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

to last, as Kit mischievously puts it, with childbearing
    hips squeezed, come rain or shine, into the same pair
    of worn jodhpurs, a wide, open face with rosy cheeks like
    two scrubbed apples, and the warmest heart of anyone
    in the village. She and I share the school run, with me
    dropping the children off - my older two, her lone poppy
    - in the morning, after I’ve taken Nicholas to the station,
    and Liz doing the afternoon shift so that I can get on with
     
    scribbling down a few of my recipes for the new book
    while Metheny has her nap. At least: that’s the theory.
    “Gosh, must dash Liz exclaims, glancing at her hefty
    leather-strapped wristwatch. ‘Chloe’s got a riding lesson
    at four, it’s the gymkhana in a couple of weeks. Cheerio,
    Kit. See you tomorrow, girls.’
    Sophie and Evie jump guiltily, their mouths full of
    gingerbread men whom they seem to have eaten bodily
    in one go, like little human boa constrictors. I whip the
    rest out of their reach as, unabashed, they yell an enthusiastic farewell to Liz, scattering a fine mist of crumbs and
    saliva across Kit’s burnt umber suede jacket and very close-fitting brown jeans. No wonder poor Liz doesn’t know where to look. You could divine his religion from
    the tightness of those trousers.
    ‘Oh, God. You two infants are utterly vile.’ Kit grimaces,
    brushing himself down.
    ‘Serves you right for being such a peacock,’ I retort.
    The girls giggle. They adore Kit, who, for all his posturing,
    has been an extremely good godfather and will, I’m
    quite sure, introduce them to all sorts of delightful vices
    like smoking and baccarat as soon as they are old enough
    for him to take up to London without me.
    ‘I found a cat today, but it was dead,’ six-year-old Evie
    announces.
    I suppress a shudder. ‘How do you know it was dead?’
    ‘Because I pissed in its ear and it didn’t move Evie
    says.
    ‘You did what?’
    ‘You know she explains impatiently. ‘I leaned over
    and went “Pssst!” and it didn’t move.’
     
    Kit and I shriek with laughter. Evie looks crossly from
    one of us to the other, then stomps from the room in a fit
    of high dudgeon. At nine, Sophie may be the one with the
    knockout looks - thick chestnut hair, huge black sloe eyes,
    and tawny skin the colour of caramel, a throwback to my
    Italian father’s roots - but I have the feeling it’s Evie’s
    zany interpretation of life that’s going to leave a trail of
    broken hearts when she’s older.
    Last month, I overheard her doing her maths homework
    at the kitchen table, muttering to herself, Two plus
    five, that son of a bitch is seven. Four plus one, that son
    of a bitch is five …’
    Aghast, I asked her what on earth she was doing.
    ‘My maths,’ Evie said calmly.
    ‘Is that how your teacher taught you to do it?’ I gasped.
     
    ‘Course. Three plus three …’
    The next day I marched into the classroom and
    demanded to know what Mrs Koehler thought she was
    teaching my child. When I explained what Evie had been
    saying, she laughed so much she had to sit down.
    ‘What I taught them Mrs Koehler explained, ‘was two
    plus two, the sum of which is four.’
    Kit now unfolds his long, lean body from the kitchen
    counter as I pull an onion from the rope overhead to chop
    for the girls’ ravioli. ‘What is it exactly that I’ve agreed to ce soirV he asks languidly.
    ‘Only babysitting. Darling, you don’t mind, do you?
    Only it’s Will Fisher’s leaving do and I promised Nicholas
    I’d be there and then of course I forgot all about it Metheny,
    no, take Uncle Kit’s lovely hat out of the rubbish
    - and now I have about an hour to get ready and find
    something to wear and catch the train—’
     
    ‘Forget the crocheted pasta pillows or whatever it is
    you were planning Kit says firmly, taking the onion out
    of my hands, ‘and get your pert little derriere up the stairs
    and into the bathtub PDQ. I’ll sort out the girls’ tea.
    Sophie, Evie—’ this