скачать книгу бесплатно
‘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.
