The Adultery Club (18 page)

“Good Lord, no, I love Wagner! My favorite composer, in fact. And I haven’t seen
Tristan
for years.”

“Really? How funny, he’s my favorite composer, too.”

Christ, she looks amazing in that plum shirt. So decadent; so
bedroom
. Tiny beads of sweat glisten in the shadowy vale between her breasts.

I sigh. “It’s just—”

“I’m sorry, Nick, you’re probably busy. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Any other night and I might have been tempted,” I say truthfully. “But the nineteenth is out, one of my daughters has a thing at school, I
have
to be there—”

She shrugs. “Another time. Probably just as well,” she adds, her gray gaze direct, “since I can’t guarantee you’d have made the last train home.”

It sounds like a statement.

We both know it’s a question.

Fuck
, I hate opera. I don’t know what possessed me to suggest this; I must be off my head. And Wagner, for Christ’s sake. So bloody dark and depressing. I’m not exactly into the fat-lady
oeuvre
at the best of times, but at least a cheery bit of Mozart would have been bearable.
Figaro
, maybe; I almost like that. Wagner was great mates with Nietzsche, according to my program blurb; which explains a good deal about the pair of them. No wonder poor Nietzsche came all over nihilistic if he had to listen to this misery all the time.

I pinch a sideways glance. Nick’s tipped forward in his plush velvet seat, long fingers steepled, absolutely still as he gazes up in rapture at the stage. Bless him.

I stifle a yawn behind my program. The things we do for love. Look at
über-city-gi
rl Princess Diana schlepping off to Balmoral in her green wellies to convince Prince Charles there was nothing she liked better than standing around in the pissing rain all day, while men who smelled of horses and
women who looked like them took pot shots at innocent pheasants.

And OK, there’s no denying I have developed a certain
fondness
for Nick. A penchant, as it were. Or I wouldn’t be here. Mind you, the grief he gave me over the tickets! Jesus. He had a
total
shit fit when we were shown to the best seats in the house, ranting that no wonder the BBC was in trouble, we all end up paying for these press junkets, it’s taxpayers’ money after all, do I have any idea how much front row orchestra seats cost?

Er, yes, actually, Nick. Nearly four hundred quid. I could have bought that gorgeous russet chiffon corset from La Petite Salope, they had it in my size.

(Note to self: next time am inventing freebies from imaginary journo friend to facilitate shameless seduction of boss—again—make sure they v. cheap freebies.)

I swear I’ve aged ten years by the time the lights come back up and the audience—average age: ninety-five and three-quarters—creaks to its bunioned feet to applaud. The fat woman next to me almost knocks me out as her pink taffeta arms pump like fleshy pistons. Somebody shoot me if I ever end up with bingo wings like that. Another encore and she’ll take off.

Thank God I’m not married to Nick. Imagine having to sit through this on a regular basis—

And then he turns and smiles at me with such boyish pleasure that my heart flips and trades places with my stomach.

“You really enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Nick says fondly as we thread our way along the crowded aisle. “You looked as if you were absolutely lost in the music.”

I’d sit through anything for you, lover
. “Mmm.”

“It’s unusual to find a woman who really appreciates Wagner. He appeals to a more sophisticated musical palate. Very much your red Zinfandel, as it were. Mal—uh—many women prefer something a little more frivolous. Mozart is very popular. That’s if they like opera at all.” His hand on the small of my back guides me through the crowded foyer. “Not that one can dismiss Mozart out of hand, of course, but to my mind one cannot compare
The Magic Flute
with the solid genius of
Der Ring.”

I turn another yawn into a cough. Killing the sex buzz here, Nick, with all the opera chitchat: sweet-talk it is
not
. And don’t think I missed that little Freudian slip, either. Ouch.

Not that hearing her name makes me feel guilty, or anything. I mean, what goes on between Nick and his wife isn’t any of my business. Is it? To be honest, I feel sorry for both of them. She obviously can’t keep up with him, poor thing. She must feel totally out of her depth when she ventures into his world. And how frustrating for a man as bright and sophisticated as he is to be stuck with such a dull, suburban sort of woman. I mean, what do they find to
say
to each other? Conversation in their house probably revolves around the children and what joint to have for Sunday lunch. He must be so
bored
, in and out of the bedroom. No wonder he has to look elsewhere.

When you think about it, I’m probably lightening the load for her, too. Having me to talk to must take the pressure off, even if she doesn’t realize it. I bet he goes home in a much better mood when he’s had a chance to offload some of his stress with a woman who really understands him. And it’s not like I’m ever going to break them up, or anything. I’d
never
do that.

I thank God I boned up on the bloody opera at the weekend. Got to stay one step ahead if I want to be Ms. Simpatico.

“Of course, you can’t ignore the fact that
Tristan und Isolde
changed the course of musical history,” I offer. “Driven by his unconsummated passion for Mathilde, the wife of one of his patrons, Wagner took the iconographic adulterers of medieval literature, and underpinned their tragedy with Schopenhauer’s quasioriental philosophy—”

“—and as the end result rewrote the entire harmonic rulebook! Absolutely! A woman who’s beautiful
and
bright. Now, tell me, do you think—”

Shit, don’t ask me any questions, I only memorized the one paragraph from
Opera for Morons
.

But beautiful and bright: I
like
that. And I especially like that
he
likes it, too.

Why is it savvy women usually want men with smarts, but most intelligent men are happy with the dumbest of fuck puppets on their arms? Is our biological imperative for a protective hunter-gatherer/pneumatic walking womb (delete as appropriate) really that strong?

Nick Lyon is a very unusual man. I just hope his dippy wife appreciates him.

I spin on my four-inch heels—I am
so
going to pay for these tomorrow: I have blisters you could trampoline on—and allow the jostling crowd to crush me right up against Nick’s chest as we spill into the Covent Garden piazza. “You know, Nick, all that passion has left me
beyond
starved,” I say. “I know this cool little sushi bar round the corner, Yuzo’s, it’s always open late. Their sashimi is out of this world, though of course if you don’t like sushi—”

A pin-striped wool rod of iron presses against my thigh. “Not at all,” Nick chokes out, turning puce. “Perfect choice,
actually: my favorite restaurant, in fact. Extraordinary coincidence—”

Not
that
extraordinary, to be honest. Marvelous search engine, Google. Can find all sorts of useful little nuggets when you type someone’s name into it. Like interviews they gave to law magazines a couple of years ago in which they listed all their favorite things for some boring
Desert Island Discs
thing. What, you think I plucked the wretched German miseryguts out of thin air?

Sushi
was
a bit of a surprise, I must admit. I had Nick down as a steak-and-kidney pie, spotted-dick-and-custard school dinners kind of man. Still waters do indeed run deep.

My stomach rumbles as if I haven’t eaten for a day (which I haven’t: it’s the only way to get the zipper on this satin cocktail dress of Amy’s to close) and now it’s my turn to sizzle with mortification. Well, shit, a vociferous digestive tract,
that’s
attractive. Men don’t like women who actually
eat
to stay alive. At least raw fish is a minimalist kind of food (as opposed to Italian, which should only ever be eaten in front of people you
never
intend to have sex with). My enthusiasm for opera may be complete bullshit, but fortunately, I
do
really love sushi. I’m not sure even Princess Di could’ve choked down raw eel for love alone. Mind you, I suppose she could have always thrown it up again.

As we reach the far side of the piazza, the general vague thrum of background chatter suddenly distills into the distinct sound of (female, screechy) yelling, and the next moment I’m nearly knocked off my feet as a skinny blond girl in chocolate suede hotpants and bronze kinky boots barrels out of a nearby shop and straight into me.

Without even bothering to apologize, she ricochets off my admittedly pneumatic chest and springs toward the
(very
cute) guy who’s followed her out, a tiny cell phone still clamped to his ear.

“You fucking
bastard!”
the girl yells at the cute guy. “You’re talking to her
now
, aren’t you? Nobody dumps
me
, you shit!”

I wince as she slaps his face with a crack that echoes around Covent Garden.

“You’re bloody welcome to each other! She’ll never leave her husband, you know that, don’t you? I hope she makes you fucking miserable!”

It’s mesmerizing street theater. A crowd gathers instantly; one or two actually throw coins, clearly under the impression this is staged entertainment. For some reason, he looks strangely familiar, though I can’t begin to place him. God, she has a
tiny
arse. You wonder how girls like that sit down without perforating their buttocks.

She storms off, the crowd parting swiftly on either side of her. He shrugs ruefully, and disappears back into the cheese shop behind him.

As people start to drift away, I wander over to the shop window. That bloomy-rind cheese in the front looks killer. I press my nose to the glass to read the tiny flag next to it. Brie de Meaux; God, I
love
that.
And
some Brillat-Savarin, and another delicious-looking Fourme d’Ambert. I’d know fuck-all about cheese normally, but they had pictures of these in that book I got at New Year’s and what with that and Mum’s bloody cheese lessons—

“Shit, that was Trace Pitt!” I exclaim. “I
knew
I’d seen his face before!”

“Hmm?”

“The guy who got slapped. Come on, you must have recognized him—”

“I wasn’t really paying attention,” Nick says vaguely, peering over my shoulder at the cheeses. “Actually, my wife used to be engaged to him. If it’s the same man. Years ago. Can’t quite remember who broke it off—”

That ditzy woman used to be engaged to
the hottest man on the planet?
“You’re kidding!”

He shrugs. “It was a long time ago.”

God
. For a moment, I wonder if there’s more to Mrs. Lyon than meets the eye.

Nick smiles at me and squeezes my shoulders. I risk slipping my hand casually through the crook of his arm as we stroll toward Yuzo’s; to my delight, he doesn’t flinch from my touch despite the fact that we’re out in public and people might see us. Then again, maybe he’s too busy thinking about what we’ll be doing once we’re in private to really notice.

Sex with Nick was
über-hot
. I had this hunch it was going to be seriously down-and-dirty with him, he’s just got this sexy subliminal
thing
going on; but even I was taken unawares
(oh, be still my beating knickers!)
when he threw me down on the scuzzy communal stair carpet for our inaugural shag.
Mercy, Mr. Lyon, you’re so strong! What’s a poor helpless girl to do but surrender?

Four times in one night. Gotta say, that’s good for any man, never mind one
his
age. And he was positively bursting with pride; though he’d have cut his own throat rather than say so.

I was shit-scared when the bomb went off. I know Nick thought I was being all calm and cool, but that’s just how I get when I’m terrified out of my skull. It’s like my brain goes off-line until the crisis is over. The shock hits me later: Three
days after the bombings, I got the shakes bad enough to turn my morning café latte into yogurt.

The thing is, the
trouble
is, when Nick threw me into that shop doorway and protected me from the blast with his own body, something unexpected clicked inside me. He did it instinctively, without even thinking about it. Much as I’d like to believe it was about me, I think he’d have done it for Osama bin Laden if he’d been strolling by; it’s just the kind of man he is. Which makes it even more heroic. He probably has “Superman” stenciled discreetly on his Fruit of the Loom boxers.

And now I’m in a bit of a fix. Feelings-for-Nick-wise.

Such a pity the role of Lois Lane is already taken. I can’t help it, I really
like
him now. And it’s not just the smoking sex or the thrill of the chase. (Though I have to admit to being meanly thrilled when he suddenly ducked out of his daughter’s school thing to come to the opera with me, even though it meant the only tickets available at the last minute required my entire life savings and a promissory note for my firstborn child. But I’m sure his daughter didn’t even notice he wasn’t there, anyway. Kids don’t, do they?)

He reaches past me to hold open the restaurant door, sweet old-fashioned boy that he is. As I pass him, he drops the lightest, sweetest of Sunday morning kisses on the shingled nape of my neck, and my knees practically buckle with lust and longing.

He has
no
idea how hard it was to play it cool after that first night together, to act like I wasn’t interested in anything other than a one-night stand. But it was the only way to keep him hooked. I had to Dear John him before he got the chance to do it to me. He’d have run for the hills otherwise.

I know Nick isn’t mine. I know I’m just borrowing him; and I shouldn’t even be doing that. I am a very, very bad girl and I will die a lonely spinster’s death with my fourteen cats and go to hell.