I should never have slept with Alex Peyton.

Going to bed with him – a fourth-year law student, Georgetown University Class of ’93 – was my first mistake. Marrying him, and staying married for 15 years, was my second.

The French have a saying:  Tante pis. Basically, it means “you’re screwed.” It also means “You’ve made your bed and now you’ve gotta sleep in it… with Alex Peyton.  For the rest of your miserable life, or until death (or divorce) do you part.”

After our wedding, Alex and I honeymooned in Jamaica. It was romantic, and beautiful. Every year after, we vacationed somewhere tropical – Belize, Turks and Caicos, Bermuda, the Maldives.

I used to think, as Alex handed over his credit card, smacked me playfully on the bottom, and said, “Here you go,  darling. Buy the shops out,” what a wonderful, generous husband I had. How lucky I was!

Little did I know, as I bought hand-woven straw bags from street vendors or jewel-toned dresses from the shops, that Alex was doing a little shopping of his own – of an altogether different kind.

The year we went to St. Tropez, there was a nude beach. The oiled, naked bodies of men and women gleamed in the sun, and the smell of Bain de Soleil drifted on the breeze.

As we walked across the sand, I glanced at Alex. His head swiveled this way and that like a ball boy crouched at the net at Wimbledon. Lust was stamped on his face. Suddenly the other sandal dropped, and I realised why my husband sent me off every afternoon to spend his money in the shops.

And it had nothing to do with helping the French economy.

My eyes narrowed behind my sunglasses. This time, Alex wasn’t getting rid of me to make time with these sunbathing Frenchwomen. If he was aware of my scrutiny, he gave no sign. He was too busy ogling the tanned expanse of naked female skin on display all around him. At any moment, I expected his tongue to roll out and unfurl across the sand, like a cartoon wolf.

The next morning, while Alex slept, I went downstairs to the hotel clothing boutique and bought the tiniest, sexiest bikini I could find. I returned to our room, ordered breakfast, and waited for Sleeping Wolf to awaken.

After a leisurely breakfast of eggs Benedict, fruit, and croissants, Alex looked at me inquiringly. “Ready to hit the beach?” he asked, scarcely containing his anticipation.

“You go ahead,” I told him. “I’ll be along soon.”

“See you later, then.” And like a shot, he was gone.

Twenty minutes later, a hat shading my face and beach bag in hand, I arrived at our blue-and-white striped towel. Alex lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, pretending to flick through the pages of a magazine.

I didn’t buy it for a minute.

“I’m going for a walk,” I announced as I dropped my bag and kicked off my sandals.

Alex sat up, his expression inscrutable behind the mirrored aviators he wore. “Dana,” he demanded, “why do you insist on wearing that big, shapeless t-shirt over your bathing suit? It makes you look… middle-aged. It’s… well, it’s embarrassing. You have a nice figure. You should show it off.”

I pretended to consider his words. “You know what? You’re right. I’ll take it off.”

So saying, I gathered up the bottom of the t-shirt, and, with a slow reveal that Dita von Tease herself would’ve envied, I lifted the shirt over my head and tossed it aside.

“Do you like my new bikini?” I inquired.

Alex was speechless. Literally speechless. The tiny triangles of hot pink fabric barely covered me; and, at 35, my body was as firm and lush as… well, as any of the oiled young bodies on display all around us.

“Dana,” he hissed, “you’re practically naked!” He stood up and scrabbled around until he unearthed a towel from my beach bag and held it out.

“Well,” I pointed out, ignoring the towel, “this is a nude beach, after all.” With a smile and a waggle of my fingers, I strode away across the sand towards the water. I made sure to put plenty of sashay into my hips.

A tanned Frenchman in Speedos leered at me with undisguised admiration. “Bonjour.”

Alex pounded across the sand behind me. He glared at the Frenchman and grabbed my arm. “We’re going back to the hotel room.  Now.”

“Is that your pickup line when I’m not around?” I asked. “Well, I’ll say this- it’s direct.”

I allowed him to lead (drag?) me back to our room, scowling like a sand-covered caveman, until we were alone and the door was closed and locked behind us.

He pulled me roughly into his arms. “Dana, you’re driving me crazy in that bikini.” He nuzzled my neck. “Take it off,” he urged, “now.”

“Now? But it’s the middle of the day, Alex! And besides-” I pushed him away as he tugged at the strings tied at my hips “-we can’t.”

“What do you mean, we can’t? We’re married. Of course we can.” Impatience and lust darkened his eyes… and did something else to his anatomy as well.

There was a series of raps on the door. “Alex? Dana?” a woman trilled. “Whoo-hoo! Anyone home?”

“Who the hell is that?” he hissed.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I invited Jim and Carole – you remember, we met at the swimming pool bar yesterday? – to join us for lunch.”

He scowled. “Don’t answer the door. They’ll go away in a minute.”

“Be right there, Carole!” I called out.

Playfully I pushed Alex away. “Don’t be silly! That’s not nice. Besides, I’m hungry. Go and get dressed.” I paused and added, “Oh, and sweetie? Don’t wear that turquoise polo shirt. It makes you look like a middle-aged golfer. It’s… well, it’s embarrassing.”

Did Alex learn his lesson? In the long term, no. But for the rest of that holiday, he never left my hot pink, bikini-clad side. (And he never wore that turquoise polo shirt again, either.)

Unfortunately, not even a teeny, sexy, hot-pink bikini could hold a serial cheater like Alex for long. The girls of summer – and fall, and winter, and spring – always proved too much of a temptation.

But for those two weeks in St. Tropez? Alex Peyton was mine.