The Other Wives Club

by Shari Low

  ‘The story is running, Jeff. Trust me, it’s better if we get it out there first. The right-wing nationals will milk it to death.’

  Jeff rang off with a request that if any further damaging details came to light, Drew would give him a heads-up – Drew agreed, recognizing that a spot of mutual back-scratching with those in power was never a bad thing.

  Watching Drew as he negotiated his position and listening to him call the shots was a bigger aphrodisiac than ten buckets of oysters and a crate of champagne. It was all the confirmation Mona needed. The thoughts that had been flying around in her head, the resolve to change her life, the determination to make things right, could all be summed up right there, right then, with one obvious, undeniable fact: she wanted Drew back.

  There. She’d admitted it to herself. She didn’t want to be with Piers any longer – his loud, uninteresting, adulterous behaviour revolted her. Nor did she want to be single. It was only a few years until her fortieth, and she might be a stunning woman who looked a decade younger, but if she continued to screw twenty-three-year-olds in her office at lunchtime she knew she was only a few rumours away from being a laughing stock.

  No, she didn’t want to be on her own. She belonged in a couple. The only problem was that she was currently in the wrong couple.

  Drew was her exit strategy. All she needed now was for him to be on the same page. Sure, there were a couple of slight complications, namely Piers and Tess. Mona almost snorted at the thought. It didn’t take a genius to see that Drew and Tess’s marriage had cooled. There was no touching, no intimacy, no secret smiles. It seemed… habitual. Monopolising him this morning had almost seemed too easy. He should never have married her, the old fool. A fling with someone half his age was one thing, but marriage? Drew wasn’t that guy. He didn’t go for vacuous looks and the macho kudos of bagging a hot young thing. He liked intelligence. Stimulation. Debate. Common ground. Nostalgia. History. He was hardly getting those things from a woman who couldn’t remember the eighties. No, what Drew needed was Mona.

  ‘I’m going to order lunch. A BLT and a side salad?’ The telephone was already in her hand, so it was more of a statement than a question.

  Drew stretched back, swinging on his chair, his arms behind his head. ‘You must be psychic.’

  ‘Nope, just smart,’ she quipped. This had to be played right. With some guys she could strip down to nothing but her Manolo Blahniks and the deal would be done, but not Drew. He wasn’t perfect, but he had a level of decency, and he wasn’t stupid – probably borne out of spending decades watching celebrities and politicians getting caught with their pants around their ankles. Other than their own affair before they married, he’d never stepped a foot over the adulterous line. No, sex wasn’t the way to go here. He had to realize that – no matter what happened in the past – they were meant to be together.

  Room service answered with a cheery greeting and Mona quickly rattled off the order before kicking off her shoes and going back to the table.

  Drew was talking via Skype to Guy Bennet, his deputy at the office, a gruff Aberdonian with a dry sense of humour.

  ‘So it’s front-page splash, details and photographs on pages two and three, back story on four and Mona’s contribution on five. The piece on the wife’s fashion history and social cock-ups is evil genius, Mona – remind me never to get on your bad side.’

  ‘Good idea,” Mona replied dryly, ‘because you should see the dirt I have on you, Guy. Seriously twisted.’

  The fuzzy quality of the transmission couldn’t hide the fact that Guy paled slightly.

  Drew cut off their banter and signed out, promising to check back in again after lunch. He got up and went inside to the minibar, returning with a bottle of water for each of them.

  ‘You don’t actually have anything on Guy, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘Other than the fact that he has the worst dress sense in the free world? No. But sometimes it doesn’t hurt to keep him on his toes and remind him that I’m indispensable and not afraid of resorting to blackmail.’

  His moral code made him shake his head, his appreciation of her balls made him smile.

  ‘We make a good team,’ she said.

  ‘We always did,’ he replied.

  There it was. The hint of nostalgia and sadness made her want to punch the air. He felt it too, she realized. Of course he did. He’d be a damn fool if he didn’t. When they were together, nothing could touch them. They’d still be together if it wasn’t for that one fucking mistake.

  At the sound of the doorbell he automatically jumped to his feet and she realized her heart was beating way faster than normal. While he attended to the room service, she made a couple of minor adjustments. First the Capri pants came off, revealing a tiny pair of black bikini bottoms. Chanel. Not that he’d know that, but there was nothing like Chanel briefs to boost a girl’s confidence. Then she released her hair from its clasps and tousled it so that it fell in raven waves around her shoulders.

  Going the physical attraction, flirtatious sex route wouldn’t win Drew over, but it certainly wouldn’t harm her chances. She didn’t do sixteen hours of exercise a week to keep this arse covered up.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind – it’s way too hot and those trousers were getting uncomfortable.’

  He stopped in the doorway, holding a large tray with their lunches, a BLT for him and a green salad for her. ‘Not at all. Would you rather go inside? The air con is on.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. This sun is great for the vitamin-D levels.’ It was disappointing that his stare didn’t linger on her finely toned thighs, but then that wasn’t Drew’s style. Hopefully he’d give them a few furtive stares when she wasn’t looking. She stretched back to allow him to put her lunch in front of her, before he sat down with his own. Manners. Chivalry. She missed that. Piers was attentive, but he was just as likely to tell her to get her own bloody dinner as he was to serve it up to her.

  They ate in silence for a few moments before Mona spoke, faux concern oozing from her words.

  ‘So… are you disappointed you missed a day with Tess today? I’m guessing she wouldn’t have been thrilled.’

  He waited until he’d stopped chewing and swallowed, then nodded. ‘Yeah, it would have been great to go explore.’

  If there was a prize for lack of conviction he just became the front runner.

  ‘But…?’ she probed.

  He shrugged again. ‘But there’s nothing like the adrenalin rush of breaking a new story. We killed it today. That’s the kind of high that no amount of walking around Palma could ever deliver.’

  ‘Not even with a beautiful young wife?’ She kept her voice light because she was veering into dangerous territory and she knew it. No matter what happened, he would never trash Tess because disloyalty was another of Drew’s pet peeves. Hadn’t she once been thankful for that?

  ‘Not even with a beautiful young wife,’ he answered truthfully. Staring into the distance, he suddenly seemed to be deep in thought. Perhaps that admission had struck a chord with him. Maybe that was the first time that realization had crossed his mind. The important thing was that the face in front of her wasn’t the face of a contented man who was utterly besotted with his wife.

  It was obvious that the chink in his marital armour was there. Now all Mona needed was a tin-opener and the smarts to pick her moment.

  Sarah

  ‘Come on, climb on, love. Jesus Christ, have you never heard of Weight Watchers?’

  Sarah couldn’t suppress the laughter as she grabbed Pier’s ear and twisted. Cheeky bugger. It was rare that a guy could walk the line between charm and cheek, but Piers did it perfectly.

  ‘You’re hardly the poster boy for Slimming World yourself,’ she replied tartly, then grunted as he hauled her out of the water and on to the jet ski. Yes, a jet ski. Patsy would be so proud.

  They’d been at the beach for an hour and Sarah and Tess had been quite happy to recline on the sunloungersand leave the action stuff to th
e men. Not that Piers bore any relation whatsoever to Daniel Craig or Jason Statham.

  ‘Are you holding on?’ he shouted. Piers Delaney. International business icon and man of substance, wearing a collection of chickens on his buttocks. None of them had beachwear with them, so they’d stopped at a little gift shop and bought out their entire beachwear collection of two large swimsuits and two pairs of swimming shorts. Sadly all four seemed to have been designed sometime in the eighties by someone with a chemical substance problem and a love of barnyard animals. Tess’s costume was dotted with flying pigs. Max’s was a bovine tribute to all things that went moo. And Sarah had thirteen ponies galloping from her hips to her oxters. The dated swimsuit design was the least of her worries.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m wearing this in public,’ she’d told Tess, as she struggled to cover the worst of her bulges by strategically draping her maxi dress over her legs. ‘I’m a breeding ground for cellulite and it’s been so long since anything below the neck saw the sun, my entire body is a pale shade of blue.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Tess had gasped. ‘Sarah, you look great. All curvy and voluptuous. And anyway, I reckon we’re exactly the same size, so if you won’t be self-conscious then neither will I.’

  ‘Yeah, but your boobs still point upwards.’ Sarah had given the straps another tug in a northerly direction.

  ‘Sarah, Piers is wearing chickens. I’m wearing sheep. And your cossie looks like race day at Newmarket. There’s no dignity in this. Let’s just go with it, make sure there’s no photographic evidence and promise never to speak of it again.’ It was great to see Tess smiling. The girl in front of her was a vast improvement from the distraught woman she’d met this morning. And if Tess could shake off her woes and make the most of the day, then Sarah could, too.

  She, Sarah Gold, had thrown off the maxi dress, embraced her cellulite and her ponies, and decided not to give a damn what anyone thought. Which was why she was now on the back of a jet ski, holding on to Piers for dear life. From now on, she was going to be carefree and up for new experiences. At least until she got home and became Mrs Suburban Cake Making Granny again.

  They whizzed three times around the bay, with Piers managing to stall the machine twice and narrowly missing colliding with the kind of yacht that celebrities lie on in photoshoots. At one point she caught herself screaming like she hadn’t done since a Bay City Rollers concert in 1976. What a rush! She was almost sorry when he slowed down and turned the machine around to face in the direction of the beach.

  ‘Ready to go in?’ Piers asked her.

  ‘Sure, let’s give the others a turn. I need a large vodka after that.’

  ‘My kinda woman.’ He chuckled as he threw the machine into gear and then approached the shore at a snail’s pace, careful to stay well away from the snorkelers and swimmers.

  Tess and Max were waiting on the beach, ready to take over, and Piers slapped his son on the back as they swapped. ‘Now don’t crash it. I’ve still never forgiven you for the Audi Quattro.’

  Max looked heavenwards. ‘Dear God, I was seventeen. When is he going to let it go?’

  ‘Never. I’m your father. It’s my job to remind you of your fuck-ups.’

  Back at the sunbeds, Sarah wrapped a towel around her waist and flopped down just as a waiter arrived with cocktails.

  ‘How do you do that?’ she asked Piers.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have drinks delivered without even ordering them?’

  ‘I asked Max to do it before I left. Figured if I managed not to kill us on that bloody thing then we’d definitely need a drink after it. It’s a champagne cocktail – is that OK?’

  Sarah turned her nose up and feigned outrage. ‘Of course not. Some of us have standards. I have a policy only to drink wine with a screw top that costs less than three quid a bottle.’

  Laughing, they lay side by side for a few moments, letting their heartbeats return to something resembling normal.

  ‘Mona has really missed out today.’ Sarah didn’t actually realize she’d said that out loud until Piers shook his head.

  ‘Nah, she hates this kinda thing. Doesn’t like anything that messes up her hair. I once bought an Aston Martin convertible and she refused to travel in it unless the top was up. Traded it in for a Range Rover. Driving about in it on my own made me look like a bit of a sad prick.’

  Sarah almost choked on her bubbly. Piers certainly had a way of just telling it straight and sparing no blushes.

  ‘In fact, seems like we don’t have much in common at all, these days,’ he went on, staring into the distance, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

  Sensing that this wasn’t something to be commenting on, Sarah kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t read the page in the social etiquette bible that dealt with interfering with your ex-husband’s ex-wife’s current husband airing his concerns about their marriage.

  ‘I know you don’t like her much…’

  ‘I don’t,’ Sarah admitted frankly. ‘But in fairness to me, she was complicit in wrecking my marriage, was delighted when she took my husband, has a general air of smugness and she’s a size eight. I can’t possibly be friends with anyone who is a stranger to a carrot cake. But other than all that, I’m sure she’s a very nice person.’

  Immediately, she worried that she’d gone too far. Piers was Mona’s husband and there was bound to be a loyalty there. Hopefully he wouldn’t say anything to her. Bugger, what if he did? She’d have to stay indoors for the rest of the cruise in case Mona accidentally-on-purpose sent her overboard for an unexpected swim.

  Next to her, Piers sighed and for the first time that day his jolly demeanour slipped. ‘You know, sometimes she really is. At least, she used to be. Now I’m not so sure.’

  What to do? Should she speak? Let him talk and just listen? Try to cajole him back to happy, effervescent Piers? In the end she went for a midway point between sincerity and optimism.

  ‘You know, Drew and I went through some crappy times in our marriage, too. I mean, before he took off, left me desolate and doomed to end up an old lady with only cats for company. Maybe it’s just a low point and things will get better.’

  That seemed to rally him. ‘Nah, don’t think so,’ he said very definitely, as he jumped up and fished his mobile phone out of the pocket of the shorts that were folded under the sunlounger. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I just need to go give my secretary a call. Just make sure that all is OK back there.’

  Sarah watched him wander down to the waves and then paddle in the shallow waters with his phone glued to his ear. Surprised at both his words and actions, she couldn’t help think that there were some serious undercurrents on this holiday… and they were nothing to do with the seas.

  8.

  All At Sea

  Tess

  The pain was the first thing Tess felt when she woke up; a deep, searing pain right across her forehead. It was difficult to say if that’s what caused her stomach to spasm or if her abdominal muscles were performing that little trick all by themselves.

  Unsurprisingly, groaning out loud didn’t make her feel any better and neither did attempting to stand up, but she gave it her best shot, wobbled, then fell back down to a seated position on the bed.

  Do not throw up. Do not throw up.

  She managed to get one eye open and realized, to her relief that she was in her cabin. That was a plus. The rewind button in her brain refused to co-operate with the events leading up to her getting here.

  The beach. Piers. Tess. Max. Jet skis. Cocktails. Lots of cocktails. Laughs. Sun. Driving back to the ship. Heading for cabin. Stop at piano bar on way. One drink. Two. Three. … nope, that was it. That was all she could remember. And why was the theme tune for The A-Team stuck in her head?

  God, it hurt. It was like torture by Mr T.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself upright again, got one eye open and turned to face in the general direction of the balcony. Daylight. She could see it was morning. How
had that happened? If she squinted – shit, that hurt too – she realized there was a person… Drew. Yep, Drew was out on the balcony, sitting at a table, hunched over his laptop.

  Had she imagined all that other stuff? Was this still Palma and she’d had a weird dream about a highly unlikely group of them getting together and going from a golf course to a beach, donning animal print swimming costumes and whizzing around on jet skis? It did sound completely bizarre.

  Summoning every ounce of physical strength, she descended the steps from the mezzanine, crossed the room and pushed open the balcony door, wincing as a combination of heat and sun assaulted her.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, with a tight smile. ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Erm, tender? I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but what happened last night? I’ve no recollection whatsoever of coming back here and I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.’

  ‘Well, if you were, then Piers was driving it.’ She realized it was meant to be a joke but he sounded more disapproving than comical. Oh crap, she’d upset him. Second day of the holiday and she’d managed to piss off her husband. Great. Yes, she’d been pissed off with him but that was no excuse for going AWOL and getting wrecked on his birthday trip.

  There was a pause that was so pregnant it could have delivered twins. Wow, this was worse than being a teenager in trouble with her parents. Actually, her parents would never have behaved like this. The only time she’d really crossed the line with them was when she said she was going to a sleepover and instead headed off to a new nightclub in town. Her mother somehow found out and decided that the best means of punishment would be to show up in a mini dress and black wig and dance beside her. It was the talk of her sixteen-year-old horrified school pals for months.