Free The Adultery Club by Tess Stimson Page A

wonderful—”
    “Her tail fell off,” Sophie says scornfully. “Right in the middle of the Birdie Dance.”
    “You mean that wasn’t supposed to happen? I never would have known—”
    “It didn’t
fall
off. Susan Pelt trod on it,” Evie scowls. “On purpose.”
    Sophie looks superior. “You were in the wrong place and going in the wrong direction, that’s why.”
    “Was not!”
    “Were too!”
    “Girls,” I say firmly, confiscating the pterodactyl’s wings before somebody gets hurt.
    Mal gathers our brood and shoos them gently toward the exit. She smiles wearily at me over their heads, but I can tell from the set of her shoulders that she is annoyed with me, and feel a rare flash of irritation. It was hardly my fault I was late.
    On the way home, I explain about the waterlogged station, and later, in bed, she signals her forgiveness by pulling me toward her; but I’m too jittery to do more than kiss the top of her head and hold her close as I stare into the darkness. It’s ridiculous to be so nervous about next week; whatever emotional silt Sara is kicking up will soon settle down if I leave well alone. It’s just a question of self-control.
    My life is perfectly harmonious. I have a wife I love and desire, three beautiful, healthy girls, a job I find fulfilling, satisfying, and profitable, a substantial home in an exquisite part of the English countryside—I am truly satisfied with my lot.
    And yet, from nowhere, this young woman has suddenly been lobbed into my life like a sexual hand grenade.
    I don’t sleep well, and the next morning I’m a bear with the children and distant and uncommunicative with Mal. When she sends me into Salisbury on a fool’s errand for red crêpe paper to get me out of the house, I detour into one of those upmarket shops that handcuffs their clothing to the rails in the midst of a sea of ash flooring, and purchase an expensive coffee-colored sheepskin coat that Mal would never consider buying for herself. Only when I have expiated my guilt in an orgy of Christmas shopping do I dare to return home.

    On Monday morning, I awaken in a more optimistic mood. There’s no doubt that Sara is a temptation—or would be, were there the slightest danger of her reciprocating, which obviously there is not; but even if she did, I’m not going to give in to this. I made promises to my wife before God, and I have no intention of breaking them, now or ever.
    I do so loathe that modern euphemism, “the inevitable happened.” To borrow from Benjamin Franklin: Nothing is inevitable but death and taxes. Certainly not infidelity.
    For the past four weeks, I’ve run away from Sara, ensuring I have minimal contact with her at work, and that we are never for a moment alone. While technically successful—there has been no opportunity for Fisheresque furtive glances or “accidental” physical contact on the stairs—this policy of avoidance has merely reduced me to a seething mass of teenage angst and hormones.
    Since denial has simply stoked the fires, clearly a change of tack is required. I can’t possibly avoid Sara now, so I’m going to have to confront the issue head-on and deal with it, once and for all. What am I so afraid of, anyway? Nothing’s going to happen. No doubt being thrown together at such close quarters will break the fever, and I will be able to return to my untroubled, comfortable domestic life with no harm done.
    I sincerely hope so; my constant hard-on is making it extremely difficult to concentrate on anything other than the chronic ache in my balls.
    Sara and I are traveling to Manchester from different parts of the country, so I spend a surprisingly pleasant train journey alone reviewing my case notes and reinforcing my resolve. By the time I arrive at the Piccadilly Hotel in the center of the city, I realize I have allowed myself to blow this entire matter out of all proportion. What man approaching his mid-forties, married or otherwise, would
not
be visited by