The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Maddie Please

drove back up the hill to Holly Cottage feeling even more isolated. Below me the streetlights in the village began to come on and I sat in the car for a few minutes and watched lights appearing in the cottages below me. I went indoors, shivering a bit with the cold and the unfamiliar solitude.

      I suddenly remembered that awful night. Ian nursing a large whiskey under the pool of light cast by the standard lamp in our sitting room. He had looked up at me with mournful eyes.

      ‘What?’

      Oh God. That was the moment. If only he had said something else.

      If he had apologised or cried or begged me to forgive him, things might have been different. If he had come up with some pathetic excuse, told me he had been a fool. If he had taken me in his arms and told me that he loved me. That he would never again hurt me.

      I had waited for a moment, willing him to say something else, something kind. The seconds ticked past and he didn’t say anything. The little instant was gone. My temper flared again.

      ‘What. Is that all you can say? What?’

      ‘Well what am I supposed to say? With everyone looking at me as though…as though…’

      ‘As though you’re a lying, deceitful bastard? Well should that be a surprise to you? Perhaps it’s because you are a lying deceitful bastard!’

      ‘Oh don’t start, Lottie,’ he’d said wearily. ‘I’m not in the mood just at the moment.’

      ‘Well nor am I, funnily enough!’

      ‘Look, we’re not even married, are we? I asked you to marry me years ago and you didn’t want to.’

      ‘And you knew perfectly well why that was! And what the hell has that got to do with it? Just because we’re not married? What about our commitment to each other? What about bloody fucking common decency?’

      I went into the dingy little kitchen of Holly Cottage and flicked on the kettle. There was no point going over it again and again. It wouldn’t change things. I had to move on now, look to the future, do the job Jess had given me; repay her friendship in the best way I could.

      I hoovered up the pasty straight from the wrapper, reasoning it would decrease the washing up and also the possibility of contamination in the mould- and grime-ridden kitchen. Wandering around, licking the slick of grease from my teeth, I investigated the cupboards, relieved to see that although they were dirty they were good quality and could soon be revived by some attention from me and a soapy cloth.

      In the cupboard under the stairs I found a vacuum cleaner, its collection bag strained to bursting point. There was also a fairly comprehensive collection of cleaning materials, something that the previous tenants had not thought worth taking. Or using, let’s be frank. I pulled out several bottles of cleaning spray, some crisp dusters and cloths, and a new mop and bucket and felt a rather peculiar thrill of excitement. Perhaps I was losing the plot. I arranged these treasures on the kitchen table (blue Formica, in a retro, cute way, not a this-table-is-really-old way). Tomorrow I would stop being so negative. I would get a good night’s sleep and make a start on revamping Holly Cottage.

      That first night I sat in front of the fire in my warmest coat, gloves and Ugg boots, watching the flames lick around the logs. There was no TV and mine hadn’t arrived yet, but that wasn’t much of a loss as far as I was concerned. Ian had indulged in the most expensive satellite-viewing package and for years nearly ninety pounds had gone out of our account every month and still most nights his parrot-cry had been ‘there’s nothing on worth watching!’ This was a statement with which I couldn’t argue.

      There was only so much sport, Top Gear and Man v Food I could bear to watch. When Ian discovered re-runs of The Professionals, I abandoned hope and went back to my fledgling writing career. My concentration span didn’t seem up to a full-length novel any more so I’d turned to writing short stories. I’d been reasonably successful too, won a couple of competitions, and although my total earnings were barely into three figures, it was something I enjoyed.

      We had also spent hundreds of pounds every month on the gym I occasionally used although I was more likely to be found in the bistro with a white wine spritzer than on the treadmill with a bottle of water. Then there was Ian’s membership of the Golf and Country Club where he had a pewter tankard behind the bar and the steward would greet him with, ‘Usual, is it, Mr Lovell?’ every time we went there. Ian loved that.

      It had been a mild winter so far but after a few hours with all the windows open the house was freezing, hence the coat and gloves. The room still held its faintly fishy smell courtesy of Mr Webster’s leaving present, but at least with the fire going it was bearable. I sighed, and then, rather approving of the sound, sighed a few more times.

      I suppose I might have stayed there all evening sighing and feeling sorry for myself except I was still hungry. I got up and shuffled to the kitchen, my Ugg boots finding the going decidedly sticky underfoot.

      I heated up some soup and ate a packet of crisps (leek and potato and cheese and onion respectively, so three of my five a day) and then I went upstairs, fumbling with the light switches, trying to work out which one worked which bulb, wishing I had thought earlier to make up the bed. There were two bedrooms, one with a big window at the front and the other with windows at the front and back of the house. I chose the bigger bedroom for no other reason than I preferred the wallpaper. It was pale blue and cream, tiny flowers with flecks of gold at the centre. I had brought some sheets and a duvet with me. Some of my possessions were stashed in my car, the rest were going to arrive when Greg had a spare hour to drive them over in his van. I hadn’t really wanted to bring too much of my stuff into the house until I had cleaned it. That had been one of my better decisions.

      I made up the bed, stripped off my clothes and got in. It was freezing. Where were my pyjamas? In the boot of the car? Oh no, I remembered they were in the roof box. That was one of my bad decisions. I got back out, put my socks, knickers and a T-shirt on and tried to think about being warm.

      I suddenly remembered with pinpoint clarity lying on a beach in Greece three summers ago, my hot skin almost at one with the hot sand under my towel. We had decided on a last-minute week away. Ian had been sitting in the shade at a table under a vine-laden pergola. Tapping furiously at his laptop, muttering about work and cursing the economy. Perhaps he had been doing it even then, feeding our money into the ether in a never-ending stream.

      I opened my eyes and the memory faded. I was just aware how absolute the silence was; how dense the darkness. Ian would have hated it.

      ‘Can you see me?’ I shouted up into the dark ceiling. ‘You wouldn’t have liked this, would you? The dark and the cold and the bloody quiet, what do you think, Ian? Is it funny? Does this serve me right for refusing four times to marry you? Would it have made any difference if I’d said yes, Ian? Well I suppose I wouldn’t be homeless, would I? By the way, your poor mother is devastated. Didn’t think about her either, did you?’

      The irony of my situation took a few seconds to sink into my tired brain.

      ‘You stupid bloody bastard.’

      I wasn’t sure if I meant Ian or myself.

      The following morning, contrary to the popular saying, things didn’t look better they just looked grimier. The winter sun shone feebly through the filthy windows, highlighting the dirt. I constructed a hideous sandwich with some of the 25p loaf and the cheese slices and made a mug of tea. I opened the kitchen door and peered outside, hoping my new neighbour was not around to torment me. There was no sign of him.

      Outside, the day was brightening up. A bright sapphire sky over a soft folding landscape of hills and hedges. The only sounds were birdsong and the breeze rattling through the bare branches of a silver birch tree at the end of the garden. I stood in the doorway and sipped my tea wondering why Ian and I had never thought to move to the countryside. It was so peaceful, so beautiful. But then Ian had been determinedly town bred and I was a sheep, following him and his plans without thought.

      I ate