Читать книгу How to Win Back Your Husband - Vivien Hampshire - Страница 11

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.

***

The Cosy 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.