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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.
