Page 20

‘Did you remember bleach?’ I ask Matt.

‘Er . . . dunno, love,’ he pants back.

‘I’ll pick some up tomorrow.’

‘Sound.’

Some moments pass. I look at our bedroom ceiling.

‘That crack’s got worse,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll . . . get . . . some . . . rendering . . .’ he grunts.

‘Good. Because that couple’s coming round for a second viewing and . . .’

‘Kier?’

‘Yup?’

‘Do you reckon you could, y’know . . . focus a bit—’

‘I am focused!’

‘. . . Because I’m trying to give you a right good shagging here.’

Oh yeah. That.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘You’re doing great. Really.’

‘Loving this purple patch,’ he grins mid-thrust. ‘Haven’t done it this much since that weekend in Weston-super-Mare!’

I try to smile. He’s right. I’m guilt-shagging. I feel like slightly less of a massive arsehole if Matt is somehow a net beneficiary of my affair with Ben. My mind wanders back to Ben’s office last week . . . That thrill. That intensity. That climax . . .

‘You see,’ groans Matt, who is apparently still here. ‘Now you’re getting into it!’

‘Oh yeah,’ I moan, thinking of Ben’s lips on my everywhere. ‘It’s incredible . . .’

‘Innit?’ he roars.

‘Shhhh!’ I say, thinking of the girls, who are due home any moment. ‘And . . . hurry up.’

‘Oh God, Kier, I’m so close,’ he moans. ‘So close. So close . . .’

‘Great. Get closer,’ I say, thinking of the therapy bill should my daughters arrive home and find us having a nooner.

‘I’m nearly there,’ he announces with a strained voice. ‘Go on, Kier – do . . . do the thing.’

‘No, no – you’ll be fine . . .’

‘Please, Kier! I’m so close! Get me over the line . . .’

Oh God. The Thing. Of all the kinks in all the world . . .

But we’re in a hurry.

Needs must.

‘Matt Fisher,’ I whisper in his ear. ‘For one million pounds . . . Who was the second president of the United States? Was it a) Thomas Jefferson b) James Madison c) . . .’

‘No time!’ He strains. ‘It’s ah . . . ah . . . ah . . . John Adams!’

‘You’re saying . . . d) John Adams?’

‘Final answer!’ he squeals.

‘Matt Fisher,’ I say, glad his eyes are closed so he can’t see mine rolling. ‘You’ve . . . just won ONE MILLION POUNDS!’

I sing the ascending chords of the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire theme tune . . .

And we are Game Over.

After a few shuddering gasps, he rolls off and lies in a breathless heap on the bed next to me.

‘That were banging,’ he pants when he’s capable of speech. ‘Did you, er . . . ?’

‘Oh yeah,’ I lie. I think back to threatening the structural integrity of Ben’s office last Wednesday. How can grown men need confirmation of female climax? Orgasms are an NHS dentist – just because you don’t see many of them doesn’t mean you don’t know how they work. And don’t get me started on the waiting times for both . . .

Hey ho.

There’s always Fastest Finger First.

We hear the door go and I leap out of bed and throw Matt’s trousers at him.

‘Get up!’ I hiss at him. ‘The girls are back!’

‘What?’ he says, still in the afterglow fug. Post-ejaculatory male incompetence only confirms to me that men weren’t supposed to survive mating. Evolution clearly intended for them to sow their seed, then be eaten by a sabre-toothed tiger and let us get on with it in peace.

‘Get dressed,’ I whisper as I hear footsteps trudging up the stairs. Oh God, why did I wear skinny jeans? It’s like getting toothpaste back in the bloody tube.

‘Mum, you in—’ says Taylor, bursting into my bedroom, her own stringent rules about knocking apparently not valid here. ‘Oh. My. God . . . GROSS!’

‘What? What is it?’ Gracie squeals behind her. ‘Let me see!’

Taylor looks at me like I’ve just annexed Poland. She backs out before her sister can enter.

‘Mum’s waxing her bits,’ I hear her say behind the closed door.

‘Eeeeuuuggh!’ I hear Grace squeal gleefully. Not the ideal cover story, but probably less therapy required than the truth.

Also a pertinent reminder to actually wax my bits.

My phone lights up on the bed and I snatch it away before Matt can see it – not that I need to worry. He’s still reacquiring basic motor skills. This phone has become like a live grenade since Ben’s office. It could go off at any moment. But I just love his messages . . .

Ben

Can’t wait to see you tonight.

You looked so beautiful today.

I want you.

Bxxx

I supress an audible groan at his simple sensuality. A single text has nearly achieved in one minute what Matt couldn’t for the past twenty.

And not an American president in sight.

‘What a day,’ says Matt, coming round and grabbing me in his arms. He’s so . . . everywhere. ‘An afternoon delight AND a quiz night!’

‘Are you sure you want to come?’ I say, trying to dissuade him for the umpteenth time this week. ‘I’m going to be helping Hattie at the bar and the kids couldn’t care less.’

‘Give over . . . Gracie’s up for it,’ he says. ‘And it’ll be good to do summit as a family. It’ll be fun.’

I smile my assent. Ten days ago, I would have completely agreed. But last week I was Fisher: frustrated wife and mother.

This week, I’m Fisher: sex kitten.

I think of Ben and an involuntary bolt of desire runs through me. I’m going to have to be careful tonight.

But not too careful.

Matt snatches me from my less-than-honourable thoughts with a swift pat on the bum before walking towards the bedroom door.

‘Right, you bloody rug rats!’ he bellows with all the satisfaction of a man whose oats have been sewn. ‘We leave in ten. Shake yer fannies into action.’

‘Yay!’ says Gracie.

‘Sod off,’ I hear my eldest shout. ‘I’m not going.’

‘You bloody well are if you want a lift to that poncy shopping mall in Easthampton Saturday!’

Silence. Well played, Matt.

‘I’m only going if Seb goes.’

‘No – you’re fine, it’s a family thing,’ says Sebastian quickly. Can’t blame them for wanting to dodge the draft.

‘Shut up, Sebby – you’re coming,’ says Taylor in a whisper that only a mother could hear. ‘Mum’s running the bar. We’ll nick some beers.’

‘I really don’t . . .’

‘Sebastian’s coming!’ Taylor declares, before the bedroom door is slammed.

‘Final answer,’ Matt winks at me as he walks downstairs with a swagger.

My phone rings in my pocket and I both hope it is and isn’t Ben. It isn’t – we’ve snatched a few phone calls, but he knows not to call me at home.

It’s our estate agent.

‘Archie – if you’ve called to tell me that they’ve pulled out of this viewing after I took the afternoon off to clean, I’m going to—’

‘Not at all, Mrs Fisher,’ says Archie, who is younger than most of my stretch marks. ‘I’ve got some good news. We’ve had an offer!’

This is good news. I think . . .

‘Go on,’ I say cautiously. ‘Is it that couple who wanted us to get a priest to certify the house isn’t possessed, because I just don’t have the bandwidth—’

‘No,’ he laughs. ‘This is a new bidder. Full asking price. Cash buyer – they’re moving for family reasons and want to move fast. Really fast – their solicitor has already been in touch.’

‘Wow,’ I say, not sure how I feel. ‘Okay, well – let’s go.’

‘You don’t want to talk it over with your husband?’

Oh good. Casual sexism. That’s the best one.

‘No, Archie,’ I tell my embryonic estate agent. ‘I don’t need to ask my husband if we’re accepting a full price cash offer on our house. But thanks for checking.’

‘No problem!’ he says brightly. ‘We’ll hit the go button on that, then! Speak soon – and congratulations!’

He hangs up and I wait for the relief to flood over me. I look around my bedroom. All the details that have been irritating me for years – the fraying wallpaper we put up wrong, the patchy carpet we could barely afford, the chintzy curtains we inherited – suddenly seem like birth marks on my babies, distinctions that I love. This house was everything – it represented everything I didn’t have. It’s my home. And now someone else is going to live in it.

I shake it off. This is the right thing to do. For everyone.

Now all I have to do is tell them that.

Quiz Night is always popular and, even arriving at the hall early, it’s starting to fill up. Al Bourne is at the front in a sparkly jacket as quizmaster and the teams are assembling around their tables.

‘Where the bloody hell’ve you been?’ asks a harassed Hattie behind the makeshift bar as I fight through the thirsty parents to give her a hand.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter, throwing my coat off. ‘It’s like herding cats – you know that . . . Yes, what can I get you?’

I drop straight into the familiar routine of service with a smile, dishing out bottles of supermarket beer or ladles of Hattie’s lethal bloody punch. I take a small glass for myself.

‘Christ alive!’ I splutter. ‘They’ll all be under the table by the music round.’

‘Job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,’ says Hattie, flipping the lids of six beer bottles in a few seconds flat.

I take another sip and feel the warm confidence of booze hitting my bloodstream. I look around the room for Ben. As if reading my mind, my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Ben

Come to my office.

I have to kiss you.

Now.

Bxxx

‘Here you go, kid. Think that’s the last of ’em,’ says Andy, slamming down a massive crate of beer and pulling a bottle from it. ‘Don’t mind if I do . . .’

‘Well, that’s not gonna be nearly enough, rate this lot are putting it back. Don’t leave that there, you great lug,’ Hattie chides, gesturing for the inoffensive crate to be moved somewhere equally as unobtrusive. ‘And you want that – you can bloody well pay for it.’

‘You’re a hard taskmaster, you,’ says Andy with a wink, opening his beer regardless. ‘Tell you what – I’ll work for it. – why don’t you go play quiz with your fella – I’ve pulled a few pints in me time. I can cover you here, babe.’

I look over to where Matt and Gracie are filling in the picture round. Taylor’s sitting with a face like a smacked arse next to Sebastian, who looks like they’re at a funeral.

‘SUELLA brAVERMAN!’ Matt yells out triumphantly before Grace shushes him down.

I don’t really want to play with them.

But I know someone with whom I do.

‘I’m sure we’ve got some more Prosecco in the PTA cupboard,’ I lie. ‘I’ll go take a look.’

‘Don’t be long about it,’ Hattie scolds. ‘We need all hands to the—’

‘Who wants some Sex on the Beach!’ Andy yells, to the cheers of the parents.

But I’m gone before Hattie can finish her moan. I walk through the empty corridors. Everyone is in the hall – there’s no bugger around. I reach Ben’s door and my heart starts gyrating.

I knock.

‘Mr Andrews,’ I rasp.

‘Come in,’ comes the soft, sexy reply. I can hear the smile in his voice.

I gently push the door open and lean against the door frame. He’s perching on his desk holding a red rose. I don’t know whether to kiss him or have his babies.

‘Were you expecting someone else?’ I ask, walking in and closing the door behind me.

‘I was hoping for Ted who mows the football field,’ he grins. ‘But you’ll have to do.’

I run to him like a giddy teenager and jump into his waiting arms. My legs wrapped round his waist, we kiss with the passion of fresh lovers, desperate to become familiar ones. It feels so natural and right and . . . good.

‘When we get downgraded by Ofsted because the headteacher can’t stop thinking about the sexiest TA on the planet, I’m holding you personally responsible, Ms Fisher,’ he whispers in my ear.

‘Holding me where?’ I whisper back, before nibbling his earlobe. He groans. So he likes that, check. ‘And don’t worry, Mr Andrews – I’ll give you a great ranking . . .’

He laughs and carries me across the room until I’m backed up against the wall. He’s pushing against me and we’re both getting out of control, our hands yanking at each other’s clothes until we’re half dressed and wholly aroused. I know we shouldn’t – I know this is reckless and stupid and wrong . . .

But I’m going to do it anyway.

I’m wearing a short skirt and hold-ups – lesson learned – so it’s little trouble for Ben to hoick my skirt over my hips.

‘Oh my God,’ he groans as I throw my head back and wait for ecstasy to unleash . . .

But, instead, there is a knock at the door.

The door I forgot to lock.

‘Headmaster, I need to talk to you about . . .’ says the intruder as Ben and I freeze, mostly naked and entirely compromised.

Oh hell no.

Of all the people.

Not him.

‘My apologies,’ sneers Clive, not even allowing us the dignity of dressing ourselves as he lingers in the doorway. ‘I can see you’re . . . otherwise engaged.’