Antidote to Infidelity by Karla Hall Read Free Book Online

like
sumo wrestlers about to tango. Suddenly claustrophobic, I feel like my lovely
lilac walls are crushing in on me. I want to stick my head in a brown paper bag
and chill out before I go hyper, but my emergency stash is downstairs in the
vegetable rack.
    “You absolute jealous pig. I’mnot the one on trial!” I wail, aiming a vicious kick at his shin.
Thankfully, or unluckily, he dodges and it misses by an inch.
    “Well, now you’ve got all that off your chest, I’m gone. For good. Goodbye Will.”
    Lunging for the door, I yank it
open and slip through the tiny gap just as he grabs for my wrist.
    “Babe - wait, please! You need
to wait . . .”
    No way Jose. I’ve heard enough.
    Blotting him out, I thud across
the landing and scurry down the carpeted stairs, avoiding the creaky
third-from-bottom step with a stag-like leap.
    Will catches up just as I dash
through the twinkling fairy-lit archway into the darkened lounge, where my
father-in-law - pissed as a newt and nestled like a stuffed pig in our rocker -
looks up from his paper, nods approvingly and lets out a long, low whistle.
Then, just to add insult to injury, he gives his son the old thumbs up before
winking at me and turning his attention back to the sports pages.
    As I root to the spot, frozen,
starkers and blushing like a beacon, Will shoots his father a reproachful look.
    “For God’s sake dad. Honestly!”
    Snatching two large, brown
cushions off the settee and strategically placing them over my naughty bits, he
whispers in my ear, “I was about to say Sal, if you’d have just waited .
. . my parents are here and you might like to put some clothes on.”

Chapter
6 - Slay it With Flowers
Sunday
30 th December (morning)
    Call me a pushover, call me a
mug, call me what you will, you’re probably right. I’ve got a sickening feeling
I’m setting myself up for a huge fall, but five days on, following tears,
tantrums and a series of soul-searching heart-to-hearts, I’ve decided Will
isn’t leaving after all - and neither am I.
    As it’s the festive season,
we’ve agreed on a temporary, emergency reconciliation for the sake of the kids
- but it doesn’t erase the fact that he’s a sly shit head, and in the days,
weeks and even months leading up to Christmas, our marriage has become, well, a
bit of a pig’s ear actually.
    I’m not convinced I’ve done the
right thing, letting him stay. In truth, I feel like I’ve put a plaster on a
wound that probably needs stitching. It’d be just my luck for gangrene to set
in.
    Maybe I’m soppy, maybe I’m a
sucker or maybe I’m just plain stupid, but somehow we’ve managed to get through
the last few days without anyone finding out our nasty little secret, without
upsetting our babies and without the need for a solicitor. Yet.
    Well, I say no-one knows -
that’s not strictly true. My best friend Rowan does but she’s very tight-lipped
and Will doesn’t know she knows. He called her to watch Rosie and Ryan on
Christmas Eve whilst he played finger FedEx, telling her I’d ‘had a little
accident’. What he didn’t tell her is whose lying, cheating fault it
was.
    No, he’s adamant no one should
know. Then again he would be, wouldn’t he? Because he’s a dirty dog who’s
shitting himself that my outraged pals are gonna crack him one with their
brick-filled handbags. But I had to tell someone , didn’t I? I’m female.
    Rowan’s been a rock. Very
understanding. She knows what I’m going through, you see. Her hubby’s got a
droopy zipper too, but he’s major league. I should know, I used to date
him in high school. Lord only knows why, I can’t stand the mortal sight of him.
The terrible thing is, neither can she. I’ve promised to pop round tomorrow
with a big box of Thorntons so we can dissect our rotting relationships and see
where we’re going wrong. I know where I’m going wrong, though - I’m a bloody
soft touch.
    Ever the smooth-talker, Will’s
already back in our bed. Platonically