Free Antidote to Infidelity by Karla Hall

hot nut for busty Becky.
    Feeling like my lungs have
collapsed, I inhale sharply, wishing I could disappear into thin air.
    Did she really just say
romantic? Romantic? Huh! Will doesn’t do romantic. Not with me, anyhow. She’ll
be telling me next he bought her tulips.
    Breathing in-out-in-out in an
attempt to stem the wave of dizziness washing over me, I plunge my hand into
Will’s trouser pocket for the car keys, making sure I jab him right in the
knackers. I stamp on his toe, too - hard - just for good measure.
    As he doubles up, I decide I’ve
seen enough.
    Raising a firm hand to silence
his little tart as she tries to gabble a red-faced explanation, I thrust Will’s
shirt into his arms. Not just shagging, but shagging young nurses? Who does he
think he is, Sid-frigging-James?
    Oooh, we are sooo over.
    Head held high, cheeks ablaze,
I turn on my heels and stride off, sliding doors closing behind me with a sharp
snap. And no one but the ticket-happy parking attendant sees my tears because,
unlike Lott’s wife, I never look back.

Chapter
8 - Get Mad, Get Out . . . or Get Even?
New
Year’s Eve (lunch time)
    Usually, to get a table in
Route 66 - the town’s hot new American diner - you have to be on your toes and
book at least a week in advance. Even then, you have to be lucky . . . or well connected at least.
    Situated in the heart of
Central Square, following a glowing ‘five-fork’ review by my best friend Rowan
Scott - chief reporter on our local rag, The Whistler - Route 66 is officially
the ‘in’joint for eating and meeting in Goldwell.
    Much to the delight of its
owner, Mr Clooney (sorry ladies, that’s Bob , not George , just in
case you’re wondering), hungry customers pack out the bustling bar and grill
seven days a week on a promise of all-American delicacies like; spicy,
finger-licking chicken platters, mama’s home-made chilli and mouth-watering
Mississippi mud pie to die for.
    I have to hand it to good old
Rowan, not only has the article forever endeared her to Mr Clooney, it also
means that, as her fellow reporter and best bud, I’m guaranteed a table
en-Route whenever I want one.
    In short I, Sally Moss, am
officially connected . No more queuing at KFC for me .
    Having just ended yet another
domestic ding-dong by throwing every item in Will’s possession out of the
bedroom window; including toothbrush, condoms and a nondescript DVD I found at
the bottom of his sock draw (and decided mustbe porn), I don’t
just want a table, I really need one.
    It’s a matter of life and
death.
    Well no, but it easily could be, considering that if I ever see my husband’s miserable mush again, I swear
I’m going to chop him into cheating little pieces . . . and feed him to next
door’s Chihuahua.
    Crying out for moral support
and calorie-filled comfort food by the bucketful, I’ve called the girls,
pleaded desperation and arranged to meet them at noon, leaving plenty of time
for going home and glamming-up. Plenty of time for them , that is, not
me. For tonight, you see, is the main event - the night we’ve all been looking
forward to for months.  Tonight, pirates, cavemen, fire-fighters and French
maids will be out in force, swilling champagne and singing in the New Year at
the town’s exclusive nightspot, Savannah’s.
    A complete sell-out since June,
tickets are like gold dust for an evening billed to be ‘a spectacular
soiree of glamour, glitz and good old fashioned fancy dress.’
    I’m gutted. Seriously. My
mojo’s never been such a no-go. We’ve spent weeks perfecting our
outfits, and right up until Christmas Eve - well, even up until yesterday if
I’m totally honest - I’d been really excited about pulling on my black
fishnet stockings, my saucy pinnie, and strutting my stuff as a ‘naughty
nurse’.
    Excited for Will , that
is. I thought, with the kids being away, it might be nice to let my hair down
for once. Take a walk on the wild side. Be adventurous. Let my husband live the
fantasy