The Divorce Club

ISBN: 978-1-4581-3524-7

Smashwords edition

©Copyright 2011 Jayde Scott

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This is a work of fiction and any resemblance
between the characters and persons living or dead is purely
coincidental.

To F., Silver and Tabby

This book wouldn't exist without my partner's
encouragement. Thank you so much for your undying faith in me and
my abilities, even when a writer's royalties can barely cover the
monthly electricity bill. I couldn't have come up with yet another
book without you.

My gratitude goes out to my critique partner,
Christine, and her keen eye for detail. Thanks for pouring your
soul into my work and for being so enthusiastic about everything I
write.

A huge thank you to my editors and beta
readers. You know who you are.

To my fabulous readers: thank you so much for
your support.

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."

I'm supervising the delivery guy who's just
arrived with a huge stack of print paper and other office stuff, an
intern from a local newspaper who's supposed to be interviewing me
but has no idea what she's doing, and my chattering daughter who's
talking to her first boyfriend. I should be focusing on the
interview because the success of my business depends on the
publicity I receive, but I can't help tune in to Sam's gushing over
the boy.

A finger taps on my shoulder and I turn
around. Mel's standing behind me, her straight, glossy, golden hair
bouncing against her skinny shoulders, her pearly whites on full
display as she says, "Who's Sam talking to? She's fidgeting like a
bird caught in the rain."

"Her boyfriend." I cock an eyebrow.

Mel's jaw drops in a most unflattering way.
Her forehead remains smooth. I suspect she had yet another Botox
session without telling me because she knows I worry about all the
poison she's injecting into her skin. "Is she even old enough to
have one? In my days we gals could call ourselves lucky if we were
allowed to speak to boys before the age of eighteen."

I laugh. "You don't look like you were born
in the Middle Ages." The delivery guy tosses another stack of
papers on the floor and I shout, "Hey, why did you even bother to
climb up the stairs when you could've thrown in the parcels through
the window?"

I'm not usually such a sour puss, but my last
nickel went out on a stapler and several flowerpots from the local
bargain store. I can't afford to print out my correspondence and
invoices on smudged paper.

Mel elbows me in the ribs and hisses, "What
did I tell you about bitching and journalists, darling?"

All right, I forgot. I smile and offer the
delivery guy a coffee, but it's too late. Smelling the possible
success coming from rummaging through other people's garbage cans,
the intern girl starts scribbling.

"We can't do that. Mum would go ballistic,"
Sam says. What would make me ballistic? I turn sharply, narrowing
my eyes as I try to catch what my daughter's talking about, but she
just giggles and walks away.

"How are you going to keep that from Greg?"
Mel asks.

I roll my eyes. "Luckily, I won't have to
because he's gone incognito. He owes me child support for the last
three months."

"The bastard," Mel hisses. "You should try
voodoo."

The doorbell rings, startling me. I nod my
head toward intern girl. "Can you take over?"

"Sure." Mel shrugs, flashes her PR diva grin
and strolls toward the girl like a spider enclosing a fly trapped
in a net. For a woman dressed in a tight pencil skirt, she moves
with surprising speed and agility. I've no doubt Mel will have a
fabulous time.

I open the door and let in a petite redhead,
plump in all the right places. For a moment, I can't peel my eyes
off her generous cleavage, wondering how much she paid for it. I'm
even temped to ask for the doc's number, but then I remember Sam
needs orthodontic braces more than I need a pair of double Ds.
What's she doing here? What man would actually divorce breasts like
hers?

"Is this the Divorce Club?" the redhead
whispers conspiratorially as though she's talking about buying an
illegal joint in the semi-lit backroom of a shady bar.

"Welcome and thanks for coming."
Straightening my back, I nod and point at a sofa still covered in
plastic foil. "We'll be opening in half an hour. Please take a
seat."

I remove the plastic wrapping and start
stacking my office supplies in a cheap cupboard. By nine a.m. the
reception area looks quite nice. The floor's no longer obstructed
by boxes, my desk's free of any clutter and the light shining
through the windows casts a golden glow on the obviously fake
flowerpots.

As I mentally brace myself for the speech
that Mel prepared for me, the doorbell rings again and more women I
don't know flood in. The room's starting to fill up. I flick
through my papers, but don't look up because my heart's pumping
hard in my chest. Doubt starts to nag at the back of my mind. God,
what was I thinking? I was a housewife. Cooking and cleaning
defined my identity for the last twelve years. Consequently, I know
nothing about running a business, or mixing with the clientele, or
even about getting people to sign up as clientele.