Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (2 page)

you should know.’

Her mellifluous voice takes on an unmistakable bedroom

timbre, and there’s a sudden rallying cry in my

trousers as images of well-toned caramel thighs, silk

stockings and coffee-coloured lace flash unbidden across

my mind’s eye. My witch of a wife is well aware of the

effect she’s having on me, to judge by the laughter that

now replaces the come-hither tone in her voice.

‘Anyway she lilts, ‘you can’t talk to her or it won’t be

a surprise.’

I’ll give you a surprise—’

‘Now, it wouldn’t really be a surprise, would it?’

‘Someone’s feeling cocky I say. ‘What makes you

think I’m not talking about the latest council tax bill?’

‘What makes you think I’m not?’

yAre you?’

‘I’m talking cakes, Nicholas. Come on, make up your

mind before I have to put two candles on Metheny’s

instead of one.’

‘Will I get candles too?’

‘Yes, but not forty-three or the cake will melt.’

‘Cruel woman. You too will be forty-three one day,

you know.’

‘Not for another six years. Now, Nicholas.’

‘The chocolate-orange sponge cake, of course. Would

it be possible to request bitter chocolate shavings with

that?’

‘It would. Metheny, please take your foot out of

Daddy’s bowl. Thank you. How did the lovely Mrs

Stephenson’s case go?’

‘Seven figures I report.

‘Almost double her last divorce. How wonderful. I

could almost consider a divorce myself.’

I hear my wife lick her fingers and my erection nearly

heaves into view above the desk. ‘If I thought you could

procure seven figures from it, darling, I’d draw up the

papers for you I offer, groaning inwardly as I rearrange

my balls. ‘Can’t get blood out of a stone, unfortunately.’

‘Oh, that reminds me: Ginger rang from the garage this

morning about the Volvo. He said he’s fixed the whateverit-was

this time, but it’s on its last legs. Or should that be

wheels?’ Her voice ebbs and flows in my ear as she moves

about the kitchen. ‘Anyway, he doesn’t think he’ll be able

to nurse it through its dratted MOT in January. So there’s

no help for it, I’ve just got to gird my loins and finish the

new book, get the rest of my advance—’

‘Darling, I think I can afford to buy my wife a new

car if she needs one,’ I interrupt, nettled. ‘Sometimes

you seem to forget I’m a full equity partner now, there’s

absolutely no need for you to knock yourself out writing

cookery books these days.’

‘I like writing cookery books,’ Mai says equably. ‘Oh,

God, Metheny, don’t do that. Poor rabbit. Sorry, Nicholas,

I have to go. I’ll see you at the station. Usual time?’

I suppress a sigh of exasperation.

‘For God’s sake, Malinche, it’s William’s retirement

party this evening! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten! You’re

supposed to be on the five twenty-eight from Salisbury to

Waterloo, remember?’

‘So I am,’ Mai agrees, unperturbed. ‘I hadn’t really

forgotten, it just slipped my mind for a moment. Hold on

a second—’

In the background I hear a series of strange muffled

thumps, and then Metheny’s contagious, irrepressible

giggles.

Life can be full of surprises. When we learned that Mai

was unexpectedly pregnant for the third time I was absol

utely horrified. Sophie and Evie were then eight and five;

we’d just got them to the stage where they were recognizably

human and could do civilized things like skiing or

coming out to dinner with us without spending most of

the meal crawling around under the table. Now we were

to be plunged back into the grim abyss of sleepless nights

and shitty nappies. It was only the thought of a son and

heir at last that consoled me, and when even that silver

lining turned out to be a mirage, I despaired. And yet

this last tilt at parenthood has been the sweetest of all.

Metheny holds my hardened lawyer’s heart in her chubby

starfish hands.

An echo of small feet on worn kitchen flagstones; and

then a squeal as Mai scoops her up and retrieves the

telephone receiver. ‘I really must go, Nicholas,’ she says,

slightly out of breath.

‘You did remember to arrange a babysitter?’

‘Mmm. Yes, Kit very sweetly said he’d do it.’

I have absolutely nothing against those who choose

alternative lifestyles. There is, of course, more to a person

than their sexuality. I just don’t quite see why it must be

forced down one’s throat, that’s all. I do not parade my

red-blooded heterosexuality to all and sundry, although

it’s self-evident. I simply cannot understand why certain

sections of the so-called ‘gay community’ - so sad, the

way that decent word has been hijacked - feel the need to

rub one’s nose in their choice of bedmate. However.

I accepted long ago that when I asked Malinche to

be my wife, Kit Westbrook was a minor but salient part

of the package. Praetmmitus pracmunitus, after all: forewarned, forearmed. And I am not the sort of man to start

objecting to his wift-‘s friendships, however unsavoury;

and in any event, Kit is certainly not, and never has been,

a threat.

We met, the three of us, twelve years ago in Covent

Garden. I had taken my parents to the opera - La Bohbne, if memory serves - to mark my father’s seventieth birthday.

Having hailed them a taxi, I was strolling alone

through the pedestrian piazza en route to the tube station

and thence to my rooms in Earls Court; I remember rather

wishing that for once there was someone waiting at home

for me. Despite the lateness of the hour, the square still

boasted its usual collection of street performers, and I was

just fending off a rather menacing young man mocked up

in heavy black-and-white face-paint and thrusting a collection

hat under my nose, when I noticed a unicyclist

start to lose control of his cycle. It swiftly became clear

that this wasn’t part of his act, and for a moment I

watched with morbid fascination as he swung back and

forth like a human metronome before waking up and

pulling myself together. I barely had time to pull a young

woman out of the path of his trajectory before he toppled

into the small crowd.

At the last moment, he managed to throw himself clear

of the spectators, executing a neat forward roll on the

cobbles and leaping up to bow somewhat shakily to his

audience.

I realized I was clasping the young lady rather inappropriately around the chest, and released her with some

embarrassment. ‘I do apologize, I didn’t mean—’

‘()h, please don’t! If it weren’t for you, I’d be squished

all over the cobblestones. You must have quick reflexes or

something, I didn’t even see him coming.’

She was startlingly pretty. Unruly dark hair the colour

of molasses, sparkling cinnamon eyes, clear, luminous

skin; and the most engaging and infectious smile I had

ever seen. In her early twenties, at a guess; fine-boned and

petite, perhaps a full foot shy of my six feet two. I could

span her waist with my hands. I find small, delicate

women incredibly attractive: they bring out the masculine

hunter-gatherer in me.

I noticed that the top two buttons of her peasant-style

blouse had come undone in the melee, revealing a modest

swell of lightly tanned bosom cradled in a froth of white

broderie anglaise. My cock throbbed into life. Quickly, I

averted my eyes.

She stood on tiptoe and gripped my shoulder. At her

touch, a tumult of images - that glorious hair tangled in

my hands, those slender thighs straddling my waist, my

lips on her golden breasts - roared through my brain.

‘Oh, Lord, you’ve ripped your coat,’ she exclaimed,

examining my shoulder seam. ‘It’s all my fault, wandering

around in a complete daze, I was thinking about the

walnuts, you have to be so careful, of course, don’t you,

not everyone likes them, and now look at you—’

I have no idea what nonsense I gabbled in return.

‘Malinche Sandal,’ she said, thrusting her small hand

at me.

I returned her firm, cool grip. ‘Ah. Yes. Nicholas Lyon.’

I coughed, trying not to picture her hands wrapped

around my— ‘What a very unusual name I managed.

‘I know.’ She grimaced. ‘My mother is this total hippy,

she’s convinced our names determine our characters and

the entire course of our lives - too much acid in the Sixties

if you ask me, though perhaps she’s right, you can’t

imagine a romantic hero called Cuthbert, can you, or King

Wayne, it just doesn’t work - but anyway, she decided

better safe than sorry, just to be quite sure. My older sister

got stuck with Cleopatra, so I suppose I should be grateful

I ended up with Malinche, it could have been Boadicea!’

She glanced down, and I realized I was still holding

her hand.

With a flush of embarrassment, I released it, praying

she hadn’t noticed the tent-pole erection in my trousers.

‘Of course! I knew it rang a bell. Malinche was the

Indian girl who learned Spanish so that she could help

Cortes conquer Mexico in the sixteenth century; without

her spying for him he might never have succeeded—’

I gave a sheepish smile. ‘Sorry. Don’t mean to go on.

Oxford history degree, can’t help it.’

Malinche laughed delightedly. ‘No, it’s wonderful!

You’re the first person I’ve ever met who’s actually heard of her. This is amazing, it must be Fate.’ She slipped her arm through mine and grinned up at me with childlike

trust. I stiffened, my loins on fire. ‘Now, how about you

let me cook you dinner to say thank you?’

‘Oh, but—’

‘Please do. You’d be quite safe, I’m a trained chef.’

‘But how do you know you would be? You don’t even

know me.’

‘I can always tell,’ she said seriously. ‘You look like the

kind of man who would be honest, fair, and most importantly,

optimistic’

‘Well, that is most kind, but—’

‘Do you like walnuts?’

‘Yes, except in salads, though I don’t quite—’

‘We were meant to meet this evening, don’t you see,

you knew all about my name and that has to be a sign.

And you like walnuts - well, except in salads, which don’t

count, no one sensible likes walnuts in salads. It’s serendipity.

You can’t turn your back on that, can you?’

‘It’s not a question of—’

‘The thing is,’ she added earnestly, tilting her head to

one side and looking up at me with those glorious toffee

coloured eyes, I’m trying to write a cookery book and my

entire family is just fed up with being fed, if you see what

I mean. Even my friends say they’d give anything just to

have pizza and I’m simply desperate for a new guinea pig.

You seem a very kind, decent man, I’m sure you’re not an

axe-murderer or anything—’

‘Ted Bundy was handsome and charming and murdered

at least thirty-six women,’ a laconic voice drawled

behind us.

Malinche swung round, spinning me with her. I was

beginning to feel a little bemused by the unexpected

direction my evening was taking.

‘Kit, at last! Where have you been?’

A saturnine young man in his twenties thrust a paper

bag at her. ‘Getting the bloody blue mood crystals you

wanted,’ he responded tartly. ‘Who’s the new arm candy?’

‘Nicholas Lyon,’ I said, overlooking his rudeness and

extending my hand.

The young man ignored it, taking possession of Malinche’s

free arm and glaring at me as he linked us together

in an ungainly mbiage a trois which - though I didn’t

know it then - was a precursory metaphor for our

relationship down the years.

‘Oh, Kit, don’t be difficult,’ Malinche sighed. ‘Mr Lyon,

this is Kit Westbrook, my oldest and apparently crossest

friend, and one of those very weary guinea pigs I was

telling you about. Kit, Mr Lyon just saved me from being

squashed by a runaway unicyclist, and tore his very smart

coat in the process. So stop being so dog-in-the-manger

and help me persuade him to come back with us for

dinner, he’s being far too polite about it all.’

‘Nicholas, please.’

‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Kit said, clearly meaning it

very much, ‘but Mai, you don’t know this man from

Adam. You can’t just go round inviting strange men home

for dinner, even if they do rescue you from certain death

by circus performer.’

‘Your friend is right,’ I concurred regretfully. ‘You

really shouldn’t take such risks, although I’m not actually

a psychopathic serial killer; which suddenly makes me

feel rather dull—’

Malinche pealed with laughter. ‘See?’ she said, as if

that settled everything. As, in the end of course, it did.

I realized right from the start that Kit wasn’t a rival for

Malinche in the usual sense of the word. There was too

much of the Sebastian Flyte about him, and he was always

too flamboyantly dressed to be anything other than homosexual