Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club by The Adultery Club Read Free Book Online

and grabs his arm, and suddenly
    I can see it all: the childhood sweetheart he married when
    he was too young to know any better, the kids that
    followed before he knew it, the albatross of a mortgage,
    the arid sex life, the whole nightmare. Poor sod. He looks
    like he needs some R & R big time.
    Hmmm. Now there’s an interesting thought.
     
    All of a sudden, Monday can’t come quickly enough.
     
    Malinche
     
    Kit can be such a total wretch sometimes, really he can.
    I flick the end of a tea-towel at him, but he ducks and
    instead I catch the saucepan chandelier hanging over
    the island in the centre of the kitchen, setting pans and
    ladles clattering against each other. I cover the telephone
    mouthpiece so that Nicholas won’t hear the din,
    and stick out my tongue at Kit as he sits there shaking
    with laughter and doing absolutely nothing to stop my
    wilful baby daughter from putting the rabbit down the
    waste disposal.
    ‘Oh, God, Metheny, don’t do that I gasp, quickly
    rescuing the trembling creature and steadying the saucepans. ‘Poor rabbit. Sorry, Nicholas, I have to go. I’ll see you at the station. Usual time?’
    Nicholas yelps in my ear. ‘For God’s sake, Malinche,
    it’s William’s retirement party this evening! Don’t tell me
    you’ve forgotten! You’re supposed to be on the five
    twenty-eight from Salisbury to Waterloo, remember?’
     
    Oh, Lord. I had completely forgotten. It’s three forty
    already, Liz will be dropping the girls off from school at
    any moment, I haven’t made their tea yet - I thought ravioli di magro would be nice, I haven’t done that for a while; a little fresh ricotta seasoned with nutmeg, sea salt
    and black pepper and blended with Swiss chard and pancetta stesa, and of course freshly grated Parmesan over the top. I haven’t sorted out a babysitter, I need to wash
    my hair, what to wear, how on earth am I going to get to
    the station in time for the five twenty-eight?
    ‘So I am. I hadn’t really forgotten I fib, crossing my
    fingers behind my back, ‘it just slipped my mind for a
    moment. Hold on a second—’
    I put the receiver down and thrust Don Juan de Marco
    back in his cage in the scullery with a couple of wilted
    leaves of pak choi as consolation, firmly securing the latch
    with a piece of twine so the baby can’t let him out again.
    Metheny instantly stops what she is doing - picking up
    spilt Cheerios from beneath her high-chair and putting
    them one by one into Kit’s outstretched hand - to crouch
    plumply by the rabbit cage, nappy in the air, fat gold curls
    clinging to the nape of her neck as her chubby little fingers
    poke and pull at the string. I cross my fingers that the
    twine holds for at least the next five minutes and throw
    myself theatrically onto my knees on the kitchen flagstones
    in front of Kit, hands clasped in supplication as I
    try my best to look pathetic.
    He ignores my amateur dramatics, fastidiously heaping
    the Cheerios into a small pyramid on the counter before
    dipping an elegant pale finger into my cake mix to taste
    it. I’ve flavoured it with vanilla and orange and lemon
    zest, darkened it with cocoa and spiced it up with candied
     
    orange peel. The meld of tangy rich scents drifts around
    the warm kitchen like fog on the moors.
    ‘What?’ he says sternly.
    I flap my hands at him to be quiet. Nicholas knows Kit
    is my best friend and comes over to visit, of course he
    does, but he doesn’t have to know quite how often.
    ‘What?’ Kit mouths.
    I intensify my importunate expression, although I suspect,
    from the twitch at the corner of Kit’s mouth, that the
    net effect is one of constipation rather than entreaty. He
    rolls his eyes but nods, as I knew he would. I struggle up
    from the floor. Dramatic gestures are all very well, but
    then of course you have to live with the consequences; it’s
    rather like having sex on the beach, not nearly as romantic
    as you imagine, and of course the sand gets everywhere.