Antidote to Infidelity Read Free Page B

mercy of a dubious looking length of elastic.
    As they lowered him headfirst
to the ground, where I waited shyly with a camera to snap him for the local
newspaper, he took one look at me and quipped, “Holy shit - an angel! I knew
that was a bad idea . . .”
    And that was it - wham. Just
like that. Any scepticism surrounding the old ‘love at first sight’ myth
shattered as he smiled, asked my name . . . and begged for a bowl to throw up
in. Right there, right then, on a lush green lawn in the sunshine, surrounded
by Robin Hood, Maid Marion and their merry men, I knewhe was the
one .
    Six months later, on a frosty
December afternoon, we tied the knot at historic Newstead Abbey in front of a
quirky collection of family, friends and passing Chinese tourists. Already
pregnant with Rosie and Ryan, and chucking up around the clock, I looked like a
washed-out Weeble as I wobbled down the aisle in elasticated ivory. But it
didn’t matter, we were blissfully happy.
    The blissful we ,
however,didn’t stretch to my sour-faced mother. Whilst everyone
else celebrated and sipped champagne, she stewed beneath a weeping willow by
the lake, sulking and knocking back the Valium.
    It wasn’t that she particularly
disliked Will, she just detested the fact he didn’t boast a title, or, at
least, a grand chateau in the south of France!
    When I was little, my mother
would chat for hours with my Auntie Grace over tea and scones, selecting ideal
husband material from a procession of distinguished (or not-so-distinguished
but filthy-rich) suitors, such as wee Prince William, any of the Rothschilds,
Robert Redford or George Michael, later scratched from the list for obvious
reasons. Deep down, the gruesome twosome always expected me to marry ‘well’ and
‘go far’, when in actual fact, I married Will, went into motherhood and never
got so much as a mile out of Goldwell, let alone Nottingham!
    Needless to say, having
callously cheated her out of the doctor, lawyer or Prime Minister son-in-law
she so openly desired, I was relegated to ‘the doghouse’ - aka Will’ssmart,
three-bedroomed semi - where we’ve been merrily residing ever since.
    Well, who could blame the old
dragon? Allegedly, I’d exhibited ‘blatant stupidity’ in my choice of husband
and ‘dragged the proud family name into disrepute’.
    Quite, mother.
    That being the case, it was
decided that my parents couldn’t possiblycontribute towards a ‘mixed
class’ wedding. Mixed class? I ask you? Anyone would think I’d shacked up and
bred with Stig of the Dump.
    Despite my indignant protests,
instead of chipping in, my mother buggered off on a luxurious three-week cruise
to recover from her ‘ordeal’, dragging my downtrodden father along for the
ride. Or, much more likely, to carry her luggage.
    Bullied into submission over
the years, my father realised long ago (probably on his honeymoon) that
standing up to my mother is like attempting to extinguish a forest fire with a
thimble of water.
    He showed silent acceptance of
Will by slipping him the coveted key to his potting shed, but sadly has never found
the voice to openly express his approval of our marriage and put my mother in
her place.
    I continue to draw solace from
the fact that, despite hailing from such peculiar stock, I’ve actually turned
out quite well.
    ***
    Mmmm. There’s something
therapeutic about running water and peeling carrots. It makes you soft. Makes
you forget you’re angry, or at least me it does. Six saucepans on, I’ve relived
the lot: our upside-down attraction, our first date, our first kiss, our
wedding day, the birth of Rosie and Ryan, and I’m feeling reminiscent and much
in need of a cuddle.
    Tottering merrily over to check
on the turkey, which seems to be cooking nicely, all crisp and golden, I hear
the back door creek and in slips Will, or at least I hope , just the eight
hourslate. Fortunately for him, I’ve mellowed somewhat and am no longer
hell-bent on stringing him up by