Книга - How to Win Back Your Husband

How to Win Back Your Husband
Vivien Hampshire


The uplifting, feel-good romantic comedy you don’t want to miss!It’s not over until he says, ‘I do’…Nicci is throwing a party: she’s getting divorced! The only issue? She isn’t ready to give up on her soon-to-be ex-husband, Mark – and she has thirty days to win him back!Everyone makes mistakes but Nicci’s was just a little bit bigger. All she has to do is convince Mark that their love is worth fighting for…Against the odds will Nicci and Mark be able to forget their past, remember their vows and say ‘I do’ to another trip up the aisle?Perfect for fans of Lindsey Kelk, Cate Woods and Fiona Collins.Praise for Vivien Hampshire:‘A lovely read. I couldn’t put it down!’ – Hristina Petrov (NetGalley Reviewer)‘Amazingly brilliant!’ – Natasha Potter (NetGalley Reviewer)‘It was a heartwarming story about love and forgiveness. I loved how Nic fought to try and get her husband back…’ – Fiona Bauer (NetGalley Reviewer)







It’s not over until he says, ‘I do’…

Nicci is throwing a party: she’s getting divorced! The only issue? She isn’t ready to give up on her soon-to-be ex-husband, Mark – and she has thirty days to win him back!

Everyone makes mistakes but Nicci’s was just a little bit bigger. All she has to do is convince Mark that their love is worth fighting for…

Against the odds will Nicci and Mark be able to forget their past, remember their vows and say ‘I do’ to another trip up the aisle?

The uplifting feel-good comedy you don’t want to miss! Perfect for fans of Lindsey Kelk, Cate Woods and Fiona Collins.


How to Win Back Your Husband

Vivien Hampshire






ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES


VIVIEN HAMPSHIRE

lives with her husband and two cats within walking distance of the London Underground, open parkland and the best bakery in town, which she considers to be pretty much the perfect location. After working in banking and accountancy jobs since leaving school, she made the move from numbers to words after the birth of her twin daughters, developing a highly rewarding new career in libraries and children’s centres introducing the under-fives and their families to the magic of books. She entered her first attempt at fiction for the Mail on Sunday’s Best Opening to a Novel competition in 1994 and won first prize. Her first published short story appeared in Woman’s Weekly magazine in 1997 and she has been writing women’s fiction ever since. Vivien loves solving and compiling complicated cryptic crosswords, taking part in TV quiz shows, reading in the sunshine and eating Belgian chocolate (quickly, so it doesn’t melt!)


With thanks to the SWWJ, the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Phrase Writers and some very special writing-based Facebook groups, where I have found so much advice, support, encouragement and friendship, of the kind only fellow writers can provide. Particular mention must go to Natalie, Francesca and the two Elaines, who went through the RNA’s New Writers Scheme alongside me. We have shared the highs and lows, our struggles, successes and occasional disappointments, with humour, sympathy and solidarity, and in the very best of company.

Special thanks to my anonymous RNA ‘reader’ for her positive and helpful comments after reading the first draft of this novel and for giving me the confidence and impetus to seek out the right publisher for it. Thanks also to Charlotte Mursell and Hannah Smith, my editors at HQ, who worked me hard to keep on improving the manuscript and making it the best it could be, and to Helena Newton, my copy editor, who spotted all the little nitty-gritty details that weren’t quite right and that I might otherwise have missed.

Thanks to the organisers, tutors and delegates of Writers’ Holiday, who gave me so many wonderful writerly weeks away, creating lasting friendships, filling me with ideas and inspiration, and showing me that, with focus, determination and a sprinkling of luck, just about anything is possible.

Thanks also to the fantastic staff at Barra Hall Children’s Centre in Hayes, especially Sarah, Claudette and Lorraine. As I wrote the scenes where Nicci is preparing snacks, comforting a child, picking glitter from her fingernails, or being consoled by compassionate colleagues, I was thinking of you!

And lastly, my love and thanks go to Paul, for understanding my need to hide away and write, often late into the night, and for designing and building me the perfect study in which to do it. In your own unique way, every one of you has helped me to realise my dream. I couldn’t have done it without you.


To libraries everywhere

for providing free access to books and welcoming places in which to read them.

The lifelong love affair starts with you.

Keep on lighting the spark.


Contents

Cover (#ueaa0b6a4-e85c-52d6-9315-6d3323105fbb)

Blurb (#ue53da7d5-7667-5082-806a-95c002e72026)

Title Page (#uc9e2c080-ecf8-5004-9dfc-2398f1ef2b24)

Author Bio (#u871ccfc4-458c-5322-80a7-d3387e306086)

Acknowledgement (#u44505643-653c-5ccc-8be8-eaf6a18877b0)

Dedication (#ud214a961-da71-5d4e-bfe4-70707e2a157e)

Chapter One (#ulink_66771096-c9da-53fe-ba1b-3fa38a9c9fad)

Chapter Two (#ulink_5d681e25-a45f-55c2-966f-1dc23063b377)

Chapter Three (#ulink_dd2c64df-cde0-53b2-b368-ed894c84f6ba)

Chapter Four (#ulink_4a29faa9-8b52-59c4-ac63-a881ffba621c)

Chapter Five (#ulink_7a5cf068-e8ac-50ba-8aed-eae1faa4375b)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#ulink_87457830-901d-589c-8f62-af4da0ceb18d)


The cake was a triumph. It stood in the centre of the table, surrounded by all the discarded paraphernalia of a full-on party. Half-empty plates of gone-cold sausage rolls, tiny triangular sandwiches with indeterminate fillings, the bread starting to curl at the corners, and several lipstick-stained wine glasses, abandoned because no one could remember whose was whose and it was just so much easier to go and find a clean one.

Nicci had to admit that, despite her misgivings, the cake had turned out to be all that Jilly had promised it would be, and more. Her friend had done a fantastic job. It was a big, square, impressively ornate not-quite-wedding cake, iced in white and wrapped around with a wide band of blood-red ribbon. The scattered roses beautifully arranged in the corners, each one handmade with skill, determination and a generous helping of sugar paste, were surrounded by symbolic – perhaps rather too obviously symbolic – rings of spiky icing thorns. And right in the middle, two little icing people, crafted to the last detail, with even their hair exactly the right colour, sat very slightly apart, not touching at all, their backs turned tellingly towards each other.

It was the perfect cake for the occasion. It was just a shame that the occasion itself was so far from perfect. In fact, if she really thought about it and stopped trying to plaster a phoney smile on her face, Nicci would have to say that it was probably one of the worst occasions of her entire thirty-three-year-old life.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ Jilly shouted, pushing her way towards her through the crowd and trying to make herself heard above the bumping, thumping music that someone, in their attempt to jolly things along, had turned up way too loud.

Nicci nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak.

‘Oh, come on, Nic. Chin up. This day could be a real turning point for you,’ Jilly went on, dropping her voice as the CD moved on to a slower, quieter track. ‘Your new life starts right here, right now. You’ve got your freedom back. You can start letting your hair down again and having some fun. And that has to be celebrated, surely? Well, maybe not celebrated exactly, but certainly marked.’ And then she burst into a fit of Rioja-fuelled giggles and slung her arm wildly about Nicci’s shoulders. ‘Marked! That’s a good one. Get it? Or un-Marked, more like!’

Nicci bunched her fists and closed her eyes, and squeezed all four up as tightly as she could. She didn’t want to be un-Marked, but there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. This was Mark’s divorce. Not hers. It was not what she had wanted at all, but it was racing along so quickly now, completely out of her hands, as if she was on a runaway train that had somehow set off without its driver, and she had no idea how to stop it. But she was definitely not going to cry. Not if she could help it anyway. Not now, in front of everybody, not when they had all tried so hard to get her into the party mood. Crying could wait until later, after they’d all gone home, when she was alone in bed and gazing at the empty space beside her where Mark had always been.

‘I declare this party a man-free zone!’ Jilly’s voice rose above the hubble-bubble chatter of slightly tipsy bare-shouldered female bodies, all swaying awkwardly together to the romantic and not entirely appropriate made-for-two music that wafted through the semi-darkness from the other side of the room.

‘Not only the party. The world!’ a high-pitched voice she couldn’t quite recognise shouted in reply, and a great cheer went up into the air, along with a champagne cork, an explosion of party popper streamers, and a pair of skimpy leopard-print knickers. God knows who they belonged to!

They were all only trying to do what they thought was the right thing. Nicci knew that. These girls had been her friends for ages, some of them since school. Together through thick and thin, through hockey fields, and painful periods, and silly diets that never worked, doodling their way through double maths, and sobbing in the loos together over boys who, looking back, she knew had absolutely never been worth it. Her friends. She loved them all, and they were all here tonight to support her, to show solidarity, and to try to help her, or that’s what they’d said anyway, every one of them, as if they were reading from the same clichéd script, as they’d turned up on her doorstep, one by one, shivering in their party frocks, with their bottles of cheap plonk and their forced Who needs men anyway? faces.

But they were here to help her do what exactly? Celebrate? Cheer up? Move on? Forget? Any one of the above. Or all of them, probably, with Get Drunk thrown in for good measure. Jilly even made it sound like regaining her freedom was a good thing, but all freedom meant was that from now on she was on her own. Mark was gone. From her house, her bed, her life. And it was looking horribly like there was no going back.

He had taken the first step towards making it a formal ending. It wasn’t just a mistake any more, a bad patch to be got through, one of those it was still possible to recover from. The decree nisi told her that. It had arrived on Wednesday and was now hidden away in the top drawer of the sideboard, having been read and reread and then tucked back inside its long flat envelope, along with the latest exorbitant bill from her solicitor. And just knowing it was there made it hard to think, or care, about pretty much anything else. How had it come to this? That a once loving and passionate marriage had gone so badly wrong, had dwindled away to almost nothing, and neither of them had done a thing to hold on to it?

‘Come on, Nic. Time to cut your cake!’ Jilly weaved her way towards her from the kitchen, brandishing a rather scary-looking carving knife and a teetering pile of assorted plates, stopping as she reached the CD player to turn the volume down. ‘And for you to make a wish.’

‘It’s not my birthday. You’ll be bringing out candles and a box of matches next!’

‘You are quite right. It is not your birthday.’ Jilly hiccupped a little, lifting her hand to cover her mouth, giggled, and had another try. ‘This is a far more momentous and auspicious occasion than a plain old birthday, which is, after all, something all of us have every year, and most of us over the age of thirty are starting to wish we didn’t. So, I think this calls for more than one plain old birthday-style wish, don’t you? I hereby appoint myself as your fairy godmother…’

‘Oh, get on with it!’ someone shouted from the back.

‘Okay, okay. So, as I was saying before I was so – hic – rudely interrupted, I am your fairy godmother, and this is my magic wand…’ Everyone dodged out of the way as Jilly waved the knife around her head three times, wobbled a bit, and almost dropped the plates which rattled ominously against each other in her other hand as she finally lowered them to the table. ‘And I am granting you not one, not two, but three wishes. So, come on, cut the cake and wish away, and then we can get back to the important business of having a good time.’

Nicci took a deep breath. A good time? How was she supposed to have a good time? This wasn’t another of those wild hen parties or nightclub jaunts they’d enjoyed together so often over the years. The ones where they’d all laughed and danced and had too much to drink, without a care in the world. The sort she could stagger away from, knowing her husband would be there outside, waiting to drive her home, as he always was. There to snuggle up to in bed afterwards, to hold her head if she was a teeny bit sick, and then bring her a cup of tea and a couple of aspirins in the morning. No, this was about as far from one of those fun-filled parties as she could possibly imagine.

And as she looked around the room, it struck her that this was the first and only party she had ever held in this house where Mark hadn’t been right here by her side. So, okay, he would probably have been muttering about the cost of the food or worrying that the noise might be upsetting the neighbours, but he would have been here. Quietly taking care of things, and taking care of her. And now he wasn’t, and it was looking like he might never be again.

There was no reliable, dependable Mark to lean on this time. Had she really called him boring? Actually said it to his face? Honestly believed for a second that things might be better without him? Or that someone more exciting, less set in their ways, someone with more get-up-and-go, could somehow take his place? It was only now that he had actually got up and gone, and her whole life was suddenly about to become so frighteningly different, that she knew just how wrong she had been. It wasn’t someone else she needed. It was him. Mark.

Life had been exciting once. When they were younger, when they had done so many things together, before all the domestic routine and the deadly dull weight of adult responsibility had fallen on their shoulders. Life had been fun. Because they had made it fun. And there was no reason at all – apart from the one small but all-too obvious fact that he had left her – that they couldn’t have that again. If they made the effort. If they really tried. All she had to do was convince him of that. All she had to do? Who was she kidding? If only it was that easy…

Nicci stared at the floor for a moment, gulping back the lump that had formed in her throat. Someone had dropped a tissue under the table, and suddenly she could picture Mark at that hilarious Halloween party where they’d first met, all trussed up in a mummy costume he’d cobbled together from a packet of toilet rolls that kept unravelling in a long white tissuey mess all over the carpet. And her in a witch’s dress her mum had made for her on the old Singer sewing machine years earlier and she could only just still squeeze into. He’d found it hilarious when the side seam had burst open to reveal the sort of greying bra she really shouldn’t have been seen dead in.

She’d gone home and chucked out half the contents of her undies drawer after that, promising herself he would never see her in anything so hideous ever again, and he never had. Oh, and they’d had their first dance together that night too, with candles flickering, and a trail of cobwebs dangling from the ceiling and catching in their hair. And their first ever kiss. It had tasted of pumpkin and…

Nicci snapped her head back up again and stared at the knife Jilly had pushed into her hand. What? Where? Oh, of course. Not a pumpkin. A cake. She tried to focus on the present, reluctantly shaking the memories away. Just cut the cake. Get it over with. The sooner the better.

She could see phones being pulled out of bags, her friends lining up their camera screens and pointing them at her, ready to capture the moment for ever, and no doubt for Facebook too, as they formed themselves in a circle around her.

‘Happy divorce day to you…’ It was Jilly who started the singing, but within a millisecond everyone else was joining in. ‘Happy divorce day to you. Happy divorce day, dear Nicci. Happy divorce day to you!’

Oh, God. This was awful. Just too bloody awful. She held the knife with two hands now, up high, like an executioner in the seconds before he brought the axe crashing down on some poor soul’s neck. Giving it her full concentration, and pretty sure she was the only sober person left in the room, she lowered the tip of the blade to the icing, in just the right place, and felt the sugary softness start to give beneath the pressure as she slid the point of the blade down between the two sad little people on the top.

Okay, so they were only made of icing, and their faces didn’t really look quite right, but she knew exactly who they were meant to represent. Mark and Nicci. A pair, made to be together and stay together, but now about to be forced apart. A wave of guilt swept over her as she realised that she was the one holding the knife. Her marriage was as good as over, and it was all her fault.

To wild cheers and a volley of camera clicks all round, she made herself do it. Made herself keep on cutting, almost sawing, her way through the layers of icing and marzipan and sponge and jam, until the cake eased itself apart in a cascade of crumbs, with one little person left hanging, bottom first, over the precipice on each side.

There! It was done. Everything carefully divided into two. Right down the middle. Just like her marriage. All very equal, all very fair, all very civilised. Your half, and my half. That’s how they had done it. Books and music, chairs, towels, scissors, pots and pans. A sofa for me, a bed for you. They’d even tossed a coin for the lawnmower. Most of Mark’s share hadn’t actually gone yet, but it was earmarked, almost as if it had little post-it notes stuck to it, just waiting for the day he had his own permanent place and came to claim it. Yours and mine. His and hers. There was no ours any more. Just a wardrobe half empty, and a closed joint account, and a For Sale sign nailed inexpertly to its wooden post in the front garden.

‘Wishes!’ Jilly yelled, hushing everyone with a frantic flapping of her hands. ‘Come on, Nicci. Don’t forget your wishes.’

‘Not out loud, though,’ someone else added. ‘Or they don’t come true. Everyone knows that.’

And, with a legitimate reason to close her eyes and drop the smile at last, Nicci stood silently and still, let her thoughts run silently through her head, and wished.

Wish One: I know they mean well, but I wish they would all just take their lumps of cake, grab their coats, go home right now, and leave me alone. They won’t, of course, and I know damned well that I will have to show willing and go along with this charade, and have a few drinks, or a lot of drinks, and party for hours yet, probably till I drop. Which may not be a bad thing, actually. There’s a lot to be said for sleep, especially the dreamless kind.

Wish Two: Even though I know it can never come true, I wish that I could somehow turn back the clock. Back to when it all started to go wrong, so I could make sure that it didn’t. Or at least to the night of that awful school reunion, so I could do things differently. Not have that stupid fight before I left the house, not drink too much when I got there, or better still not go there at all. And certainly not have to set eyes on Jason bloody Brown. Then, or ever again.

Wish Three: This is an easy one, and the one I want to happen more than anything. It’s that Mark, my gorgeous, sexy, funny, and very nearly ex-husband, will one day find a way to forgive me. And that, wherever he is and whatever he does, he will be happy. It’s what he deserves. I just wish… (Oh, hang on. Is that Wish Four? Or Five, even? Oh, what the hell! No one can hear me). I wish, I wish, I wish, with every inch of my stupid broken heart, that he could be happy with me.




Chapter Two (#ulink_cb1e1333-d196-5646-a60f-f1d0400a9504)


Mark Ross sat on one of the high stools at the bar in The Red Lion, nursing an almost-finished pint of bitter that had been in his hand so long it was warm, and swinging his foot idly against the wood panelling. There was some sort of band, a girl singer in a white cowboy hat, and two half-hearted guitarists, playing on the little wooden stage in the far corner, which gave him the perfect excuse not to have to speak. What was there left to say anyway?

‘Want another?’ his mate Paul mouthed at him, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, and Mark nodded. There was nothing to go home for, so why not? Home! That was a joke. The small bedsit he’d rented on a short-term lease, while he waited for the estate agents to do their bit and his share of the house sale money to come through, could never really be called home. It was more like a featureless box, graced with all the basics any bloke on his own was going to need. A bed, a small dining table and chairs, a TV he’d brought with him, two lumpy armchairs and an ancient sideboard, a fridge and a microwave. And lots of boxes stuffed full of many, but by no means all, of his worldly goods, still packaged up and likely to stay that way for a while longer yet.

That was it really. It was somewhere to store his stuff, rustle up some sort of meal for one when he got sick of eating takeaways, and a place to lay his head down at night. Nothing more. So, why not have another pint? In fact, now that he was here, he might as well stay and have several.

‘We’re taking a short break now. See you again later!’ the singer announced chirpily, swinging her dyed blonde hair from side to side and flashing a cleavage that would make Dolly Parton envious as she reached for her bottle of water from the floor. There was a clattering through the mike as stools scraped back and the guitars were laid down, and everyone in the audience made a general dash for either the toilets or the bar while they had the chance.

‘Shall we move over to a table?’ Paul handed Mark his new pint and Mark quickly drained what was left of the old one. ‘Get away from the rush.’

Mark stood and followed his mate across the pub to an empty table by the window. It was impossible to see the stage properly from this angle, which was probably why nobody else had nabbed it, but that didn’t bother him. It was all country and western stuff, not really his scene, and he dreaded the almost inevitable rendition of D.I.V.O.R.C.E that was bound to come up in the second half.

‘So, it’s all over then, is it? No going back?’ Paul took a swig from his drink and started playing with the beer mat, flipping it up from the edge of the table with the back of his hand and trying to catch it before it fell. It was obvious that talking about emotional stuff didn’t come easily. Mark could almost feel the thumping great feet of the elephant in the room.

‘Looks that way. I got the decree thingy a couple of days back, so less than six weeks to go and it can be made final. Just got the house to sell and then I can start putting my life back together.’

‘Jeez, I’m sorry, mate. Can’t be easy after – what is it now? Seven years, is it? Eight? God, it only seems like yesterday we were all dressed up in those penguin suits and trying to get the flowers to stick in our buttonholes. Mine fell out halfway up the aisle, and Nic’s mum caught it in that enormous great handbag of hers that was lying open on the floor, remember? Like a blooming Venus fly trap, that thing. What a laugh! And that joke I told in my best man’s speech. The one about the sick cow and the two horny bulls. Remember that one? Had everyone wetting themselves!’

‘I’d rather not talk about it, really. Any of it. The wedding. Nicci. Her mother. It’s still a bit raw, you know?’

‘Fair enough. Nice girl though, your Nicci. Quite fancied her myself! Not that I would have…you know. Not what mates do, is it? But I don’t suppose you really want to hear about that either, do you?’

‘No. I don’t.’

They sat in silence for a while, Paul none too subtly eyeing up a couple of girls in short skirts who had just wandered in and were trying to jostle their way into a narrow gap at the crowded bar.

‘Mmm, nice arse,’ he muttered, not quite to himself. ‘I bagsy the blonde.’

‘Don’t even think about it, mate. A quiet drink, you said. We are not here to pull.’

‘Speak for yourself! Anyway, it would do you good to get back in the saddle. You might be a bit out of practice after all this time, but you never forget, you know. It’s just like riding a bike, if you’ll excuse the expression. Not that you’ll get far with that ring still on your finger.’

‘Habit, that’s all.’

‘Right. But, as I was saying, when I’ve broken up with a girl, I always find that there’s no better cure than a bit more of the same. Hair of the dog, works every time, if you know what I mean.’

Mark couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Yeah, right. Not that you’ve ever had to properly break up with anyone, because you’ve never actually had a relationship that’s lasted more than a couple of months! And can I remind you that I’m not just breaking up with some girl? Nicci’s my wife, my supposed to be forever girl. Or she was, anyway.’ He took a slug of beer and gave Paul a gentle nudge with his elbow. ‘Oh, go on, get over there and fill your boots if you must, but leave me out of it, okay? I’m not ready for any of that stuff. Not yet. And the way I’m feeling right now, not ever.’

‘No, you’re all right. I’ll leave it. Male solidarity, and all that. I’ll stop here with you. I figure your need is greater than mine. And they came in as a pair, so you can bet they won’t want to be separated. And even I, Casanova that I am, don’t have enough charm to take on the two of them by myself. And, besides, the next round is on you, so I can’t miss that. Just waiting to see those moths come flying out when you open up your wallet!’

‘Ha! The amount of money I’ve had to pay out lately, I’d be surprised if they can find anything left in there to feed off. What with the solicitors, and the deposit for the flat, and the rent. And I’m still having to cough up for half the bills at the house, not to mention the mortgage payments. It’s not where I’d imagined all our savings ending up. I’ll be glad when the whole sorry business is over, I can tell you.’

‘And you were always so sure exactly where you were heading. Your famous ten-year plan, remember? Fancy church wedding at twenty-five. A small house to get you started, then a move up to something bigger. With a real gardener’s garden, you said, whatever that meant. Two cars. And your first kid at thirty-five. A boy first, then maybe a girl later. As if you could pick and choose! I can still remember the day you drew it all out on the back of that soggy beer mat the night of your stag do. Before you got pissed, obviously. Like some kind of spider diagram, it was, your whole adult life sewn up before it had hardly started. Mr Organised!

‘I laughed about it then. We all did, but you nearly achieved it, didn’t you? Okay, so you didn’t actually get the bigger house but, let’s be honest, that was a bit ambitious on a bank clerk’s wages, and the one you’ve got – sorry, had – is still a darn sight better than the poky place I like to call home. It just seems a shame, that’s all I’m saying. You and Nic. A waste, you know…that you didn’t make it all the way to the two point four kids and the happy ever after. Don’t you think there might still be a chance…’

‘No, mate. Let’s not go there, okay? It’s over. The plan’s not worth the paper it was written on. Or the cardboard, to be more accurate. I may as well have ripped it up right from the start and saved myself all the hassle. And the cash. End of. It didn’t work out, but I’m okay about it. Over it. Really. Or I will be. Just give me time, that’s all.’

And then, to the sound of raucous clapping, mainly from their own family and friends hogging the front row, the band came back on and, even though he couldn’t see much, Mark was able to turn his chair in their direction, which meant turning his back on Paul for a while, and he let his thoughts take over.

End of? Was it really? He couldn’t forgive Nicci. Of course he couldn’t. And he couldn’t contemplate taking her back. What bloke could? But he did love her. Always had. Whatever she had done, and whatever he may have said to the solicitors and to his worried parents and to anyone else who asked, he wasn’t over her, and he definitely wasn’t okay.

***

When Nicci woke up it was already ten o’clock and her head was banging. What time had they all gone home last night? She couldn’t remember. She wasn’t even sure if they actually had all gone home, so it was with some trepidation that she hauled herself out of bed, checked that she was decent – big T-shirt and a pair of pants, so that was okay – and peered into the guest bedroom. She didn’t like to think of it as Mark’s bedroom, even though it was where he’d slept for those horrible final nights before he’d moved out. If only he was still here. Better in a separate bedroom than not in the house at all. At least they could have talked, tried to work through it, had some sort of chance…

But this morning she was pleased to find both the room, and the bed, empty of everything but the usual clutter. The third bedroom, the one she had always secretly thought of as the nursery, was currently full to the rafters with boxes containing a lot of the odds and ends that Mark wanted to take with him but didn’t yet have anywhere to put. God help anyone who’d decided to crash down in there! She took a cursory peep inside, just in case, but it was all she could do to ease the door open. Nobody there.

Kicking a few strands of silly string and a lone balloon out of the way on the landing, she wandered down the stairs, not at all sure what, or who, she might find when she got to the bottom. She yawned so hard she felt she just might dislocate her jaw.

In the living room, the curtains were still closed, which was probably a good thing as she wasn’t sure her bleary eyes were quite ready for the glare of sunlight just yet. ‘Yuk!’ Her bare foot sunk down into something decidedly squishy. She lifted it and bent down to take a closer look at the mess between her toes. Cake!

‘Sssh! Some of us are trying to sleep here.’ The long shadowy body of Jilly slowly uncurled itself from the sofa. ‘What time is it anyway?’ she mumbled, groggily, rubbing her eyes. ‘I have to be at work by nine. Big order to finish.’

‘Well, you can forget that. You’re an hour late already. Should’ve set the alarm on your phone.’

‘Oh, shit. I thought I had. An hour late? Really?’ She jumped up, knocking a pile of cushions and a stray glass flying across the carpet. ‘Look, Nic, you don’t mind if I grab the bathroom first, do you? I brought a bag with me, in case I didn’t make it home, and it has to be somewhere around here, with work clothes and my toothbrush and stuff. I can be in and out in five minutes, I promise.’

‘That’s fine. Just let me pop in there for a wee, then you go ahead. There’s nowhere I have to be. It is Saturday after all. In fact, I think I might go straight back to bed.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s all right for you, I’m sure, but Saturday happens to be a working day for some of us. Me, at least. Oh, God, I knew we shouldn’t have had the party on a Friday.’

Nicci walked back up the stairs to the bathroom, with Jilly hot on her heels, and sat down on the loo, leaving the door open a crack so they could carry on talking. ‘If it had been up to me, we wouldn’t have had a party at all.’

‘Spoilsport!’ Jilly plonked her bottom down on the top step. ‘Don’t you want to put it all behind you, have a bit of fun? That was what last night was meant to be about, you know. You, and your future.’

‘I know, I know. Just don’t rush me, okay?’ Nicci flushed the loo and peered at herself in the mirror as she splashed a handful of water over her face. What a sight! Her brown hair hung in straggly knots and her roots needed doing, her eyes were distinctly bloodshot, and there were big streaky blobs of black around each one, where she hadn’t bothered taking off her mascara before falling into bed.

At least Mark wasn’t here to see her looking such a fright. Not that she was sure he would have noticed. He seemed to have stopped noticing a lot lately. She’d even come home with a streak of green paint across one ear once and he hadn’t said a word. The inevitable familiarity setting in after living with someone for so long, she supposed. Maybe not just so long but too long, she’d thought, as she’d stormed off to the reunion that fateful evening and drunkenly fallen into the waiting arms of Jason Brown.

Oh my God! Jason Brown, a man she hadn’t seen for years and would probably never see again. What on earth had she been thinking? The truth was that she hadn’t been thinking at all. Well, not clearly. Somehow she’d left her sensible head at home that night. It was where sensible seemed to belong. With Mark, who probably had the word Sensible stamped all the way through him like a stick of Blackpool rock. And, talking of rock, yes, she’d rocked the boat. No denying that, but maybe it had needed rocking. Just not quite so hard.

And if she hadn’t, they might still be together now, mightn’t they? She and Mark. The so-called perfect couple. That’s what everyone else seemed to think. But the cracks had already been there, spreading slowly through their lives, and their marriage, long before Jason Brown came along to open them up as wide as the Grand Canyon. Mark must have known that as well as she did, deep down. It was just that neither of them had talked about it. They’d both just let life drift along, and themselves drift slowly apart, seemingly going nowhere, or not together anyway.

As she kept telling herself, she may have been the one to push their marriage over the cliff but, if things had been right, they wouldn’t have been so dangerously close to the edge in the first place, would they? So, who knows? Maybe it would all have been over sooner or later anyway. Not that there was any comfort in that, and if she was trying to get rid of her own feelings of guilt it really wasn’t working.

‘Come on, Nic. Get a move on. I haven’t got all day!’ Jilly’s voice cut into her thoughts as she elbowed her out of the way and started running the taps in the bath. ‘Got any nice smellies? I need something to get rid of the whiff of stale wine. I swear someone must have tipped a whole bottle over me, ’cos I’m sure I didn’t drink that much. According to the doctors at the fertility clinic, I’m not really supposed to be drinking at all. You know, getting my body ready for whenever we go for our next try, but we were celebrating, weren’t we?’ Jilly lifted an arm and buried her nose into the crease. ‘Even so, I didn’t drink enough to smell this bad. Even my armpits reek!’

Nicci pulled a face. She probably didn’t smell too good herself. ‘Look on the windowsill. I think there’s some bubble bath left. The blue one, supposed to be for stress relief or some such nonsense. Don’t touch the lime and coconut bath bomb though. It’s my last one, from Christmas, and I’m saving it.’

‘What for?’ Jilly laughed, picking it up anyway and crinkling its cellophane wrapping. ‘Next Christmas? That’ll be here soon enough, and then you’ll probably get given another lot.’

‘I doubt it. So just keep your mucky paws off it, all right? And don’t use all the hot water.’

‘Yes, ma’am!’ Jilly saluted, peeling off her crumpled dress as she shoved Nicci outside and closed the door behind her.

Nicci made her way around the house, opening curtains and picking up the worst of the rubbish from the living room floor. She was pleased to find there were no more unexpected guests lurking in armchairs or sleeping it off under the table, although under the table turned out to be not a very pretty sight, having caught the worst of the fallout from the mangled cake. It looked like she’d be spending the best part of the day with a hoover, a wet cloth and a pile of bin bags.

But all that could wait, at least until Jilly had gone. Breakfast and coffee first. She filled the coffee machine and plugged it in, and pulled out two mugs from a cupboard. But when she opened the fridge door, there was no milk. And no eggs. All the bread had been used up making last night’s sandwiches, so no toast either. And some kind soul had finished off the orange juice with bits in, and put the empty carton back in the fridge as if hoping she might not notice.

She made the coffees, automatically adding two heaped spoons of sugar into one before remembering that it was meant to be for Jilly and not for Mark, and having to pour the whole mugful away again. She made Jilly another and left it on the worktop. If she was much longer in the bath, it would probably go cold before she got to drink it. Tough. Serve her right for not getting up and out sooner.

Nicci’s stomach growled ominously, in a Feed me right this minute kind of a way. She realised now just how little she had eaten at the party. There were always the leftovers, she supposed, as she carried her mug through and surveyed what was still out on the table. Needs must, and all that. She picked up a sandwich. The filling, whatever it had once been, seemed to have been picked out of it, and the bread that was left was so hard it could break teeth! Maybe not.

One thing there was still plenty of, of course, was the cake. By the time it had been cut last night nobody had been particularly interested in eating it. It would seem it had been viewed more as a symbol of the occasion than a genuine foodstuff. But it would be a shame to let it go to waste, after all Jilly’s hard work.

She popped a clump of it in her mouth and chewed. Not bad, actually. The jam was a bit sweet for this time of the morning, when a bacon and egg butty would have been her meal of choice, but it was pretty good just the same. The little icing bride and groom sat together now on the edge of the cake board, where someone must have helpfully repositioned them, the girl staring out towards the kitchen, the boy tipped over sideways and resting on his head.

She picked him up and wiped the crumbs off him before turning him the right way up again and setting the two of them face-to-face. They may only be edible figures, but she didn’t like to see them the way they had been last night, backs turned towards each other. She thought maybe, when the cake itself was all gone, she might hang on to them. Silly, obviously, wanting souvenirs, but there was something about them, and about who they were supposed to be, that meant she couldn’t just throw them away.

She could hear the bath water gurgling noisily down the drain as Jilly flung open the bathroom door with a loud bang and dripped her way hurriedly down the stairs. She had wrapped one of Nicci’s fluffy pink towels around her, or tried to, as there was barely enough fabric to reach around and meet in the middle, let alone conceal what was left of her modesty. Had she had any, that was.

‘Got a bigger towel, Nic? And a hairdryer? God only knows what Sheila is going to say when I roll up late. I can’t risk looking a mess as well. I hope that wine smell’s worn off. She won’t want me anywhere near the customers otherwise.’

‘Jilly, calm down. You’ll be fine. And it’s only a glorified cake shop. Not the Ritz!’

‘Huh! Don’t you let Sheila hear you say that.’ She lifted her voice an octave and did the best impression of her posh boss as she could manage. ‘Cake shop? Certainly not. Gibson’s, I will have you know, is the finest patisserie this side of gay Paree!’

‘Oh, you do make me laugh! You sound just like her.’

‘Hairdryer, Nic?’

‘Oh, yeah, sorry. It’s by our bed. I mean my bed. And towels are in the airing cupboard on the landing. Help yourself. Oh, and there’s no milk left, so the coffee’s black, if that’s all right with you?’

‘I guess it’ll have to be. Beggars can’t be choosers.’ Jilly grabbed her coffee with one hand, hanging on tightly to the towel with the other, and sped back up to the bedroom, her voice trailing behind her. ‘Which brings me to Plan B…’

‘And what might that be exactly?’ Nicci would have followed her but she couldn’t quite find the energy.

‘The next phase of the Save Nicci Ross campaign, of course,’ Jilly shouted, from somewhere above her head.

‘Jilly, I don’t want to be saved. Can’t we just…’

‘Can’t stop. No time to explain right now.’ Already the sound of the hairdryer whirring away at top speed was drowning out any hope of continuing the conversation. ‘Meet me for a drink later at Albie’s, and all will be revealed.’




Chapter Three (#ulink_7918641b-7e10-5f84-8eaa-4b8fa8872014)


Thank God for football! Mark jostled along the crowded underground platform towards an opening door and squeezed himself into the train along with what felt like thousands of others, the sea of blue and white scarves around him giving him the comforting impression that he was amongst friends. People who wanted to talk about nothing more taxing than the price of a season ticket, or who was going to be wearing the number one shirt now the regular goalie was injured, or whether it was true that their best striker was leaving for some new contract in Spain. People who were on his wavelength, who understood him, yet wanted nothing from him. It made him feel normal again. For a few hours on a Saturday afternoon, when his team were playing at home, he could push Nicci right out of his head and concentrate on the second love of his life. Football.

Spilling out into the street, he allowed himself to be pulled along by the crowd. It was a chilly afternoon with a drop of rain in the air, the rosette and badge sellers were out in force, and a policeman on an enormous horse was guiding the more rowdy fans, already singing their hearts out, back into line. The smell of a hot dog with onions being rapidly and noisily devoured by a fat bloke walking alongside him reminded him that he’d not eaten since seven this morning, when he’d finally accepted he was not going to manage any more sleep and had dragged himself up to tackle the dubious delights of a bowl of own-brand cornflakes, the last of the not-quite-fresh milk and an over-ripe banana.

He really should tackle a supermarket shop but he’d had a busy week at work, which may have left him tired but was perfect for keeping his mind off other things, from nine to five at least. Sitting at the counter in the bank, counting the money in and out, stamping the paying-in slips, handing out leaflets about savings accounts and mortgages, might not be all that glamorous a job, but it did mean he met and chatted to lots of people, usually one after the other without a break, except for lunchtimes and the occasional trip to either the toilet or the kettle.

His mother had joked that, with so many customers passing through, he might get to meet a nice girl, now that he was free again and available. Well, he’d hoped she was joking, but probably not. Mothers could be very unforgiving when it came to the happiness, or otherwise, of their precious sons, and he’d noticed that, as far as his own mother was concerned, an ex-wife came way down the list of suitable subjects to be discussed.

In fact, he could almost believe, from the sudden and complete wiping of her very existence from the family archives, that Nicci was no more than a figment of his imagination and the last decade of his life had never actually happened. Even the wedding photo in its silver frame, which had always held pride of place, had mysteriously disappeared from the sideboard in his parents’ flat, leaving a rectangular gap in the dust yet to be filled with any sort of replacement.

But, when it came to girls, the last thing Mark was looking for right now was a replacement, however well-intentioned his mother’s hopes for him might be. Almost from the moment he’d first seen her, in that ridiculously cute witch costume with a spider’s web inexpertly drawn across her cheek, he’d known that Nicci was the only girl for him, and breaking that feeling was not going to be easy.

He stopped at a refreshments van and queued for a tea, blowing on his hands to combat the cold until the warmth coming through the polystyrene cup was able to do the job for him, and then looked about for Simon. They always tried to get here early, and usually managed to track each other down before it was time to go inside the ground and make their way to their seats. Simon being six foot four helped. Add a bobble hat to the top of that and he was fairly easy to spot in a crowd.

‘Hey, Mark!’ Simon loped towards him. ‘Tea looks good. You could have got me one.’

‘I thought you’d have been on the beer, Si. Tea’s an old man’s poison!’

‘Nah. Saving myself for later. Big session lined up for Rudy’s stag do. Wanna come?’

‘I don’t even know Rudy, whoever he is!’

‘Why should that matter? More the merrier!’

Mark waited while Simon fought his way to the front and got himself a drink. He was a good bloke, his brother-in-law. They’d hit it off right from the start, Mark nervously wiping his feet as he stepped into Nicci’s family home to meet her parents for the first time, and Simon only in his teens then, bouncing with energy and peppered with spots. He’d very quickly become the younger brother Mark had never had, and whatever was going on, or not going on, between Mark and Nicci now, the two men had already decided that it was not going to affect their own friendship.

‘So, how is she?’ Mark asked as they moved along the street, trying to keep the tea in their cups as people rushed past, bumping and jostling as they went. Somehow, despite his determination to let nothing but football matter this afternoon, Nicci had wormed her way back into his thoughts.

‘Nic? Okay I think. Not seen much of her, to be honest, but Mum’s spoken to her a fair bit. I think she’s bearing up. She does seem genuinely sorry though, mate. You know, for that business with…’

‘Jason. It’s okay. You are allowed to say his name.’

‘I don’t think it’s still going on, or anything like that. She doesn’t talk about it, to tell you the truth. Or him. Still…’ Simon fell silent for a few moments, as if realising a change of subject was probably called for. ‘Any news about the house?’

‘Not really. I spoke to the agent yesterday. A few people have been round to view it, but there’ve been no offers. I wonder if we’ve priced it a bit on the high side?’

‘Need every penny you can get, I should think. Both of you. Can’t be easy starting out again. I think Nic’s considering coming back home for a while after it’s sold. You know, while she gets her bearings and decides what to do with herself. Mum’s quite excited about having her back where she can keep an eye on her. She’s been spring cleaning like mad in her old room.’

‘That’s good. I don’t like to think of her having to rent some scrappy little flat like mine. Home with your mum sounds like a good place to be, for now at least. Has she still got the Take That posters on the wall, and that old pink teddy on the bed?’

‘Yep. That room hasn’t been changed one bit since our Nicci left home. Like a shrine, it is. No matter how many of my mates might need to sleep over, no one’s ever allowed to sleep in Nic’s bed, except Nic. Good job we’ve got a guest bedroom and a decent-sized sofa! You know, it’s almost like Mum’s always expected her to come home one day.’

‘Really? Being married to me was just seen as a temporary measure then, was it?’

‘Nah. I didn’t mean that. Mum’s always been really fond of you. Still is. But Nic’s still her little girl, you know, and she needs to make sure she’s all right. Just like she would if something was to happen to me, I guess. Mum can’t wait to start looking after Nic again. The old dressing gown on the sofa with hot water bottles and chicken soup routine… It’s what mothers do, isn’t it?’

‘Nicci’s not ill, Si. It’s a marriage break-up. She doesn’t have the lurgy!’

‘Maybe not. But she is in need of a bit of TLC, I think. Anyway, come on, back to business. We’re here for the game, and there’s only fifteen minutes to kick-off.’

They went through the turnstiles and made their way to their seats in the stand, and for the next hour and a half Mark was able to push all remaining thoughts of his ex-wife and her bloody lover out of his head and revel in the glorious fact of the Blues scoring two cracking goals and shooting straight to the top of the table.

***

Nicci walked into Albie’s just after six o’clock and nodded to the man himself, who was vigorously wiping glasses dry behind the bar. She went in search of Jilly. It was their regular after-work haunt, somewhere they could slip their shoes off in one of the cosy booths and indulge in a generous helping of Albie’s finest Rioja. They didn’t often come in on a Saturday though, even if they’d been out shopping together, mainly because they were in the habit of going straight home to spend time with their husbands at the weekend, curl up on their respective sofas, check their lottery numbers and watch Casualty.

Nicci felt her stomach tighten in a little knot at the memory. She hadn’t really appreciated the joyful ordinariness of that kind of a Saturday night while it was happening, but now it was no longer an option, even thinking about it hurt.

Jilly was already sitting at their usual table in the corner, an open bottle and two glasses in front of her. She budged up a bit, half standing to adjust her skirt, which was starting to ride a fraction too high up her thighs, and took her bag off the empty seat beside her to make room.

‘So, why are we here, exactly?’ Nicci said, once she’d settled herself. ‘You said something about a Plan B, and I’m not even sure I know what Plan A was. So, what’s it all about? Another of your mysterious master schemes? And, by the way, you told me you weren’t supposed to be drinking.’

‘Oh, stop being my mother. One won’t hurt. And as for the Plan B thing, I may have been a tad melodramatic there! It makes us sound like a couple of spies. No, I thought we should sit down and have a little chat about things, that’s all. You know, away from everyone else, and without the party atmosphere. Just the two of us. We haven’t done it often enough lately.’

‘Chat about what exactly? You’re not still trying to set me up with a new bloke, are you? I’ve told you I’m not ready for any of that. I’ve only just lost the last one.’

‘Maybe not. But it is time you stopped mooning about like a sad-eyed puppy. Although I’m not sure lost is actually the right word. Thrown away, more like. And Mark’s not going to be coming back, is he? No, don’t you look at me that way, Nic. You know it’s true. And you know it’s your own fault.’

‘Jilly!’

‘Well, it is. No use pretending otherwise. You could have talked things through, you know, made more effort to sort out whatever it was you found so deadly dull. And stuck to your guns about the baby thing too. Chucked something at his head to shake him up a bit, even. It might have made a difference, or got his attention anyway.’

‘Oh, I tried that all right. Several times!’

‘Good for you. Maybe you should have chucked harder. But, really, Nic, it’s not as if you don’t know what Mark’s like after all this time. Even I know what Mark’s like, and I’ve never had to live with him.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Mark. He’s a lovely man. Kind, patient…’

‘Kind and patient? Is that the best you can say? You make him sound like someone who’s good to his dog, not his wife! And how come you’re defending him now? Go back a few months and all you ever did was moan about him. How he never listened to you any more, how obsessed he was with money, how he thought more of that bloody football team of his than he did of you… Need I go on?’

‘No. You’re right, but he was only doing what he felt he should. Being the provider, you know. Him caveman, me Jane, or something like that! Whatever he was doing, it was always for me. For us, and our future. I just didn’t appreciate what I had. Not then.’

‘And now you do?’

‘Too late. I know. You don’t have to say it. I messed up. Badly.’

‘You did that all right! But, do you know, Nic, I bet he could have listed a few things about you he wasn’t happy with too, given a chance. Not that you gave him a chance. Or even half of one. You’re hardly Mrs Perfect yourself. But, oh no, you have to go and do something drastic, don’t you? Not that you’re going to listen to me, and it’s too late now anyway, but people can change, you know, even your Mark, if they face up to what’s wrong. And if they really want to, of course. And that goes for you too. Marriage does take two, after all. You could have dealt with things better – that’s all I’m saying. But, instead, what do you do? Jump into bed with…’

‘Okay, okay. You don’t have to remind me. Or say it quite so loudly. I feel bad enough about it already, believe me. And it’s all very well you going all marriage guidance counsellor on me and suddenly having all these smart-arse answers after the event, isn’t it? What good are they to me now?’

‘I’d have given them to you before the event if I’d known there was going to be an event, wouldn’t I? Then maybe I could have stopped you making such a stupid mistake in the first place…’

‘Water under the bridge now, Jilly. Please, drop it, okay?’

‘I suppose so.’ Jilly shrugged. ‘So, what now? It’s obvious the party idea didn’t quite work. That was Plan A, by the way. A for All Girls Together. Overall, a bit of a failure, I would say, and after I’d spent hours making that masterpiece of a cake, too. You clearly hated every minute of it. You’d have been perfectly happy for us to leave so you could have a good old wallow by yourself, and you didn’t even try to hide the fact. I know you too well. And I think you’re in danger of becoming some sort of a hermit if you don’t shake off this sorry for yourself mood. It’s at times like this that a girl needs her friends more than ever. And, as chief friend, that means me, especially.’

‘Friend? After that talking-to you’ve just given me?’

‘That’s what friends are for, you silly cow. To tell the truth, whether you want to hear it or not. And to look out for each other, no matter what.’

Nicci poured herself a glass of wine and took a sip. At least while she had a drink pressed to her mouth she didn’t have to say anything. What was there to say that hadn’t already been said, anyway?

‘So, if you think that I’m going to sit back and do nothing, you are very much mistaken.’ Jilly topped up her own glass and leant back into the high-backed padded seat. ‘Hiding away at home alone, with your old photo albums and a weepie DVD just will not do. You’re thirty-three, not bloody eighty-three!’

‘I do not hide away.’

‘Not any more, you don’t. I’m making sure of that. Hence Plan B.’

‘Which is?’

‘B for Back in the Game, girl! Saving you from yourself. We are going to make a list. Yes, right here, and right now.’ Jilly opened her bag and rummaged about for a notepad and pen, chucking assorted lipsticks, mascara wands and used tissues all over the table. ‘A list of all the things we used to do, in the old days, before Mr Mark Ross came along. Things that were fun. Things we did as single girls, without ever worrying about needing a man to prop us up or hang on our arm. And we did have fun, didn’t we?’

‘Of course we did. And we still do, just in a different way. I honestly can’t see myself doing half the things we did back then, ever again. And what about your Richard anyway? He’s suddenly going to be dropped from your social life, is he? While you devote yourself to saving me?’

‘Richard’s okay with it. We’ve talked about it. About you. And he understands. To be honest, we both need a break from the IVF right now, so you’ll be doing me a favour too. Getting me out and about, giving me a project to work on that doesn’t involve injections and bloody scans.’

‘A project? Is that what I am?’

‘Maybe I didn’t put that too well, but you know what I mean. Now, come on. Let’s start on this list. Number one…’

Nicci sighed. It was just another of Jilly’s silly dead-end schemes. There had been plenty of them over the years. Let’s buy a parrot and teach it how to swear… Let’s learn to water-ski… Let’s make a banner and join the protest march at the town hall… Five-minute wonders, all of them. Once she’d realised how much something cost, or how hard it was going to be, or that getting cold and wet was no fun after all, she’d move on to the next daft idea. And it was obvious why she did it. Obvious to Nicci, and just about everyone, except Jilly herself.

Poor Jilly had been trying to get pregnant for years but, despite having a husband one hundred per cent behind her and willing to pay what must have added up to a small fortune by now for treatment, it just hadn’t happened. And now here she was, four failed IVF cycles down the line and desperately trying to find something, anything, to fill the gaping great baby-shaped hole in her life.

It was hard to know what to say. But then, what could she say that would be of any use? Or any comfort? She knew nothing about the reality of trying to get pregnant, or how tricky it could be. Much as she would have loved to have a baby of her own, she and Mark hadn’t quite reached that stage. Or Mark hadn’t, to be more accurate.

Ever since she’d hit her thirtieth birthday, Nicci had to admit that the distant sound of her biological clock had been getting ever nearer, but Mark had wanted to save up for a couple more years first, and look at taking on a bigger house and a bigger mortgage while they were both still earning. But then, what did Mark know about babies, except what they cost? He’d never known any, and as far as she knew had never even held one, while she spent all day working with them and loved every minute of it. Babies grabbed at your heart and refused to let go. A bit like Mark had, all those years ago, toilet rolls and all!

Oh, she would have loved to see what sort of a baby they could have made together. A chuckling sturdy little boy, or a dainty little girl with a smile to die for? Would it have had his hazel eyes or her blue, her straight brown hair or his much lighter curls, little dimples on each side of its bottom to echo the ones she’d always loved to look at whenever Mark took off his clothes? She’d never know now, would she? And it wasn’t the kind of thought that would probably ever enter Mark’s head.

She wondered sometimes if he just saw their future children as ticks in a box, something expected to fit into the exact right slot in that daft plan of his, and not as real people at all. Didn’t he know that life doesn’t always work out that simply, or that precisely? That things can happen along the way to throw everything off course? The divorce had made that all too obvious, that was for sure.

Still, she couldn’t say she’d ever come up with a real alternative life plan of her own. It wasn’t her style. Get out and enjoy life while it’s here, that had been her motto. Let tomorrow take care of itself. What will be will be. And look where that had got her. Absolutely bloody nowhere.

‘Right!’

Nicci snapped back to the present as Jilly slammed her glass down, put on her I meanbusiness face and chewed determinedly at the end of her pen. ‘Number one. Evening classes. All the agony aunt columns say it’s the best way to meet new people. Like-minded people, that is. Much better than hanging round pubs, or joining internet sites. Gives you the chance to chat and get to know people while picking up a new skill.’

‘Well, firstly…’ Nicci held up her right hand, tucked her thumb under, and started pointing her fingers up, one at a time, to make her points crystal clear. ‘I hope that’s the only picking up you’re talking about. Just new skills, because I am definitely not interested in picking up new men. Or old ones! And, secondly…’ another finger popped up ‘…for the record, I never had any intention of joining any internet sites. Not of the dating kind, anyway.’

‘Can you put those two fingers down? It looks rude, like you’re making a V sign!’

‘And, thirdly…’ Nicci went on, quickly sticking finger number three up to join the others, ‘I thought we were supposed to be reliving our youthful past. As far as I can remember, we have never been to an evening class in our lives.’

‘No, that’s true. I was thinking more of a grown-up version of school. We met all our real friends there, didn’t we? Friends we’ve hung on to more or less for life. People who share our history. Our memories.’

‘People like Jason Brown, you mean?’

‘No, of course not. Why did you have to bring him into it? He wasn’t even in our year, was he? No, there’s just something about school. Not school reunions, obviously. That’s a whole different thing, chucking us back together as adults, as you well know. But school, actual school, when we were kids. Still innocent, still learning, everything ahead of us like a great big mystery yet to happen. We all had something in common then, didn’t we? Sniggering about Miss Randall’s big nose, passing smutty notes around in class, trying to make things explode in the Chemistry lab… An evening class might give us some of that again. Togetherness, solidarity, whatever you want to call it. And we’d be improving ourselves at the same time. What do you think?’

‘Improving ourselves?’ Nicci laughed. ‘And what subject did you have in mind for this great self-improvement programme of yours? Brain surgery? Advanced car mechanics? Marine biology?’

‘Don’t be such a wet blanket. I’m serious. There are loads of perfectly ordinary things we could learn. Indian cookery, for instance, to save all that money we waste on takeaway curries. Beginner’s Spanish, for when we go on our hols. Self-defence classes for women, so we can feel safer when we’re out late at night. There are a lot of nutters about nowadays. I’m sure it would help to know just how to kick them where it hurts.’

‘I find straight in the balls works pretty well.’

‘Or straight in the wallet. That’s what seems to hurt my Richard the most. Tight-fisted old devil!’

‘Okay. Let’s leave evening classes on the back burner for now. And Richard’s supposed failings, ’cos you know you love him to bits really. If he’s short of the readies it’s because he’s spent it all on you! Now, what’s number two on the list?’

‘Right. Number two is…’ There was a long pause as Jilly drained her glass and drummed her fingernails on the table top.

‘You don’t actually have a number two, do you?’ Nicci reached across to stop her friend from making that irritating sound, then spotted the wedding and engagement rings still gleaming ominously on her own hand and withdrew it quickly. She knew what Jilly would say if she noticed those. Take the bloody things off, let go of the past, and move on!

‘Well, no. Not as such. I’m sort of waiting for ideas. And you’re supposed to be helping me. It’s all for your benefit, you know. That’s why we’re making the list in the first place.’

‘Here’s an idea for you. Something we used to do a lot of, so it can be number two if you like. We’ll get another bottle, and a couple of plates of something tasty to nibble, and we’ll just talk. Okay? But we won’t mention the words Mark or Richard or divorce – definitely not divorce – again tonight. Just work, clothes, shoes, who’s going out with who, all the girly gossipy fun stuff. Deal?’

‘I suppose so. I do fancy a good old-fashioned moan, as it happens. About work. Well, about Sheila, mainly. God, what a day I’ve had, having to listen to her going on and on about me being late. Anyone would think I make a habit of it. But keep thinking about the list, won’t you? It is a great idea. Honest!’

***

When Mark got to the front of the queue in the fish and chip shop he only just stopped himself from ordering two portions, and the mushy peas and extra gherkin that had been Nicci’s favourite part of their regular order for as long as he could remember. He asked for it to be wrapped, promising himself he’d only open it up when he got home and could use a proper plate and cutlery, but once out in the street he couldn’t resist. Peeling open the paper, breathing in that strong vinegary smell, feeling the grease warm on his fingers, he dipped in, telling himself he’d just have one or two chips to keep him going, but by the time he had reached the front door of the flat it had all gone, fish and all.

So, what now? His meal had been eaten, Simon had gone off to meet his mates, and that just left Match of the Day. Probably the same match he’d just seen live. He chucked his chip wrapper in the already full-to-bursting bin in the kitchen, squashing the contents down hard to make a bit more room, thus avoiding having to go outside again to empty it, and flipped the kettle on. What would Nicci be doing now, he wondered? He’d bet that she wouldn’t be moping about at home by herself. Probably out with that Jason bloke.

Oh, yes, she’d sworn it had been a one-off, that there was nothing going on, that it had all been a terrible, stupid mistake, but how was he supposed to believe a word she said any more? And he’d seen that Jason. Made it his business to seek him out and watch him in action. From a distance, of course. If he’d gone any closer he probably would have decked him. But anyone could see the bloke had an over-confident, cocky way about him, like he wouldn’t take no for an answer. It came with the territory, he supposed. A look-at-me type in a fancy suit, used to getting his own way. Not that he could see the attraction himself. No, he wouldn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. Oily git!

He seemed to represent everything Mark himself was not, and never wanted to be. God knows why Nic had fallen for his patter. Not satisfied any more with what she had at home, presumably, the ordinary kind of life he had believed without question they’d both wanted. Sometimes he felt like he’d never really known her at all.

Mark poured himself a coffee, slopped some cheap brandy into it and swallowed a mouthful. Oh, boy, that was strong! What was he trying to do? Get blind drunk? Sink into oblivion, in his own armchair? No, if he was going to drink, he’d rather it was among friends. Well, acquaintances, anyway. Or total strangers. What the hell? He may have never met this Rudy character before, but he knew Simon, right? Simon had said it would be okay to tag along. What else was there to do, on a Saturday, when your flat is a soulless shell, your wife is a cheat, and the life you thought you were living had turned out to be a sham?

A stag do sounded exactly what he needed. Not strippers, though. He hoped it wasn’t going to be that kind of an evening. He’d not had one sexual thought since he’d walked out on Nicci, and he didn’t fancy any of that false in-your-face stuff tonight. Being surrounded by cheering, leering blokes, with a phoney policewoman pulling a pair of fluffy handcuffs out of her cleavage or some old scrubber’s bare arse waving about in front of him would just put him off his beer. But a few drinks and a laugh would be good. Male bonding at its best. Barring football, of course, and they’d already done that today.

He knocked back the coffee, which was so hot it would have burned his throat if not for the almost instant anaesthetic effect of the brandy chasing it down his gullet, then he picked up his phone and dialled Simon’s number.




Chapter Four (#ulink_e50a18bc-7dcf-509f-907f-754436d4c428)


As Nicci pushed open the big glass doors at quarter to eight on Monday morning, it was just starting to rain. The Happy Bees Nursery had been well named. It certainly had a happy atmosphere and, once the children started arriving, it literally buzzed with bee-like noise and constant activity. She’d always enjoyed her job, and the children were a joy, most of the time, but still she couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever felt quite so pleased to be coming in to work, and escaping the drizzly November weather outside had nothing to do with it.

Weekends just weren’t any fun nowadays, and after fighting off Jilly’s insistent attempts at sorting her life out for her, and enduring a long miserable Sunday, during which she had not ventured outside once, not even for a newspaper, she was glad of a bit of routine normality with someone to talk to again.

Nicci yawned into her hand as she slid out of her raincoat and made straight for the kettle in the staffroom. They’d be opening up in fifteen minutes, when a stream of harassed-looking parents would start to run in as usual, depositing their kids, hastily kissing them goodbye and running out again, hoping none of them screamed so they’d have to stay a while, and that they’d then get caught up in the rush-hour traffic and be late for work. Nicci was sure that some of them looked more anxiously at their watches at this time of day than at their children.

Still, there was time for a tea before the onslaught. The place ran like a well-oiled machine, with all the tidying and sweeping and setting out of the right toys and equipment for the following day being done during the half hour or so before going home at night, so the early morning routines were always laid back and easy, knowing everything was already prepared.

‘Morning!’ two voices chorused in chirpy unison. One belonged to Rusty, the very loud and very round Jamaican woman who managed the place and was technically her boss but who Nicci had always thought of far more as a friend. She was stretched out diagonally across two comfy chairs and was rubbing her knobbly toes with one hand while spooning way too much sugar into her tea with the other. Rusty was in her late forties and, despite being bogged down by admin and paperwork for a good part of each day, she loved nothing more than getting hands-on and spending time with the children whenever she could. It was what she had trained for, after all, and she had such a natural grandmotherly way about her that all the little ones adored her.

Then there was Chloe, her complete opposite. Chloe was small and pale and outwardly shy, a girl no one would think capable of saying boo to a goose but who seemed to have no trouble quietening a whole room full of toddlers with just one stern but silent look. Her nose was buried in a celebrity magazine and she was dunking a digestive into her coffee and aiming it in the general direction of her mouth, while at the same time trying to talk without spraying soggy crumbs, but achieving only moderate success.

‘Good weekend?’ Chloe spluttered, peering over the top of a double-page Zara and Mike Tindall spread.

‘Nothing much to speak of. Bit of a party on Friday, but it wasn’t my sort of thing really.’ The last thing Nicci wanted to do was explain. ‘How about you?’

Chloe put the magazine down next to her coffee mug and turned her full attention towards Nicci. ‘Great, thanks. Hang on! Have you been crying?’

‘No, of course not. Bit of a cold coming on, I think. And there’s a chilly wind out there this morning.’ She scrabbled about in her bag for a tissue and made a point of blowing her nose.

‘I think you protest too much.’ Rusty was approaching, seemingly unconvinced and using her sympathetic voice, the one she usually reserved for kids who had fallen over and grazed a knee. ‘That red nose of yours is not from some sudden change in the weather. Come on, Nicci, love. If something’s up, you can tell us. It’s not that husband of yours, is it? I thought he’d moved out.’

‘No, no. He’s done nothing. And, yes, he has moved out. I haven’t even seen him. Not for a couple of weeks.’

‘Still upsetting you though, is he? Huh!’ Rusty pulled a face and eased Nicci down into one of the chairs she had just vacated while she poured her a cup of tea. ‘That’s men for you, honey. Hurt you when you’re with them, hurt you when you’re without them. Feels like us girls just can’t win sometimes. You can tell me all about it later, but for now, you drink this up and put a good old smile back on that pretty face of yours, ’cos we don’t want any of the families to start asking you damn fool questions, do we? Not that most of them would notice if you’d shaved your head and cut your ears off, not at this time of the morning!’

Nicci drank her tea, then took a small mirror from her bag and dabbed a blob of foundation under her eyes and over her nose. It made her look a bit better, even if she didn’t feel it. And on the dot of eight, the children started pouring in, the older ones crashing assorted plastic lunch boxes, dripping Thomas the Tank Engine and Peppa Pig umbrellas down onto benches as they let go of their parents’ hands, and struggling to hang their coats on the right pegs. The younger ones bawled for dropped dummies and milk, some already in need of nappy changes, and Nicci was instantly back in work mode. The busier the better. Safe.

***

Mark opened his till and ran his hands over the piles of bank notes. There was no need to count them. That had already been done, and the coins too, so he knew, to the penny, exactly how much was there. There was something about money that he loved. Not just having enough of it in his own wallet to pay the bills, but money in general. He felt at home with it. There was something so dependable about it. Comfortable. There was nothing quite like a crisp bundle of brand new twenties to lift his spirits, and he often wondered, as he passed them to his customers under the partition, where they would end up and how they were going to be spent.

He’d love to put a tracker on a note or a coin, like a special collar on a roving cat, and be able to find out where it went, passing from one wallet or purse to another via assorted slot machines and charity donation tins and church collecting plates and shop tills, and ending up in a bank again somewhere, right back where it started.

It always made him smile when someone came in with a bank note – usually an elderly person and usually a fiver – that had been hidden away, probably under the bed, for so long he didn’t even recognise the design. Why, oh why, wouldn’t they put their savings into a bank?

‘Ready, Mark?’

He looked up as Sandra pulled back the bolts on the big solid oak doors. He nodded. God, those bolts were noisy this morning, but perhaps that was just because his head was still a bit muzzy from all that booze on Saturday night. Well, Sunday morning too, if he was going to be exact about it. It was well past three by the time he eventually rolled home. Never again!

There were already two people waiting on the step, both elderly. They hobbled in side by side, shaking the rain off, separating as they crossed the carpet and approaching a till each, as Sandra slipped back into the empty seat beside him. His customer was one of his regulars. One of his harem of adoring little old ladies, as Sandra laughingly called them.

‘Morning, Mr Ross.’

‘I’ve told you before, Mrs Baker. Call me Mark!’ It didn’t hurt to turn on the charm. Good practice, as Paul would say, for chatting up the girls. When the time came. When he was ready again. Paul talked a lot of garbage, obviously, but Mrs Baker was well over eighty, with a wrinkled face and a tiny body as thin as a crisp, and a bit of flattery always seemed to make her day, so why not? She was a sweet old thing.

‘Not until you call me Gladys.’ She giggled, almost girlishly, as she averted her eyes and opened her purse. ‘But I know you won’t, will you?’

He laughed. ‘Not allowed, I’m afraid. Not with you being a customer. And a highly valued one, at that. Anyway, people might talk. We don’t want anyone to think I’m your toy boy, now, do we? Best to keep it professional, eh?’

‘Ha! Toy boy, indeed!’ The old lady winked at him. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

‘It’s looking nasty out there,’ he said, switching to a safer topic of conversation as he counted out the few crumpled notes she was paying in to her great-granddaughter’s savings account. Well, you can’t go far wrong with talking about the weather, can you? ‘Could be a storm brewing.’

The morning passed in much the same way. A steady stream of customers in soggy coats and hats, him counting notes and weighing coins, them remarking on the rain. Just idle chat. By lunchtime, boredom was setting in with a vengeance. His headache was refusing to clear. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ he said, closing and locking his till and pulling down the blind, the moment the clock hit twelve.

‘You all right?’ Sandra whispered. She was giving him one of her looks. A mixture of colleague curiosity and motherly concern. Next to her, Gina, who was just opening her till to cover for him during his break, nodded in sympathy. They all knew at the bank, about Nicci, about his divorce, but it was pretty clear nobody actually knew what to say, so they chose to say nothing. Like he was a hopeless case, or a lost cause. He worried sometimes that Sandra, with her over-large bosom and wobbly marshmallow arms, was about to engulf him in some sort of smothering hug. He could see she was itching to, but so far she seemed to have resisted the urge.

‘Fine. Honestly, I’m fine. I just need some air. I’ll be back in plenty of time. I know you need to get off early.’ Sandra had booked the afternoon off to go and watch one of her kids in a school play. He couldn’t remember which one. Which kid, or which play. He should have paid more attention, but asking her again would prove that he hadn’t, so it was probably best to leave it.

As he stepped out into the rain he could still feel her watching him. Without turning round he knew she would be shaking her head and sighing, the way she always did.

***

TheCosy Kettle was not the greatest coffee shop in the world but it was the nearest, and it was cheaper and friendlier than the big chains. A strong Americano, a sandwich and some time to himself were just what the doctor ordered. He picked up one of the newspapers left lying about for customers to read, and was just shoving his change in his pocket when someone called out to him.

‘Oooh, hello, young Mark.’

Just what he could have done without. Someone who recognised him and was going to want him to talk. Why couldn’t people leave him alone? He turned round, coffee cup in hand, and came face-to-face with Mrs Baker, sitting alone at a small table in the window, clutching a half-eaten scone in one of her stick-like hands and waving across at him with the other. For her, with her beaming wrinkly smile, he would definitely make an exception.

‘Mrs Baker! Fancy seeing you in here. And you’re calling me Mark. What happened to Mr Ross?’

‘Oh, that’s as may be in the bank, my duck. But now we’re out of there, those rules don’t apply, do they?’

‘No, er, I suppose not. Can I get you another one of those? Tea, is it?’ He pointed to her empty cup. ‘Um…Gladys?’

‘I won’t say no, seeing as it’s you. Then come and sit down here with me and tell me all about it.’

‘About what?’

‘Whatever it is that’s troubling you. I haven’t seen a sad face like that since the war started. And look how that turned out. Everything was fine in the end though, wasn’t it? We won that. And we even beat the buggers in the World Cup, didn’t we? So, whatever it is, it’s not worth worrying over it. Or maybe it’s a she?’

Mark couldn’t help laughing at the way her extraordinary train of thoughts just seemed to tumble willy-nilly out of her mouth. ‘There’s nothing troubling me, Mrs Baker. I mean Gladys!’ He bought her another tea and placed it on the plastic-covered table in front of her, collected the sandwich that had just been delivered from the kitchen, and sat down. ‘And, believe me, there is no she. There is definitely no she. Or not any more, anyway.’

‘Well, there should be. A good-looking young man like you. They must be queuing up at your door. I know I would be, if I was twenty years younger!’ She winked and laid a hand on his wrist. ‘Well, more like fifty, if I’m honest, but a girl can dream…’

He had come in wanting nothing more than to be left alone, but there was something quite infectious about the old lady’s twinkling eyes and girlish giggle. She was surprisingly good company, and much more interesting than anything he might have found in the newspaper he had quickly abandoned beside him.

Before he knew what was happening he was telling her all about growing up in a tower block with lifts constantly out of action, and his dad’s cigarette smoke hanging over them all and staining the ceilings yellow, how his lungs had been saved by his yearning for the outdoor life and his lifelong love of football. And she was reminiscing about her own childhood in the East End before and during the war – by all accounts an idyllically happy one, despite the bombs and the rubble and the lack of decent food – and about her grandchildren, all eight of them, and her new great-grandchild, Penelope. Time flew by and his mind didn’t stray in a Nicci direction, not even once.

By the time he left, with an unexpected smile on his face, it was already five past one and he had to run all the way back. Sandra was just pulling the blind down over her till. She made a point of looking closely at her watch as he burst back in through the doors, then hurriedly pulled on her mac and grabbed her bag.

‘Enjoy the play,’ Mark called after her, but she had already gone.

***

It was Wednesday already and, although Nicci kept insisting she wasn’t interested, Jilly kept insisting that she’d never know until she tried, so they were looking at evening classes. Jilly had spread the thick glossy brochure out on her kitchen table and used their coffee mugs to pin it down at the corners. ‘There must be something here…’ she said.

‘But most of them have already started. Weeks ago. Look, the term dates are like school, starting in September. We’re well into November already. If we joined something now, we’d never catch up.’

‘Oh, Nic, don’t be such a defeatist. That might matter if we were going to do a GCSE or something, but I wasn’t really thinking educational. We only want one of the fun courses, don’t we? Turn up, enjoy, go home again. No homework or exams or anything like that. What about line dancing? Or yoga? Yes, let’s try some yoga. All you have to do is lie on the floor and copy what the teacher’s doing up at the front. We could manage that, surely? I bet it would be good for all that stress of yours too.’

‘I am not stressed!’

‘You could’ve fooled me. You’ve got tension written all over you. Your muscles must be as tight as violin strings. I could probably play a tune on them, if I actually knew how to play a violin. Now, there’s a thought…’

‘No. I do not want to learn to play the violin, or the piano, or a pair of bloody castanets for that matter.’

‘Oh, hello, Nicola.’ Jilly’s husband Richard thumped into the kitchen through the back door, clattered his briefcase down on the tiled floor and pulled off his tie, then bent to give Jilly a kiss on the top of her head. ‘God, I’m bushed.’ He picked up Jilly’s coffee mug, peered inside, muttered something about too much milk, and drained it dry. And, with no mug to hold it down, the open page of the adult education brochure flapped back up and over, almost knocking Nicci’s own coffee over with it.

‘I’m off up for a hot bath, love,’ Richard said, letting out a long exhausted-sounding breath and dumping the mug back down with a thud. ‘Dinner nearly ready?’ And, without waiting for a reply, he was gone.

‘See? See what I have to put up with? His tie chucked on the worktop, his bag on the floor, complaints, orders…’

‘Oh, stop it. You love the pants off him! Anyway, I’d best be off. I only intended to drop by for a few minutes on my way home, and let’s be honest, you haven’t even started on the dinner, have you?’

‘Oh, I’ll rustle something up. Or he will. He’s a great cook, you know, when he’s in the mood. Which I’m not sure he is tonight! And, anyway, Richard’s stomach is the least of my worries right now.’

‘Why? What else have you got to worry about?’

‘You, of course.’

‘Jilly, don’t be silly. I can look after myself.’

‘And so can Richard.’

‘That’s a bit harsh. Jilly. Take it from me, you’ve got a good one there. Don’t take him for granted. You’d be lost without him, you know. Believe me, I know. Just don’t make the same mistakes I did, okay?’

‘The biggest mistake you made was telling Mark what you’d done. He need never have known. You and your conscience. And your big mouth! You’d never catch me confessing.’

‘But you don’t actually have anything to confess, do you? And you still have a marriage to hang on to. A good one, too. I know the IVF must have taken its toll lately, and how awful it all must be, but you need some “me time” now. Both of you. So, why not cook your husband something delicious for dinner?’

‘Oh, come on, Nic. After spending all day at work baking bloody cakes, the last thing I want to do is cook!’

‘But you’re good at it. And a dinner for two is hardly the same thing as mixing up a fruit cake, is it? Go on. Light a few candles. Not birthday candles for a change: proper scented ones. And put some sexy music on. When he comes back downstairs, surprise him. Pamper him. He’ll love that.’

‘Who’s being the marriage counsellor now?’ Jilly laughed. ‘Oh, God, just look at the state of my nails. Nibbled to the bloody quick…’

‘Well, if that’s all you’ve got to fret about…’

Jilly looked up at her and raised her eyebrows.

‘Sorry. I know there’s been a lot going on. No wonder you bite your nails. I’d probably be up to my elbows by now if it was me. But he did look tired, your Richard. It must be hard on him too, you know, seeing you going through it all. Go on, cook him something nice. Humour me, okay? And I’ll get out of your way. We’ll talk about yoga another time.’

‘They say you can stretch your legs right back and tuck your knees behind your head when you get good at it, you know.’

‘Could come in handy, I suppose. For after your candlelit meal…’

She could still hear Jilly laughing as she closed the door behind her and stumbled down the garden path in the dark, the first teardrop already winding its way down her cheek.

It was no good. She couldn’t carry on like this, pretending everything was fine. Putting on a brave face in public and sobbing her heart out in private. It had to stop. She only had to spend a few minutes in Jilly and Richard’s house, watching their easy interaction and silly bickering to feel a painful pang for the ordinary, comfortable, loving marriage she had lost.

She wiped the rogue tear away, pulled her raincoat around her and put her head down against the rain as she dashed across the main road in the rush-hour crowd. She found the car where she’d parked it in a side street that hadn’t yet been blighted with yellow lines, but hardly remembered the drive home, the wipers flicking backwards and forwards in front of her eyes, the headlight beam bouncing off the puddles.

At the gate, the For Sale sign had slipped again, its wooden post now leaning at an uneasy angle that almost blocked her passage up the path. Oh, how she would love to tear it down, but there was no way she could raise the money she’d need to buy Mark out, and he had made it plain enough that he didn’t want to stay on here either. It had been their house, their home, the place they had saved so hard for and both fallen in love with the very first time they’d stepped through the door. It could never be the same for either of them living in it alone. Mark had made it clear that he wanted a fresh start, and that selling up and going their separate ways was the only thing they could do.

But was it? Was it really? She stood still and gazed at the For Sale sign. Maybe, falling over like that, it was trying to tell her something. That it wasn’t too late to try to stop all this sale nonsense and to do something, anything, to save their home, and save their marriage…

She didn’t want to learn to live without him. Didn’t want to play Jilly’s games, lose herself in distractions, or beat herself up with regrets and recriminations. No, what she wanted was her husband back. She knew that now. Nothing else would do. Nobody else would do. They belonged together. They always had. Somewhere they had lost sight of that, but now it was as clear as the crystal in her mother’s posh glass cabinet. She had to win him back, find a way to regain his trust and bring him home. But that would take time. Time, with the divorce already underway, that she had so little of.

Inside the house, she slung her coat over the banisters and went straight to the sideboard. The envelope felt cold and stiff in her hands as she drew out the decree. Running her gaze down the stark white page to the bottom, she homed in on the date, then dashed into the kitchen and tugged the calendar off the wall.

Puppies in various cute poses stared back at her. Her mother’s doing. What she called a tree present, wrapped and hung from the Christmas tree last year, for her to open as a little extra, after lunch. Why? It wasn’t as if they could have a dog of their own, what with them both being out all day, and she was probably more of a cat person anyway. They’d even talked about getting a kitten, she and Mark, but it had never happened.

Lots of things should have happened, but never had. They should have talked more, for a start. Taken the trouble to find out what the other really wanted out of life instead of her ploughing on with whatever her instincts were telling her and him just following some half-baked boring old plan that had always seemed to have more to do with money than about what actually mattered.

And the baby question? They definitely should have talked a lot more about that. She knew she’d got snappy about it, picked fights, thrown the odd cup – well, who wouldn’t? – but he wouldn’t be pushed. Not until he felt ready. All she had known back then was that she had felt ready, more than ready, but that didn’t seem to have counted at all, and she’d been left feeling so frustrated, so helpless, so bloody angry.

And then she’d gone and…

Oh, God. Why? Too little thought, and far too much booze. That was why. Stupid, stupid, stupid! One mistake. Just one meaningless blip. That was all it was. Only it wasn’t meaningless to Mark, was it? She had hurt him so badly. But one mistake couldn’t wipe away all that had gone before, surely? All the years they had been happy? No, it couldn’t. It just couldn’t. She wouldn’t let it. Babies could wait. They weren’t important right now. Mark was important, and he couldn’t wait. They would work it out, somehow. Together. They had to.

Her hands shook as she looked at the calendar. November slipping rapidly by. Almost two weeks already since the decree nisi had been signed, sealed and delivered, warning of the impending end of her marriage. But it hadn’t ended yet, had it? There had to be six weeks before that could happen; everyone knew that. Time for the paperwork to be sorted? Time to cool off a bit after the initial shock of it all? Time to be sure? Time for people to realise they’d made a mistake and change their minds?

And then she started counting forward. Six weeks. Only forty-two days. That was all it took to end a marriage once the ball had started rolling. Slowly she ran her finger over the dates, counting them silently, one by one, in her head, turning the page over when she reached the bottom. Into December. A little black dog with a red fluffy Santa hat on its jauntily tilted head looked back at her, standing knee-deep in snow, reminding her that another Christmas was on the way. A vision of a lonely and very different Christmas from last year’s opened up before her like a chasm.

And then her finger stopped. December the twenty-third. By Christmas Eve the six weeks would have passed and her marriage would be over. Or it would be, if she didn’t do something to stop it. Did she want some faceless judge to issue the decree absolute? Absolutely not!

Nicci swallowed hard. There was still time. Time to fight. Not for a new life, full of well-meaning friends and divorce cake and yoga classes. No, what she wanted, what she needed, was her old life back. Or a new improved version of it.

She ran her finger backwards again, skimming over the dates on the calendar. One, two, three… She counted quickly, flipped the page back to November, counted some more, stopping at today. Thirty days. She had exactly thirty days left from today to try to save everything they had built together. Thirty days to win her husband back.




Chapter Five (#ulink_e12cc194-3f22-593f-ad61-8f8ae0797035)


‘So, three coming at the weekend? That’s promising.’ Mark tipped his head over towards his right shoulder and held the mobile against his ear, trying to hear what the estate agent had to say as a lorry thundered by. It was starting to rain again and there was still no sign of a bus. ‘And have you spoken to my wife? Is she okay about showing them round? I’m happy to go over there and do it myself if necessary.’

It’s not as if I have anywhere else to be, he thought. It was an away game this Saturday, and Simon was going, but he couldn’t justify the expense of the travelling, let alone the match ticket. Paying rent on the flat and half a mortgage side by side was starting to take its toll, but he had to do it, for now at least. Moving back in with his mum and dad was not an option that appealed to him at all, and giving in and going back to live with Nicci, even if it was just in the spare room, was simply unthinkable. Just the thought of it made him feel uncomfortable. No, the sooner the house was sold the better.

‘Right. I see. Fingers crossed for an offer, then, eh? Let me know if you hear anything.’

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, and shook the rain out of his hair. If this went on much longer, they’d have to drop the price. Someone would get a bargain, that was for sure.

‘It’s late tonight.’ The girl in front of him in the queue had turned towards him and was pulling her sleeve back and peering at her watch in the dark.

‘Sorry?’

‘The bus. Should have been here five minutes ago. Must be the weather. Rain always seems to slow the traffic, doesn’t it? I can’t think why.’

‘Yes, I suppose it does. Sorry, but do I know you? There’s something familiar…’

‘Not exactly. But I’ve seen you often enough. You work in the bank, don’t you?’

‘Yes. And you?’

‘Newsagents on the corner. Extra strong mints and the Daily Telegraph, right?’

‘Yes, that’s me! I don’t actually read much of it though. I only buy it for the crossword, but I don’t know why. I’ve never managed to finish it. But yes, I remember you now. Piles of used fivers and the odd bag of pennies, right?’

‘Well, I prefer to be called Amanda. Sounds better than the odd bag! Or the piles, come to think of it! But yes, that’s me.’

‘And I’m Mark.’ He laughed. The girl was funny! He held out a hand and shook hers. It was small and cold.

‘Pleased to meet you properly at last, Mark. And I couldn’t help overhearing, but are you selling a house?’

‘You interested?’

‘That depends. I might be. We only moved back to the area a few months ago and we’re renting for now, but there’s nothing like having your own place, is there? We’ve looked at quite a few online, but my husband always seems to find some reason to turn them down before we get anywhere near having a proper viewing. What is it? Three bed?’

‘Yep. Quiet road. Good-sized garden. Garage. The lot!’

‘Sounds ideal. So, if it’s that good, why are you selling? It’s not got dry rot or a leaky roof, or a noisy Alsatian next door, has it?’

‘Nothing like that, no.’

‘Moving away?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Sorry. I’m being too nosy. Price?’

‘Negotiable. Look, Amanda, here comes the bus, and it looks pretty full, so I don’t suppose we’ll be able to sit together. It’s Grove Road. Number 37. Ring the agents. Parker’s, on the high street. They’ll tell you everything you need to know, and sort out a viewing for you if you like. With or without your husband! It’s a lovely house, believe me.’

‘I might just do that.’ She stepped aboard the bus ahead of him, the pointed tip of her wet umbrella just missing his arm as she hastily shook it closed. ‘Thanks.’

He watched her edge forwards and find a seat up at the front. The last seat, by the look of it. Oh, how he hated crowded buses. He’d drive to work, but there was nowhere to park that wouldn’t cost him five times the fare, and walking the three miles there, and the same back again, was out of the question in this God-awful weather. And then, there was the little matter of not being able to drive when he’d had a drink. He’d stopped off for a quick one after the bank closed tonight. Only a half, but, even so, he knew it was becoming a bit too much of a habit. Still, at least he wasn’t a smoker, so his lungs were safe even if his liver wasn’t, and having just the one bad habit had to be better than two.

The bus lumbered its way through the slow-moving traffic, stopping and starting every few yards, almost toppling him into his fellow passengers on more than one occasion as the driver slammed on the brakes again, assorted briefcases and shopping baskets bashing against his legs. He clung on to one of the upright bars and gazed unseeingly into the dark wet void outside the window, watching the rain slant diagonally over the grimy glass.

Hang on! Wasn’t that Nicci? They’d stopped at the lights and people were swarming into the road, heads down, bumping and jostling, trying to reach the other side before the traffic moved off again. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew that shape, that walk, that bright red raincoat they’d hurriedly bought together from a funny little market stall years ago, when she’d gone out in a thin summery dress and the heavens had suddenly opened and threatened to drench her. Never been known to plan ahead and check the weather forecast, his Nicci. Fancy her still wearing that old thing!

He was surprised by the jolt of emotion that hit him pretty much instantly. What was it? Nostalgia? Love? Pain? Whatever it was, he didn’t like it, and he didn’t want it. He hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks, had tried to push thoughts of her and what she might be doing out of his head. He didn’t want to be faced with the reality of her, especially now the solicitors had pulled their fingers out and the divorce was finally underway, with the end quite frighteningly in sight. Knowing she was out there somewhere was one thing. Seeing her for himself, walking, breathing, going about her life, and in that funny old coat too, was quite another.

The lights turned green and the bus moved off. He bent to peer through the window on the opposite side, trying to see where she had gone, but she had already disappeared from his line of sight, melting into the throng across the road. Where had she been? Where was she going? They weren’t near to the house or to the nursery where she worked. And where was her car? Maybe she was off to meet that Jason again, or maybe some other bloke? But it wasn’t long after six-thirty. A bit early. And she certainly wasn’t dressed for a date.

It was no good. He had to stop this. He needed to move on. Get her out of his head. Get the house sold, the money divided, the last of their connections broken. He should be looking to the future now, not agonising over the mistakes of the past.

‘Goodnight, Mark.’ It was Amanda, squeezing past him, edging towards the door, ready to get off the bus. ‘And I will follow up on the house viewing.’ She gave him a little cheeky grin as if, just for a second or two, she was flirting with him. ‘I promise!’

Mark watched her step down onto the pavement and walk away. She was a nice girl. Blonde, slim, attractive. She had a beautiful smile too. Wide and warm and genuine. And she’d aimed it right at him. He wondered why he had never really noticed her properly before. He must have seen her loads of times, in the shop. But, of course, he’d been married then, hadn’t he? Not in the market for pretty girls. Back then, he had eyes only for his wife. And why go out for burgers when you have steak at home? Someone famous had said that, but he wasn’t sure who. All he knew was that it was something his dad said often, patting his mum on the bottom and winking, whenever the latest celebrity or footballer had been caught cheating and been plastered all over the front pages of the tabloids.

But, when he thought about it, things were different now. Looking at other women, thinking about other women, was allowed, wasn’t it? And Amanda was just his type. Or she would be, if he was looking for someone else. Which, of course, he absolutely wasn’t. And, besides, even if he was no longer married, she most certainly was.

His mind flashed back to the day Nicci had told him what she had done. Kneeling in front of him on the carpet. The look on her face. The tears in her eyes. The pleading in her voice as she begged him to forgive her. The steely cold stab at his heart that had utterly floored him in that moment, and had never really gone away.

A married woman? No, he couldn’t contemplate that. Couldn’t do that to some other poor unwitting bloke. Not now he knew how it felt. That was one line he knew he would never ever cross.

He jumped off as the doors opened at his stop, and walked the few yards through the puddles to his flat. The rain had stopped at last. There was a distant bang as a firework flared across the black starless sky somewhere in the direction of the park and burst into a shower of silver sparkles. Why? It had been a while now since Bonfire Night. Must just be someone celebrating something. And why not? If you’re happy, flaunt it. Shout it out to the world! That’s what his mum always used to say. Not that she’d had much to say about happiness lately, especially his. He only had to mention Nicci and her face went into that sour lemons look that seemed to pinch her cheeks right in and half close her eyes.

There was a smell of cooking onions in the shared hallway, and a heap of takeaway leaflets on the mat. Typical! Delivery boys too lazy to walk inside and deposit them through individual letterboxes, even though there were only four of them and the main door was rarely locked.

Mark took the stairs to the first floor, fumbled in his pockets for his key and went inside the flat. It was cold. He’d left the heating off to save money, but being cold just added to the unwelcome feel, the silence and emptiness of the place. That wasn’t what he wanted any more. The bare temporariness of a place that he’d made no attempt to turn into a home. He wanted to bring some fun and warmth back into his life, to experience those firework moments again. He wanted to see his mother smile at him, with her eyes wide open, and mean it. The same way Amanda had just now.

He took off his coat and flipped the thermostat up to high, turned on all the lights and pulled the curtains closed. He didn’t want to be the poor saddo who lived alone among a heap of unopened cardboard boxes any more, getting by on trashy TV and takeaways and tins of own-brand spaghetti. He deserved better.

It was time to get some proper food in the fridge, investigate how to operate the oven, and start unpacking his stuff. This was home from now on, at least until the house was sold and he had some money to consider his options and plan what happened next. He would be here for Christmas, New Year, maybe even Easter. Time to pretty the place up a bit, get a few houseplants, put a picture or two on the plain magnolia walls, invite friends round, turn the music up, cook…

In short, it was time to forget about Nicci, once and for all, and to get on with his life. It was just too late, and things had gone way too far, for him to contemplate doing anything else.

***

Hannah buried her face in Nicci’s shoulder and wrapped her small arms tightly around her neck. ‘I don’t want to,’ she whispered, her lips close to Nicci’s ear. ‘Don’t like it.’

‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ Nicci soothed. ‘No one will make you eat anything you don’t like. But you could give it a try, couldn’t you? We could pour lots of honey on top to make it really yummy. Here, look, just a teeny spoonful.’

‘It’s not yummy. It’s yukky!’

Nicci tried not to laugh. It was only a pan of porridge, but the little girl was adamant she was not going to like it, even if it was Baby Bear’s favourite food in the whole wide world and all the other children were demolishing big bowls of it as if they hadn’t eaten for days, and were already asking for more.

They’d all enjoyed listening to the story and acting it out with different-sized chairs and piles of cushions made to look like beds, even if there had been a bit of a tussle over who was going to be Goldilocks. It was probably losing that particular battle that had got Hannah so upset. The need to gain attention, to be centre stage, to get her own way. Nothing to do with the porridge at all. Her mum was in hospital for a few days and she was probably feeling a bit insecure, that was all. Still, watching Nicci mix up the oats and milk and all taking it in turns to stir had been an added treat that all the others had taken to eagerly, so one unhappy child out of a group of fifteen wasn’t too bad a result.

As Rusty led the children away for some outdoor play, Nicci stood at the sink and started the washing-up. She could hear Hannah giggling as she rolled a ball across the grass outside. How quickly they forget, she thought. Bouncing back the way kids always seemed to do. If only we adults could forget so easily and cheer up so quickly when things don’t work out the way we’d like, she thought, putting the clean bowls back into the cupboard.

No amount of cajoling was going to get Hannah to try that porridge, and why should it? Even kids should be allowed some choices, and it was true what she’d said. Some things are just yukky!

She remembered the first time she’d ever tasted a snail. Just the thought of that slimy little creature entering her mouth, let alone swallowing it, had made her want to throw up, but they’d been in a lovely new French restaurant, celebrating their anniversary – was it their fifth or their sixth? She couldn’t remember – and Mark had waved the fork in front of her and promised it would be all right. And somehow she had let him do it, let him pop the snail between her lips, because she’d trusted him. More than little Hannah trusted her, obviously! But it had been okay. Not as she’d expected at all. To be honest, she’d tasted the garlic and the cream more than anything else, and the kiss they’d shared straight afterwards had soon taken her mind off it anyway. Not that she’d ever eaten a snail again since, of course. Once was quite enough!

It was surprising just how often she still thought about Mark. He had moved out weeks ago, and she’d hardly seen him since, but he was still there, all the time, nudging his way into her head every time she opened a cupboard or a drawer at home and found one of his discarded paperbacks or a mug he’d liked to drink from, or a CD he’d accidentally left buried amongst her own. No matter how many times the bedding had been through the wash, she was sure she could still detect a whiff of his aftershave on the pillows. Of course it might just be wishful thinking, but if she couldn’t wish for Mark, then what else was there?

‘Snack time!’ Rusty was leading the children back inside for their usual mid-afternoon fruit, and they were all giggling as they kicked off their boots in a muddy pile at the door and padded across the room in their socks.

‘Snacks?’ Nicci laughed. ‘Haven’t you all got full-up tummies from eating so much porridge?’

‘No!’ fourteen little high-pitched voices chorused as they pulled their mini-sized plastic chairs up to the table. Only Hannah hadn’t answered, her eyes already trained on the banana Rusty was chopping into chunks. She knew what she liked, that girl! And what she wanted. Perhaps there was something Nicci could learn from her after all.

Soon after six o’clock the last couple of parents had finally arrived, mumbling apologies and excuses about traffic and trains, and bustled out again, and all the children had gone. Everything had been cleaned and tidied during the last hour when a lot of the children had already left for home and those who remained had settled down in the book corner for a final story. Now all was quiet and Nicci was about to grab her coat from the hook in the staffroom when Rusty stopped her.

‘So, what’s it all about, girl?’ Rusty had slipped her shoes off and was rubbing a rather large corn on the side of her big toe. ‘God, my feet will be the death of me!’

‘About?’

‘Come on, my love. There’s something playing on your mind lately, that’s for sure. Tell your Auntie Rusty, or I’ll just have to tickle it out of you.’

‘You’ve been around kids too long!’ Nicci smiled. ‘I do not succumb to tickles!’

Unless they come from Mark, she thought, an image of a play fight they’d had on their honeymoon popping into her head, where he’d tickled her so much she’d wet herself. Not the most romantic way to present herself to her new husband, but he’d just laughed and tickled her some more. Hurriedly, she pushed the memory away.

They said their goodbyes to the other girls and took a last check around, making sure all the windows were closed and the sockets switched off. Rusty rescued the last of the porridge from the fridge, now looking decidedly lumped together and unappetising in a blue plastic tub, and stowed it in her enormous bag. ‘That’ll save me making any breakfast for my lot tomorrow,’ she quipped, licking her lips. ‘Okay. Seriously, though, Nic. Porridge aside…’ Rusty wasn’t about to give up.

‘Yes, I would love to put the porridge aside. I’m sick of the sight of the stuff. How could you even contemplate eating another morsel?’

‘Stop changing the subject, you. I’ve seen definite tears in your eyes more than once this week, and the porridge wasn’t hot enough to make your eyes water, that’s for sure. Come on, it’s never a good idea to bottle things up. Is it Mark? Has he said something? Done something?’

‘Oh, Rusty, I only wish he had. He’s kept himself so distant, it’s as if we’re strangers.’

‘Then you must say something or do something. It’s no good waiting about hoping for things to change. Sometimes you have to take the bull by the horns and give it a good seeing-to… Ooh, that sounds a bit rude!’

Nicci laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I know what you mean. And I do want to do something. I really do. In fact, last night…’

‘Go on, love.’

‘Well, I went through the calendar and worked out how long my marriage has got left if I don’t.’

Rusty took hold of her arm, just as it was about to disappear down a coat sleeve, and guided her towards a chair.

‘Right! This sounds serious. I’m putting the kettle on, and then you are going to explain. And we are not locking up and leaving here until you do. Okay?’

‘But don’t you need to get back to your own kids?’

‘My Carl is there. He’s making us one of his curries. And Thursdays are Maths homework night so, believe me, I am in no hurry to get home! So, here’s your tea, here’s your chair, and here’s my ear. All yours. Now, talk to me, girl. Once in a lifetime offer!’

Nicci gave in. It wasn’t as if she had any plans to be elsewhere and she knew Rusty was a good listener.

‘I did a stupid thing. I know that. You know that. Everyone I know knows that. And I hate myself for it, and I know that I will never ever do anything like it again, but it was unforgiveable, wasn’t it? And that’s the trouble. Mark’ll never forgive me. I can understand his anger; of course I can, but he’s completely closed me out. He won’t see me, or let me even try to explain…but I really want him back, Rusty. I’ve only got twenty-nine days left now – less than a month – before that decree nisi can be made absolute, but Mark sure as hell isn’t going to be the one to try to stop that happening, is he?’

Rusty patted her shoulder and reached over to pull a chunk of kitchen paper off the roll beside the sink. ‘Here!’ she said. ‘Have a cry if you need to, but this is going to be the last time. Sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, and sobbing about what’s happened in the past and can’t be undone, never got anyone anywhere, did it? Twenty-nine days, is it? You can move mountains in that time, girl, you’d be surprised. I’ve seen whole houses built quicker, from the first brick right up to the roof. And a hamster can grow a whole litter of babies and pop them out in less time than that. I know. My kids’ pair produced enough of the little critters, before I moved them into separate cages. So, let’s see what can be done in your twenty-nine days, shall we?’

‘But, Rusty, I don’t even know where to start. My friend Jilly is constantly trying to steer me away from him, talking about new starts and finding ways to forget. I thought she knew me so well, but she’s got this all so wrong.’

‘You’d better find a way to put her off and get talking to him then, hadn’t you? Nothing is ever going to get itself sorted while you’re living apart and not even seeing each other. And you never know, he may have calmed down a bit by now, be ready to talk, and to listen. He might even be missing you as much as you’re clearly missing him.’

‘You think so?’

‘I have no idea, my love. But there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?’

‘So I should get him round to the house?’

‘Well, unless you want to turn up unannounced on his doorstep and risk having the door closed in your face, yes. Home territory, somewhere you’ve shared good times, has to be your best bet, surely? You’ll probably have to get him round on some made-up excuse though. The central heating’s not working, or there are tiles off the roof, or some other disaster only a man can put right. He still owns half the place, doesn’t he? So, he’ll want to make sure it’s in good order, especially if he’s after selling it. And, besides, it’s your chance to do the poor little helpless woman act. Make him feel all manly and needed.’

Nicci laughed. ‘I’m not sure he’ll fall for that one. We put away all that gender stereotyping long ago, about the same time the nursery world stopped pushing all little girls towards playing with dolls and boys with trains! But you do have a point. I don’t want to trick him into it, but getting him over to the house has to be my first step.’

‘Glad to have helped. Now, I really should go. Quadratic equations and vegetable curry await.’

‘Enjoy!’

‘I will, although one more than the other, I suspect!’

They locked up together and separated at the gates.

‘See you tomorrow, Nicci, love. Good luck.’

Nicci watched Rusty walk away into the darkness, open her car door and climb in. Would it work? Just talking, on home ground? Hoping there was still some tiny spark buried inside Mark that might burst back into life, given half a chance? Was it really that easy? Well, anything was worth a try. Anything was better than doing nothing, as she had been until now. Now all she needed was that excuse Rusty had talked about.

By the time she arrived home, she had decided what it was. The For Sale sign, on its wonky post. As she stepped out of the car, it seemed, if anything, that the post was leaning even further across the path than it had before. It had to be a safety hazard, left tilting like that. Another windy night and it could fall over altogether, maybe even hit some poor passer-by. She leaned against it, making a token attempt to straighten it, but it was heavy, and a jagged splinter dug its way into her hand as she pulled away. Ouch! No, Rusty was right. She couldn’t deal with this on her own. This was a job for a man. Her man.

***

‘But, Nicci, shouldn’t we ask the estate agents to do something about it? They erected the thing, after all.’ Mark turned the gas down under a pan of peas and bent to peer through the glass door where a frozen chicken pie was slowly turning a satisfying golden brown in his previously untested oven.

‘They’re closed, Mark. It’s gone seven. And I’m not sure it will stay standing until tomorrow.’

‘Can’t you just pull the whole thing out of the ground and dump it on the grass?’ Mark freed the phone from where he’d been balancing it under his chin and sat down at the table. He didn’t want this. Her calling up, wanting things done, and him expected to go running over there. Those days were over and, from the way he’d felt just glimpsing her from the bus yesterday, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to cave in and start caring again. He didn’t want to go backwards. That way lay nothing but pain, and it had been hard enough coming this far. ‘It’s not as if we really need it for advertising the house sale, is it?’ he said, a bit too abruptly, but what the hell? ‘I’m sure most people either find us in the agent’s window or online.’

‘But it’s heavy, Mark, and it’s got nails sticking out of it. I’ve already got a gash in my thumb from trying to get hold of it. Please, couldn’t you just come over for a few minutes and help? It is your house too, you know.’

He closed his eyes and let out a long slow sigh. He could feel himself weakening. Yes, it was his house too, and it wasn’t fair to leave her to deal with everything on her own. Maybe just a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. He could grab whatever hammers and nails and stuff he needed from the garage when he got there, and sort it out easily enough. Nail it back where it was meant to be, or take the damn thing down altogether.

‘Oh, all right. But I’m about to eat, so give me a while, will you? I’ll be over as soon as I can.’ He rang off, dropped the phone on the table and went back to the hob to inspect the peas.

The pie looked great, its comforting meaty smell drifting through the flat as he drew it out of the oven, but suddenly he seemed to have lost his appetite, and after forcing a few mouthfuls down he left half of it congealing in its own gravy on the plate, the last of the peas swimming about at the edges like little lost bubbles.

It was cold outside as he fastened his jacket and headed for the car. He could walk round. It would only take twenty minutes or so, and the fresh air would do him good, but at least driving gave him a good excuse to refuse a drink if one was offered. He couldn’t allow himself to come under the influence of alcohol, even a small amount. He’d probably get all soppy and cry or something. Oh, God, why was seeing her so hard? Even the thought of it screwed his stomach up in knots. He wished he knew what she was thinking. Was she trying to trick him, worm her way back into his life, his heart? He thought he’d made his feelings pretty clear when he’d packed up and left. No, if anything, she had just sounded annoyed. The last thing on her mind would be any kind of reconciliation. Or on his.

‘Evening.’ Billy, the bloke from the ground floor flat, was out walking his dog. Billy was probably only about forty or so, but he looked older. He was divorced too, and had been for years, or so he’d said when they’d first encountered each other the week Mark had moved in. Mark wasn’t sure he looked too good on it though. His shapeless straggly beard needed a good trim and his old corduroy trousers were fraying at the hems. Classic signs of a man too long on his own. He must make sure he didn’t let himself get like that, although he could already see how easy it would be.

The old spaniel had obviously once been black but was now greying around the ears, a bit like his master. Mark seemed to remember the dog was called Sausage or Salami or some such meaty-sounding name. It was cocking its leg against the base of a tree, a thin stream of urine already running downhill across the pavement towards Mark’s shoes. ‘Sorry about that.’ Billy laughed. ‘I’ve only just got home and old Hot Dog here’s been holding it in all afternoon, poor little sod!’

So that was the dog’s name. Mark dodged out of the way and nodded.

‘Bit nippy tonight.’ Billy pulled a tatty football scarf tighter around his neck, tugged a hat down further over his ears and turned his coat collar up. ‘But at least there’s no sign of any more rain to come, eh?’

‘Let’s hope not. Sorry, I’m in a bit of a rush. See you!’ Mark opened his car door and jumped in.

‘Yeah, you too.’

As he drove off and glanced back in his mirror, he could see Billy light up a cigarette, its tip glowing in the darkness. The dog snuffled about in a pile of dry dead leaves at the side of the road. A pale narrow light spilling out from a hallway illuminated a young couple kissing goodbye – or maybe it was hello – in the open doorway of a house across the road. He saw the young man’s hand travel to the girl’s miniskirted bottom and give it a squeeze. He heard her giggle and the front door slam behind them as they tumbled inside. Just ordinary people, doing ordinary things.





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