The Adultery Club Read Free

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 ménage à 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. 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 Mal, you don’t know this man from Adam. You
can’t
just go round inviting strange men homefor 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. 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. He was always too flamboyantly dressed to be anything other than homosexual—in the midst of the dress-down, austere nineties, he sported velvet frock coats and waterfall lace cravats and knew the names for a dozen different shades of beige. But as far as Kit was concerned, Malinche was
his
best friend, and even now, after a decade of marriage and three children, he still hasn’t quite accepted that she possesses a husband who has first call upon her. And then there was the matter of Trace Pitt, of course.
    Nothing is ever quite as it seems with Kit. He is, after all, an actor. In fairness, though, I must admit he’s been a conscientious godfather, always remembering birthdays and the like. And the girls adore him. Not necessarily my first choice; but there we are.

    My secretary ushers my four o’clock appointment into my office. I wish I’d thought to remind Mal to bring William’s retirement gift with her. In her current mood, she’dquite likely to bake it and wrap the birthday cake instead. For the life of me, I can’t recall what she said she’d bought, but I’m quite certain it will be eminently appropriate. Mal’s gifts always are; she just has that feminine knack. I always leave Christmas and birthdays entirely to her, even for my side of the family. She’s just so much better at it.
    Firmly putting personal matters out of my mind, I pull a pad of paper toward me and unscrew the lid of my fountain pen. It’s not as if Kit could ever do anything to undermine my marriage. We’re far too strong for that.
    Mr. Colman is a new client, so I take detailed longhand notes as he describes the unhappy route that has led him here, to the grim finality of a divorce lawyer’s office. He’s aptly named, with hair the color of mustard and a sallow cast to his skin. Once we have established the basics, I explain the bureaucratic procedure of divorce, the forms that must be filed, the documents supplied, the time and the cost—financial only; the emotional price he will soon discern himself—involved.
    “We want it all to be amicable,” he