Can I Give My Husband Back?

by Kristen Bailey

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life; Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

‘I laughed and laughed my way through this book from start to finish!!... I found it so funny that I rolled from one laugh straight to into another one for most of the book!... I loved this book so much I finished it in a day – I think that tells you everything you need to know!! Fab, fab, fab!!’ Stardust Book Reviews, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

It’s normal to prefer getting a filling at the dentist’s to spending time with your husband, right? I thought I was sorted on the life front. I was a heart surgeon with a loving partner and two gorgeous little girls. Except my husband’s version of ‘loving’ is lying, cheating and sleeping his way around London. Which means I definitely deserve a refund. Unfortunately, moving on isn’t that simple. Just because I know how to operate on a heart doesn’t mean I know how to fix my broken one. Plus, I lost the receipt for him years ago so I’m definitely getting short changed. But now I’m single, am I ready to mingle? There are a few minor issues: 1) The last time I went on a date double denim was in fashion and my eyebrows were horrendously overplucked. 2) Men wear stupidly skinny jeans now. 3) I don’t know how to use dating apps but at least I don’t have to get changed out of my pyjamas. 4) Sometimes the most promising thing you have in common with a guy is a shared love of prawns. 5) I don’t know whether to open a date with ‘hi’ or ‘hello’ or ‘hey’ and once I ended up saying ‘howdy’. Everything happens for a reason, they say. There’s plenty more fish in the sea. But what happens when everything falls apart and you haven’t got a clue how to go fishing? An absolutely hilarious and utterly relatable tale for anyone who has ever survived a nightmare relationship, felt a little lonely or nursed a broken heart with wine and carbs. This feel-good novel will get you back on your feet and genuinely laughing out loud. Perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks, Sophie Ranald and Sophie Kinsella. Readers absolutely love Can I Give My Husband Back? : ‘ The BEST book I have read for a long time! A book has never made me laugh like this one... Made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe, I had tears rolling down my face and I had to force myself to put it down for a bit to recover. This book has it all: it’s laugh-until-you-risk-passing-out funny, it made me cry, the characters are highly relatable and I loved every second of it… If I could give it more than 5 stars I would!’ Goodreads Reviewer, ‘A side-splittingly hilarious romp that had me wiping away tears I was laughing so much… It’s just as well that I was in lockdown and I couldn’t read this book anywhere in public because I was laughing so hard, I would have surely embarrassed myself… Wickedly funny, deliciously witty and a joy from start to finish.’ Bookish Jottings, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ OMG… LOVED IT!!!… Just pure LOL all the way through… A MUST-READ for when you could do with a laugh!’ The Book Girls, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Oh my goodness… Made me laugh so much my sides hurt… Definitely the pick-me-up and anxiety-buster I needed.’ Little Miss Book Lover 87, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Brilliant… It’s not often that a proclaimed “laugh out loud” book makes me do so, yet laugh out loud I did.’ NetGalley Reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Had me chuckling out loud and I think I almost actually jumped off my chair at one point.’ This Hannah’s Life ‘ Had me in stitches.’ B for Bookreviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Jam packed with so so many laugh out loud moments, honestly I just couldn’t stop laughing. Also I found this very easy to read and it only took me 2 days to read, it was that good I just flew through it! ’ Jessica Book Biz, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Fantastic… My belly hurts from laughing.’ NetGalley Reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: June 19, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 396

Sample

What are you wearing?

I went black. A dress with ruffled arms. And my black jacket and black shoes.

Has someone died? Will you be performing a flamenco for the gentleman?

Well, I’m not wearing a shroud. It’s classic.

Did you wax?

I had a tidy. He may not want to sleep with me.

He will.

God, what if he does?

Do you remember how to do it?

I hate you.

Love you sis. Have fun x

Hi. Wow. So good to meet you… Hello. I’m Emma. How are you? You look great… Evening Phil!… Phil? You’re here, so am I!… Greetings!… It’s great to finally connect.

Connect? This isn’t a LinkedIn date. Why am I rehearsing this in my head like a script? Who does this? I’ve spoken with this man on the phone and via WhatsApp and it was totally fine and he was lovely. No one on this planet would say the word ‘Greetings’ unless they were an alien come from another galaxy.

How do I smile? Like full teeth? It’ll look like I’m trying to eat him… No teeth. But then I’ll look smug and insincere.

Adjust your tits. Make sure they’re facing forwards. Show a bit of bra. I’d clearly gone to the wrong sister for advice on this one. Lucy, the youngest, who was still single and well-versed in the world of dating.

Does this mean my boobs are not always facing forward? Where are they looking?

To educate me about modern dating, Lucy had walked me around a lingerie floor to teach me about tangas and hipster thongs. Only old, boring people buy cotton multipack minis, she said. And she introduced me to terms like ‘ghosting’, which I’m glad is nothing to do with sex. I literally thought I’d have to walk around with a bed sheet on my head.

Oh my days, I should leave. Is that bad form? Where the hell are my words? I have words. I’m well-spoken. I can do this. I’ll be natural and it’ll be great and it’s a drink, that’s all it is. In a bar that serves artisan burgers made out of halloumi and beetroot, and where the chips come in tiny silver pails like one would serve sugared almonds at a wedding.

I had sugared almonds at my wedding. I had a wedding. I was the bride. The sugared almonds were not a good idea. I hadn’t accounted for the number of elderly relatives and Simon’s Uncle Brian fractured a denture and sent us the bill. Why am I thinking about that? Why Simon? Why now? Get out of my head, you donkey. Think about something else. That girl at the bar is obviously not wearing knickers with that dress, is she? Is that hygienic? I am at an age now where I don a panty liner most days… I guess she doesn’t… And when did men stop wearing socks? Again, hygiene. When I was at medical school, I once had to lance a nasty blister that had come from a pair of badly fitting moccasins. And there are different expectations of beauty these days. Eyebrows now have pride of place and teeth are whiter. Shockingly dayglo. People are young too. I don’t feel young. I feel like a second-hand car in this showroom. Do I cross my legs? That’s always been classy. I don’t want to sit here with my legs akimbo. That would send Phil the wrong message. How about knees together? Like royalty? I adjust my tits like Lucy said.

‘Emma?’

‘Howdy, Phil.’

Howdy?

He laughs. Did he see the boob jiggle? He goes in to kiss me on the cheek but we do a strange dance of not knowing what the other is intending so he kisses my ear and I bend into his body like I’m trying to shoulder barge him. I am not quite sure what to think. I smile. I show teeth. He is as advertised and real and his height is as described.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘I have a drink. But I could have another one, I guess?’

He’ll think I’m an alcoholic.

‘Maybe just a soft drink? To go with my wine?’ I say.

‘Or another glass of wine?’

‘Why not? I’ll have a glass of the Picpoul. A small glass.’ My fingers suggest I want a shot-sized glass.

He laughs. ‘No worries. Have a seat, I’ll be back.’

As soon as his back is turned, I reach for my phone to SOS Lucy.

I’ve forgotten how to talk to men. This is horrific.

Do you need me to do the emergency call?

No. I said howdy.

Like a cowboy?

Like a bloody cowboy.

Why are you texting me? Where is he?

He’s at the bar. I think he’s wearing skinny jeans.

Men do that now. Can you see the outline of his cock?

Why do you have to go there?

What were his eyes like? Did he have the look of a serial killer?

He looks normal. What do serial killers look like?

They usually look normal too until they have drugged you and shoved you in a van. Look out for white vans outside with no number plates.

I hate you. I could be kidnapped and killed for my body parts. Look after my girls. Make sure Si doesn’t ruin them.

Two things: Don’t mention that man’s name to me. And you’re too old to be kidnapped. Your organs would be a hard sell.

Again, I hate you.

I spy him at the bar. Christ alive, he’s not wearing socks. I can’t bring that up, can I? I have a moment to think about what his feet might look like, sweating away in his suede loafers. I can’t judge. I might be wearing things he’s not keen on either. He might not like black, too morose. He may not like my face, which would be worse. He said he was ‘well-built’ which I fear is code for hiding a hint of a dad bod but I can hardly talk. I’ve had kids, parts of me are stretched and doughy. I can’t be fussy. I can’t find excuses to not be out here because I’m scared. I have to get myself back on the horse. But not literally because I’m not riding anything tonight. I only had a tidy, after all. He returns to the table. For some reason, I stand to greet him. Again.

‘Thanks, can I pay you back?’

He looks at me quizzically. ‘Or buy the next round?’

Lord, I am out of practice.

‘I could.’

I point to his seat, almost telling him to sit.

‘You look as nervous as me.’

My body relaxes a smidge. ‘I’m not usually this socially inept.’

‘You’re fine. You’re great,’ he replies.

‘I’m great?’

‘Like, you’re here and you… look nice?’

‘So do you?’

He laughs. His hair is very still, in that it’s been styled and sits in the one position. I want to say like a Lego man. There’s a silence and a pause so we take large sips of our drinks.

‘I saw you texting someone before. Was that to tell them you hadn’t been kidnapped?’

I laugh in a high fake tone. ‘Maybe?’

‘I’ve been told to do the same at 10 p.m.’

‘How could I kidnap you?’

‘Easily done. You could have catfished me.’

‘Is that a sex thing?’ I ask.

He chokes on a bit of his wine.

‘No… it’s when people pretend to be someone they aren’t.’

I just mentioned sex in front of this man. I didn’t need to wear blusher today. He is gracious in the face of my embarrassment.

‘I didn’t know what it was either until my daughter showed me an MTV show about it,’ he carries on.

I laugh.

‘Your eldest is ten, yes?’ I ask.

‘Well remembered. Her name is Jessie.’

We’d shared some details of our lives before our date and I liked his honesty and pride when he spoke about his kids. We found out that we both had children, and we were taking tentative steps back into dating after a long time away. If sod all came of it, I felt like I was drinking with an ally, that we’d have tales to tell and advice to swap.

‘Bradley is eight and the rugby player and your youngest is Miles and he is five,’ I say.

‘Is that your doctor brain talking?’

‘I remember things.’

‘You have two girls, seven and five,’ he replies.

‘Iris and Violet.’

I study his face. Not offensive or strikingly good-looking but I like the sincerity in his smile.

‘The floral thing…’ he prompts.

My ex-husband, Simon’s idea. Iris was an aunt who had died; then another popped out and he said their names should match and I didn’t fight it which was probably the theme of our marriage. I’m glad I’m not saying these thoughts aloud.

‘Just seemed nice. They were both born in spring.’ My reply, however, is a bit dull. I may as well have just said I like flowers. But then that would sound like I was expecting him to bring flowers. I expected nothing. Lucy said she once had a date bring her a gift bag filled with lubricant and condoms.

‘Did you want to order food?’ he asks.

‘I’m good. I ate before I came out.’

I’m not sure if that’s rude or not. But it’s true – and if I eat anything else I’ll bloat. Will he think that I was rude for eating before? But then how would I have drunk anything and not fallen over?

‘I had some pasta,’ I decide to add.

He nods. ‘I had a sandwich. Prawn.’

He likes prawns. I like prawns. This should be a match made in heaven. He launches into a short description of his journey home from work and how he had to get Bradley to rugby training but realised he forgot about food so had to stop at a Tesco Metro for sandwiches. I want to talk to him about meal deals. That’s not sexy talk, is it? It’s not good to comment on how Walkers and Kettle Chips are not savoury snack equivalents. Lucy has me second guessing how interesting I actually am. Whatever you do, don’t talk about your doctor shit, avoid Brexit and any opinion you may have about global warming. What else is there to talk about? I pretend to be interested in Phil’s son not liking his southern fried chicken wrap.

‘But then I always left it to Stacey to look after the food thing which I know is completely sexist…’

And there it is. How long did that take? Eleven minutes in and an ex has been mentioned. I was good. I bit my tongue and didn’t say his name out loud but here’s Stacey, she’s on this date now. Apart from the fact Phil looks sensible, has some silver fox action going on and has sailing as a pastime (maritime = man of the sea = dependable), the one thing we have in common is that we are freshly divorced. I hated that term. Fresh is the word you use to describe fish. Dead fish who’ve been caught and are still edible. And it means that one day, if I’m left out long enough, I’ll rot to death and start to smell.

‘But then Miles totally had a meltdown, so you know what? I just let him go crazy on the crisps,’ he carried on.

My ex liked crisps. He liked cheesy snack foods – which remained a mystery to me – and he used to do that thing at the end where he’d lick each of his fingers to get the last of the flavour off. I take a large gulp of wine, like it might keep the words down.

‘Sometimes, needs must,’ I reply.

He smiles. ‘So, when was the last time you were on a date?’

‘2003.’ It wasn’t even a date really. It was a university bar so it was a drunken free-for-all where people coupled up and I ended up with Si who charmed me with his floppy hair and excellent teeth. Back then he had a thing for brightly coloured jeans and Hackett rugby tops. I snogged him in the bar. We had lacklustre, first time drunken sex back in his student bedroom.

‘Been a while then?’ he says with a grin.

‘I’ve forgotten all my words today. I’m normally far more interesting. I guess I’m just…’

‘Crapping yourself?’

‘Pretty much. I mean, not actually.’

I’m not sure why I needed to clarify that fact. I think to that girl at university. Back then, I could go out without a bra and survived on youth, one pound shots and hope. Now I look down at my glass and just hope that it was rinsed properly.

‘2008,’ he says. ‘We went to see Iron Man. She ate a whole bag of Maltesers.’

‘She?’

‘Stacey.’ Twice now. ‘We had Jessie six months after that and then got married.’

‘I got engaged around then.’

But neither of us points to it being serendipitous or the stars aligning. He’s mentioned his wife twice now and this wasn’t what today was supposed to be about. But it appears that the shackles are still on. This was too soon. It’s 8.46 p.m. I stand up.

‘I’m just going to powder my nose.’

He looks a little worried he’s said the wrong thing. How long does one wait before they go for a wee in a date? Will he think I’m escaping?

‘I drank a lot of water before. I have a small bladder,’ I explain.

‘Oh.’

Too much information. I grab my handbag and then worry that it looks like I don’t trust him around my personal belongings. I follow arrows posted around the bar and find the toilets. Inside a group of girls are applying lipstick and chatting around a sink. They wear varying degrees of animal print and shiny leggings. I go into a cubicle, lower the seat and sit down. I take a deep breath. I don’t need to wee. I’m a surgeon so I’ve trained my bladder well. Instead, I refer back to Lucy.

I’m in the loo.

Is it bad?

It’s fine. He’s mentioned his ex twice though.

Have you mentioned Si?

No.

Good girl.

I don’t like these knickers you bought me.

Are they chafing your flaps?

For want of a better expression. I told him I was going to powder my nose.

Why did you say that?

Better than saying I was going for a wee.

Also makes you sound like a coke user.

Shit.

Exactly, don’t take too long or he’ll think you’re having a dump.

I flush the toilet and emerge. The girls are having a conversation about where they’re going after this. I’m going to bed, girls. Maybe with a podcast and a cup of jasmine tea. I’m not brave when it comes to how I look. I’ve had the same brown bob for twenty odd years, I use brown eyeshadow on my brown eyes and the same Rimmel Heather Shimmer lipstick that I discovered in my late teens. Maybe Lucy is right. I’m boring. Is my face boring? Maybe I should smile. I practise in the mirror but a girl who’s taken extraordinary care with her eyeliner catches me in the act and there’s a small moment where I think she might start a fight.

‘I love your handbag,’ she tells me.

‘Thanks. I like your… face. I mean, your make-up is extraordinary.’ I wave my hand around like I’m drawing on my cheeks. The girl and all her friends look at me. I think that’s my cue to leave. When I re-enter the bar, he’s texting on his phone.

‘Did you think I’d escaped out of a bathroom window?’

He laughs. ‘I did worry.’

‘Still here.’ I take my seat.

‘I was texting my brother.’

I smile, taking my phone out of my bag. ‘My sister.’

‘He suggested this bloody look tonight. Who doesn’t wear socks? I’m going to get blisters the size of saucers. And I’m sorry about the jeans.’

‘They’re fine.’

‘They’re tight.’

I laugh. ‘I was told not to wear black.’

‘Nothing wrong with black. It’s classic,’ he replies.

‘Which is exactly what I said.’

Things are warming up. Words are flowing. We can thank wine and interfering siblings for that.

‘What’s your brother’s name?’

‘Peter, Pete. Your sister?’

‘Lucy, she’s the youngest.’

‘Of how many?

‘Five.’

‘Five?’

‘All girls. My mother had her work cut out, that’s for sure.’

‘Where are you in the birth order?’

‘I’m number two.’ I just referred to myself as a poo, didn’t I? ‘Meg, Me, Beth, Grace and Lucy.’

‘Are you all doctors?’

‘Christ no, we have a journalist, a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher and Lucy who currently lives with me. At the weekends she dresses up as Disney characters and does kids’ parties. She’s the fun one.’

‘You’re fun too,’ he says, eyes sparkling.

‘To a lesser degree, perhaps. So it’s just you and Pete?’

‘Yup, he lives in Wimbledon.’

‘Is he good at tennis?’ Oh my crap, that was a terrible joke. I’m lucky he laughs back.

‘He’s actually Pete Sampras.’

‘Is he?’

‘No.’ He’s still chuckling for which I’m very very grateful. ‘We work together in IT, run the company together.’

He gets his wallet out to retrieve a business card. I take one out of politeness. It’s then I see it. It’s a photo in his wallet of a woman. Do people really do that? Wallet pictures? I thought we kept these things on our phones these days. He catches me looking.

‘I’m sorry. You didn’t need to see that.’

I shrug my shoulders. ‘I still keep my wedding ring in my coin purse.’

He looks relieved. ‘For when you have no change and need to pawn it in for parking?’

‘Exactly.’ I look down at the ridge in my finger where that ring used to sit.

‘It’s just still very new, eh?’ he says.

I say something next that I shouldn’t. ‘Did you want to talk about it?’

We’d said very little via text, other than that we’d both had our hearts broken. We didn’t divulge, instead swapping vagaries about each other’s lives. I knew he liked white wine and seafood pasta. There was the strong maritime leaning in his pastimes. He knew how to spell which was always a winner. All of this but I didn’t know what his wife had done.

‘Zumba instructor. Such a bloody cliché. She left me for a Polish Zumba instructor called Val.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Not your fault.’ He’s pensive. I’m not sure whether to make light and talk about Zumba being a mildly ridiculous fitness pursuit.

‘Her loss?’

‘Mine really.’

I pause. He still loves her, he still misses her. He thinks this is his fault. ‘How so?’

‘Maybe it was something I did or didn’t do? I’m still figuring that out… Maybe I wasn’t a good enough husband? Maybe I allowed things to go stale?’

‘Or maybe she’s not a very nice person?’

I know I’ve overstepped as soon as the words leave my mouth.

‘She is a nice person.’

‘I’m sorry, that was out of turn. I don’t know her and it was unfair to comment.’

He’s still quiet. I feel the need to respond.

‘My husband cheated on me several times during my marriage. Several is an understatement. The end came when my mother dislocated a thumb punching his face on Christmas day.’

It’s a good story but you can tell that he doesn’t want to engage in a competition of who’s had their heart broken the worst.

‘I found him in our bed,’ he continues. ‘I’d gone home after the school run as I’d forgotten my phone. Lycra all over my bedroom floor.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I reply.

‘You keep saying that…’

‘I was talking about the Lycra.’

That didn’t raise the smile I thought it would.

‘And the look she gave me. You’d think she’d be scared or ashamed but it was like I’d interrupted her, like she was glad I’d found out.’

She sounds like a complete bitch but I’ve learnt not to say that out loud. And then something happens that I don’t expect. Geez, Phil. I know it hurts but please please please, don’t cry. I’m at a loss at what to do so I put my hand in his. The tears roll down the curve of his cheeks in the shape of sideburns. Sideburn tears. They drip on to the table. I pass him a tissue from my handbag.

‘Well, this is good. Pete told me three things: don’t talk about Brexit, don’t talk about Stacey, don’t cry.’

‘We can move on to Brexit, if that would help?’

He laughs, snot dribbling out of his nose.

‘I think I’m out of tears. Simon bled me dry.’ Grief has moved to anger. We are obviously at different stages of the process.

‘Simon?’

‘Simon. My ex-husband. You’re allowed to call him a wanker if you want.’

‘Wanker.’

It took me years to admit that much.

‘This is too soon, wasn’t it?’ Phil says. ‘Pete just thought I could meet up with someone and shag it out of my system.’

My eyes widen at the revelation. Was this just a polite, precursory drink before sex? In a small way I’m glad he thought I was shaggable, unless that’s not the case now he’s met me. Maybe he cried to get out of the sex. I don’t even want to sleep with a man who still carries a picture of his ex-wife in his wallet. I don’t want to have sex tonight to help him get over her.

‘I think this was too soon. For you at least,’ I eventually reply.

‘Maybe in a few months’ time.’

‘Maybe when you’re ready to take that photo out of your wallet.’

‘Can I buy you another drink? To say sorry for crying and being a shit date?’

‘Hell, why not? I’ll take some olives too.’

Luce, you still up?

I hope you’re texting me from a taxi because you’re going back to his.

I’m texting from an Uber. I am alone.

Second date?

He cried.

Because you’re so boring?

Piss off. He’s not over his wife.

Oh.

I would have been shagging him and he would have been thinking about her and cried on top of me and I’d have died of the shame.

I’m sad Ems, this one had potential. I liked the seaman thing he had going on.

Except I didn’t see his semen.

Did you just make a joke about cum? I may be having a positive influence on you.

Are the girls OK?

Yup. Was it a complete car crash then?

In parts. I gave him details of my mediation team. He also fixes laptops if we ever need him.

Romantic…

He also bought me olives and chips.

Big spender. Did he at least try and feel you up?

No.

Then he’s a loser. You’re smoking hot.

You normally say differently.

I don’t mean it really. I love you Ems x x x x

Love you too.

If you want some sex, I have an old uni mate who’d shag you. He lives in Brixton.

Lovely. No.

You’re so boring.

Back in 5. Put the kettle on.

‘This is a drop off zone only!’

Ever since we gave Hetty Michaels a hi-vis vest, it’s transformed this woman into some power-hungry traffic-calming Nazi. I watch as she dictates the parking law to a man in a four-by-four who has no problems parking up, removing a child from its car seat and strolling into school.

‘Move your car, please!’

‘Make me. What are you going to do, write me a ticket?’ he replies.

The parents of St Catherine’s stop in their tracks. I don’t know this man but I like how he’s standing his ground so Hetty will go back to raffle ticket selling where she belongs.

‘This is in the interests of safety for the children!’ Hetty’s voice rises to a high shrill.

I look at the time in the car. I have half an hour to watch but also navigate this bedlam, still confused that we can send people into space and cure smallpox but can’t seem to remedy the drop off and parking situation at these school gates. Their disagreement attracts a crowd, and the school caretaker, who chuckles to himself as he sweeps the autumn leaves off the pathway.

‘Why is Mrs Michaels screaming like that?’ asks Iris from the back of the car.

‘It’s a parking thing… Who is that man?’ I ask.

Iris peers over to inspect. ‘He’s Giles’ dad.’

‘Do we like Giles?’

‘Not unless we like boys who pee down slides. He stood at the top, peed down it like a waterfall. The boy is feral,’ Iris says, strong judgement in her tones.

‘Good use of the word feral, Potato,’ I say.

‘What’s feral? asks Violet.

‘It means he was brought up in the jungle,’ replies Iris.

The nearest woodland is the park down the road but I am too stressed to correct her. Giles’ dad has held up the drop-off process and Hetty is waving her arms around in some manic semaphore trying to sort the ensuing chaos.

‘Why do you still call me Potato?’ asks Iris.

I spy her face in the rear-view mirror. It fits her round face and blonde locks, like a little golden new potato.

‘It just stuck. People have all sorts of nicknames.’

‘But not food ones…’

‘Honey. Sugar… all the foods,’ I tell her.

‘I once heard Granny call Daddy an effing melon once, that’s food,’ adds Violet.

I’m half relieved that’s the worst name she’s heard her father be called but also that she substituted what my mum most likely prefaced the melon part with. I sigh. I have to do this, don’t I?

‘That was wrong of Granny. Daddy is not a melon.’

Their little eyes peer at me through the mirror. I did the right thing there. But their father is the worst sort of lying evil shitmelon there is. Don’t let your face show what you think, I silently tell myself. Focus on something else, like this line of cars that refuses to shift, the woman on her Dutch cargo bike who swerves around everyone smugly, the gaggles of mums gossiping while their little ones swing off the school fencing.

There’s a strange mix of parents at this place. I was educated in a south London state school so I remember book bags and sweatshirts and an array of faces and families representative of the city we lived in. Here there are more au pairs, bigger cars, the jeans fit better and people carry impressive tans from their last weekend break in Antibes. The kids here are suited up too: the PE kit is the size of a small weekender bag, and we put them in blazers and ties and burgundy V-neck jumpers in the vague hope that sartorial smarts will increase the size of their brains. A child walks past me with a cello case, another with a hockey stick. It’s a different land, one which my socialist parents don’t forgive me for and which my sisters constantly tease me about, but the girls are happy. They thrive, they know little snippets of Mandarin, even if they share a class with a Constantine and an Ophelia.

A knock at my window calls me to attention. I wind it down.

‘Are you Violet’s mum?’ a mother asks.

‘I am.’

‘It’s about Pippa’s riding party this Saturday at the riding stables.’

Like I say, different land.

‘I thought we RSVPed to that?’

‘Yes, you did but we have to change the food options as one of the partygoers is allergic to nuts so I’m making everyone aware and we need to let the guests know that they can’t bring any nuts on the day.’

‘Have you explained this to the horses?’

She laughs but obviously doesn’t get the joke. I wasn’t going to send my daughter to a party with a packet of cashews but I nod politely.

‘And just gift vouchers for gifts please. Smiggle, if you can.’

Again, I nod, biting my tongue at the presumptuousness. I suddenly panic. We haven’t entered the realms of pony riding just yet. Do I have to buy jodhpurs and boots? If I don’t, will my daughter be the odd one out? But Pippa’s mum saunters off before I have the chance to ask.

‘Do I have to go to that party, Mummy?’ asks Violet.

‘Well, we’ve already replied. Did you not want to go?’

‘I’ll go if I have to.’

I don’t have time to answer, edging the car forward to a vacant space.

‘Love you. Aunty Lucy is picking you up today.’

‘On the bus? Yes!’ they chirp in unison.

Turns out a comfy car with heated seats and a hi-tech music system is nothing compared to the adventure of going on the bus with Aunty Lucy and sitting next to a drunk who sings Boney M. and smells of armpit. They collect their assorted bags and clamber out of the car.

‘Bye Mummy! We’ll see you after work!’

But they won’t. I’ll get back home too late and arrive in time to kiss their sleepy foreheads. It always hurts my heart a smidge but they’ll be with Aunty Lucy who’ll stop at the corner shop to let them buy sweets and overpriced magazines. I wave them off. Meanwhile, Giles’ dad is back. This could be entertaining but I have twenty minutes to get home and collect my thoughts. I pull out in front of an angry Mercedes driver who rolls their eyes at me. Oh, piss off – you’re wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap in September, you tool. Do I start a fight? No, I have to save my fight for Simon.

I distract myself by turning on the radio. Avoid the North Circular, lots of rain and phone in the next time you hear Ed Sheeran. Why? Can I win Ed Sheeran? That would rile my ex-husband – look! I’ve replaced you with a superior being. He can play guitar and doesn’t even need a band. I could give him the spare room and Lucy could bunk in with me.

Simon, Simon, Simon. Why has he called this meeting? His lawyer called on Friday to arrange it. He went with some cutthroat family law firm that always spoke to me in patronising tones. We know you’re a busy lady so we’d be happy . . .