Bianca and co.

Hunting high and low
for something sweet to nibble, I notice the red light is flashing on the
machine.

Two messages.

Hoping one might be
Will, I hit play.

The first thing I
hear is Ryan, roaring like a lion, followed by Rosie squealing,
“
I want to talk to
mummy, I want to talk to mummy! Mummy! I
’
ve been on the fastest flume . . . grandad! Gim
’
me the phone and let
me tell her . . .
”

There
’
s a crash-bang-clatter before
Clive
’
s harassed voice
explains,
“
It
’
s not mummy, it
’
s the machine, now
get off my foot you little monster.
Sally me luv, just
checking in. Phew, give me strength, I
’
ve aged ten years in twenty-four hours! I forgot
to tell you, the problem with the washer was a ring blocking the drainage pipe.
I
’
ve put it next to
the terrapin tank, hope the greedy little critters haven
’
t eaten it. Oh, I
fixed that squeaky step too luv, it
’
s quiet as a mouse
now. Must dash, Mary
’
s about to fling
herself down the rapids . . . wouldn
’
t miss it for the world.
”

I don
’
t wait for the click. Of
course
I don’t. I rush over to the terrapins, heart thrashing out of my ribcage.

There it is.

Feeling like a weary
prospector who
’
s just struck gold,
I pick up Will
’
s wedding ring - the
squeaky-clean, authentic original. Slipping it over my own, I burst into floods
of tears. So he
was
telling the truth after all? He didn’t take it off
in London to pull Becky. He really did buy a new one.

Lost in an avalanche
of emotion, I remind myself to breathe. Oooh, if only I
’
d known it was there, if only I
’
d spotted it sooner. No, it
doesn’t condone what he’s done, of course. It doesn’t make it right, doesn’t
make it better, doesn’t excuse or justify his actions in any way. It
should
be insignificant. But somehow, to me, it
isn’t
.

It
changes
things.

If I’d just known it
was there, I
’
d never have met
Mike last night. I swear, never. This lost little ring would have been
enough
.
The one reason I needed
not
to go.

Clenching my fists,
I look up to the sky with gritted teeth as Bianca strides into the kitchen.

“
What the hell
’
s a matter
now
? And
where
have
you been, strop
queen?
”
she demands,
hopping onto a stool as the second message kicks in.

I
’
m about to inform her I
’
ve been cow-hugging, and that
I’ve found Will’s ring, when his mournful voice echoes around the room.

“
Sally? Sally, babe,
where are you? Aaah, forget it, I know where you are . . .”

I can tell by the
slur to his tone that he
’
s drunk. Bi and I
exchange worried glances as the message continues,
“Ah
Sally, you
’
re killing me. You
’
re ripping my heart
out, d’you know that? For what it
’
s worth, babe, I
love you. . . .”

There’s an eerie,
reflective silence, followed by,
“Only you, Sal. Always you. Don
’
t hate me . . . I
just wanna make you happy . . .
”

Click.

I raise a hand to my
dry lips and we stand in silence as I play the message over again - twice -
letting it sink in. Although I know it
’
s almost certainly
the Stella talking, there
’
s an unsettling edge
to his voice, a stark vulnerability that sends a chill up my spine.

“
That was a little dramatic, don
’
t you think,
”
Bianca whispers, staring at
the machine.
“
Is he always like
that? I had no idea. He could do tragedies. He
’
d
make a
great
Hamlet.
”

“
Ssssh, Bi,
”
I snap, wafting my hand in
front of her mouth.
“
I don
’
t like it. I don
’
t like it at all. Something
’
s wrong.
”

“
You know, you
’
re right,
”
she agrees, adjusting her
boobs in her tank top.
“
It
was
too
much. Especially that last bit. He definitely overplayed it very slightly . . .
”

“
No Bi, don
’
t joke. Don’t you think he
sounded, well, desperate? I
really
need to talk to him.
”

As if on cue the
phone rings, display revealing
‘
Prick
’
- or Will, as he was
affectionately referred to pre-affair - is calling. Relieved, I snatch it up,
grinning at Bi who mouths,
“About
bloody time!
Tell
him he
’
s a soppy git.”

“
Oh, Will,
”
I gush.
“
Thank
God
, I
’
ve been calling and calling . .
.
”

“
Sally wait. It
’
s not Will, it
’
s me,
”
says a familiar Australian voice.
“
Greg. Donovan.
Remember? From Spain?
The yacht?”

“
Greg?
”
I repeat, as Bianca
’
s ears prick up and her eyes
whip round like a fruit machine.
“
Of course I
remember. Wow. Hi, how are you? What are you doing with Will
’
s phone?
”

“
I took it,
”
he pants. Then, sounding
distant and flustered,
“
I
’
ve been trying to reach you all
morning, Sally. I don
’
t want to scare you
but you need to get out here right away. Will
needs you
. . .
”

Do you know, I
really thought I
’
d been through it
all.

I was
convinced
that since Christmas Eve I
’
d hit rock bottom
and beyond.

I assumed things
could only get better, that they
would
get better, that the only way was
up
. How could I have been so wrong?

I didn
’
t know the meaning of misery.

I hadn
’
t experienced true anguish.

My heart had never,
ever, been in any
real
danger of breaking.

Until now.

***

The truth is, until
this very moment, helplessly pacing the bleak, bleach-reeking corridors of
Malaga
’
s San Juan Hospital,
I
’
d barely even
scratched the surface. As usual, I
’
m waiting for Will.
Only this time, I
’
m beside myself with
worry, waiting for a white-coated consultant to assure me that his surgery has
been a success. That he
’
s been lucky. That
everything will be fine.

Suddenly, with my
entire
world
balancing on a knife edge, I can see everything with the
rational, level-headed clarity that
’
s been eluding me.
Making me resentful. Making me crazy. Making me think I needed to push Will
away, or worse still pay him back, to ever be happy again.

Funny isn
’
t it how wearing out the floor,
not knowing if the love of your life
’
s ever going to walk
again, talk again, hold his children in his arms again, can put things into
perspective?

Everyone
’
s been telling me to wake up
and smell the coffee, to look at what I
’
ve got, to realise
how lucky I am to have a husband like Will. A husband who loves me
unconditionally, for all my faults, all my bad habits, for everything I am that
makes me, me.

Now, I
’
ve finally smelt it. I realise.
I
understand
. But as the mocking clock in the corner ticks away, and the
minutes melt into agonising hours, I know there
’
s
every chance it
’
s too little, too
late.

***

Looking at Bi,
silently sipping a black coffee by the window of the relatives
’
room, and Will
’
s distraught brother Rob,
hunched over the water cooler with the weight of the world on his shoulders, I
slump onto the sofa and sob, then jump back up and continue to pace.

Greg, peering down
the corridor through a crack in the door, catches my hand and gently pulls me
in for a hug. I crumble instantly, crying full on into his chest.

“I want Will,” I
choke, “Please, please. Oh, what have I done?”

Resting his chin on
the top of my head, he tightens his embrace.

“C’mon Sally, keep
it together. Will
’
s a fighter, he
’
ll pull through,” he says.
“Five minutes tops and they
’
ll be telling us he
’
s fine. You
’
ll see.
”