Free The Adultery Club by Tess Stimson Page B

erotic thoughts when such a voluptuous, youthful siren appears in his office? The appropriate response is not to panic that moral degeneracy is imminent, but to daydream for a wistful moment of one’s youth, heave a regretful inward sigh, and wish the hopeful young pups snapping at her heels the best of luck. Surely the sin is not in being tempted, but in yielding. And I am more fortunate than most; I have a beautiful and sexy wife waiting for me at home.
    I can’t deny that Sara has awakened disturbingly erotic feelings, yes; but this doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. It’s just a question of redirection.
    Over the years, I’ve learned from my clients that boredom is a far greater threat to most marriages than the turn ofa pretty ankle or a washboard stomach. It’s all too easy to slump indifferently into impending middle age, quarantining sex to weekends and opting for a quick bite at the local Italian restaurant on your anniversary so that you can get home in time for
Midsomer Murders
and an early night. Perhaps I
needed
a jolt like this to remind me that I’m only forty-three; it’s not quite time for tartan slippers and a mug of cocoa at bedtime yet. Christ, I do still have my own bloody hair and teeth! Even a pair of jeans, somewhere. Maybe Mal and I should try to get away for a weekend soon, leave the children with her mother for a night or two. Might even splash out on some silk French knickers and whatnot.
    This whole Sara thing will die down as quickly as it blew up once I deal with these risible feelings of mine head-on. In fact, I’m almost looking forward to the next couple of days. It’ll be a relief to meet the challenge and get things back into perspective, back under control.
    I check in and leave a message with the hotel receptionist for Sara to call me when she arrives later this evening, then go up to my room to shower and freshen up. Once I’ve conferred with the office in London and the local barrister handling our case here tomorrow, I telephone Mal to wish the girls good night.
    “You missed Evie’s Bible class recital,” my wife tells me.
    “Christ, I’m sorry, I’d completely forgotten—”
    “No, I mean you
missed
it,” Mal lilts. “I haven’t had so much fun in years.”
    I tuck the handset under my chin and start to lace my shoes. “Come on, then.”
    “Moses—and I quote—‘led the Hebrew slaves to the Red Sea where they made unleavened bread, which is breadmade without any ingredients. Then he went up Mount Cyanide to get the ten commandos. He died before he ever reached Canada but the commandos made it.’ ”
    I snort with laughter.
    “No, no, wait, it gets better,” Mal giggles. “ ‘Ancient Egypt was old. It was inhabited by gypsies and mummies who all wrote in hydraulics. They lived in the Sara Dessert. The climate of the Sara is such that all the inhabitants have to live elsewhere.’ ”
    Out of the mouths of babes—
    “She didn’t actually
write
that,” I exclaim.
    “She did, I have it here. I can’t wait until half-term, they’re tackling medieval history then.”
    When I ring off later, I discover that Sara has left a message on my voice mail while I’ve been discussing the finer points of Egyptology with my middle child. Since it is below freezing outside and I have no desire to compete with office revelers for a taxi the week before Christmas, I am happy to accede to her suggestion that we meet in the hotel restaurant downstairs at eight to discuss tomorrow’s case over dinner. We do have to eat, after all.
    Fifteen minutes later, at precisely two minutes to eight, and armed with a stack of legal files, I stand in the hotel lobby and glance around for my colleague.
    Oh Christ. Oh bloody Christ. I am in deep, deep trouble
.
    She’s waiting at the entrance to the restaurant, her back toward me as she talks to the maître d’. Her statuesque frame is sheathed in a soft, black wool dress that manages simultaneously to skim and to cling