Antidote to Infidelity Read Free Page A

cunning but
crucial, considering my poor track record.
    You see, visions of my mother
Sylvia’s hatchet face, giving Will the evils at last year’s bodged banquet as
she poked contemptibly at her Cream of Cornish, still haunt me. Honestly,
anyone would think I’d presented her with a lump of steaming dog shit.
    Tomorrow, she’s in for a shock
- not a micro-chip in sight. The job’s almost done and I’ve sprinkled
cinnamon on the perfect tiramisu, which I plan to graciously offer as, ‘Oh, you
know, just a little something I whipped up last night . . .’
    ***
    Looking at my reflection in the
steamed up window, I make a mental note to rescue my neglected complexion ASAP
with a bucket of Revitalift. No make-up, unploughed brows, quick-fix pony tail,
I’ll never make the cover of Vogue, but hey - I guess I don’t look too ropey for twenty-nine, mother of twins.
    My friends think I look a
little like Julia Roberts. Ha, I wish! She has elegant, flowing locks,
endless legs and dazzling smile – I’ve got mad curls, circus stilts and
a massive gob. In fact, I’m sure that if I ever trace my origins, I’ll find I’m
a descendent of the wide-mouthed frog from the old Maltesers advert.
    Despite my lanky legs, I’m
still a fair few inches shorter than Will, who hates it when I wear heels as he
likes to look taller than me. Naturally, I have a rogue stash stowed away for
girly nights out, which I slip on the second the cab’s cleared the corner.
    Glancing at the clock above the
cooker, I sigh. Nine thirty-two and still no sign of him. Perhaps it’s time to
introduce some ground rules of my own, instead of being a soft touch and
letting him get away with murder. Mmm, that’s easier said than done though, as
- have I mentioned? - Will’s gorgeous . Too gorgeous for his own good and
definitely too gorgeous for me.
    At thirty-six, with jet black
hair, square jaw and mellow brown eyes, I’ve always said he’d be much more at
home in a Hollywood gangster blockbuster than editing a lifestyle magazine.
Well over six feet tall, dark skinned, not a wrinkle or grey hair in sight,
he’s got an irritating, youthful aura about him, attracting wanton, yearning
glances everywhere we go, making me mad as a hatter.
    Thick set and clean cut, he’s
also mastered this unique Sally-controlling stare - reserved for
wriggling out of bollockings - that shuts my trap and turns my legs to mush
whenever I try to reprimand him.
    Which lately, if I’m brutally
honest, is quite often.
    That being said, one thing I
can’t fault him on is his modesty. Some men know they’re hot and milk it for
all it’s worth. Will, bless him, seems graciously oblivious. The scores of
women falling over themselves to catch his eye are like water off a duck’s
back. I notice, he doesn’t - and if I mention it, he calls me paranoid.
    It’s a different kettle of fish
though, when the boot’s on the other foot. If a cute guy so much as glances in
my general direction, Will keeps him under SAS-style observation.
    Okay, okay, I’m exaggerating,
but while I suffer from PMS three days a month, Will’s plagued by PMSS -
Potential Marriage Saboteur Syndrome - all year round. Even Facebook, or Snakebook as he calls it, is frowned upon because, ‘there’s always some sneaky bugger
trying to steal your wife’.
    I ask you - what can you do
with that ? Mind you, in today’s flirty cyber society he’s probably
right. Turn your back for a second and your partner’s changing passwords,
swapping explicit e-mails with their old PE teacher!
    ***
    The first time I clapped eyes
on my absent other half was at a charity bungee jump in the summer of 2005,
when a handful of daredevil businessmen were leaping off a crane in the grounds
of Nottingham Castle in aid of Cancer Research.
    Having sworn myself off blokes
for life, I tried to ignore the butterflies he induced, but there was something
magnetic about this hunky stranger, dangling fifty feet in the air at the
petrified