Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (23 page)

with his thumb. He doesn’t look up. ‘And it’s a bit safer

here, Sara. More anonymous. I could be meeting any

number of clients in a hotel restaurant, especially during

the day. If I was spotted coming out of your flat again, it

would be a lot harder to explain.’

We had another near miss a couple of weeks ago, when

Joan, the office battleaxe, walked straight into Nick as he

was leaving my building one evening. He managed to

flam up some excuse about dropping off some paperwork,

but I’m not sure she was convinced. She’s been giving

me some very suspicious looks recently, especially when

I’m working on my own with Nick. : I can’t believe how complicated having an affair is. I thought the big adultery dilemma was supposed to be

about morals, not bloody logistics. Christ, his wife doesn’t

even live in the same county as me. How on earth women

manage to have affairs with their brothers-in-law two

doors down without getting caught is beyond me. Homeland

Security or MI5 or whatever they are now could do

worse than start looking for double agents in the adulterous

Tmrbs, if you ask me.

Several times, we’ve come to Claridge’s for wickedly

sexy afternoon romps when clients settled out of Court; I

almost prefer those quick impromptu trysts to our carefully

planned evening rendezvous. I always feel a bit flat

when Nick has to leave in time to get the last train home.

He picks up his watch from the bedside table and

fastens the leather strap around his wrist. As he gets

up from the bed, I suddenly slither forwards on the

crumpled, damp sheets and take his semi-hard cock in my

mouth, pulling his buttocks towards me. For a moment

he resists, and then I feel him yield, his body shuddering

against me as he grips my shoulders hard enough to leave

handprints.

Just as I taste his salty pre-cum, he pulls himself free,

pushing me back down on the bed. For a moment I think

he’s about to walk away; and then, in a sudden, erotic

change of pace, he flings himself down beside me and

starts to trail kisses between my breasts, over my stomach,

his tongue darting into my belly button - ‘Christ, what

the hell is that?’ he said the first time he saw my piercing.

‘Doesn’t it chafe?’ - before snaking wickedly lower; but

not yet low enough. He drops kisses on my eyelids, my

nose, my checks, my lips, my throat, his eyelashes butter

flying my skin .is In-moves. My breasts are squashed hard

against his rlu’Nl. lie smells so sweet and warm, like

cinnamon in mulleil wine, like cloves in oranges, like pine contvt on a Intnliiv.

Treated willi Mtiih expertise, the whole of my body is

an erogenous zone. The skill with which he’s holding

back, controlling the pace, not giving in to my craving to

go faster, have him now, drives me absolutely wild.

Just as I’m about to scream loud enough for the entire

hotel to hear, he plunges his head between my legs and I

tangle my hands in his hair, my body bucking electrically

as he tongues my clitoris. Feverishly I wrap my legs

around his shoulders. He thrusts two fingers inside me,

moving them like leaping fish against my inner wall,

still lapping my clitoris, and it’s a sensation like nothing

I’ve ever known, an erotic roller-coaster speeding ever

upwards. Stars explode behind my eyes. Lightning rips

along my nerve endings. I come faster and harder than I

have ever done in my life, my body ricocheting against

the bed as the waves break, and keep on breaking, across

my body.

Finally, Nick lifts his head and moves a little further

up the bed, resting his cheek against my stomach as I

quiver with spent passion. ‘I love - I love to be here,’

he says quietly. ‘I feel safe, safer than anywhere else in

the world.’

Did he - did he nearly say the L word just then?

He rolls onto his back next to me. After a few minutes,

I envelop him with my body, and cover his face with

kisses, his stubble sandpapering my mouth. Straddling

him, I kiss my way down his chest, nibbling little fish

kisses, relishing the salt and sweet taste of his skin. I suck

his left nipple and he groans his appreciation. An answering

beat throbs between my legs as I grasp his cock, steel

covered in velvet-His mobile telephone rings, and I don’t have to ask

who’s calling.

I stretch languorously on the bed, trying to look unruffled

by the fact that he bothers to answer it. A sexy,

cool mistress, not a frustrated and demanding girlfriend.

Nick throws me an embarrassed half-smile as he clumsily

pulls on his clothes, gripping his phone between neck

and ear.

‘I’m on my way. Just finished now. Yes, I know, and

I’m sorry, but—’

I hand him his shoes. He doesn’t meet my eye, his

expression closed as the phone squawks. She doesn’t

sound very happy to me. Poor Nick, the last thing he

needs is some nag of a wife bitching at him after he’s

worked his arse off all day keeping her in bloody bonbons.

If I were married to him, I’d never gripe at him

like that; after all, I know from the inside what he has to

go through, the stress he’s under, every day. I’m in the

business. She can’t possibly understand.

‘I don’t know what time. I might be working, anyway.

Yes, I realize that, but it can’t be helped. Look - 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.’ Wearily, he rubs his hand over his

face. ‘I know; I know you have, but—’

Another burst of indistinct babble. He stalks over to

the mirror, running his fingers through his hair and

checking his suit jacket for tell-tale blonde hairs. It’s lucky he’s cautious. I’m glad he is. I don’t mind it in the least.

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

‘Are you sure tomorrow night’s going to be OK?’

I ask, knotting my bathrobe. ‘Wr can always do it another

evening if it’s going to t ;uiw a problem, I won’t mind.’

‘Of course you will Nick says, with unexpected

shrewdness. ‘And I wouldn’t blame you. I promised I’d

take you out for Valentine’s Day, and I will. Now his

voice softens, ‘hand me my briefcase and lock yourself in

the bathroom, you temptress, or I might just find myself

unable to let you go.’

I feel shivery and glittery inside, like this is our first

date. In a way, it is; well, our first special event date, anyway.

I spent last year’s Valentine’s Day in Andorra with

Amy, the two of us trying to drown our mutual despair

over our romantic ineptitude by hiding out somewhere

Hallmark-free. We weren’t to know an internet dating

agency had chosen our hotel for their annual Celebration

of Love weekend. Forty-two loved-up couples holding

hands and smiling all the time. It gave me a migraine.

I scan the sushi menu again, sipping my mimosa and

hoping Nick hurries up and gets here. I’ve been stuck in

bloody Birmingham on a case all day, so I haven’t seen him since he left the hotel last night. I can’t wait to give him his present. Well, wear it for him, at least.

I tick off my sushi and sashimi choices - I’m glad Nick

picked Yuzo’s again; let’s hope we break the jinx this time

- and dither over seaweed or cucumber salad. Maybe I’ll

wait till Nick gets here and see what he wants. Actually,

now I come to think about it, we haven’t ever had a

proper dinner date at all, unless you count Manchester

that time. It’ll be quite nice to sit and talk, like a normal

couple, before jumping into bed.

Quarter past eight. Fifteen minutes late. Oh, come on, Nick, I hate waiting at a table on my own. There’s only so

long you can fiddle about with a menu trying not to look

sad and stood-up, even one as complicated as Yuzo’s.

A waiter hovers discreetly by my elbow. ‘Are you

ready to order, Miss?’Ś!Ś

‘No, I’m just waiting for someone. I was a bit early; he

should be here soon.’ I glance hopefully towards the door

as it jangles open. My whole body fizzes with pleasure

and relief. ‘Oh, look, there he is!’

‘Whenever you’re ready, Miss.’ Thank God. For a moment there I thought— The welcoming smile on my face dies as Nick walks coolly towards my table, which suddenly seems very

prominent and exposed.

Two paces behind him is his wife.

Malinche

A woman always knows, doesn’t she - it’s an intuition

thing. Nicholas doesn’t believe in intuition, he says it’s

just your unconscious mind picking up subtle signals and

body language that your wide-awake self hasn’t noticed,

putting two and two together and then pingl presenting

you with four; so then of course you think (when four

turns out to be the right answer) oh, four! How amazing,

it must be my intuition.

So perhaps it wasn’t a psychic sixth sense at all, but

my clever old unconscious mind jabbing me in the mental

ribs: look, he’s wearing jeans, he’s always hated jeans;

look, he’s packing his own suitcase for business trips

these days instead of leaving it to you; look, is that a different after-shave, a new shirt, has he always locked that drawer, since when has he been interested in playing squash?

If it had been your best friend sitting at your scrubbed

pine kitchen table, a mug of cooling coffee untouched in

front of her, fretting aloud over her latest psychic poke,

adding it to the catalogue of sharp, pointed little prods

and digs and nudges of the last weeks and months - an

affair, you’d have said (inside your head, of course,

because this isn’t something you can say aloud until she sees it too), an affair, he’s having an affair!

Kit being Kit, however-‘He’s having an affair, darling he’d said baldly,

heedless of the social niceties vis-a-vis other people’s

cheating lovers, calmly blowing smoke rings across the

table. ‘It’s as obvious as the very pretty freckled nose on

your face.’

‘Kit!’

He thunked the kitchen chair back onto all four legs.

‘Sweetheart. Staying out late: check. New haircut, new

clobber - not sure about the black jeans, but however new

and hitherto unprecedented desire to play sweaty

macho sports: check. Either he’s having an affair or,’

he’d smiled evilly, ‘he’s crossed to my side of the street

and can’t bear to tell you.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Kit, Trace isn’t gay.’

Kit had spread his elegant hands: I rest my case.

‘But Kit,’ I’d whispered, wrapping my arms about the

barely-there bump beneath my shirt, the bump only Kit

yet knew about, ‘how can he be having an affair, are you

sure, are you quite, quite sure?’

‘It’s not that I don’t care, darling girl. I love him

too, you know. I realize this is absolute hell; but at

thi end of the day, it is best to know he’d sighed,

getting up to make some fresh coffee. ‘All the signs

are there, I’m afraid and with those few words my safe,

glorious, perfect young life had teetered on the brink for

the final time and then crashed irreparably about my

shoulders.

I stop now beside a bush of winter sage, drawing in a

deep gulp of perishing February air as the thirteen-year

old memory pounces, landing a blow to my solar plexus

so powerful that for a moment I can’t quite breathe. Kit

was absolutely right, of course. All the signs were there.

And I hadn’t even told Kit about the dropped phone calls,

the taking up smoking, the new willingness to walk the

dog for hours each Sunday afternoon on the common.

Classic, textbook signs. Trace was having an affair. It was

obvious.

Obvious.

And wrong.

I push open the latch gate - trust Trace to have the

most sweetly picturesque cottage in the village, all

thatched roof and creeping roses and winding Wizard-of

Oz brick pathway - and do my best to feel like the happily

married thirty-something mother-of-three I am, and not

the distraught pregnant rwenty-two-year-old child I was

when last I stood at Trace’s front door.

Butterflies whisk around my insides. I take short,

choppy steps to avoid slipping on the path, my breath

gusting in icy plumes. I should have worn sensible flat

boots, of course. Kitten heels sound so chic and girly,

don’t they, and with their pretty sequins and bows - but

so hopelessly lacking in traction, I could break my leg or

my neck, or worse.

Kit tried to stop me from going to confront Trace that

day, of course, but I wouldn’t listen, I locked him out of

my car; I can still hear him hammering on the passenger

window as I screeched recklessly down the gravel drive,

determined, now that the poisonous thought was in my

mind, to have it out with Trace immediately. It was a

miracle I didn’t crash and smush myself into jelly on the

way; though of course there were times in the next few