‘You have. And those policemen were very understanding. Considering.’
Mrs Deakins had started to back away. ‘Well, that’s lovely. It’s nice that you’re still together.’
‘We get by.’
‘We have no choice right now.’
‘That’s true too.’
‘Could you bring out some red sauce?’
‘Oh, good idea. Darling.’
As she disappeared, Mr Nicholls nodded towards the candle, and the plates. And then he looked up at Jess and he was no longer scowling. ‘This is actually the best pie and chips I’ve ever eaten in a weird bed-and-breakfast somewhere I’ve never heard of on the north Yorkshire moors.’
‘I’m so glad. Happy birthday.’
They ate in companionable silence. It was astonishing how much better a hot meal and a fearsomely strong cocktail could make you feel. Upstairs Jess could hear Nicky watching television, occasional growls of frustration echoing through the open window when the static electricity interrupted his programme. Crows cawed obscenely from a nearby telephone wire. Norman groaned and flopped over onto his side, releasing Mr Nicholls’s foot. Mr Nicholls stretched his leg speculatively, perhaps trying to see whether he still could.
He looked up at her, and raised his refreshed cocktail glass. ‘Seriously. I do feel better. Thank you.’ Without his glasses on, she noticed now that he had ridiculously long eyelashes. It made her feel weirdly conscious of the candle in the middle of the table. It had been a bit of a joke when she’d asked for it.
‘Well … it was the least I could do. You did rescue us. From the side of the road. I don’t know what we would have done.’
He speared another chip and held it aloft. ‘Well, I like to look after my staff.’
‘I think I preferred it when we were married.’
‘Cheers.’ He grinned at her. And it was so genuine and unexpected that she found herself grinning back.
‘Here’s to tomorrow. And Tanzie’s future.’
‘And a general absence of more crap.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
The evening crept into night, eased by strong alcohol, and the happy knowledge that nobody had to sleep in a car, or needed frequent, urgent access to a bathroom. Nicky came down, ate his pie and chips, gazed suspiciously from under his fringe at the men in the snug, who gazed equally suspiciously back at him, and retreated to his bedroom to watch television. Jess drank three glasses of acidic Liebfraumilch, went inside to check on Tanzie and take her some food. She made her promise she would not revise later than ten o’clock. ‘Can I keep working in your room? Nicky has the telly on.’
‘That’s fine,’ Jess said.
‘You smell of wine,’ Tanzie said pointedly.
‘That’s because we’re sort of on holiday. Mums are allowed to smell of wine when they’re sort of on holiday.’
‘Hmm.’ She gave Jess a severe look and turned back to her books.
Nicky was sprawled on one of the single beds watching television. She shut the door behind her and sniffed the air.
‘You haven’t been smoking, have you?’
‘You’ve still got my stash, if you remember. You said you were going to throw it away.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She had completely forgotten. ‘But you slept without it. Last night and the night before.’
‘Mm.’
‘Well, that’s good, right?’
He shrugged.
‘I think the words you were looking for are “Yes, it’s great that I no longer need illegal substances simply to fall asleep.” Right, up you get for a minute. I need you to help me lift a mattress.’ When he didn’t move, she said, ‘I can’t sleep in there with Mr Nicholls. We’ll make another bed on the floor of your room, okay?’
He sighed, but he got up and helped. He didn’t wince any more when he moved, she noticed. On the carpet beside Tanzie’s bed, the mattress left just enough room for them to slide in and out of the door, which now only opened six inches.
‘This is going to be fun if I need the loo in the night.’
‘Go last thing. You’re a big boy.’ She told Nicky to turn off the television at ten so as not to disturb Tanzie, and left them both upstairs.
The candle had long since expired in the stiff evening breeze, and when they could no longer see each other to talk they moved indoors, seating themselves in the corner of the snug as far as possible from Mrs Deakins and the silent men at the bar. They had moved from parents and first jobs onto relationships. Jess told him about Marty and how he had once bought her an extension lead for her birthday, protesting, ‘But you said you needed one!’ In turn, he told her about Lara the Ex and how on her birthday he had once arranged for a chauffeur-driven car to pick her up for a surprise breakfast at a posh hotel with her friends, then spend the morning in Harvey Nichols with a personal shopper and an unlimited budget, and how when he’d met her for lunch she had complained bitterly because he hadn’t taken the whole day off work. Jess thought she’d quite like to slap Lara the Ex quite hard around her overly made-up face (she had invented this face: it was probably more drag-queen than was strictly necessary).
‘Did you have to pay her maintenance?’
‘Didn’t have to but I did. Until she let herself into the apartment and helped herself to my stuff for the third time.’
‘Did you get it back?’
‘It wasn’t worth the hassle. If a screen-print of Mao Tse-tung is that important to her she can have it.’
‘What was it worth?’
‘What?’
‘The painting.’
‘A few grand.’
‘You and I speak different languages, Mr Nicholls.’ She studied him. ‘Have you changed the locks now?’
He shuffled a little awkwardly in his seat. ‘It’s just stuff …’ Jess must have pulled a face, because he said, ‘Okay, then, how much maintenance does your ex pay you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ His eyebrows had lifted to somewhere round his hairline. ‘Nothing at all?’
‘He’s a mess. You can’t punish someone for being a mess.’
‘Even if it means you and the kids have to struggle? You’re right – you and I do speak different languages.’
How could she explain? It had taken her two years to work it out herself. She knew the kids missed him, but she was secretly relieved Marty had gone. She was relieved that she didn’t have to worry about whether he was going to hijack their futures with his next ill-thought-out scheme. She was weary of his black moods and that he was permanently exhausted by the children. Mostly she was tired of never doing anything right. Marty had liked the sixteen-year-old Jess – the wild, impulsive, responsibility-free version. Then he had weighed her down with responsibility and hadn’t liked who had emerged from it. ‘When he’s sorted himself out I’ll make sure he contributes his share again, yes. But we’re okay.’ Jess glanced upstairs to where Nicky and Tanzie were sleeping. ‘I think this will be our turning point. And, besides, you probably won’t understand this, and I know everyone thinks they’re a bit odd, but I’m the lucky one having them. They’re kind and funny. They have ideas about stuff.’ She poured herself another glass of wine and took a gulp. It was definitely getting easier to drink. She just wasn’t sure how much tooth enamel she’d have afterwards.