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Back When Life Gives You Lemons
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS
  3. Dedication
  4. Part One
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. Part Two
  14. Chapter Nine
  15. Chapter Ten
  16. Chapter Eleven
  17. Chapter Twelve
  18. Chapter Thirteen
  19. Chapter Fourteen
  20. Chapter Fifteen
  21. Chapter Sixteen
  22. Chapter Seventeen
  23. Chapter Eighteen
  24. Chapter Nineteen
  25. Chapter Twenty
  26. Part Three
  27. Chapter Twenty-One
  28. Chapter Twenty-Two
  29. Chapter Twenty-Three
  30. Chapter Twenty-Four
  31. Chapter Twenty-Five
  32. Chapter Twenty-Six
  33. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  34. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  35. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  36. Part Four
  37. Chapter Thirty
  38. Chapter Thirty-One
  39. Chapter Thirty-Two
  40. Chapter Thirty-Three
  41. Chapter Thirty-Four
  42. Chapter Thirty-Five
  43. Chapter Thirty-Six
  44. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  46. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  47. Chapter Forty
  48. Chapter Forty-One
  49. Chapter Forty-Two
  50. Acknowledgements
  51. Keep Reading …
  52. About the Author
  53. By the same author:
  54. About the Publisher

And now she’s on holiday without me, and Spencer is out celebrating his girlfriend’s birthday and Andy is doing God knows what with that woman. I’m sort of used to it now, the fact that our marriage is over – or, at least, I don’t wake up in shock anymore. There’s no opening my eyes expecting to see Andy gazing adoringly at me from his pillow (that hasn’t actually happened since about 1916, but still). Yet the fury can still boil up in me, and occasionally I’m seized by an urge to stop being so mature and reasonable and just call him and yell that it’s not fair, and what kind of penis-driven idiot would have exchanged our lives together – our family – for the chance to jump into some other woman’s pants?

I manage not to call him, and to firmly shove such urges to the dirty recesses of my mind. The rest of my eerily people-less Saturday is spent on deep-cleaning the bathroom, specifically digging away at the tile grout with Andy’s special folding toothbrush that he liked to take on holiday, in the hope that it will create an aura of contentment over a job well done (it doesn’t).

I also use to it clean underneath the rim of the loo. And when I’ve done that, I rearrange the potatoes in the vegetable rack.

Sunday, August 4

I know what to do. Some gardening! Our borders could certainly do with attention, and I love being out there normally, poking about. It’s one of the many reasons why I hope to hang on to this house once Andy and I get around to dividing up our lives (the main one being that it’s the only home Izzy has ever known). While it pains me to give him credit for anything, I have to admit that Andy has never been mean where our kids are concerned. He has also made it clear that he will continue to contribute to our household without any hassle. God knows what’ll happen further down the line, though. It’s a concept I seem to have difficulty even coming to terms with: the idea that at some point, we might sell this house and divide the money and I’ll buy a flat, which would be fine of course, but all the more reason to cherish our garden now.