Chapter 2
Chapter two
Rockin' Around the Bonfire
Miranda
The kitchen is quiet, cosy, familiar. A lamp glows in the corner. The mugs are already out, the kettle halfway through boiling. The kind of normality I haven’t felt in weeks.
I slide onto a stool at the island. Amelia sits across from me, Ben beside her, his hand resting lightly on her lower back.
“I’m so bloody tired,” I say quietly. “I didn’t realise how much until now.”
Amelia leans in. “What happened?”
I stare at the countertop for a moment.
“The divorce’s final. Signed today. I didn’t even look at him when I did it.”
Amelia’s lips press into a hard line.
“He’s not paying me anything,” I continue. “Just SJ’s costs. No maintenance. Half my rent for SJ’s sake and, apparently, as a favour. And he’ll cover childcare so I can get a job. Out of the kindness of his heart.”
Ben swears under his breath.
Amelia sits back slightly. “That’s disgusting.”
I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “It’s perfectly legal.
Renata gave me the look—you know, the one that says, we can fight this, but you’ll lose.
The courts don’t care that I raised our son while he doubled the company’s net worth and stuck his dick wherever it suited him.
They see someone fit and educated and say, ‘Well, back to work with you.’”
“He cheated on you,” Amelia says, cheeks flushed. “And now he gets to come out of it with his flat, his business, his reputation, and you get... what? A pat on the head and half the rent?”
“Pretty much,” I say. “But don’t worry: the offer to go back to him to save our marriage still stands. Apparently, he still thinks that’s a possibility.”
Amelia’s jaw actually drops. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I was. He said I could stay. In the guest room. To work things out.”
Ben lets out a low, disgusted breath. “Jeez.”
I grip the edge of the counter.
“I gave up everything for that marriage,” I say. “My work. My financial independence. My bloody sanity, most days. And now I get to start over with no savings, and a son who has no idea that his father thinks monogamy is optional.”
My voice cracks at the end. Not loud. But enough.
Amelia gets up, walks around the island, and wraps her arms around me again. I press my forehead to her shoulder. The tears don’t come this time, but I wish they would. It would be easier than this bone-deep, pulsing fury that doesn’t seem to go anywhere.
Behind us, the kettle clicks off.
Ben sets down a fresh mug and leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching us for a beat. “What you need tonight is a girls’ evening.”
I lift my head, eyes red but dry. “What I need is a bottle of wine and a flame-thrower.”
“Sure,” he says, unbothered. “We can do both. But first… come with us to the bonfire.”
I blink at him. “What bonfire?”
Ben gives me a look. “It’s the fifth of November.”
Guy Fawkes Night. Can’t believe I forgot. Then again, I forgot what day it was until Renata handed me the final agreement and said, “You’re free,” in that voice lawyers use when they mean You’ve been mugged politely.
“It’s the football club’s do,” he adds. “Out on the pitch. Burgers, cider, small children with glow sticks. The others are all going as well.”
Amelia nods. “They’ll want to see you. And you don’t have to say anything. Just turn up. Let us feed you and take care of you.”
Ben grins. “You could burn an effigy of Sim-Sim. Really lean into the theme.”
Amelia raises her eyebrows. “I’ve got paper and string. We can knock one together. Just say the word.”
I can't help but laughing at that. Croaky, but proper.
“I’d need at least three heads to get the proportions right,” I mutter.
Ben lifts his mug. “To creative vengeance.”
Amelia clinks hers against his. I just shake my head and sip my tea, a flicker of warmth settling somewhere in my chest.
What would I do without my friends?
We’re all standing on the village green, coats zipped up, hands wrapped around paper cups of something hot and questionably alcoholic. The bonfire crackles ahead, flames punching heat into the cold air, smoke drifting in soft clouds across the pitch.
Above us, fireworks burst into bloom. Red. Gold. Electric white. The kind that fizz before they fall. Someone near the front whistles. A small child squeals with delight.
Over the stadium speaker, the moderator reads in full theatre voice:
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November, Gunpowder, treason and plot...”
I’ve heard it every year of my life. This time, it feels oddly reassuring. The rhythm of it. The predictability. A poem about burning things down and carrying on.
Around me, my friends huddle close in pairs.
Ben and Amelia, arms linked, smiling quietly. Lizzie and Coop, sharing a drink and a scarf. Bri, tucked under Omar’s coat. Fi laughing at something George whispers in her ear.
It’s not jealousy. Not even longing. Just loneliness. A quiet awareness of being the only one without someone’s hand in mine. The only one with no one to lean into when the cold starts to creep in.
I’m not thinking about Sim-Sim.
It’s not him I’m missing… at all.
Just the warmth. The us-ness. The thing I thought I had.
I sip the drink. It’s sweet, spiced, sharp at the back of the throat.
I breathe in smoke and fireworks and the comfort of standing close to people who still see me.
And that, for now, will have to be enough.
The last of the fireworks fizzles out in a crackle of white sparks, the kind that hang in the sky like someone forgot to turn the stars off.
People start to drift. Boots crunching on damp grass. Children herded. The smell of smoke clings to everything.
We begin the slow shuffle back toward Ben and Amelia’s. Fi is already plotting hot chocolate logistics. Omar’s explaining, very seriously, why he should never be trusted with pyrotechnics.
As we cross the edge of the green, someone jogs past us—tall, lean, with a little girl tucked on his hip. She’s about five, dark hair in two lopsided plaits, face half-buried in the collar of his jacket. She's holding onto a half-eaten toffee apple like it’s a state treasure.
“Jasper!” Coop calls, waving. “Alright, mate?”
The man lifts a hand in greeting but doesn’t break stride.
Lizzie watches them pass, then leans into Coop. “Who was that?”
“Jasper,” he says. “Plays on the team with us. You’ve met him, haven’t you?”
She shakes her head but doesn’t press.
Amelia suddenly huffs. “My toes are actual ice cubes. If we don’t speed up, I’m sawing them off in the hallway.”
That gets us moving. We pick up the pace, crunching over gravel and leaves, hands jammed in pockets, everyone a bit colder now the fireworks are done.
Ben unlocks the door, lets us all in, and immediately heads for the speakers in the corner of the living room. Within seconds, something upbeat and retro fills the house—the kind of playlist that promises both familiarity and at least two singalongs later.
The snacks come out in chaotic, communal waves—mini pizzas shoved in the oven, sausage rolls warming in a tray, a mountain of scotch eggs, at least two salads that no one will touch until guilt kicks in. Someone finds crisps. Someone else opens another bottle of wine.
I end up chopping cherry tomatoes with Bri while Fi wrestles with a clingfilm-covered quiche and yells at Ben for using the wrong knife for cheese.
“Where’s Robbie tonight?” I ask Fi. She and George already have two grown-up children, and just when Fi thought she was about to earn her freedom and start browsing holiday brochures, along came Robbie, the surprise baby-shaped plot twist.
“Claire and her boyfriend are down from uni,” Fi says.
“She offered to take him to Lewes for the bonfire… playing big sister for the day, which means George and I get a sort-of date night.” She grins and plants a kiss on George’s lips.
Honestly, they’re so happy together it’s like they’re trying for another surprise baby.
Smutty slinks across the counter like a feline burglar, tail flicking with intention.
“Oi!” Amelia snaps, swatting at him with a tea towel. “Not tonight, Furball.”
Smutty blinks at her, absolutely unrepentant, then makes a slow, sulky exit—only to immediately double back toward the sausage rolls the moment her back’s turned.
There’s laughter. Real laughter. Tired, a bit wine-fuelled, but honest.
And for the first time in what feels like weeks, I feel like a person again—not a wife, or an ex-wife, or a woman stuck between court papers and cardboard boxes. Just me.
We’re all around the kitchen table now, plates cluttered with crumbs and half-eaten sausage rolls, wine glasses catching the warm overhead light. The food’s taken the edge off, but the ache behind my eyes still simmers.
Omar puts down his fork and says, “Right. I’ve just thought of something.”
“Dangerous,” Bri murmurs, not looking up.
“No, listen. That bloke we passed earlier on the green—with the little girl? Jasper.”
There are a few vague nods.
“He’s got this place just a few roads over,” Omar goes on. “It’s a big house but it also has a self-contained flat attached… like a proper annexe. Own entrance, kitchen, all of it.”
I squint at him, half-suspicious. “And?”
“You should move in,” he says simply. “It’s empty.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
“He bought the place for the house itself,” Omar explains. “The flat was just part of the deal. He doesn’t use it. It’s just sitting there.”
Lizzie’s already grinning. “You could live here! SJ would love it. The space, the garden, all the kids around.”
“His school’s in London,” I remind them. “I can’t just uproot him.”
Ben, casually reaching for his phone, says, “Sim-Sim’s paying for transport. It’s in the divorce agreement.”
“Sure, but—”
“It doesn’t say from where,” Ben adds. “And let’s be honest, getting across half of London can take longer than a train from here.”
I open my mouth, ready to protest, and promptly close it again.
He’s not wrong.
Ben’s already standing. “Let’s just see if it’s an option.”
“Wait—are you calling him now?”
“Yes.”
“Ben—!”
Too late. He steps into the hallway to make the call that could change my life… yet again.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Coop says, “Jasper doesn’t need the money. I don’t think he was planning to rent it out. But if someone were to ask, I’d bet he’d say yes. Especially if Ben puts the charm on.”
I glance around at the circle of eager, determined faces.
And realise I’m the only one who hasn’t agreed to this plan yet.