The Adultery Club

by Tess Stimson

  Mal and I found ourselves at a party not dissimilar to this, shortly before we got engaged; at Kit’s invitation, naturally. He vanished as soon as we arrived to pursue the travel writer to whose column—in every sense of the word—he had taken a fancy. Mal and I clung to each other’s fingers like lost children, excusing ourselves in that peculiarly British fashion every two minutes whenever someone trod on our feet or jostled us as they barged past.

  “Oh God, I’m too old for this,” she exclaimed suddenly, as a louche youth brushed against her, burning her bare shoulder with his cigarette. “Please, Nicholas, please get me out of here.”

  We spent the night in our own safe, dull double bed at my flat, a little ashamed of our prematurely middle-aged flight, but thrilled and relieved to have found simpatico company in our retreat, to not have to pretend. And of course, we were still at that stage in a relationship when one does not need the ameliorating presence of others. We were each enough for the other.

  I woke up that morning, Mal’s tawny limbs tangled in my Egyptian cotton, her dark hair streaming across the cream pillow, small brown nipples proudly erect even in her sleep. She was exquisite; and I knew then, without a doubt, that I wanted to wake up next to this amazing woman every day for the rest of my life. The following weekend, having procured the ring—an opal; its pearlescent creaminess seemed, to me, to encapsulate the image of Mal that defining morning—I asked her to marry me.

  Sara’s hand snakes possessively down my wool trousers—“Are you really wearing a suit?” she said to me as we dressed this evening. “Don’t you have any jeans?”—and grasps my tumescent erection. “Looks like the party’s happening elsewhere,” she purrs in my ear.

  I smile faintly. She wraps her body sinuously around mine, pleased. She isn’t to know that my arousal stems not from her young, vibrant presence, but from a ten-year-old memory of another woman in my bed.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Forget it. It happens. It’s not a big deal.”

  We both know she’s lying. Sex is not just an important part of our relationship: It defines it. When things have started to go wrong in the bedroom—which has, until now, been the one place they can be guaranteed to go right—for us it is not just a little hiccup, one of those things to be put right with a change of scene or a good night’s sleep.

  I fold my arm beneath my head and stare up at the ceiling. The bald truth is that the hot, frantic passion I had for her, the desperate need, has vanished as quickly and inexplicably as it came. Suddenly, after all these months of lust, I don’t want her anymore. She hasn’t done anything wrong. She is still just as sexy, as attractive, as she was the day I first saw her. Just not to me.

  Sara gets out of bed and wraps her red kimono about her voluptuous curves, clutching it to her body as if cold.

  “Just getting a drink of water,” she says.

  I nod, and she goes out into the kitchen.

  It’s my fault, of course. I knew this would happen. Love lasts; passion doesn’t. Without warning, there’s nothing left. If only it had burned itself out before Mal discovered us. Why now? When all this can cause is more pain?

  Sara may have been a willing partner—the instigator, even, of our affair. But she’s so young. So—despite the worldly facade and bedroom skills—very inexperienced when it comes to men. I know her feelings for me are not as transient, or as lightly dismissed, as my more carnal sentiments toward her. I’m very fond of her; I like and respect her; the last thing I want to do is hurt her—but that’s it. She fancies herself in love. Calf love, perhaps, but no less powerful for that.

  Above all, I should never have agreed to move in with her. Permitted her to entertain fantasies of a happy-ever-after together. It was stupid of me; cruel, actually. When I am still in love with my wife.

  I hear the sound of the shower, and slide out of bed. It’s three in the morning; Mal will be in France now, cozying down with her lover at her charming Normandy pension. But, suddenly, this can’t wait.

  I stand at the window, looking down into the street, my mobile pressed tightly against my ear. After four rings, the answerphone kicks in. I listen to Mal’s voice explaining that we can’t come to the phone right now, imagining it echoing around the darkened kitchen, startling the poor rabbit in his scullery.

  “Mal,” I say desperately. “I know I’ve been a bloody fool. What I did was unforgivable. I don’t deserve a second chance. But please, Mal. Please don’t shut me out. I love you so much. I know you’ve—” I hesitate. “I know you’re not alone. It kills me, but I swear, I don’t even care about that. I just want you back. Nothing else matters besides being with you.” My voice cracks. “Jesus, Mal, I wish more than anything I could turn back the clock. I wish I’d told you before how happy you’ve made me, how much I love coming home to you every night, waking up next to you every morning. I know what I did was wrong. I have no excuse. But please, Mal. Give me a second chance. I swear I won’t let you down. Please.”

  I don’t know what else to say. After a long beat of silence, I click off my phone. Behind me, Sara is silhouetted in the bedroom doorway. I have no idea how long she’s been standing there, or what she’s heard.

  I know, in some deeply instinctual way, what she is going to tell me, even before she opens her mouth and changes things forever.

  “I’m pregnant,” she says.

  14

  Sara

  “No,” says my mother.

  “But Mum—”

  “I said no.”

  Her voice sounds strangled. I picture her at the kitchen sink, phone crooked between shoulder and chin, peeling Dad’s bloody potatoes for dinner tonight.

  I attempt a conciliatory tone.

  “He’s really nice, Mum. You’d like him. If you just met him, you’d—”

  “Nice men don’t up and leave their wives for the first floozy to lift her skirts,” Mum says sharply. “And they certainly don’t have the brass neck to pitch up at her parents’ for tea and sandwiches afterward. I’ll have no truck with it. He’s not welcome here, and you can tell him so from me.”

  I flush.

  “Do you have to make it sound so sordid, Mum?”

  Scrape. Scrape.

  “Those poor children. Never mind his poor wife. I don’t know how you sleep at night.” A soft phlish, as she drops a potato into the pan. “Imagine how you’d have felt, if your father had upped and—”

  “If you ask me, it’s a bloody miracle he didn’t,” I retort. “I certainly don’t know how he’s put up with you all these years.”

  I fling the phone on the sofa. Shit, I shouldn’t have said that. Now I’m doubly in the wrong. I’ll have to phone her back and apologize for being rude and hanging up on her; and then sit through another of her pocket sermons on Sins of the Flesh and Why Married Men Are Not Fair Game.

  I don’t know why I feel so bloody guilty about it. After all, I’ve been praying for months that Nick would leave his wife. OK, the thought of his three little girls sobbing themselves to sleep at night because Daddy’s gone didn’t exactly make me feel good about myself—I’m not Cruella De Vil—but I never thought it’d bother me this much. Some nights, I toss and turn for hours, picturing their pale, tearstained faces, while Nick sleeps like an innocent babe next to me. It seems my mother has managed to hamstring me with a bloody conscience after all.

  I kick the damp towel Nick has left in the middle of the sitting room floor out of my way and go into the kitchen. Coffee grounds are scattered all over the counter, and the sink is full of dirty cups and plates from last night. He made enough bloody noise clattering around in here at six this morning when I was trying to have my Saturday morning lie-in. You’d have thought he could’ve managed to load the freakin’ dishwasher, for fuck’s sake—

  I shriek as a cockroach the size of a small cat shoots out from behind the fridge.

  It stops in the middle of the floor halfway between me and the door, its disgusting antennae things twitching back and fort
h. I shudder, acutely conscious of my bare feet. If that thing runs over them I’ll have a fucking heart attack, I swear.

  Gingerly I reach for something to throw at it. Christ Almighty, where’s a man when you need one? Although Nick’s more the type to leap up on the kitchen counter at the sight of a mouse. Somehow I can’t quite imagine him scooping up cockroaches with his bare hands.

  I lob a wet cloth. The cockroach skitters beneath the sink. Well, that’s washing up out for the rest of the day. I’m not going near the sink till I know that thing’s dead.

  Keeping a wary eye out for other roaches hot to party, I make myself a mug of tea—“Good God,” Nick said, “not tea bags, don’t you have any loose Earl Grey?”—and curl up on the sofa, keeping my feet safely tucked up under my bottom. The cushions still smell of puke. I’ve bleached the sofa so many times it’s started to hang out white flags when I approach, and I still can’t get rid of the stink.

  It kills me to say so, but I’ve got to give Nick’s wife props. Spewing all over the pristine white not-bought-in-the-sale Conran is one helluva way to diss your rival.

  Aw, sod it. She can have the sofa. After all, I’ve got the man.

  A swirl of pleasure whisks its way down my body and I grin into my mug. Conscience be damned. He actually left his wife. OK, so he was pushed a little bit; but still, I am the stuff of urban legends. The mistress who got to waltz off into the sunset with her man. No wonder Amy’s spitting blood.

  I couldn’t believe it when she crashed my flat and handed him to me on a plate. Just like that. Didn’t even put up a fight.

  Nick muttered something about finding a hotel, but of course he was just saying that so I didn’t feel I had to ask him to move in. As if I was going to let an opportunity like that slip through my fingers. It’s not quite the way I would’ve liked it to happen—it would’ve been nice if he’d left his wife by choice and told me he couldn’t live without me, begged me to let him stay, rather than ended up here by default; but it comes to the same thing in the end. The important thing is we’re together.

  Every relationship has a few teething troubles at the beginning. It’s only to be expected. Things are a bit cramped with two of us in the flat, and Nick isn’t exactly housetrained. Too many years having someone run around after him, cooking him hot dinners and ironing his shirts. And it’s a bit of a strain having to look sexy and fabulous twenty-four/seven; I keep having to get up early to sneak in the bathroom and shove on some slap before he sees me. He looked a bit shocked when he beat me to it the other morning and caught sight of me au naturel. It’s his own fault: I was having my own There’s Something About Mary moment after some rather pervy sex the night before.

  But actually, I think he’s finding it all rather romantic, really. Bohemian. Sort of like being a student again, young and footloose and carefree. I bet it makes a nice change from all that family responsibility.

  I pick up the phone and dial. “Hey. S’me.”

  “If you go all loved-up on me again, I’m hanging up,” Amy says warningly.

  “Sorry, doll, the honeymoon’s over. Didn’t I tell you? He leaves dirty clothes all over the floor and wouldn’t know an ironing board from a vibrator.”

  She snorts. “No wonder you need a king-size bed.”

  “D’you fancy going to Camden Market this morning?” I ask. “If we get a wiggle on we could get there before eleven. I was thinking about trawling round the covered market for some silver earrings; I think I lost one of my Indian ones at the gym.” I giggle. “Roj probably nicked it for his Prince Albert.”

  “Eeuuw. Do you mind? I haven’t finished my breakfast.”

  “Meet you there?”

  “I don’t know. I was going down to my parents’—”

  “Oh, live dangerously, Ames,” I wheedle. “C’mon, it’s a lovely day. And we could do lunch at the Dôme; we haven’t been there for ages.”

  I feel her weaken at the thought of bouillabaisse.

  “Where’s lover boy, then?”

  “He’s seeing his kids. It’s the first time since they split up; his wife is dropping them off at his mum’s for the weekend. He won’t be back till tomorrow night. Please, pretty please? I’ll lend you my new James Blunt—”

  “Throw in your Oasis dress for a week and I’ll see you in forty minutes.”

  She’s already waiting for me when I reach the entrance to the covered market. We stroll round the stalls of knick-knacks, bric-a-brac, and vintage crap for a while, pawing over the junk of yesteryear and muttering ribald remarks to each other. For some reason, a kitsch nest of chamber pots—his ’n’ hers—reduces us to tears of mirth. Eventually, I buy a delicate pair of amber and silver earrings—“God, look at the tiny fly stuck in that one,” Amy marvels. “Can you imagine how old it must be?”—while she bargains for an antique game of bagatelle for Terry’s next birthday. “I know it’s not very romantic,” Amy admits, “but at least he can take this home without his wife suspecting it’s from another woman.”

  “I have to say,” she adds crossly as we sit down to lunch, “you look positively glowing. Living the happy-ever-after, are you?”

  “More or less.” I grin, flipping open my menu.

  “Tell me the less.” She sighs. “I don’t think I’ve the stomach for more right now.”

  “Well, his father died last week, so to cheer him up I dressed as a schoolgirl and shagged him over the back of the sofa in full view of the neighbors,” I start.

  Amy chokes on her sparkling water.

  “And,” I whisper, leaning across the table, “he shoved his—you know—up my bloody arse.”

  “You’re kidding? What, without even asking?”

  “Without any bloody lube, either,” I say feelingly. “I had to perch on one cheek for three days.”

  “Well, he did go to public school. I suppose it’s only to be expected.”

  We drop the subject of anal sex as the waiter takes our order. I don’t really feel like wine, though Amy opts for a glass of Sancerre. I guess I’m not in the mood.

  I snap a breadstick between my fingers. “Joking apart, I do sometimes wonder, Amy. I know Nick and I have always been about sex. I mean, obviously: That’s the whole point of having an affair. But sometimes, especially lately, it seems so impersonal. We do all this wild stuff in bed—and out of it, come to that—and generally I’m cool with whatever he wants to try as long as it doesn’t involve lit cigarettes or live goldfish up my fanny.” I lick my forefinger and dab restlessly at the crumbs. “But there’s not much tenderness. He hardly ever kisses me. I just—I don’t know, Ames.” I surprise myself by suddenly feeling close to tears. “It’s just this feeling I have. It’s like he doesn’t even see me sometimes.”

  There’s a short silence. Amy looks understandably bewildered at the speed of my transition from smug unmarried to oops-worms-in-Paradise.

  I’m a little confused myself. I didn’t realize that was there until I opened my mouth and it all spilled out.

  “Are you sure it’s not just you,” she says, “wanting more from him? Now that you’re living together.” She moves the breadbasket out of my reach. “Having an affair is one thing. Now you’re in a relationship. Everything’s changed all of a sudden. Of course you want more than a good seeing-to over the back of the furniture. And I’m sure it’s going to be fine, but it’s just going to take a little time, that’s all. It’s a big adjustment for both of you.”

  I recover quickly. After all, I’m the poster girl for Other Women. The proof it can all work out in the end.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I say brightly. “After all, what goes on in the bedroom says a lot about the rest of your relationship, doesn’t it? As long as things are good there, everything else will fall into place eventually. It’s just a question of us getting used to living with each other.”

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

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

  She leans bac
k 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.