Page 21 of The Little Board Game Café

She could sense the atmosphere the minute she walked into the house. She took her shoes off and placed them on the shoe rack, hung her lime-green coat in the cupboard and called out, ‘Hi, Peter. I’m home.’

‘I’m in the kitchen.’

Sod it. He’d seen the mess then.

‘Hi, darling,’ she said as she walked in. ‘Did you have a good day? Get any birdies?’

Birdies? Was that the right word? She never usually asked much about his golf.

‘What’s been going on?’ He gestured at the open packets of flour and sugar, the dirty mixing bowl, the spoons dripping chocolate on the worktops.

‘Look, I’m really sorry about all this, and yes, I should have cleared up before I went out, but don’t worry, I’ll do it now,’ she said, trying to keep her tone bright and upbeat. ‘I’ve had the best day in ages.’

It was true. She’d felt so relaxed. Well, until now.

‘I hope you aren’t going to make a habit of this, Emily.’

He always said her full name when he was cross. It reminded her of her junior school teacher, Miss Styan.

Okay, so he had a point about the mess. She shouldn’t have gone out and left the place in such a state, but she lived here too. And she loved baking. She’d missed it.

‘Well, now I’m going to be unemployed,’ she said, ‘and will have time on my hands, I’m hoping to do more baking.’

‘Here? In my house?’

And there it was. My house.

That one tiny syllable, that ‘my’ instead of ‘our’ was all it took for her to know that she was leaving him.

Hypocritical in a way, because she still thought of it as Peter’s house but she hadn’t realised that he did too.

Damn him. He’d practically forced her to give up the job she loved and come to work at Ridley’s only to make her redundant. And then he’d talked her into giving up her little flat and moving in with him when she hadn’t felt quite ready.

And now, not only was she about to become jobless, but homeless too. And buying Nico’s was definitely out of the question. She’d never discover what it would be like to stand behind a counter as customers tried to choose between the apple crumble tarts or the gooey brownies.

‘Freshly baked this morning,’ she imagined herself saying.

‘Yes, everything’s made here on the premises.’

‘The carrot cake and the lemon drizzle are gluten free.’

She snapped herself out of her daydream.

‘Our house,’ Peter was saying. ‘I meant, our house.’

‘It was never our house. And it never will be.’

Their eyes met. He knew exactly what she was saying without her needing to spell it out. She saw him bite his lip then wipe his cheek with the back of his hand. She looked away.

‘I’m sorry, Peter,’ she said. She wasn’t sure if she was still talking about the mess in the kitchen or their relationship. ‘Really, really sorry. I’ll clean it all up, then I’ll go to Kate’s. I’ll pack an overnight bag and come back for the rest of my stuff another time.’

‘Sure,’ was all he said.

She’d known this day would come. She’d been trying to pretend it wouldn’t, keeping up the pretence of buying a wedding dress and moaning about how his mother was taking over all the arrangements, but deep down she’d known for a while now that she wouldn’t be walking down that aisle. At least, not with Peter standing in front of the altar.

She thought she knew how he’d react too. He wouldn’t shout. She didn’t expect him to cry; his father had instilled in him the value of a stiff upper lip. She’d always imagined he’d try to cajole her to stay, to give their relationship another chance.

But he didn't. He sat down on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, with his elbows on the worktop, taking care to avoid the spillages, and put his head in his hands. He seemed resigned to the fact it was over. Almost as if he'd been expecting it too.