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.
‘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