Finding the underwear receipt under the bed had been rather cathartic. I knew there was someone else, but I hadn’t been able to gather the evidence, my husband having put up so many smokescreens, I had been blinded, BUT I just knew! I was always checking his room, sniffing around like a bloodhound looking for anything to indicate what he was up to. Now I had found something tangible – at last!
Quickly, checking over the size, 34C bra, and size 12 thong La Senza winter flock design – aaw how sweet! The question is who did it fit? There were two women under suspicion. Her who lived next door or the woman he walked the dogs with? Getting a mental picture in my head of both women, I sat on the edge of the bed and turning the receipt over in my hand, I made a choice it was definitely her next door. Whoopee! At last I could now see what I’d been feeling for months.
Carefully, replacing it in exactly the same place under the bed, I left the room smiling to myself. Sherlock Holmes had nothing on me. Now what to do with the information? As it was our son’s seventeenth birthday and he was having some friends stay for a sleepover my husband had decided to duck out. Heaven forbid that he should stick around to help clear up after seven gangly teenagers. As always, it was left to me to deal with the sharp end and he had taken himself off for the weekend.
I decided that, for now, I would keep my discovery to myself. Revenge is a dish best served cold and I needed a game plan. Talking of games, I had a date that evening. He wasn’t the only one that could find solace in the arms of another, so there! I was going over to an old friendflame’s house for dinner. We had known each other for years and had dated a little, way back when, and there had been a bit of a spark, and as his wife had left him the year before, we had been out for dinner recently.
I wasn’t sure whether the spark was still alight and would rise like a phoenix from the ashes or whether we were, in fact, just good friends. I knew his expectation at the end of this evening would be to take me to bed and I had decided to give it a try. About time I thought, although I was a bit rusty and certainly more than a bit nervous as I hadn’t had that many sexual partners. But fired up with the evidence of my husband’s infidelity a bit of revenge sex is just what the doctor ordered. My husband knew this man quite well and would hate the thought of it. That alone made it much more tempting. Plus he had his own business and a nice house and at least wanted to get my knickers off.
Being a responsible parent, my intention was to be out quite late but to come home to make sure that the boys didn’t set fire to the house or terrorise the neighbours. Although I secretly hoped they would make loads of noise and keep a certain neighbour awake!!
So dressed up to the nines I was delivered, by my daughter, to my date’s house and he had kindly agreed to drop me home at my convenience. We had spoken briefly on the phone and I had explained the reasons why I had to come home. He was fine about it although I got the impression he wanted us to have a sleepover of our own. Of course what he actually meant was that he wanted to take me to bed. I played my part and implied that I might be the dessert. I asked if I should bring anything like wine but he said he had plenty, although of course, he was on the wagon.
In our earlier life he had been a big drinker and had now given up. I remember thinking he was more fun as a drunk but it was a lifestyle choice as he had been ill recently. His lovely cottage was out in the sticks it was beautifully decorated and well located. The man could be quite a catch, if I was an opportunist.
He welcomed me in and the smell of something good cooking in the oven wafted under my nose. My problem was that the revelations of the day had somewhat dulled my appetite, plus I was nervous and the two things combined seemed to have filled up the space where my stomach used to be.
He had gone to a lot of trouble, beautifully marinated and slow cooked lamb shanks, and lots of fresh vegetables. Nothing else for it, I would just have to get drunk. He offered me wine and I said yes please. Unfortunately, the lots of wine he had told me about were all of the white variety. My stomach and I prefer red, but beggars can’t be choosers, so glass in hand I started slugging it back. Glass one: to make me stop getting a mental picture of ‘her next door” in the “winter flock” design. Glass two: to settle my nerves. Glass three: to help the food go down and Glass four: because I’d forgotten I’d drunk the other three!
My host sat drinking a glass of water opposite me and seemed a little subdued and then proceeded to tell me how his last romance went tits up, time for glass five. I forced as much food down as I could and we left the table and retired to the TV room where we sat side by side on his seduction sofa. I imagine that the sofa had been utilised this way many times before.
He had kindly opened another bottle of wine for me so my glass seemed to be full again … oh well it would be rude not to drink it so down went glass six. He was still on water and there we sat, him talking and me slurring in front of one of the biggest flat screen TV’s I’d ever seen. Halfway through glass seven the kissing started. By now I was more than three parts to the wind and knew that the bedroom was beckoning. He was keen, eager and sober – I was just sozzled. “Shall we go to bed?” he said, almost straight away. Ah! the foreplay was over then!
Accepting my fate, although incapable of feeling much at all, I nodded in agreement and he made for the stairs. I excused myself to the bathroom and tried to get my head together while I peed. God I really was drunk – this was not good! I had a man upstairs who had waited over twenty years to get me naked and here I am barely able to stand, let alone perform acrobatics in the bedroom. I also had the nagging worry of how the boys were doing back at home. I wonder if they had managed to stay sober, unlike me. I think I knew the answer. But back to the job in hand!
Getting off the toilet seat, I did at least remember to wipe myself thoroughly. I daresay he would want an excursion into the undergrowth. Kicking of my shoes so I didn’t break my neck, I climbed the stairs. He was already in bed, naked as the day he was born. He watched me undress and then saying to myself “right, I’m going in” I jumped in and snuggled under the covers.
The sex is a hazy memory, we did all the usual things, I think!! He seemed to enjoy himself, I don’t know if I did, but seven glasses of wine will do that to you. I had decided beforehand that falling asleep wouldn’t be a good idea for two reasons. One was that I had to go home, and two; there was my snoring to consider. According to my husband, my snoring is so bad that I sound like a warthog. This is not something you want to do when you are trying to impress a new man. I had sort of mentioned it earlier but still. Trying not to fall asleep sounds so easy but when you have consumed a bottle and a half of wine, it’s damn near impossible. Anyway I didn’t fall asleep, I just passed out!
I came round with a start a few hours later. At first I didn’t know why I was awake or where I was. He was sleeping deeply beside me and grabbing for my phone I checked the time – 2.30am – bloody hell! God knows what state my house was going to be in. I had to get home. I started searching for my clothes and then I realised what had woken me. I felt sick, really sick.
By now my bed companion was stirring and I said I needed to get home. He wasn’t overjoyed at having to leave his cosy bed and go out into the cold and drive me home but being a man of his word he got up and got dressed. He then proceeded to tell me that I did snore and yes it was quite loud. Oh great! I’m never sleeping with a man again! I bent down to put on my shoes, with my head spinning and the sickness rising.
The nausea was getting worse and the need to chuck up the wine and lamb shanks was all I could think about. But I can’t, I thought. It’s bad enough that I got drunk with someone who has taken the pledge, passed out in the bedroom and then snored so loudly he felt he had to mention it, and now I’m dragging him out of bed to take me home. Throwing up would be the final insult, he’d either think it was his cooking, or worse still the sex. No! No! I can’t do it. Swallowing down the contents of my stomach with every intake of breath, I climbed in his car and he drove me home.
Luckily it wasn’t far but every mile was murder, as the nausea got worse once the car was in motion. I made small talk in between reciting over and over to myself “don’t be sick”, “don’t be sick”. We pulled up outside my house, which although still standing was lit up like a Christmas tree. Leaning in for a quick peck on the cheek, I said thanks for a lovely evening and climbed out of the car, walking as straight as I could towards the house. The relief at getting home filtered through to my stomach and unable to suppress the waves of nausea anymore, I started heaving. Looking back, I saw he was still sitting there making sure I got in safely. A real gentleman, but I wish he’d bloody well go! I didn’t want him to see me heaving as I negotiated my way up the steps.
I waved and watched him drive off and now running up the drive, I got as far as the back gate and unable to hold it down anymore, I threw up the whole contents of my stomach, all over the garden. The security light alerted to my presence clicked on, setting off the dogs, and I was under the spotlight. Shining brightly and glistening in the light were the remnants of the lamb shanks mixed in with peas, mange tout, and of course carrots – there for the entire world to see. Straightening up, and wiping my mouth on my arm, I took a deep breath and then went through the back door where I was greeted by vomit in the sink, one boy passed out in the fireplace, two more on the floor and the reek of beer everywhere. Shouting up the stairs to my son, mustering as much indignation as possible, I said “who’s been sick in my sink?” Oh the irony.
I made a mental note to clear up my own vomit in the morning and checking that each boy was in the recovery position, and warm enough, I crawled into bed. I awoke quite early and long before the boys, who seem to be able to sleep though anything. I now had a good opportunity to clear away my disgraceful evidence. I mixed up some disinfectant, and armed with a broom, I went to the back gate. There was absolutely no sign of it. The smell was still lingering but there was no trace of any sick. I stood there for a moment puzzled, trying to work out where it had gone; and then I realised, one of the dogs had eaten it! Talk about recycling! Ah well, perhaps the whole experience was a sign that I should let sleeping dogs lie for now and keep my knickers up and my food down…at least till my divorce.
SEX AND THE SIGNPOSTS available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle
