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.
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