Can I Give My Husband Back?: A totally laugh out loud and uplifting page turner

by Kristen Bailey

  Can I Give My Husband Back?

  A totally laugh-out-loud and uplifting page-turner

  Kristen Bailey

  Books by Kristen Bailey

  Can I Give My Husband Back?

  Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?

  Available in audio

  Can I Give My Husband Back? (available in the UK and the US)

  Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life? (available in the UK and the US)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Hear More from Kristen

  Books by Kristen Bailey

  Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?

  A Letter from Kristen

  Acknowledgements

  *

  For Lauren and Barry.

  The happiest divorced couple I know.

  Prologue

  250 days after I told Simon our marriage was over

  What are you wearing?

  I went black. A dress with ruffled arms. And my black jacket and black shoes.

  Has someone died? Will you be performing a flamenco for the gentleman?

  Well, I’m not wearing a shroud. It’s classic.

  Did you wax?

  I had a tidy. He may not want to sleep with me.

  He will.

  God, what if he does?

  Do you remember how to do it?

  I hate you.

  Love you sis. Have fun x

  Hi. Wow. So good to meet you… Hello. I’m Emma. How are you? You look great… Evening Phil!… Phil? You’re here, so am I!… Greetings!… It’s great to finally connect.

  Connect? This isn’t a LinkedIn date. Why am I rehearsing this in my head like a script? Who does this? I’ve spoken with this man on the phone and via WhatsApp and it was totally fine and he was lovely. No one on this planet would say the word ‘Greetings’ unless they were an alien come from another galaxy.

  How do I smile? Like full teeth? It’ll look like I’m trying to eat him… No teeth. But then I’ll look smug and insincere.

  Adjust your tits. Make sure they’re facing forwards. Show a bit of bra. I’d clearly gone to the wrong sister for advice on this one. Lucy, the youngest, who was still single and well-versed in the world of dating.

  Does this mean my boobs are not always facing forward? Where are they looking?

  To educate me about modern dating, Lucy had walked me around a lingerie floor to teach me about tangas and hipster thongs. Only old, boring people buy cotton multipack minis, she said. And she introduced me to terms like ‘ghosting’, which I’m glad is nothing to do with sex. I literally thought I’d have to walk around with a bed sheet on my head.

  Oh my days, I should leave. Is that bad form? Where the hell are my words? I have words. I’m well-spoken. I can do this. I’ll be natural and it’ll be great and it’s a drink, that’s all it is. In a bar that serves artisan burgers made out of halloumi and beetroot, and where the chips come in tiny silver pails like one would serve sugared almonds at a wedding.

  I had sugared almonds at my wedding. I had a wedding. I was the bride. The sugared almonds were not a good idea. I hadn’t accounted for the number of elderly relatives and Simon’s Uncle Brian fractured a denture and sent us the bill. Why am I thinking about that? Why Simon? Why now? Get out of my head, you donkey. Think about something else. That girl at the bar is obviously not wearing knickers with that dress, is she? Is that hygienic? I am at an age now where I don a panty liner most days… I guess she doesn’t… And when did men stop wearing socks? Again, hygiene. When I was at medical school, I once had to lance a nasty blister that had come from a pair of badly fitting moccasins. And there are different expectations of beauty these days. Eyebrows now have pride of place and teeth are whiter. Shockingly dayglo. People are young too. I don’t feel young. I feel like a second-hand car in this showroom. Do I cross my legs? That’s always been classy. I don’t want to sit here with my legs akimbo. That would send Phil the wrong message. How about knees together? Like royalty? I adjust my tits like Lucy said.

  ‘Emma?’

  ‘Howdy, Phil.’

  Howdy?

  He laughs. Did he see the boob jiggle? He goes in to kiss me on the cheek but we do a strange dance of not knowing what the other is intending so he kisses my ear and I bend into his body like I’m trying to shoulder barge him. I am not quite sure what to think. I smile. I show teeth. He is as advertised and real and his height is as described.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I have a drink. But I could have another one, I guess?’

  He’ll think I’m an alcoholic.

  ‘Maybe just a soft drink? To go with my wine?’ I say.

  ‘Or another glass of wine?’

  ‘Why not? I’ll have a glass of the Picpoul. A small glass.’ My fingers suggest I want a shot-sized glass.

  He laughs. ‘No worries. Have a seat, I’ll be back.’

  As soon as his back is turned, I reach for my phone to SOS Lucy.

  I’ve forgotten how to talk to men. This is horrific.

  Do you need me to do the emergency call?

  No. I said howdy.

  Like a cowboy?

  Like a bloody cowboy.

  Why are you texting me? Where is he?

  He’s at the bar. I think he’s wearing skinny jeans.

  Men do that now. Can you see the outline of his cock?

  Why do you have to go there?

  What were his eyes like? Did he have the look of a serial killer?

  He looks normal. What do serial killers look like?

  They usually look normal too until they have drugged you and shoved you in a van. Look out for white vans outside with no number plates.

  I hate you. I could be kidnapped and killed for my body parts. Look after my girls. Make sure Si doesn’t ruin them.

  Two things: Don’t mention that man’s name to me. And you’re too old to be kidnapped. Your organs would be a hard sell.

  Again, I hate you.

  I spy him at the bar. Christ alive, he’s not wearing socks. I can’t bring that up, can I? I have a moment to think about what his feet might look like, sweating away in his suede loafers. I can’t judge. I might be wearing things he’s not keen on either. He might not like black, too morose. He may not like my face, which would be worse. He said he was ‘well-built’ which I fear is code for hiding a hint of a dad bod but I can hardly talk. I’ve had kids, parts of me are stretched and doughy. I can’t be fussy. I can’t find excuses to not be out here because I’m scared. I have to get myself back on the horse. But not literally because I’m not riding anything tonight. I only had a tidy, after all. He returns to the table. For some reason, I stand to greet him. Again.

  ‘Thanks, can I pay you back?’

  He looks at me quizzically. ‘Or buy the next round?’

  Lord, I am out of practice.

  ‘I could.’

  I point to his seat, almost telling him to sit.

  ‘You l
ook as nervous as me.’

  My body relaxes a smidge. ‘I’m not usually this socially inept.’

  ‘You’re fine. You’re great,’ he replies.

  ‘I’m great?’

  ‘Like, you’re here and you… look nice?’

  ‘So do you?’

  He laughs. His hair is very still, in that it’s been styled and sits in the one position. I want to say like a Lego man. There’s a silence and a pause so we take large sips of our drinks.

  ‘I saw you texting someone before. Was that to tell them you hadn’t been kidnapped?’

  I laugh in a high fake tone. ‘Maybe?’

  ‘I’ve been told to do the same at 10 p.m.’

  ‘How could I kidnap you?’

  ‘Easily done. You could have catfished me.’

  ‘Is that a sex thing?’ I ask.

  He chokes on a bit of his wine.

  ‘No… it’s when people pretend to be someone they aren’t.’

  I just mentioned sex in front of this man. I didn’t need to wear blusher today. He is gracious in the face of my embarrassment.

  ‘I didn’t know what it was either until my daughter showed me an MTV show about it,’ he carries on.

  I laugh.

  ‘Your eldest is ten, yes?’ I ask.

  ‘Well remembered. Her name is Jessie.’

  We’d shared some details of our lives before our date and I liked his honesty and pride when he spoke about his kids. We found out that we both had children, and we were taking tentative steps back into dating after a long time away. If sod all came of it, I felt like I was drinking with an ally, that we’d have tales to tell and advice to swap.

  ‘Bradley is eight and the rugby player and your youngest is Miles and he is five,’ I say.

  ‘Is that your doctor brain talking?’

  ‘I remember things.’

  ‘You have two girls, seven and five,’ he replies.

  ‘Iris and Violet.’

  I study his face. Not offensive or strikingly good-looking but I like the sincerity in his smile.

  ‘The floral thing…’ he prompts.

  My ex-husband, Simon’s idea. Iris was an aunt who had died; then another popped out and he said their names should match and I didn’t fight it which was probably the theme of our marriage. I’m glad I’m not saying these thoughts aloud.

  ‘Just seemed nice. They were both born in spring.’ My reply, however, is a bit dull. I may as well have just said I like flowers. But then that would sound like I was expecting him to bring flowers. I expected nothing. Lucy said she once had a date bring her a gift bag filled with lubricant and condoms.

  ‘Did you want to order food?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m good. I ate before I came out.’

  I’m not sure if that’s rude or not. But it’s true – and if I eat anything else I’ll bloat. Will he think that I was rude for eating before? But then how would I have drunk anything and not fallen over?

  ‘I had some pasta,’ I decide to add.

  He nods. ‘I had a sandwich. Prawn.’

  He likes prawns. I like prawns. This should be a match made in heaven. He launches into a short description of his journey home from work and how he had to get Bradley to rugby training but realised he forgot about food so had to stop at a Tesco Metro for sandwiches. I want to talk to him about meal deals. That’s not sexy talk, is it? It’s not good to comment on how Walkers and Kettle Chips are not savoury snack equivalents. Lucy has me second guessing how interesting I actually am. Whatever you do, don’t talk about your doctor shit, avoid Brexit and any opinion you may have about global warming. What else is there to talk about? I pretend to be interested in Phil’s son not liking his southern fried chicken wrap.

  ‘But then I always left it to Stacey to look after the food thing which I know is completely sexist…’

  And there it is. How long did that take? Eleven minutes in and an ex has been mentioned. I was good. I bit my tongue and didn’t say his name out loud but here’s Stacey, she’s on this date now. Apart from the fact Phil looks sensible, has some silver fox action going on and has sailing as a pastime (maritime = man of the sea = dependable), the one thing we have in common is that we are freshly divorced. I hated that term. Fresh is the word you use to describe fish. Dead fish who’ve been caught and are still edible. And it means that one day, if I’m left out long enough, I’ll rot to death and start to smell.

  ‘But then Miles totally had a meltdown, so you know what? I just let him go crazy on the crisps,’ he carried on.

  My ex liked crisps. He liked cheesy snack foods – which remained a mystery to me – and he used to do that thing at the end where he’d lick each of his fingers to get the last of the flavour off. I take a large gulp of wine, like it might keep the words down.

  ‘Sometimes, needs must,’ I reply.

  He smiles. ‘So, when was the last time you were on a date?’

  ‘2003.’ It wasn’t even a date really. It was a university bar so it was a drunken free-for-all where people coupled up and I ended up with Si who charmed me with his floppy hair and excellent teeth. Back then he had a thing for brightly coloured jeans and Hackett rugby tops. I snogged him in the bar. We had lacklustre, first time drunken sex back in his student bedroom.

  ‘Been a while then?’ he says with a grin.

  ‘I’ve forgotten all my words today. I’m normally far more interesting. I guess I’m just…’

  ‘Crapping yourself?’

  ‘Pretty much. I mean, not actually.’

  I’m not sure why I needed to clarify that fact. I think to that girl at university. Back then, I could go out without a bra and survived on youth, one pound shots and hope. Now I look down at my glass and just hope that it was rinsed properly.

  ‘2008,’ he says. ‘We went to see Iron Man. She ate a whole bag of Maltesers.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Stacey.’ Twice now. ‘We had Jessie six months after that and then got married.’

  ‘I got engaged around then.’

  But neither of us points to it being serendipitous or the stars aligning. He’s mentioned his wife twice now and this wasn’t what today was supposed to be about. But it appears that the shackles are still on. This was too soon. It’s 8.46 p.m. I stand up.

  ‘I’m just going to powder my nose.’

  He looks a little worried he’s said the wrong thing. How long does one wait before they go for a wee in a date? Will he think I’m escaping?

  ‘I drank a lot of water before. I have a small bladder,’ I explain.

  ‘Oh.’

  Too much information. I grab my handbag and then worry that it looks like I don’t trust him around my personal belongings. I follow arrows posted around the bar and find the toilets. Inside a group of girls are applying lipstick and chatting around a sink. They wear varying degrees of animal print and shiny leggings. I go into a cubicle, lower the seat and sit down. I take a deep breath. I don’t need to wee. I’m a surgeon so I’ve trained my bladder well. Instead, I refer back to Lucy.

  I’m in the loo.

  Is it bad?

  It’s fine. He’s mentioned his ex twice though.

  Have you mentioned Si?

  No.

  Good girl.

  I don’t like these knickers you bought me.

  Are they chafing your flaps?

  For want of a better expression. I told him I was going to powder my nose.

  Why did you say that?

  Better than saying I was going for a wee.

  Also makes you sound like a coke user.

  Shit.

  Exactly, don’t take too long or he’ll think you’re having a dump.

  I flush the toilet and emerge. The girls are having a conversation about where they’re going after this. I’m going to bed, girls. Maybe with a podcast and a cup of jasmine tea. I’m not brave when it comes to how I look. I’ve had the same brown bob for twenty odd years, I use brown eyeshadow on my brown eyes and the same Rimmel Heather Shimmer li
pstick that I discovered in my late teens. Maybe Lucy is right. I’m boring. Is my face boring? Maybe I should smile. I practise in the mirror but a girl who’s taken extraordinary care with her eyeliner catches me in the act and there’s a small moment where I think she might start a fight.

  ‘I love your handbag,’ she tells me.

  ‘Thanks. I like your… face. I mean, your make-up is extraordinary.’ I wave my hand around like I’m drawing on my cheeks. The girl and all her friends look at me. I think that’s my cue to leave. When I re-enter the bar, he’s texting on his phone.