The Adultery Club (23 page)

But Nicholas has obviously gone to such trouble. So I scour Salisbury for something truly special, a miracle of a dress that will successfully hide the fact that while I may technically be the same size ten I was before I had three children, there’s no denying that everything has shifted a little further—well, south. At what age do you give up on your looks, I wonder. Sixty? Seventy? When do you decide, OK, I’m done, no more mascara, no more highlights, no more diets, I’m just going to get saggy and gray and wrinkled and fat and
happy?

You know, I can’t wait to be old. It’s middle age that petrifies the life out of me.

I finally find what I’m looking for in one of those dreadful boutiques where the shop assistants look like Parisienne models and you have to ring a doorbell to get in. I would never have even dared to enter if I hadn’t been desperate. But it really is a lovely dress, I think, as I stand in the middle
of the shop floor and wrestle with my conscience. It fits me perfectly. It might be expensive but it’s such good quality, it’ll last for ages.
And it’s
in the sale; only ten percent off, but still, ten percent is ten percent. I know I wasn’t going to buy black again, but this is totally different from my other black dresses, I haven’t got one that’s above the knee like this, and anyway black is timeless, it’ll never go out of style, and so
slimming
. And of course I won’t have to buy new shoes, my old black courts will go perfectly, so that’ll save money. It’d be a false economy
not
to get it.

And then at the till, as one credit card after another is declined, and I pull out the emergency only-if-the-roof-comes-down plastic, only to find that it too is over the limit—though since I haven’t seen a bill for ages, I have no idea by how much—I wonder if I can possibly persuade Nicholas to take back the extravagant La Perla without offending him.

Scarlet with embarrassment, I turn to slink out of the shop, feeling like a criminal. The smart assistant probably thinks I’m a bankrupt, one of those shopaholics you read about, or worse, that I stole the cards—

“I thought it was you.” Trace grins, barring my path.

I’m not quite sure
why Nicholas is being so
strange
. First yesterday, when I called to ask him what time to get Kit over to babysit for Valentine’s Day—

“I don’t know what time,” he said tightly, “I might be working, anyway.”

“But it’s all organized! I’ve booked The Lemon Tree!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, I realize that, but it can’t be helped.”

“Nicholas, we’re talking about Valentine’s Day,” I said, disappointment sharpening my tone. “I’ve barely seen you for
weeks
, you’re working the most ridiculous hours these days, ever since you made partner—well, ever since Will Fisher retired, really—and I’m sorry to call you on your mobile when you’re clearly in the middle of an important meeting, but frankly, what else am I supposed to do? You miss the children’s special events, you’re shut in your office at weekends, some nights you’re barely home before it’s time to go back to work again; if I didn’t see the sheets crumpled in the spare room I wouldn’t even know you’d
been
here. I think the least you can do is spend one day—
Valentine’s
Day—with your wife.”

“Look—”

“I really don’t think it’s too much to ask, do you?”

“Look
, Malinche. I said I’m sorry, but the Court doesn’t see February the fourteenth as anything other than the day that happens to fall between February the thirteenth and February the fifteenth—”

It was his
tone
, really, rather than anything he’d actually said. As if I was a tiresome child, a nagging wife; so unfair, when that isn’t me, has
never
been me.

“I’ve been so looking forward to it,” I said quietly.

“I know; I
know
you have, but—”

“Nicholas. Please don’t sigh,” I interrupted, really hurt and angry now. “If you think your work is more important than—”

“Look, we’ll talk about it when I get home.”

“When?” I demanded. “When would that be? Precisely, Nicholas? Because I can’t see exactly how you’re going to fit us into your very busy schedule. Actually.”

When he hung up on me, I couldn’t quite believe it. He’s
never hung up on me in all the years we’ve been married. We’ve always talked things through, however difficult and painful that has been—and we’ve been married ten years, of
course
it’s been difficult and painful at times.

And then after that row, that rather
horrid
row, when I phoned the office this morning, Emma said he
wasn’t
working tonight after all, at least there was nothing in his diary—that tricky case must’ve settled. So I thought I’d surprise him by coming up to London and taking him out to his favorite sushi restaurant in Covent Garden (so funny, that Nicholas loves sushi; to people who don’t know him, he always seems more of a school-dinners treacle-pudding kind of man); we haven’t been there for
ages
.

I’d meant it as an olive branch, my way of saying sorry that we’d argued. But somehow, it’s not going quite as I hoped.

The orange glow from the streetlamps casts strange shadows across his face as he leans against the side of the black cab next to me. It makes him look suddenly old; and very tired.

A cold hand twists my stomach. He looked so shocked when I walked into his office half an hour ago, I thought Banquo’s ghost must be behind me. He still seems—oh, Lord, perhaps he’s
ill
. What if
that’s
it? He’s ill and he hasn’t told me? Cancer, even.

“Is everything all right?” I ask anxiously as the cab drops us off in Covent Garden. “Are you
sure
you feel—”

“I’m fine. Please don’t keep asking.”

I follow him nervously into Yuzo’s, slipping off my coat and wondering if he’ll notice my new dress. Heat rises in my cheeks.
So
sweet of Trace—totally unnecessary; I’m sure he wasn’t planning to buy all the front-of-house restaurant staff
black Max Mara outfits—but after he stepped in and saved the day like that, how could I say no to the sourcing trip in Italy? After turning down France. Especially when he explained that Cora and Ben, his business partners, were coming too; it’s not like I’m going to be
alone
with him—it’s only five days—I just don’t know if Nicholas is going to see it the same way—

“Isn’t that Sara!” I exclaim.

“I don’t know. Is it?”

“Well, of
course
it is, darling.” I nudge his elbow. “We can’t just ignore her. Come on, say hello to the poor girl. She looks absolutely terrified of you.”

Which is rather strange, because I thought they got on quite well.

“I’m sure she doesn’t want us to interrupt—”

Men. Sometimes you
do
wonder.

“How
lovely
to see you!” I say warmly, to make up for Nicholas’s scowl. “What a funny coincidence! Are you meeting someone—but of course you are, it’s Valentine’s Day, what a silly question. I’m sure you’ve had dozens of exciting cards too, it’s
so
lovely to be young and single.”

She blushes rather sweetly. “Not really.”

“Malinche, let’s go and sit down.”

I remember how horrible it is to be sitting and waiting at a table on your own, feeling as if everyone is looking at you and wondering if you’ve been stood up. “What a
lovely
bracelet, Sara. Tiffany, isn’t it? Lucky,
lucky
you, I’ve always wanted one of those.”

“Malinche—”

“Nicholas, do stop. So, is this your first Valentine’s together, Sara? Or is it wildly indiscreet of me to ask? It’s always so romantic, I think, when—”

Her phone beeps twice; she scans her messages, and then suddenly jumps up and grabs her coat. “Oh, God, I’m a complete idiot, he’s in the sushi bar on the
other
side of the square, I must have got it wrong. So lovely to meet you again, Mrs. Lyon, have a lovely evening. See you tomorrow, Nick, bye.”

I can’t quite explain the feeling of relief. Sara is a
very
attractive girl—even dear loyal Nicholas couldn’t help but notice she exudes a sensuality no red-blooded male could ignore; but she is clearly taken, off the market, as it were, which is so wonderful. For her.

“Well, she seems very keen.” I smile. “How lovely.”

“Can we order, please, Mal?” Nicholas says tiredly.

I’m sure he’s sickening for something. The last time he was like this, he ended up in bed for four days with a temperature of a hundred and two. He’s so distracted he can barely hold up his end of the conversation through dinner, and nearly forgets to give me the glossy paper bag he was putting into his briefcase when I walked into his office. Only when I teasingly remind him does he hand it over to me with a faint smile.

“I’m sorry. I—um—I didn’t get you a card,” he says, not quite meeting my eye.

“Oh, Nicholas. As if that matters.” I open the bag and unwrap a flimsy parcel of pale pink tissue. A slither of plum silk whistles into my lap. “Oh, how
beautiful
!” Holding the delicate bra-and-knickers set up against my chest, I take care not to let the fragile lace brush against my dirty plate. “Do you like them?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have bought them otherwise.”

I glance at the labels and laugh. “I can tell it’s been a while. These are two sizes too big; I’ll have to take them back
and exchange them. You kept the receipt, didn’t you?” I hesitate, suddenly spotting the tiny duck-egg blue box at the bottom of the bag. “Oh, Nicholas. You
didn’t—
”

I draw a breath when I see the silver hoop earrings. “Nicholas. They’re exquisite. I don’t know what to say.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. I have the strangest sensation, as if I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, my life hanging in the balance.

Then, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Nicholas says softly.

He smiles at me, a quiet smile that reaches his eyes; and it’s as if a warm Caribbean breeze sweeps gently across our table.

I kiss his cheek. “I don’t know why I deserve all this, but thank you. You really are the most romantic man—and I’m sorry I got so upset yesterday, I didn’t mean—”

“No,
I’m
sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry about everything.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

“For not appreciating you the way I should. For not being grateful for what I have. For not telling you that I love you often enough. And I
do
love you, Mal.” His expression is suddenly hunted. “I love you more than I can tell you. I don’t ever want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me—”

“Don’t laugh. I mean it, Mal. Sometimes things happen—people make mistakes—and you don’t realize what you have until it’s too late.”

The purple silk lies pooled in my lap. “What are you trying to say, Nicholas?”

“Nothing. I just—you and the girls, you come first, you know that. Don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” I say uncertainly.

Suddenly, I’m afraid. A door opens up in my mind, leading somewhere I don’t want to go. Firmly, I close it.

“Mal, why don’t we go away somewhere, spend some real time together?” Nicholas suggests suddenly. “Just the two of us; we can leave the girls with my parents or Louise. The Lake District, maybe, or Paris, you’ve always loved Paris. Or even Cornwall—we could go back to Rock; I know it’s changed a bit since our honeymoon days, but we could try to stay at the same cottage we rented then, sit in front of the fire, just
talk
. Get to know each other again. Couldn’t we?”

My eyes prickle. Maybe Nicholas isn’t ill, but he’s certainly strained and tired. How long has he been overworked like this, and I haven’t noticed? Too preoccupied with the girls and recipes and book deadlines—and Trace.

I’ve barely noticed Nicholas’s comings and goings this last month or two, I’ve been so caught up in the distractions of my own life. Including fretting about a relationship that was over thirteen
years
ago. If there’s an unexpected distance between Nicholas and me, isn’t it as much my fault as his?

“Let’s go home,” I whisper.

That night, after we make love with more tenderness and sweetness than I can remember for a long time, after he’s brought me to orgasm three times and fallen asleep in the warm tanned curve of my arms like a trusting child, I stare up into the darkness and realize how incredibly lucky I am to have this man. Trace may offer exciting possibilities, but Nicholas gives me things that are
real
. The things that matter. Happiness, security, contentment, love.

I smile to myself. Even if he does forget that I don’t have pierced ears.

There
was an Australian girl, when I was barely nineteen. It was Oxford’s long vacation; impecunious and newly jilted by a girlfriend whose name I’ve long since forgotten, I was spending the summer with my parents in the Rhônes-Alpes, in a tiny village called La Palud, half an hour northeast of Grenoble.

I awoke one morning to find my parents had gone hiking, leaving me alone with my law books (whose spines, I regret to say, had yet to be cracked; a state of affairs presumably noted by my all-seeing mother). This being
Jean de Florette
country—a simmering feud between the villagers over the communal well had led to scythes at dawn just a few weeks before our arrival—if you wanted a reviving morning shower before turning to your neglected studies, you had to make the short walk from our remote mountain chalet to an impossibly photogenic lake nearby.

And so began the headiest ten days of my life.

The erotic imprint left by Kristene as she rose naked from the lucent water, a modern-day siren, is such that even now, nearly twenty-five years later, I grow hard at the thought. Her skin glistened in the morning sunlight as if she’d been dipped in syrup. I watched as she smoothed back her wet hair from her face with the palms of her hands, her back arched, presenting high, firm, raspberry-nippled breasts to the sky. A burl of chestnut hair wisped between long, endlessly long, brown legs.