the adultery club

622 Pages·2016·1.17 MB·English

by  Stimson Tess

the adultery club by Tess stimson

Life couldn’t be happier for Nicholas Lyon, divorce lawyer and
contented husband of the beautiful - if chaotic - Mai, a cookery writer who
combines working from a comfortable home in Wiltshire with being mother to
their three gorgeous young daughters.

And then Sara Kaplan, a bright, vivacious young lawyer, explodes into his life
like a sexual hand grenade.

Nicholas is stunned and horrified by the extent of his attraction to her. But whilst
the chemistry between them is palpable, it takes a terrorist attack to force him to
recognize his own mortality and throw caution to the wind.

For Sara, what started as a harmless fling swiftly deepens into a painful battle for
Nicholas’s heart with Mai, who is not quite as preoccupied in her world of food
and school runs as
Nicholas had believed. As Mai faces temptations of her own, she realizes she has
to decide what she wants - and whether it’s worth fighting for. The adultery club
is the irresistible story of the perfectly balanced eternal triangle. It’s a club where
membership comes at a very high price.

Also by Tess Stimson

Fiction
Hard News
Soft Focus
Pole Position

Non-Fiction

Yours Till the End:
The Biography of a Beirut Hostage

First published 2007 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London Nl 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-330-44520-7
Copyright © Tess Stimson 2007
The right of Tess Stimson to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any
form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who
does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal
prosecution and civil claims for damages.
135798642

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library.

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In memory of my mother

Jane Theresa Stimson 3 February 1942 to 3 December 2001

‘In my Father’s house
There are many mansions.
If not, I would have told you;
Because I go to prepare a place for you.’
Acknowledgements

So many people help with stories and advice when one writes
a book, but some have to be singled out for their special
contribution.
Without Carole Blake, my agent, I would never have
found the self-belief to write this book. Her encouragement,
knowledge, meticulous editorial advice, support and - above
all - her friendship have been invaluable. I would fly (indeed, have flown!)
across the world to have lunch with her.
Imogen Taylor is the editor of whom every writer dreams.
Her enthusiasm and vision have been stimulating and infectious, her advice
pithy, constructive and perceptive. And she
giggles at all the right places. It is a joy to work with her.
Efficient, reliable and always fun to talk to, Oli Munson
has also achieved the impossible: rendered conversation
about international tax forms entertaining. For him and the
rest of the brilliant team at Blake Friedmann, I give thanks.
I am deeply grateful to Trisha Jackson, and to the amazing
Pan Macmillan team, including Fiona Carpenter, Emma Grey,
Anne Newman, Caitriona Row, Marie Slocombe, Anna Stock
bridge, Michelle Taylor and Fllen Wood, all of whose verve
and enthusiasm have boon inspiring. Thank you!
Every girl should fri’l likr a million dollars at least once.

That most tempting man, Hugo Burnand, gave me my moment, when he took
my author photographs. Bliss.
For anyone enduring the horrors of divorce, let me recommend
two people. Firstly, Simon Pigott, of Levison
Meltzer Pigott, the most charming, decent and tenacious
lawyer in the business. He made my divorce bearable, and I
will be eternally grateful that his honourable style allowed
my ex-husband and I finally to make peace. And Danusia
Brzezina, a loyal and compassionate lawyer and friend. Her
legal advice regarding this book was invaluable; her company,
as always, is a pleasure.
Eileen Gaulter, of Gaulter Technologies, Inc., interpreted
my vague and unhelpfully abstract ideas for a website with
creativity, practicality and skill, and I love the result. Please check it out:
www.TessStimson.com.
To Georgie and Charlie Stewart, for their endless generous
hospitality every time I fly to London, I cannot say thank you
enough. You provide the fluffiest towels and the best company.
Your friendship means the world to me.
Thanks, too, to my father Michael and stepmother Barbi,
for the dawn airport pick-ups and for allowing my family to
wreak havoc in their beautiful home; to my out-laws, Harry
and Sharon Oliver, for kidnapping their grandchildren so
that I can work, and for providing raspberry martinis as and
when required; and to Henry, Matthew and Lily, for tiptoeing
away quietly when Mummy has a writing crisis, and for not
crashing my computer too often.
Above all, to my husband, Erik, for his thousand little
kindnesses - and the one very big one: marrying me. Here’s
to Melville and Milton, and the lifetime in between.

Tess Stimson Florida, 2006
1

Nicholas

Divorce is a difficult business. Never more so, may I
suggest, than when your client authoritatively declares all
men are bastards, and you’re left shifting uncomfortably
in your seat whilst your penis tries to make itself scarce.
‘Not all men, Mrs Stephenson,’ I venture.
My client ignores my genial smile, grey eyes flicking
dismissively around my oak-panelled office. Her gaze
briefly snags on the silver-framed photograph of my
wife propped beside the leather blotter on my desk; her
expression of pity for my spouse places me foursquare
with those unfortunates whose parents neglected the legal
niceties before bedding down together. Since I have just
secured her an extremely generous seven-figure settlement
from her ex-husband, I find her disdain for my sex
in its entirety a little unfair.
She stands and I rise with her, straightening my silk
tie. She extends a scrawny pink tweed arm; her hand sits
like a wet fish in mine.

‘You may be right, Mr Lyon she says drily. ‘Maybe
it’s just the men I marry.’
Her scent is pungent and overpowering: synthetic cat’s
piss. Far too much make-up; I can’t imagine kissing the
jammy red lips. She’s the kind of woman one would find
smeared all over the sheets in the morning, the pillowcase
imprinted with her face like the Turin Shroud.
Good legs, though. Slender, neat calves, with nicely
turned ankles. But no meat on her bones, and breasts like
a boy.
My professional smile does not slip as I escort her to
the door. I endeavour not to morally judge my clients:
it’s distracting and unproductive. There’s no place in the
context of divorce law for emotion or sentimentality; one
has quite enough of that kind of thing from one’s clients.
My wife, of course - being a woman - begs to differ. I consider myself merely
objective. Malinche, however, asserts that my ‘brutal kind of truth’, as she
emotively
puts it, is akin to judging a woman’s skin only in the