Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (3 page)

- in the midst of the dress-down, austere nineties,

he sported velvet frock coats and waterfall lace cravats

and knew the names for a dozen different shades of beige.

But as far as Kit was concerned, Malinche was his best

friend, and even now, after a decade of marriage and

three children, he still hasn’t quite accepted that she has a

husband who has first call upon her. And then there was

the matter of Trace Pitt, of course.

Nothing is ever quite as it seems with Kit. He is, after

all, an actor. In fairness though, I must admit he’s been a

conscientious godfather, always remembering birthdays

and the like. And the girls adore him. Not necessarily my

first choice; but there we are.

My secretary ushers my four o’clock appointment into my

office. I wish I’d thought to remind Mai to bring William’s

retirement gift with her. In her current mood, she’d be

quite likely to bake it in the Aga and wrap the birthday

cake instead. For the life of me, I can’t recall what she said

she’d bought, but I’m quite certain it will be eminently

appropriate. Mai’s gifts always are, she just has that

feminine knack. I always leave Christmas and birthdays

entirely to her, even for my side of the family. She’s just

so much better at it.

Firmly putting personal matters out of my mind, I pull

a pad of foolscap towards me and unscrew the lid of my

fountain pen. It’s not as if Kit could ever do anything to

undermine my marriage. We’re far too strong for that.

Mr Colman is a new client, so I take detailed longhand

notes as he describes the unhappy route that has led him

here, to the grim finality of a divorce lawyer’s office. He’s

aptly named, with hair the colour of mustard and a sallow

cast to his skin. Once we have established the basics, I

explain the bureaucratic procedure of divorce, the forum

that must be filed, the documents supplied, the time and

the cost - financial only; the emotional price he will soon

discern himself - involved.

“We want it all to be amicable,’ he interrupts brightly.

“There’s no need to run up huge bills arguing over the

plasma TV, we’ve both said that. We just want to get on

with it, make a clean break of things. For the children’s

sakes.’

I refrain from telling him that it’s not about the plasma

television, it’s never about the television; at least to begin

with. It’s about a husband dumping his wife of twenty

years for a younger, bustier model. It’s about a wife

jettisoning her balding husband for a Shirley Valentine

affair with the Italian ski instructor. It’s about disappointment, hurt, banality and betrayal. But because you cannot

quantify any of these things, in the end it does come down

to the television, and the spoons, and that hideous purple

vase Great-aunt Bertha gave you as a wedding present

that you’ve both always hated, and which you will now

spend thousands of pounds fighting to own.

All but a handful of my clients - the hardened marital

veterans, repeat customers who’ve been divorced before

- sit before me and tell me they want their divorce to

be amicable. But if they were capable of resolving their

differences amicably, they wouldn’t be in my office in the

first place.

‘And the grounds for the petition?’ I ask briskly.

Always a revealing moment, this. For the first time,

Mr Colman looks uncomfortable. I know instantly there is

another woman in the wings. I gently explain to my client

that if his wife has not deserted him or committed adultery

- he responds with almost comic indignation that she

has not - and will not agree to a divorce, as the law stands

he will either have to wait five years to obtain his freedom

without her consent, or else cobble together a charge of

unreasonable behaviour.

‘I can’t wait five years!’ he exclaims. ‘I’ve only been

married to the bitch for four! I call that un-fucking

reasonable.’

The path from amicable to Anglo-Saxon has been even

shorter than usual.

‘Mr Colman, please. Let us be calm. It is my experience

that the wife can usually be persuaded to divorce her

husband if there are sufficient grounds rather than face

a charge of unreasonable behaviour. Are there such

grounds?’ He nods curtly. ‘Then I feel sure we can persuade her to divorce you.’

‘Going to cost me, though, isn’t it?’ he says bitterly.

‘She’ll take me to the fucking cleaners.’

‘It’s more a question of weighing up what is most

important to you, and focusing on that,’ I say neutrally.

It is with relief that I finally bid the intemperate Mr

Colman farewell some fifty minutes later. Working at the

grimy coalface of marital breakdown is never pleasant,

but usually I draw comfort from the thought that my

interposition makes palatable what is unavoidably a very

bitter pill for most of my clients. At five o’clock on a bleak

November Friday, however, after a very long week dealing

with the Mrs Stephensons and Mr Colmans of this

world, it’s hard to feel anything other than despair at the

intractable nature of human relationships.

The better part of two decades as a divorce lawyer

has brought me no closer to fathoming how people find

themselves in these painful imbroglios. I know that old

fashioned morality is very passi these days, but having

witnessed the destruction and misery that infidelity

wreaks - and adultery is invariably the rock upon which

the marital ship founders -1 can say with some authority

that a quick how’s-your-father in the broom cupboard is never worth it.

My view is skewed, of course, by the scars of my own

childhood. But an inbuilt bias towards fidelity is, I think,

a good thing.

I realize, of course, how lucky I am to have a happy

marriage. Mai firmly believes that Fate meant us to be

together - her bashert, she calls me. Yiddish for ‘destined

other’, apparently (she spent a summer on a kibbutz with

a Jewish boyfriend when she was seventeen). I’m afraid I

don’t believe in that kind of superstitious Destiny nonsense,

any more than I do horoscopes or tarot cards; but

I’m only too aware how rare it is these days to attain your

fifth wedding anniversary, never mind your tenth.

Reminds me. Ours is sometime around Christmas the

eighteenth or nineteenth, I think. I must remember to

find her something particularly special this year. She’ll kill

me if I forget again.

I spend the next couple of hours or so absorbed in

paperwork. When Emma knocks on my door, it is with

some surprise that I note that it is almost seven.

‘Mr Lyon, everyone’s going over to Milagro’s now for

Mr Fisher’s party,’ she says. ‘Are you coming with us, or

did you want to wait for Mrs Lyon?’

‘I believe she said she’d get a taxi straight to the

restaurant from the station. But I need to finish this

Consent Order tonight. You go on ahead. I’ll be with you

iin soon as I’m done.’

Emma nods and withdraws.

Quietly I work on the draft Order, enjoying the rare

peace that has descended on the empty office. Without

the distraction of the telephone or interruptions from my

colleagues, it takes me a fraction of the time it would do

normally, and I finish in less than forty minutes. Perfect

timing; Mai should be arriving at the restaurant at any

moment.

I loosen my braces a little as I push back from my desk,

reflecting wryly as I put on my jacket and raincoat that

being married to a celebrity cook is not entirely good

news. I rather fear my venerable dinner jacket, which has

seen me through a dozen annual Law Society dinners,

will not accommodate my burgeoning waistline for much

longer.

Bidding the cleaner good evening as I pass through

reception, in a moment of good resolution I opt to take

the stairs rather than the lift down the four floors to street

level.

As I come into the hallway, I find a young woman of

perhaps thirty in a pale green suit hovering uncertainly

by the lifts, clearly lost. She jumps when she sees me

and I pause, switching my briefcase to the other hand as

I push the chrome bar on the fire door to the stairwell.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for Fisher Raymond Lyon. Am I on the

right floor?’

‘Yes, but I’m afraid the office is closed for the night.

Did you want to make an appointment?’

‘Oh, I’m not a client,’ she says quickly. ‘I’m a solicitor.

My name’s Sara Kaplan - I’m starting work here next

Monday.’

‘Ah, yes, of course.’ I let the fire door swing shut and

extend my hand. ‘Nicholas Lyon, one of the partners. I’m

afraid I was detained on a difficult case in Leeds when

my colleagues interviewed you, I do apologize. I understand

you come very highly recommended from your

previous firm.’

“Thank you. I’m very much looking forward to working

here.’

‘Good, good. Well, welcome to the firm. I’ll look forward

to seeing you on Monday.’

I hesitate as she makes no move to leave.

‘Miss Kaplan, did you just want to drop off some

paperwork, or was there something else?’

She fiddles nervously with her earring. The uncertain

gesture suggests she’s rather younger than I had at first

thought, perhaps twentyfive, twenty-six. ‘Urn. Well, it’s

just that Mr Fisher invited me to his leaving party, and

I thought it might be nice to meet everyone before

Monday—’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course. It’s not here, though, it’s at

the Italian restaurant across the road. I’m just going over

there myself.’

Eschewing the stairs for the sake of courtesy, I summon

the lift and we stand awkwardly next to each other,

studiously avoiding eye contact, as it grinds its way up

four floors. She’s tall for a woman, probably five ten or so.

Short strawberry blonde hair, wide swimmer’s shoulders,

skin honeyed by the sun and generous curves that will

run to fat after she’s had children if she’s not careful. Her

nose is a little large, but surprisingly it doesn’t ruin her

appearance - quite the contrary. Its quirky route down

her face leavens otherwise predictable, glossy good looks.

I suspect a fearsome intellect and formidable will lurk

behind those clear mushroom-grey eyes. Attractive, in a

magnificent, statuesque way, but absolutely not my type

at all.

Although she does have a certain earthiness. A justfallen-out-of-bed air.

Christ, 1 want her.

Sara

Amazing, isn’t it, how an intelligent, streetsmart woman

who has the rest of her shit together can be reduced to a

gibbering splat of emotional jelly by a man? And not even

a lush hottie like Orlando Bloom - as long as he keeps his

mouth shut - or Matthew McConaughey. No, our Casanova

is fifty-one, short, bald - and married.

So, he’s a bastard. This is news?

‘He promised he’d leave her,’ Amy says again. ‘As

soon as they’d sold their house, he said he was going to

tell her about us. He promised.’

Clearly no point reminding her he also promised he’d

be faithful to his wife, keeping only unto her in sickness

and in health twentyfourseven and all the rest of that

crap. If promises have a hierarchy, I’m guessing the sacred

vows you make to your wife before God and congregation

come a little higher in the pecking order than drunken

pillow-talk to a bit on the side young enough to be your

daughter.

‘How long have you been shagging him?’ I ask.

‘Four years she says defiantly.

‘And how long has he been promising to leave his wife?’

‘Four years she says, slightly less so.

In fact, her boss Terry Greenslade has so far sworn to

leave his wife just as soon as - and this is in no particular

order - (a) he gets his promotion (b) his wife gets her promotion (c) his eldest child starts college (d) his youngest child leaves school (e) his dying Catholic mother

finally wafts off to limbo or purgatory or wherever it is

these incense-freaks go; and (f) the dog (FYI a golden

Labrador; how smug-married is that?) recovers from,

wait for it, a hysterectomy. I suppose his latest selling-the

house excuse is an improvement on canine wimmins’

trouble, but it’s all still Grade A bullshit. Every milestone

has come and gone and surprise, surprise, he’s still with his wife. Like, hello?

It’s not that I have a particular moral thing about affairs

with married men, though it’s not something I’d shout

about from the rooftops either. But at the end of the day, they’re the ones cheating, not you. A brief, passionate dalliance with someone else’s husband is almost a feminine

rite of passage; no girl should leave her twenties

without one. And married men are usually great in bed it’s

the gratitude.But it’s one thing to have a quick fling and send him