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Chapter 2

Huh. Dan’s still sleeping in the spare room and doing that “no-talking” thing the rest of the time, even though New Year’s Eve was days ago. How can you have a row so bad that you decide to separate, then fail to mention it ever again? That’s just bloody typical. He obviously didn’t mean a word he said, which is really annoying, as I haven’t slept a wink for the last three nights.

I’m like a sleepwalking zombie when I go back to work this morning, which doesn’t escape the notice of my boss, the Apprentice wannabe better known as the Fembot. At lunchtime, she writes my stats on the whiteboard in much larger writing than she uses for anyone else’s.

“Hannah’s having trouble keeping up with us young ones today,” she announces to anyone who’s listening, at the same time as rising up on her toes and twirling around to show her arse off to its best advantage. What sort of dingbat wears hot pants to work, for goodness’ sake?

“I’m sorry,” I say, when it becomes apparent that eye-rolling is insufficient, and some sort of verbal response is required. “I’m not feeling well. I’ve got a bit of a stomach upset, to tell the truth.”

“I see,” says the Fembot, in the tone of voice that means, I don’t believe a word of it.

I go to the loo four times in the next forty-five minutes, just to prove her wrong. Then, when she leans over the back of my chair to ask if I realise that I’ve been “spotted leaving my desk four times in the last forty-five minutes”, I tell her that there’s a highly-contagious bug going around.

“Joel’s been ill with it for days,” I say. “He looks like shit. I hope none of you will catch it.”

It’s only a small lie, given that Joel has had a three-day hangover since he overdid the drinking on New Year’s Eve, but it serves its purpose very nicely: the Fembot moves away as if she’s been electrocuted. She’s got a date tonight.

“Go home, Hannah,” she says. “Right this minute.”

“Are you sure?” I say, standing up and following her across the room, getting as close as I can and breathing heavily down her neck. I cough a couple of times, for good measure. Now she’s put the idea in my head, I really fancy an afternoon off – preferably spent sound asleep.

“Yes, I’m positive,” says the Fembot, glaring at me. “You can work from home instead.”

I hate modern jobs. In the olden days, when you were too ill to go into your place of work, no one expected you to work at all. Now you do everything on a computer or a mobile phone, you’d have to be dead and buried before you could get away with claiming to be unfit to work.

I particularly hate my modern job.

It isn’t the type of thing I thought I’d be spending my working life doing when I met Dan at art school all those years ago. Then we both thought we were headed for fame and fortune, or for something creative, anyway. Instead, Dan got such a boring job at the Council that he can’t even be bothered to explain to people what it is, and I ended up as a graphic designer for HOO, a question-and-answer site. (Officially, HOO stands for Helpful Opinions Online, but staff know it better as Halfwits’ Opinions Online, or Halfwits for short.)

“Ahem,” says the Fembot, who’s obviously noticed that I’m no longer listening to whatever it is she’s going on about. “As I was saying, Hannah, you can email me that artwork from home tonight, but don’t forget it’s very urgent.”

Only the Fembot would use the word “urgent” to describe a stupid “thumbs-up, happy face” icon. It’s not half as urgent as dealing with a husband who does his wife’s head in by saying something terrible that he doesn’t mean, then taking a vow of silence afterwards. I’m going to make Dan talk to me tonight, as soon as he gets home, and sod the Fembot’s bloody icon.

* * *

Oh, my God. Dan says he meant what he said the other night. He really did. Twenty-seven years of marriage down the drain, just like that.

He comes home just as I’m waking from my nap, but doesn’t say a word until Joel goes out to meet his girlfriend. Then he takes a deep breath and hits me with it. (Not the breath, obviously.)

“So,” he says, turning off Netflix and putting the remote control out of reach. “I guess we should talk about what we’re going to do. I’m assuming you haven’t told Joel yet?”

“Told him what?” I say, annoyed at missing the last five minutes of Breaking Bad.

“That we’re splitting up,” says Dan, as if it should be obvious. “I haven’t said anything about it so far, as I didn’t see the point in stressing him out until we’d got it organised.”

Oh, brilliant. Dan’s worried about stressing Joel out – Joel, who’s oblivious to almost everything once he’s smoked a joint to celebrate finishing work for the day. And what about my stress levels? I could have a heart attack at any second, at my age.

I think I might be, actually. Having a heart attack, I mean. My breathing’s gone all funny and now I feel genuinely sick. I’ve got pins and needles in both my arms as well, though I suppose that could be because my fists have suddenly clenched so tight.

Dan doesn’t seem to notice there’s something wrong with me. He’s too busy looking down at his hands, which he’s fiddling with in his lap.

“If we’re getting on each other’s nerves so much,” he says, inspecting his fingers as if his life depends on it, “then it seems the only sensible thing to do. Doesn’t it?”

Well, if that’s how he feels, it obviously does.

“Yes,” I say.

Then I run upstairs to the bathroom, and am sick. I never believed it when people in films threw up after they’d had a shock. Now I know it happens in real life too.

When I finally come back downstairs, still shaking and clammy, Dan glances up at me, then says,

“You okay? You don’t look good.”

I forgot that was the explanation, or rather, I must have blanked it out. Dan said he doesn’t fancy me any more the other night, didn’t he? And you can’t make someone fancy you again, once they’ve stopped. At least, I don’t think you can … and what’s the point in being married to someone who doesn’t want to be married to you, anyway?

I reach for the remote, and turn the TV back on.

“I’m fine,” I say, staring back at Dan without blinking, so he’ll believe I’m telling the truth.

I’m not going to cry. I am not. Not when the only thing left to salvage is my dignity.

* * *

Well, my no-crying resolution didn’t last long. I’m standing by the coffee machine this morning, when the Fembot starts holding forth about her date last night.

“I don’t usually fancy older men,” she says, “but I think I’ve been missing out on something. They really know what they’re doing in bed, and they appreciate younger women, too. Probably because the ones their own age are so bloody hideous. They give up bothering about how they look, once they’ve been married for a while.”

She means women like me, doesn’t she? And men like Dan. I hadn’t thought of that. Now Dan’s probably going to start dating a hot-panted child, while I’ll be stuck on my own, consigned to the scrapheap just in time for my fiftieth birthday.

“I think your coffee’s ready,” says someone behind me, so I make a grab for the cup, catch it against the top of the machine, and then drop the damn thing on the floor, narrowly missing the Fembot’s feet – which is a tragedy when she’s wearing her favourite pair of Louboutins.

My legs are covered in hot coffee, though I’m not too worried about that. I’m more concerned about the funny noise that’s just started escaping from my chest. It sounds like the beginning of what could easily end up being a full-blown sob, if I don’t choke it off. I bite my tongue, hard, which seems to do the trick, though the Fembot’s already noticed that something’s up.

“All except you, Hannah,” she says, looking a bit shocked. “I didn’t mean you, even though you are a lot more mature than the rest of us. Like Taste the Difference cheddar, you know.”

Cheddar? Now I’m like cheese? I can’t speak, in case another one of those funny noises makes its presence felt. Luckily, I don’t have to: the person behind me intercedes on my behalf.

“Hannah’s fine,” she says. “Though she may have scalded her legs a bit. I’ll go with her while she puts cold water on them.”

Then she takes me firmly by the arm and shepherds me out of the office.

“Thanks, er … um,” I say, as we make our way along the corridor towards the ladies’ loos. Who is this Good Samaritan?

“Esther,” she says. “We met when I came for my interview, a couple of weeks ago.”

I must have been on another planet at the time as I don’t recall ever meeting this girl before, even though I can see her more clearly now my eyes have finally stopped being so inexplicably watery. Girl is a bit of a misnomer, actually, as Esther is definitely a lot older than the Fembot, at first glance. On second thoughts, though, maybe she isn’t. I think it’s just her clothes and hair which give that impression: she’s probably only about thirty-five.

“Nice to meet you, Esther,” I say, shaking her hand. “And thanks for coming to the rescue, too. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Listening to your boss, I should think,” says Esther, pretty much hitting the nail on the head. “All the other staff seem nice, but does she really despise anyone older than her as much as she just sounded as if she did?”

“Not everyone,” I say, as I finish taking off my tights, then stick one foot into the sink and turn the cold tap on. “Only older women, as far as I can tell. Older men seem to be in a different category: the lust-worthy one. Oh, sod it all to hell and back.”

I’ve turned the tap on too far and now there’s water all over my dress, as well as on my leg. The Fembot will probably assume I’m incontinent, and order a Tena Lady dispensing machine for the loo, clearly marked for my use only. Then she’ll ask Dan out on a date … or someone even younger will.

“A-a-arrhhh,” I say. Out loud, despite biting my tongue again, which just makes the sob more hiccupy. Then, before I know it, I’ve taken my foot out of the sink and am sliding down the wall onto the cold tiled floor, where I sit wailing like a baby. In front of a brand new member of staff. I think I’d better ask for permission to go home. Again.

* * *

That’s better. I’ve got a grip now, thanks to back-to-back episodes of Friends on Comedy Central, though I’ll probably get fired if I take any more time off work. The Fembot made that pretty clear before she told me I could go home early “yet again”.

It was worth her disapproval, though. After four hours of lying on the sofa and watching how much fun you can have when you’re single, I am fine with this. Absolutely, completely fine. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I think it’s going to be exciting, which is one thing life with Dan hasn’t been for donkey’s years.

All I need to do is find somewhere to live – a house-share with a few cool, fun people, preferably my age – and then Bob’s your uncle! Before you can say, “hot pants”, I’ll be youngish, free and single, and having a ball. (I ruled out “middle-aged, free and single” because it didn’t have the same ring.)

I can see my new life now, as clear as day. After work (where I’ll be responsible for something that doesn’t involve icons), I’ll rush home to get changed into something simple and chic (but dazzlingly sexy), then I’ll swig a quick glass of chilled white wine in the kitchen while my funny, affectionate new friends quiz me about whether tonight’s date is “good enough” for me.

Then my taxi will arrive and I’ll waft off into the night, leaving behind a trail of Chanel or whatever’s cool these days, and arrive fashionably late at a little Italian restaurant: one that only the most sophisticated man would know about. It’ll be intime, and the maître d’ will not only know my date’s name, but he’ll give him the thumbs-up approvingly when he thinks that I’m not looking.

I suppose I might have to eat from one of those stupid wooden chopping boards with handles (the ones Dan always calls “totally pretentious”), but the food will be great, and – who knows – being single might prove so good for my cholesterol levels that I won’t have to pull a bottle of Benecol out of my bag and swig it as soon as I’ve finished eating, for once.

And there’ll be conversation, too – proper conversation, not just moaning about work, and Joel, and why he and Dan never throw toilet-roll inners into the bin – and there’ll be eye contact, as well. Lots of eye contact, so intense it’ll fire up all those neurons or whatever those things are that give you the shivers when you’re filled with lust. If my neurons aren’t all dead from lack of use, of course.

Afterwards, my date will say, “I don’t want the night to end yet, Hannah. Your place … or mine?”

I’m having a hot flush just thinking about it. Well, not a hot flush, because sexy single women don’t have hot flushes. It’s a bit humid for January, that’s all.

Where was I? Oh, yes – so while I’m playing at being Charlize Theron or Keira Knightley in one of those perfume ads, and staring deep into Mr Suave’s gorgeous eyes, Dan’ll just be lying on the sofa watching TV, and only remembering that I don’t live with him any more when he glances across to see if I’ve noticed the covert nap that he’s just woken from. No more watching his eyes glaze over when I tell him about the Fembot’s latest idiotic idea, either, or when I ask him where we’ve gone wrong with Joel; no more being “mum” first, and a woman second, and no more boring Hannah without anything resembling a social life. I’ll get a makeover, and become a cougar or whatever Courteney Cox is called these days. It’s all going to be better than fine.

All I need to do to get to Friends-cum-perfume-advert land is take control. No more wallowing in self-pity, and no more keeping what’s happening to myself, in the hope that it will go away. Dan and I will tell Joel when he gets home from work tonight – just like we agreed we would last night. Then, as soon as I’ve found somewhere to live, I’ll move out, leaving the pair of them free to fill the whole house with empty toilet-roll inners, if they like. That’s if they can spare the time to go to the loo while binge-watching episodes of Half-Naked Brits in Ibiza. I won’t care. I’ll be too busy drinking, dancing and being interesting again. Just like I used to be when I married Dan, all those years ago.