How to Win Back Your Husband. Vivien Hampshire

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ