The Kray pigeons hopped along the sill, peering in at me. “Well, guys, what do I do now? Any suggestions?”

Yes, for God’s sake, stop talking to pigeons.

I cleared my dishes and began washing up. Halfway through rinsing a fork, something occurred to me, and I hurried through to the living room and opened the middle drawer on the sideboard. Jeff’s passport sat next to mine, and I sighed. Whatever he’d planned, he wasn’t going abroad. Would he just rock up on Monday as if nothing had happened? But Mr Simpkins said Jeff had a lot of luggage, which suggested a longer stay – or a permanent one.

I checked our bedroom and discovered three-quarters of Jeff’s wardrobe still there. He’d taken a couple of pairs of jeans, one suit, two shirts, three T-shirts, underwear, trainers and a pair of black shoes. Was he coming back for the rest…or buying new stuff with the money he’d won and didn’t want to share? Maybe the extra suitcases held wads of cash.

I trailed back downstairs to the living room, crossed to the kitsch 50s drinks cabinet I’d found in a charity shop, and grabbed a bottle of red wine and a large glass. Then I retired to the couch and drowned my sorrows.

♦♦♦

My sorrows were still alive on Sunday morning, albeit rather soggy and accompanied by a thumping headache. I lay in bed until lunchtime and then emerged in pyjamas and dressing gown to feed the Krays.

“Oh, you’re up, then.” Mr Simpkins loomed over the dividing wall between our respective gardens, trowel in hand. “Are you ill?” Not being dressed at this time of day meant something was seriously wrong in my neighbour’s world. I contemplated telling him he’d been right about Jeff leaving me.

Instead, I chickened out and nodded. “Yeah, I don’t feel too good.” Then I made a mental note not to throw the wine bottle in the recycling bin just yet.

“Well, I hope it’s not contagious.” He waved goodbye with the trowel. “Don’t come near me and stay indoors until you’re well again.”

Reginald Simpkins. What a loss to the Samaritans.

I retreated inside and contemplated my day ahead. Then I returned to bed.

♦♦♦

On Monday, I woke before sunrise and couldn’t get back to sleep. I rose, showered and dressed, fed the Krays, filled the coffee pot, and went to the recycling bin with the wine bottle. I placed it gently inside, then turned away and caught sight of Mr Simpkins, still in his dressing-gown, opening his curtains. I gave him a cheery wave, savoured the astonished expression on his face, and then returned indoors feeling virtuous. This faded as soon as I remembered the events of the weekend.

I drank bitter coffee and ate cardboard toast while my stomach performed double back-flips worthy of an Olympic medal. Would Jeff walk calmly through the front door – and what would I say to him if he did?

“Hello, darling, how did your philandering weekend go, you lousy bastard and, by the way, where’s my share of the money you weren’t going to mention because you’re a selfish, greedy bastard and a lousy one?”

Maybe not.

If I’m honest, Jeff had gotten away with bad behaviour throughout our marriage. I pretended to laugh, took his veiled insults as jokes, cajoled him out of argumentative moods and generally ignored his rudeness and lack of tact.

I’d let him off the hook so many times.

Well, no more.

Paul Felix filtered into my head, and I wondered what he was doing right then. I smiled, thinking of the glass cabinet filled with luscious cakes. Paul was pretty delicious himself…

I drifted off for a few moments, recalling the sandalwood scent and his hard, muscled body, and then I remembered the goat’s cheese fiasco and cringed. My picture would be in the local paper – it came out on a Tuesday – and the whole of Dexter Bay would know what an idiot I was. If they didn’t suspect already. News travels faster than the speed of light in our village, especially after Mr Simpkins picks up his Daily Mail in the newsagents and interrogates everyone within a fifty-yard radius.

I sipped coffee and wondered how Mark Cooper had got there so fast: the Clarion’s office was at the other end of the village. Perhaps he’d been nearby when the waitress phoned him?

She had his number already.

I pondered this for a while, then concluded the reporter had been in touch before Saturday and arranged to visit the café to cover its opening. Then I’d given him a true-life drama to add to his piece. “Oh, God.”

To keep busy, I emptied the clothes basket upstairs and threw everything into the washing machine, including some of Jeff’s clothes. I stared at his underpants swirling around behind the glass door and felt tears well up again.

How could I hate him and still love him after this?

I needed answers.

I searched the house once more, working out what Jeff had taken with him: his mobile, tablet, the clothes I’d missed from the wardrobe and his car keys. I stopped short, remembering his house keys, then rushed through to the hall table and the large brass dish where he always left them...and there they were.

He wasn’t coming home.

I trailed back to the kitchen and slumped at the table. Time passed, and I forced myself to empty the washing machine and hang out my clothes, covertly watched by Mr Simpkins over the garden wall. Then, I brought Jeff’s clothes and hung them beside mine to circumvent any questions about his absence. I pegged his favourite Y-fronts (retro blue and white) next to my Wombles t-shirt, and then the doorbell rang.

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I froze, and my mind raced.

It was Jeff. He’d brazen it out, say he forgot his keys and spin me some story about the conference, fully expecting me to believe him. Well, I always had before. But now?

I wasn’t sure I could deal with that.

The bell rang again.

“That’s your doorbell, m’dear,” Mr Simpkins called in the tone of voice he reserved for deaf old ladies.

“Yes, thank you.” I held my breath and charged into the house, crossed the kitchen, stormed down the hall, and opened the front door. Paul Felix stood on the porch, smiling and holding a cake box. I breathed out noisily. “Ah,” I said. “Um.”

“Hello, again.” His voice faltered. “I, er, I’m sorry, have I come at a bad time?”

I dragged a smile across my face. “No, of course not, it’s just, I was expecting someone.” An awkward silence followed, where I wondered what Paul wanted and how I should behave, and then, from the corner of my eye, I spotted my neighbour skulking around the corner of his house. I stepped back. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you.” Paul paused to wipe his feet on the doormat, Mr Simpkins got an eyeful, and his jaw dropped. I grabbed the café owner’s sleeve and hauled him over the threshold. “Oof.”

“Sorry.” We almost embraced, I breathed in the sandalwood scent, and my brain danced around my skull.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Paul looked at me. “Who were you expecting, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, er, my husband. But he’s probably not coming back. Not that you need to worry about that anyway, I mean, um, there’s no need to. So, come through and have a seat.” Aware that I was babbling, I turned and hurried to the kitchen, and Paul followed and sat down at the table. “Coffee?” I grabbed the pot.

“Thank you. It makes a nice change to have someone make me a drink.” Paul looked around the room. “I love this place. You’ve got great taste; quirky and arty.”

“Uh-huh.” I busied myself with coffee and milk, staying calm and rational and ignoring my jumbled feelings. “I mean, thanks."

“I brought you these.” Paul tapped the cake box.

“Oh, right.” I was forced to approach the table. The box was tied with string, and my fingers turned into beef sausages as I tried to untie it. Finally, fuelled by embarrassment, I grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced through the knot with a violent swipe. Then I opened the lid. “Ooh…” The sound escaped with a soft breath at the sight of the cakes nestling inside.

Paul laughed. “Also nice to have an appreciative audience.”

“Thank you so much. But you didn’t have to do this.” I brought a cake stand out of a cupboard and set the cakes on it. “Would you like one?”

“No, thank you.”

“That is the correct reply.” I chose a pineapple tart and took a bite. “Oh, my…mmm.”

Paul laughed again. This good-looking man had come to see me, brought me cakes, and made me feel sixteen again. I began to feel like the world’s funniest woman – and then I felt the charge between us, and my heart fluttered like a Victorian heroine having a fit of the vapours.

“I hadn’t seen you since Saturday morning, and I hoped you were alright after everything that happened, so I brought you these as a peace offering.”

My heart fluttered one last time and then sank like a gangster wearing concrete boots. I forced a lightness I didn’t feel into my voice. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to sue you.” He’d come as a business owner worried about his reputation. Why would I think there was more to it than that?

Marnie Hope, you stupid cow.

I turned away and organised cups and coffee, and when I returned to the table and sat opposite Paul, I was calm and business-like. “How is the café doing? Did I increase custom?”

“Apparently, yes, you did. Plus, when the paper comes out, I think there might be more people keen to try out the place where you take your life in your hands every time you eat. I’m thinking of using that as a slogan.”

“Catchy.” I sank my teeth into the pineapple filling and couldn’t speak. Paul watched me eat while I avoided looking at him. His photograph in the paper would draw custom – mainly deluded women like me – not my looks or near-death experience. “Sea Brew: You May Not Survive It.”

“Sea Brew. Loads To Choke On.”

“I like it. Get some T-shirts printed.”

Paul grinned at me, and we looked at each other for a long moment, and I felt that unsettled energy again: the attraction – I hadn’t imagined it, it was definitely there – but something else was, too, holding us back. Holding me back.

“Jeff,” I said out loud.

“What? Who?”

“My husband. He’s run away with his secretary, only she’s not, or maybe she is at his new job if he’s got one. And he usually does get them. New jobs, I mean. Women too, probably. Huh, what do I know? I’ve only been married to him for fourteen years.” I wound down and realised Paul was gaping at me.

He set his cup down. “Your husband’s left you, is that what you’re saying?”

“I think so.” I looked at the table. “I found emails from some woman, and he lied to me about where he was this weekend.” And then, before I knew it, I’d poured out the whole sorry tale.

“Oh, Marnie.” Paul reached across the table and took my hand, and a jolt ran through me. I jerked away, startled. “Sorry.” He sat back, hands up in surrender. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No.” I felt stupid and gauche and wished he would touch me again. “I’m sorry, and I’m a bit jumpy.” I rose and cleared the cups, aware that my face was flushed and my heart rate erratic. I took some slow breaths and stared out of the window, my back to Paul. The Kray pigeons lined up along the sill and peered in at me. They began cooing.

“You have pigeons?” Paul was beside me, the sandalwood evident again. I figured he must drown himself in cologne every morning. Or maybe his skin smelled naturally lovely and almost edible…

“It’s more like they have me.” I gazed fixedly outside. “They appear when they want, call me, and I feed them.”

“Yeah, that would work for me.”

“I call them the Krays.” Oh, God, Marnie. Why did you have to tell him that?

“Which one’s Ronnie?” Paul leant forward, studying the birds. “Oh, that one has a funny leg, more like Long John Silver than a London gangster. But what do I know? You’re the pigeon fancier.” He turned to me, laughter in his voice and his face inches from mine.

I started to reply and the words caught in my throat. Our eyes held, and the world stopped revolving. There was no one else on the planet right then but Paul Felix and myself.

Coo, coo, coo, coo.

And the Kray sodding Pigeons.

We laughed and moved apart, and the moment was gone. I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or disappointed.

“I’d better get back.” Paul turned towards the hall. “Or Steph will have my guts for garters.”

The bolshie waitress, presumably. Well, to coin a pun, she could wait. “Guts for garters; a charming expression I feel the Krays would use.”

“The gangsters or your pigeons?”

“Both.” I opened the front door, and we stepped onto the path. “Well…thank you for the lovely cakes.”

“You’re welcome.” He hesitated and then said, “I’m glad I stopped by, and if you ever –”

“Good afternoon! You’re that chappie from the café, aren’t you?” My own personal neighbourhood watch scheme appeared in his garden. “Reginald Simpkins. Army. Retired.”

“Paul Felix. Café owner. Still working.” Paul stepped forward, and he and Mr Simpkins shook hands over the wall. “I hope you’ll drop in for a scone or a teacake.”

“I never eat cakes.” Mr Simpkins straightened to full Sergeant-Major capacity. “Bad for the digestion.”

“There’s another slogan.” Paul grinned at me. “It was lovely meeting you, Mr Simpkins. Goodbye, Marnie; I hope to see you soon.” He walked out of the gate, and I felt my neighbour’s eyes on me.

“Bye,” I said quickly and nipped inside before he could grill me on Jeff’s absence, Paul’s intentions, or my own state of mind.

Right then, my mind was reeling.