The Divorce Club by Jayde Scott

Chapter 1

I'm thirty-four, the mother of a thirteen-year-old and divorced. But don't feel sorry for me because it was my own choice. You see, when the sonofabitch slash husband slash Greg decided to drop the mistress, I politely declined—and sold his priceless golf collection on the Internet in the process. I had a hard time—getting rid of him, that is—and I wouldn't wish the same begging and tears of guilt upon anyone else. That's why I'm standing in front of 21 Terrace Street on a rainy November day, waiting for the estate agent to finally make his grand entrance. Today in a fortnight I plan to open my personal revenge act on the male population and hopefully make a few bucks in the process because my daughter needs orthodontic braces and her beloved father decided to go undercover literally minutes after being told about the costs involved. Maybe one day I'll find him on the back of a milk cartoon.

A Ford pulls up and I crane my neck to get a better view. A guy, mid-thirty, tall but gangly, steps out. We make eye contact and he smiles.

"Sarah Beaver? I'm Ben Foster."

I cringe at hearing my previous, married name. Must have quoted it in a moment of fake domestic nostalgia induced by my unconscious.

"Actually, it's Sarah Davis." I hold out my hand and he grabs it in a sweaty grip. "I just got divorced."

"I'm sorry." Ben points around the corner. I follow a step behind.

"Don't be."

"There was no way you could work it out?"

I sigh. "At first I thought about it—until I found lipstick on his boxer shorts. Then it was war and I forwarded all his mail to Alaska."

"You play dirty." Ben laughs. "Have you ever made a purchase this big before?"

"Only a major league football team." I regard him from the corner of my eye, waiting to see whether he gets the joke.

Something crosses his hollow features; his brown eyes sparkle for a moment, but it's not with amusement. "Shall we get started?"

"Sure." When I step aside, letting him take the lead, I swear he checks out my cleavage. He must believe the myth that all divorcees are rich and desperate for a shag because they haven't done it in years, what with the hubby cheating with the assistant and all.

He unlocks the door and puts a hesitant palm on my shoulder. "Come on in. There's lots of natural light, for a city."

I walk past quickly, brushing off his hand, then peer around. The hall's tiny with a trail of plaster peeling from the walls. Two massive arc windows tower above me. I'm definitely sold on lightening. This alone will save me a small fortune on electric bills. The musty smell reminds me of cheese though. I can only hope it's not mildew and someone just forgot to put on clean socks this morning.

"It really brings out the highlights in your blonde hair," Ben continues.

I smile, sweetly. What next? Will he tell me rays of sunshine are bouncing off my hazel eyes? He needs to get his mind on what I came here for—real estate, so I can finally start my revenge act. I walk past, staring up at the ceiling, which seems to be in good shape. A little sweat, hard work and a coat of paint, and this place will sparkle like a jewel.

Ben points at the bathroom. "Now, that's extra spacious. You'll never find a restroom this big in such a small house with lots of shelf space for perfume or makeup. Do you see how large the mirror is? The lighting above is fantastic for putting on blush or powder. Why don't you try it out? You know, to get a feel for it."

I'll give him something to feel when I kick his butt into next week. Do I look like a powder chic? I'm a serious businesswoman. "But I'm so smitten with the floral wallpaper and the deep scratches on the floor. I'm also captivated by the giant hook on the bathroom door."

He doesn't seem to hear a word as he keeps going like a robot. "Yes! This house is perfect for you. You definitely need to get one of those soft, padded toilet seats."

I turn to face him, taking in the dark circles around his eyes and that glint that signals his brain's counting the money as we speak. "Ben, let me assure you I couldn't care less about the bathroom design. If you don't want to flush this deal down the toilet, I suggest you quit talking fluff. I don't care if my bum gets a soft landing when I use the restroom. I'm more interested in your inspections dealing with cockroaches, electrical wiring, plumbing, and heating." I pause for effect. "Give me the facts. When was it built? Is the roof in good shape? How much does it cost to heat?"

He clears his throat and adjusts his tie, regarding me. "1983. The roof's seen better days, but if anything happens the insurance company will cover the costs. Heating shouldn't be that bad given how much natural light you get. There's a second room that you could use for storage." He opens another door and I scan the scratched but still shiny, wooden floor. Storage, my butt. The space's so tiny, I could barely fit a vacuum cleaner in here.

We move to the largest room and Ben resumes his infomercial, but I've switched off as I peer out the bay window to the overgrown backyard. I've always wanted one of those instead of Greg's meticulous lawn and trimmed hedges. They were just as boring as he was in our fifteen years of marriage.

"I could get the landlord to clean that up for you." Ben clears his throat. He seems almost apologetic as he points at the rusty windowpanes, and I feel sorry for him. "I know it's not up to scratch, but it's a nice area and the price is—" He hesitates. "You said you wanted something affordable."

I hate that word. It's almost as bad as saying you're a divorced female and nearing forty. "No, don't you dare change the garden." I smile and whisper, "Why mess with perfection?"

"You'll take it?" He looks stunned, as though he doesn't believe his luck.

I nod, wondering whether I'm making a mistake here. Just as I'm considering whether to tell him I'll sleep over it, my phone beeps and I read the text message:

Don't you bail out on me!!! Xoxo

Mel must be psychic. Or she has a listening device planted in the second-hand Louis Vuitton handbag she gave me for my last birthday.

I smile, only then noticing Ben's still awaiting my confirmation. "When shall we sign the papers?" I ask.

"Right now?" He pulls out a bunch of documents and presses them into my hands, saliva almost dripping down his chin. I force myself to read through the tiny print that I usually tend to skip and sign the dotted line. Then I pull out an envelope filled with banknotes. Ben sucks on his fingertips before he starts counting. I turn away, disgusted.

Eventually, he smiles and dangles three sets of keys from his fingers. "Congratulations on your new business. What's it called?"

My insides turn hot and cold as I peer at him from under mascaraed lashes. "The Divorce Club."