Free The Love Market by Carol Mason

plans.
    ‘She’s fine. She just wanted me to come and get her. Said she’d had enough. Then she said she wanted to come home. Sorry to sabotage your night out on the town.’
    ‘It wasn’t really a night on the town,’ I say. ‘Only a drink down the pub.’
    He leans casually against the doorframe. We hold gazes. It’s so odd to find him standing here on the threshold of his up-until-recent life. It’s like one of us is visiting the other in prison, and even if we both put our palms against the glass it still wouldn’t feel like we were touching. A boundary has gone up because we’ve moved from the intimate thing of being married to the hostile thing of being divorced. Or we’re supposed to be hostile, but neither of us can even manage to get that right.
    He continues to stand there, in no hurry to leave, looking at me as though he’s drinking every bit of me in, instead of just seeing a face he knows as well as his own. And in an attempt to look everywhere but into his sad eyes I see him more objectively than normal: as Mike this human being who I happen to know quite well, yet he’s once or twice removed from me, as though we’re an impossible form of related strangers. He’s wearing a jacket I’ve not seen before. A dark brown leather three-quarter length thing that, because he’s short, comes almost to his knees, instead of, probably to his bum, where it should. Mike has always had a distinct style. There’s something 1970s about his oversized jackets, his skinny jeans, winklepicker shoes, and the prematurely grey Fonz hair. Rather than not being a follower of fashion, Mike is his own fashion. He’s comfortable with himself. And there was always something very attractive about that.
    Mike looks me over. My form-fitting black dress with the capped sleeves. My hair swept up and secured with a chunky tortoiseshell clip, bits straggling around my face. I had made an effort to look excited-to-be-single. For a moment, staring at my unusually over-made-up face in the mirror, I thought I’d pulled it off.
    He shrugs the one shoulder that’s not leaning against the doorframe. ‘I’ll have her next Saturday if you want to change your plans and go out then instead.’
    ‘It’s okay,’ I tell him. Then, ‘Why do you suppose she didn’t just want to go back to yours?’
    ‘It’s not home, is it?’ he says, and holds my eyes.
    ‘She did rubbish on her history test,’ I change the subject. ‘I even helped her study for it.’
    ‘Maybe that was the problem,’ he jokes.
    I smile. ‘I was thinking maybe we need to get her a private tutor. Just for the main subjects.’
    ‘I think maybe we should back off pressuring her. She’s only twelve. Don’t you think she’s had enough to deal with these last few months?’
    I nod. ‘You’re probably right.’
    I’ve missed our conversations. Even our arguments had a certain comfort value, and I miss them too. Not that we had many, Mike tending to be more passive aggressive than full-on confrontational. ‘You look really nice by the way. You got your hair cut? How was your business trip?’
    My hand goes to the straggly bits of hair around my face. My divorce cut, as Jacqui calls it. ‘It was only down to Manchester. I left Aimee in good hands. She loves Jacqui staying with her.’
    ‘I know. Why do you sound like you’re apologising?’
    ‘I’m not. I’m only saying…’ What am I saying?
    ‘I took them both out for a pizza. Did Jacqui tell you?’
    He must see my surprise. ‘No! Actually.’ Why does it bother me that he went out with my sister? A divorce shouldn’t mean families have to take sides, yet Jacqui’s my sister and I don’t really want to share her with my ex-husband. ‘You’re allowed to take people out. You don’t have to give me reports.’ I realize I’m being childish about him inviting Jacqui.
    He looks down at my feet, diverting a potential argument, perhaps. ‘You’ve only got three toes done,’ he says, of my nail