Vivien Hampshire - How to Win Back Your Husband

‘Yes, ma’am!’ Jilly saluted, peeling off her crumpled dress as she shoved Nicci outside and closed the door behind her.

Nicci made her way around the house, opening curtains and picking up the worst of the rubbish from the living room floor. She was pleased to find there were no more unexpected guests lurking in armchairs or sleeping it off under the table, although under the table turned out to be not a very pretty sight, having caught the worst of the fallout from the mangled cake. It looked like she’d be spending the best part of the day with a hoover, a wet cloth and a pile of bin bags.

But all that could wait, at least until Jilly had gone. Breakfast and coffee first. She filled the coffee machine and plugged it in, and pulled out two mugs from a cupboard. But when she opened the fridge door, there was no milk. And no eggs. All the bread had been used up making last night’s sandwiches, so no toast either. And some kind soul had finished off the orange juice with bits in, and put the empty carton back in the fridge as if hoping she might not notice.

She made the coffees, automatically adding two heaped spoons of sugar into one before remembering that it was meant to be for Jilly and not for Mark, and having to pour the whole mugful away again. She made Jilly another and left it on the worktop. If she was much longer in the bath, it would probably go cold before she got to drink it. Tough. Serve her right for not getting up and out sooner.

Nicci’s stomach growled ominously, in a Feed me right this minute kind of a way. She realised now just how little she had eaten at the party. There were always the leftovers, she supposed, as she carried her mug through and surveyed what was still out on the table. Needs must, and all that. She picked up a sandwich. The filling, whatever it had once been, seemed to have been picked out of it, and the bread that was left was so hard it could break teeth! Maybe not.

One thing there was still plenty of, of course, was the cake. By the time it had been cut last night nobody had been particularly interested in eating it. It would seem it had been viewed more as a symbol of the occasion than a genuine foodstuff. But it would be a shame to let it go to waste, after all Jilly’s hard work.

She popped a clump of it in her mouth and chewed. Not bad, actually. The jam was a bit sweet for this time of the morning, when a bacon and egg butty would have been her meal of choice, but it was pretty good just the same. The little icing bride and groom sat together now on the edge of the cake board, where someone must have helpfully repositioned them, the girl staring out towards the kitchen, the boy tipped over sideways and resting on his head.

She picked him up and wiped the crumbs off him before turning him the right way up again and setting the two of them face-to-face. They may only be edible figures, but she didn’t like to see them the way they had been last night, backs turned towards each other. She thought maybe, when the cake itself was all gone, she might hang on to them. Silly, obviously, wanting souvenirs, but there was something about them, and about who they were supposed to be, that meant she couldn’t just throw them away.

She could hear the bath water gurgling noisily down the drain as Jilly flung open the bathroom door with a loud bang and dripped her way hurriedly down the stairs. She had wrapped one of Nicci’s fluffy pink towels around her, or tried to, as there was barely enough fabric to reach around and meet in the middle, let alone conceal what was left of her modesty. Had she had any, that was.

‘Got a bigger towel, Nic? And a hairdryer? God only knows what Sheila is going to say when I roll up late. I can’t risk looking a mess as well. I hope that wine smell’s worn off. She won’t want me anywhere near the customers otherwise.’

‘Jilly, calm down. You’ll be fine. And it’s only a glorified cake shop. Not the Ritz!’

‘Huh! Don’t you let Sheila hear you say that.’ She lifted her voice an octave and did the best impression of her posh boss as she could manage. ‘Cake shop? Certainly not. Gibson’s, I will have you know, is the finest patisserie this side of gay Paree!’

‘Oh, you do make me laugh! You sound just like her.’

‘Hairdryer, Nic?’

‘Oh, yeah, sorry. It’s by our bed. I mean my bed. And towels are in the airing cupboard on the landing. Help yourself. Oh, and there’s no milk left, so the coffee’s black, if that’s all right with you?’

‘I guess it’ll have to be. Beggars can’t be choosers.’ Jilly grabbed her coffee with one hand, hanging on tightly to the towel with the other, and sped back up to the bedroom, her voice trailing behind her. ‘Which brings me to Plan B…’

‘And what might that be exactly?’ Nicci would have followed her but she couldn’t quite find the energy.

‘The next phase of the Save Nicci Ross campaign, of course,’ Jilly shouted, from somewhere above her head.

‘Jilly, I don’t want to be saved. Can’t we just…’

‘Can’t stop. No time to explain right now.’ Already the sound of the hairdryer whirring away at top speed was drowning out any hope of continuing the conversation. ‘Meet me for a drink later at Albie’s, and all will be revealed.’

Thank God for football! Mark jostled along the crowded underground platform towards an opening door and squeezed himself into the train along with what felt like thousands of others, the sea of blue and white scarves around him giving him the comforting impression that he was amongst friends. People who wanted to talk about nothing more taxing than the price of a season ticket, or who was going to be wearing the number one shirt now the regular goalie was injured, or whether it was true that their best striker was leaving for some new contract in Spain. People who were on his wavelength, who understood him, yet wanted nothing from him. It made him feel normal again. For a few hours on a Saturday afternoon, when his team were playing at home, he could push Nicci right out of his head and concentrate on the second love of his life. Football.

Spilling out into the street, he allowed himself to be pulled along by the crowd. It was a chilly afternoon with a drop of rain in the air, the rosette and badge sellers were out in force, and a policeman on an enormous horse was guiding the more rowdy fans, already singing their hearts out, back into line. The smell of a hot dog with onions being rapidly and noisily devoured by a fat bloke walking alongside him reminded him that he’d not eaten since seven this morning, when he’d finally accepted he was not going to manage any more sleep and had dragged himself up to tackle the dubious delights of a bowl of own-brand cornflakes, the last of the not-quite-fresh milk and an over-ripe banana.

He really should tackle a supermarket shop but he’d had a busy week at work, which may have left him tired but was perfect for keeping his mind off other things, from nine to five at least. Sitting at the counter in the bank, counting the money in and out, stamping the paying-in slips, handing out leaflets about savings accounts and mortgages, might not be all that glamorous a job, but it did mean he met and chatted to lots of people, usually one after the other without a break, except for lunchtimes and the occasional trip to either the toilet or the kettle.

His mother had joked that, with so many customers passing through, he might get to meet a nice girl, now that he was free again and available. Well, he’d hoped she was joking, but probably not. Mothers could be very unforgiving when it came to the happiness, or otherwise, of their precious sons, and he’d noticed that, as far as his own mother was concerned, an ex-wife came way down the list of suitable subjects to be discussed.