The Adultery Club (11 page)

Of course I bloody did; she’s got form.

“Of course not,” I snap.

Dad snorts with laughter. “You
did
, didn’t you? You bloody did! I can’t wait to tell the lads down the King’s Arms. Good Lord, I should be so lucky! The girl’s young enough to be my daughter!”

“Younger,” I mutter crossly.

I’m obviously losing it, of course. It’s this thing with Nick that’s done it: I’ve got affairs on the brain. As if
my dad
would ever mess about. He and Mum have been together so long they’re starting to look like each other. She
so
drives me up the wall, but she obviously floats his boat. So, whatever.

He gives my shoulders a warm squeeze. “There you are, then, love. A girl like that wouldn’t look twice at an old man like me.”

Wouldn’t she? I look at my dad, look at him
properly
, in his creaseless khakis and the light-blue sweater Mum gave
him this morning “because it matches your eyes”—as if—and try hard to be objective. He’s not as slim as he was in their wedding photos; but, on the plus side, not as spotty either. All right to look at, I suppose; quite nice, actually, if he wasn’t my dad, despite that crappy geek haircut—that’s one thing that hasn’t changed since he was seventeen. At least he hasn’t got Uncle Denny’s beergut like the rest of his brothers-in-King’s Arms. But he’s past
it
, surely? I know he and Mum must occasionally—well, let’s not go there. Not a pretty thought. But otherwise. Twenty-six years in, settled, sorted, well and truly
married;
past all the flirting and butterflies and assignations in potting sheds.

And then I realize with a shock that he’s only forty-three years old: exactly the same age as Nick. Who is most definitely not past
it
at all.

New Year’s Eve
is worse.

I
had
planned to escape to London and shake down some of my friends to find a cool party to go to. Failing that, I was even considering throwing one (inevitably somewhat
less
cool) if I could round up enough takers; or, as a last resort, staying up till five A.M. with Amy—like all mistresses, forced to fly solo at holidays and weekends—to watch the ball drop in Times Square on CNN, since Improved New Labour has successfully fucked up the fun in Trafalgar. One thing I was most definitely
not
doing: attending the St. Edward’s cheese-and-wine New Year’s Eve parish supper with my parents.

I’ve got to hand it to my mother. First came the Christmas presents: the latest BlackBerry, a Bose docking system for my iPod, half the Chanel makeup counter (actually, I prefer MAC; the colors are funkier, but my mother
insists Chanel is classier), and a gorgeous Hermès scarf, (though I can’t imagine what I’ll wear it with; I’m not really a scarf sort of person, they make me look like a land girl). And then the coup de grâce: a Christmas card containing my latest statements from Visa, Amex, River Island, Gap—all of them paid off.
Fuck
, that must be several thousand pounds right there. More, probably. Agnès b. was having a sale last month. Mum must have gone through my In tray—a.k.a. my knicker drawer—to find them last time she came to my flat; but I am too busy reveling in the novel sensation of being solvent to object to the invasion. Too much.

Gratitude secure, she moves on to Guilt.

A whispered conversation about Dad in the kitchen: “Do you think he’s lost weight, darling? It’s all the stress at work. Hot water first, dear. Warms the pot. Of course he misses you
dreadfully;
it’s always lovely for him when you come home to visit. He really perks up. I know you’re terribly busy with your ‘career’ ”—damn her, I can
hear
the quotation marks—“I don’t blame you for not coming back home very often. No, skimmed milk, darling.
Such
a pity you can’t stay longer.”

And, “Mrs. Newcombe’s daughter won first prize for her sponge last month at the WI Harvest Festival Fair, did I tell you? Joan was
so
proud. Libby makes the
most
delicious chocolate cake, simply melts in your mouth—”

“Would you mind just getting the tea cozy down from that shelf for me, dear? My sciatica has been acting up dreadfully, I’ve never been right since I had you, of course. What a nightmare that was. Did I mention, Muriel’s daughter had twins? That’s four grandchildren she’s got now …”

So when she asked me if I’d like to come to the bloody cheese-and-wine supper with them—it would be such a treat
for Dad, we’d love to show our clever girl off, we hardly get to see you these days, darling!—I knew I was screwed.

Now I get it
. I am
so
never going to live this down.

“I don’t need you fixing me up with anyone, Mum!” I hiss furiously as Martin pumps my father’s hand enthusiastically and shoots me a triumphant leer. “And for God’s sake, why him?”

“Don’t blaspheme, dear, there’s a church on the other side of that wall,” my mother says calmly. “And I always thought you rather liked Martin.”

“What on
earth
gave you that impression?”

“You
did, dear. The night your father caught the two of you in the greenhouse and had to have words with young Martin.”

I swear, I don’t remember any of this. It’s either early onset Alzheimer’s or the little twat
did
slip me a roofie. Although—now I think about it—there was the night I experimented with those little blotting paper tablets; he
might
have been there.

“Be nice to him,” my mother says firmly. “He only agreed to come at the last minute as a favor.”

This is such a gross misrepresentation of the facts that for a moment I am rendered speechless. And a moment is all it takes for Martin to slide his skanky ass into the plastic chair next to me, trapping me between the wall and a hard place.
His
hard place, to be precise.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” my mother says brightly, getting up from the table.

“Mum—”

“Come along, Vincent,” she says to my father. “I want to get to the cheese before they run out of all the nice ones. Muriel said there’s a lovely Crottin de Chavignol, very earthy and flinty, our cheese coach says, and there’s the Tomme de Savoie I want to try—”

A cheese coach? Did my mother really just say that, or have I actually fallen down a rabbit hole?

My father throws me an apologetic glance as she drags him away. I want to throttle him. For God’s sake, Dad, could you just stand up to the Gorgon for once?

“Well, isn’t this nice,” Martin says, oozing closer. “All on our own at last.”

“With a roomful of people,” I point out.
Witnesses
, Martin.

He pushes his glasses back up his nose with his thumb. “You were a bit of a tease the other day. Running off like that. You gave me a chest cold, keeping me out in the rain, you know. Mum was quite cross about it. But I know you girls like to treat a man mean, keep him keen, hmm, hmm?”

Oh, God. He’s Fisher’s secret love child. I grab the bottle of cheap red on the table and fill my water glass with it, then drain it in a single gulp. This could be a very,
very
long night.

Libby Newcombe sniggers as she dumps a book from the pile in her arms onto the holly-sprigged paper tablecloth. Briefly I lift my head from the table to glower at her retreating back.
If you’re so fucking cool, you cow, how come you’re here on New Year’s Eve, too?

“Fancy a quick spin on the floor?” Martin asks hopefully.

“Can’t. Got to read this very interesting book about—er—cheese.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in cheese.”

“Oh, yes, very. My cheese coach is terribly strict, though, won’t let us just dive in half-cocked. Have to read all about, um”—I flick it open—“the blue-veined cheeses first.”

“Wouldn’t mind being a little half-cocked myself,” Martin leers, “if you get my drift.”

“Sorry. Got to concentrate. Test on Tuesday.”

I suddenly catch sight of the author photograph on the inside jacket flap, and my knickers skip a beat. Shit, but he is
hot
. Talk about fallen angel. Square-jawed, hot-eyed, just-tumbling-into-bed-with-you
-
if-you’ll-let-me expression. Who the hell
is
he?

I flip the book over again. Trace Pitt—oh, of course, I’ve heard of him. Pitt’s Cheese Factory, it’s that famous deluxe cheese shop in—God, where is it? Covent Garden somewhere, I think. It’s the Harvey Nicks of cheese shops. There’s only one other, in New York. Actually, I vaguely remember Mum saying something about the committee getting their cheese from Pitt’s this year after the fiasco with the mouse last Christmas.

That is one hot man. Dumb name, sounds like some comic book private eye—Trace Pitt, Ace Detective, what were his parents thinking?—but with a face like that he could call himself Mother Teresa for all I care—

I yelp in shock as Martin sticks his tongue in my ear.

Right, that’s it. I whack him with
The Cheese Lover’s Guide
, drop to the floor, slither under the table, and flee to the other side of the room. I am not, repeat
not
, staying here a moment longer. Even if I have to walk home all the way to London.

Well, maybe not in these stilettos. OK, where are my fucking parents?

Of my mother, there is no sign—probably next door
reading from the Sacred Cheese Text with Muriel—but I spot my father straight away.

He’s sitting at the bar, and he’s not alone. I watch Libby Newcombe cross her legs so that her ridiculously short skirt rides up her thighs, giving Dad a bird’s-eye view. Her lips are parted as she hangs on his every word with rapt attention—yeah, right, my dad: specialist subject, Motorway Cones on the M25—flicking her long blond hair all over the place like she’s in a damn shampoo ad. Little tart. Don’t you lick your lips and flaunt your cleavage at
my dad
. He’s a happily married man. Against all reasonable expectations, admittedly. But still.

I’d like to know what the little ho thinks she’s playing at. Blond hair, legs up to here, no bra: It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. He hasn’t got a chance. Look, you homewrecker,
he’s taken
. It’s hard enough holding a marriage together without some twenty-something totty putting pressure on its weakest link. Which, let’s face it, we all know men are.

I march over and slide my arm possessively through my dad’s.

“Oh, hello, love,” Dad says, clearly surprised by this sudden display of filial affection. “What happened to young Martin?”

“Nothing fatal,” I say regretfully. “Look, Dad, can we go now? I’m really tired and I’ve got to drive back to London tomorrow.”

“What, leave before midnight? What happened to my party girl?” He ruffles my hair. “Used to be a time we couldn’t get you in bed before dawn.”

“Well, she’s not twenty-one anymore,” Libby says sweetly. “You know, I can’t believe you’ve got a grown-up daughter, Vinny. You look much too young.”

Vinny?
Vinny?
Since when has my Dad been called anything other than Vincent? (Or Dad, obviously.)

“You flatterer,” Dad scolds, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“Dad,
please
, I’m really tired—”

Libby knows when to beat a retreat. I scowl as she kisses Dad’s cheek and wishes him a happy New Year.
Vinny
. God, men are just so
oblivious
—

“You didn’t need to do that, love,” Dad says quietly. “She’s got a bit of a thing for me, I know, but it’s harmless. Just a silly crush. She’ll grow out of it.”

“Dad, she’s not thirteen. And it’s not bloody harmless, she was all
over
you—”

“Your mother’s enough for me,” Dad interrupts, eyes softening as they rest on Mum, holding court by the cheese table. “Always will be.”

“I don’t know how you put up with her,” I mutter.

My father looks at me with an expression akin to disappointment, and I suddenly feel about twelve years old again.

“You kids are obsessed with being in love these days,” Dad says coolly. “You think it’s all butterflies in the tummy and romantic walks along the beach.”

“I’m not quite that naïve, Dad. I know it’s got to get a bit boring, after a while. But as long as you love each other—”

“You think that’s enough?
Love?”

I shrug crossly.

“There have been days when I’ve woken up and your mother has irritated me just by
breathing
. No doubt she’s felt the same about me. There have been weeks—months, even—when we could scarcely stand to be in the same room as each other. But you work through it. You build a life together and you stick with it, no matter how hard it gets at
times. You don’t dig up a garden every five minutes and replant it with something else if the flower you picked out hasn’t bloomed, do you? You make your choice, you water and feed it, and then you
wait
. The point I’m trying to make, love, and I’m making a right hash of it, I know, is that marriage is about commitment. And compromise. A compromise with each other, and”—he sighs—“a compromise with what you thought it was going to be.”

Not me, I think firmly. I’m not going to settle for second best. I’m not going to end up like Mum and Dad, staying together out of habit and fear.

I want passion! And fire! And romance! The kind of legendary love you read about. Bogart and Bacall. Hepburn and Tracy. Christopher Reeve and—well, Mrs. Reeve. Dad’s wrong: It
doesn’t
have to be a compromise. If you really love each other, you
can
keep the butterflies. You just have to find your soulmate, and when you do, hang on to them with everything you’ve got.

The question is: What do you do if someone finds
your
soulmate first?

Life isn’t all neat and tidy. Sometimes people make a mistake and end up with the wrong person. Does that mean they have to stay with them forever? Surely it’s better to take their chance at true love, wherever they find it? Even if—even if people get hurt.

Dad gives me a quick hug. “I’m just going to have a dance with your mother before we go. She loves Sinatra. You’ll be all right for a minute on your own?”