The Adultery Club (36 page)

“I’m sure everything’s going to be fine,” she echoes.

I narrow my eyes. “What? Spit it out.”

She leans back as the waiter places her soup in front of her, choosing her words.

“It’s just—I’m not sure I’d let him spend quality time with his wife and kids yet. No need to remind him what he’s missing, if you see what I mean.”

I stare at her, surprised.

“Look,” she says. “The kids are his one weak point. Come on, Sara, how many times have you had a client change his mind and go back to his wife once it gets down to custody and a week at Christmas and two in the summer?”

I realize Amy has prodded precisely where it hurts.

“I’m not saying for a minute he’d go back to her,” she reassures me. “But why take the chance? She knows him better than anyone, remember. She’ll know which buttons to press. She could be cozying up to him in the kitchen right now, dandling that cute little baby on her lap, getting him all nostalgic for family life.” She stirs her bouillabaisse. “It’s a really delicate time, the first few weeks after they leave. And he’s just lost his dad. If I were you, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight.”

“I can’t stop him seeing his kids—I wouldn’t want to—”

“I’m not saying you should. Just make sure you’re part of the picture, that’s all, rather than her. The battle’s not over yet. Don’t give her a chance to talk him round. I know kids aren’t your scene, but you’ve got to play it like they are for a bit. Take them out to—I don’t know, Chessington or something. You can always ease up later, once things are more settled.”

I look down at my plate of calamari. “I don’t feel all that hungry, Ames. I think it’s your fish soup; it’s making me feel a bit sick.”

Amy cheerfully digs her fork into a deep-fried baby octopus.

“At least it’s not morning sickness.” She grins.

Ten days late
. That’s not much, surely? I know I haven’t missed a pill. I checked. There could be lots of reasons my
period’s a few days late. That dodgy Chinese, for example, I was as sick as a dog for two days. Lack of exercise: I’ve barely seen the inside of the gym since Nick moved in. He likes me to be there when he gets home. Not to mention the bloody stress. This flat is a little on the crowded side with two adults sharing; throw in three children every weekend as we’ve been doing for the past few weeks and it’s total fucking chaos.

I part the blinds with my finger and peer down into the street as Kat winds around my ankles. Chessington was a freakin’ fiasco; it pissed with rain and the kids hated me, but at least I was there. And I suppose I should be grateful Nick’s wife lets the children come and stay here at all. His mother refuses to allow me to darken her doors—she’d get on with mine like a house on fire, I think sourly—so otherwise I’d never see Nick at weekends at all.

I watch his wife lift the baby out of her car seat and start to unload bags from the boot. I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw all the baby shit heaped around my tiny flat. All that paraphernalia for one small child. You can hardly move for tripping over plastic sacks of nappies and bottle warmers and buggy wheels. Not to mention the moth-eaten old toy lamb that invariably gets lost five minutes before bedtime and requires a two-hour search before it’s finally located somewhere obvious like the
fucking microwave oven
.

“Look, Kit-Kat,” I say, picking the cat up, “the
über-hot
sex god is here again, too.”

I press my nose to the window as he takes the bags from Nick’s wife, laughing at something she says and throwing an arm casually around her shoulder. Jesus, look at his cute butt in those low-slung jeans. I certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. How the fuck does she manage it? She’s only been
single for a minute and she’s got this shaggable babe warming her sheets. No wonder Nick has steam coming out of his ears.

Happy for her, my arse. He’s so jealous, he wants to eat his own elbow. Not that I’m in the least worried: It’s just a macho guy thing. Territorial. Nothing to do with how he feels about
her
. And it certainly makes things a bit easier for me; a bit more secure. Even if he wanted to go back to her, which he
doesn’t
, the fact that she’s playing hide-the-sausage with a hottie like that pretty much closes the door on the whole kiss-and-make-up routine. How very Hollywood of us: a perfect happy ending.

Well; almost.

Sophie looks up from the street and makes a fingers-down-the-throat gesture in my direction that neither of her parents sees. She’s a real piece of work, that one. I scowl, resisting the temptation to stick out my tongue at her. Maybe Nick’s wife isn’t being so altruistic letting them stay here after all.

The baby’s OK—well, all she does is shit and cry, but she’s quite sweet when she’s asleep. Which is fortunately fairly often. And Evie’s not too bad either; we got quite a thing going over
The X-Factor
, she’s as much of an addict as I am. But then Sophie put the frighteners on her—I heard the little witch telling her Daddy would come back home and “love Mummy again” if they could just make me go away. I’m feeling less guilty about
her
by the minute.

Last weekend, I caught her scrubbing out the loo with my toothbrush. That was after finding glue all over the keys of my very expensive new laptop (Pritt Stick, thank God, not Super Glue, though it still took hours to get it off); and then
there was the full bottle of Chanel’s Rouge Noir nail varnish that mysteriously spilled all over my new pale pink LK Bennetts.

I could tell Nick, of course, but that’s exactly what Sophie wants me to do. I run to Daddy, he bollocks them, and we all sit and glower at one another over Pizza Hut’s finest. Eventually Daddy gets tired of all the aggro and decides it’d be better for the children if he saw them when I wasn’t around. Before you know it, hey presto, he’s going back home to her.

The very thought of it makes me feel ill. I shoot into the bathroom and dry heave over the toilet bowl. Ten days is nothing. Just an iffy chicken sandwich, that’s all. Nick told me not to eat it, said it was a week past its sell-by date. Next time I’ll listen.

Nick and the children tumble through the front door as I wipe my mouth and go back into the sitting room. The baby’s sweet face lights up with recognition. Nick puts her down; holding out her chubby little arms for balance, she toddles toward me, gabbling something that might, or might not, be my name. Despite myself, my heart melts as I scoop her up. Precious. She smells so sweet—for a change.

She snuggles into my neck, and I feel a bit of a lump rise. I catch Nick’s eye over the top of her golden head, and he smiles: the first honest, warm smile I’ve had from him in days. The girls must be finding this whole thing really hard. It’s no wonder they’re playing up a bit. Their world’s been completely turned upside down; it’s bound to take a bit of getting used to—

“Ooops,” Sophie says, not troubling to hide her smirk as a big orange felt-tip pen stain spreads outward next to
where she’s sitting on my poor beleaguered sofa. “Sorry, Sara.”

Enough is enough
. My sofa is trashed, half my mugs are broken, there’s crayon scribble all over my walls, a dozen earrings—one from each pair—have gone missing, the last ten pages of my new Grisham thriller have been ripped out before I’ve had a chance to read them, an entire pot of my £100-a-throw La Prairie face cream has been wasted on nappy rash because
somebody
lost the Sudocream, my suede Joseph jacket is fit only for lining the cat’s litter tray, there are sleeping bags and pillows and inside-out pajama bottoms all over the floor, dirty nappies are stinking out the bathroom, and I haven’t had a decent lie-in for weeks; never mind a fucking orgasm. I defy any girl to come when three small children with a propensity to barge in without knocking are supposedly asleep on sofa cushions next door.

I tell Nick in no uncertain terms that I need a weekend off. A barrister friend of Amy’s is having a party over in Swiss Cottage, and, for once, I want to forget about children and responsibility and just go. I’m so tired of the chaos and bullshit from the damn kids. We sound like an old married couple arguing over the children. We need a break; to have some fun.

To my surprise, Nick agrees. Maybe he’d like to get hot and heavy again between the sheets, too. A good shag is probably what we both need. Get things back on track again.

I blow a fortnight’s salary on an amazing Matthew Williamson dress, and borrow Amy’s GHD straighteners to
get my hair (finally out of its Pantomime Boy/scary dyke phase, thank God) to behave. Actually, the crop’s done it some good; I’ve got all these cute little strawberry gold kiss curls tumbling sexily onto my bare shoulders, and my hair seems much thicker than usual. I blow myself a kiss as I finish my makeup in the bathroom. Not even the usual preparty breakout of zits to ruin my day. I look pretty damn good, if I say so myself.

Nick doesn’t even notice.

He’s unusually quiet (even for him) in the cab on the way to the party. I begin to wonder if this was a good idea after all. He hasn’t even changed out of his bloody suit, for God’s sake, he looks like m
y father
.

But we’ve been living together for nearly two months now. Sooner or later, he has to meet my friends, mix in my world; particularly as nearly everyone in
his
world isn’t talking to him anymore. Even Giles blew him off when he called. No doubt Liz has threatened to withdraw bedroom privileges if Giles dares to socialize with The Slapper (i.e., yours truly); but Nick still took it hard.

Apart from one or two rather unsuccessful trips to the movies (he loathed the Matthew McConaughey rom-com I picked, and I fell asleep during his choice, some subtitled Vietnamese crap) we haven’t been out at all since his father died. Our social life isn’t helped by the fact that Nick’s giving most of his salary to his wife out of guilt. Which means I’m the one keeping us both. Much more of this and I’ll be pawning the Tiffany bracelet to pay the phone bill. So much for dirty weekends away at Michelin-starred country houses. Romantic it’s not.

The moment we arrive at the party, Amy drags me away
to meet this new guy who’s started working at her office. Since it’s been five years since she dragged me away to meet anyone other than Terry the Lying Slimeball, I’m duty-bound to fan the flames of romance, however feebly. Nick’s old enough (hah!) and ugly enough to look after himself for five minutes. There are plenty of lawyers around for him to talk to if he gets desperate.

But then I run into this girl from law school I haven’t seen in years; it turns out she’s now engaged to a man I used to date, how weird is that? And then on my way back from the loo I get chatting to my opposite number on a new case I’ve just picked up, and we get stuck in one of those long, involved conversations on the stairs, ducking and diving around people as they push between us every two minutes. Then I need to top up my drink again, and I’m laughing with my friends, with my young, irresponsible, child-free friends, and I can’t help it, right now I just don’t want to go back to Nick and his here-on-sufferance, well-if-it-makes-you-happy, miserable bloody attitude. No doubt he hates the music, and the cheap plonk, and the plastic cups, and the couples snogging all over the room. Heaven help us if he finds out the bodies writhing on the crappy velour sofa are both
men
.

Someone offers me a line of coke, throwing Nick a wary look. Even though I decline, because I’ve never done hard drugs, something about the awkward, pompous way Nick is standing on his own, aloof from the rest of the party, annoys the fuck out of me.

A small worm squirms somewhere deep inside my brain:
This isn’t working
.

I shock myself. After all the pain and misery we’ve caused, after everything we’ve risked to be together, of
course it’s going to work. I’m getting all worked up over nothing. It’s just one stupid party! This just isn’t Nick’s scene, that’s all. Let’s face it, this is barely one step up from a student bash, and with the best will in the world, it’s a long time since Nick was a student.

It’s nothing to do with
us
. We love each other. We’re going to be fine. Absolutely fine.

I shake my head as someone else offers me a reefer and thread my way through the crowd toward Nick.

“Nick? Are you OK?”

He jumps, spilling his wine on the floor. “Sorry. Miles away.”

I bend over to make sure he gets a good eyeful. “How’s it going?”

He smiles absently.
Come on, Nick, meet me halfway here
.

My hand drifts lightly down his trousers, and I’m gratified to discover that he’s rock-hard already.
That was quick work
. I must remember to wear this dress again. “Looks like the party’s happening elsewhere,” I tease.

Nick’s all over me in the back of the cab home, pawing at my skimpy dress with an urgency that seems almost frantic. We fall through the front door of my apartment ripping at each other’s clothes. Naked but for my high heels, I back toward the bedroom, pulling him with me. He shucks off his shirt and kicks away his shoes. I lie back on the bed as he steps out of his trousers, and moisture floods me at the sight of his beautiful, big cock. My body flames. I’ve never felt hungrier to have him inside me.
It’s all going to be fine
.

He falls on the bed beside me. Hunger zings up and down my skin. He shoves my thighs apart with his knee, cupping his hand over my pussy and bending his middle finger to caress me as he slides his body over mine. Gently he
eases his cock between my thighs. Without entering me, he lets the head of his dick rub my clit. My whole being is now centered on the few inches of nerves and sensation between my legs. Lust races through my body, making my toes tingle, my whole body jerk.

Nick abruptly pulls away from me. Even as I grab for him in frustration, he’s sliding a pillow beneath my hips and slithering down the bed between my legs. He dips his head and starts to kiss me softly, using only his lips as though he’s kissing someone hello at a party. My fingers twine through his hair, pushing him into me, but Nick resists my pressure and holds back, teasing my clit with his lips, lightly nibbling me with his teeth, swirling his tongue around the very edge of my pussy.