Page 1 of The Riviera House Swap

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Nina poured herself another cup of coffee from the expensive percolator and sighed as the rich aroma of her new favourite blend hit her nostrils. She reached for her fresh, oven-warmed croissant and took an enormous bite, feeling the pastry yield softly between her teeth; tasting its buttery deliciousness on her tongue.

See? It was all about making the best of things. And when life deals you lemons, you make, well, maybe not lemonade, but you buy yourself the best of everything, treat yourself to some seriously decadent breakfast fodder and practice some good old-fashioned self-care.

So, what if it was her fortieth birthday? Lots of people still achieved tons in their forties, and these days it wasn’t even considered particularly old. She wasn’t going to let herself crumble under the pressure of a simple date on the calendar and wasn’t going to beat herself up about the fact that she’d pretty much achieved nothing on her bucket list during her four decades on the planet. She was going to celebrate that she was here, that she was worth it; she was going to make the most of her day and see this as the start of something wonderful.

They say life begins at forty, don’t they? Well, bring it on, she thought, taking a sip from her cup and letting out an audible ‘mmm.’

Rory had been a freeze-dried granules man, baulking at the price of freshy ground, so buying herself a coffee pot and an overpriced selection of beans from a specialist store had been a kind of revenge. And he’d always hated the idea of croissants for breakfast, preferring to munch the same grey cereal from a generic packet for the last decade and a bit.

At least now every time she sipped her coffee, she’d know that she might be single, might be going through a divorce, might be hurtling towards middle-age, but at least she was enjoying a better breakfast than he was. Revenge was hers. And in this case, it was a dish better served slightly warmed in the oven and glazed with fresh strawberry jam.

(Sure, so it wasn’t the finger-twiddling, evil-laugh-inducing revenge of a Bond villain, or the crafty, confidence-sapping payback of an ex set to gaslight their former lover into a state of madness. But Rory hadn’t done anything wrong other than fall out of love with her. Their divorce had been as lacklustre as their marriage had become. They’d sort of drifted apart, and finally he’d taken it upon himself to make things official by hiring a lawyer. She hadn’t the impetus or energy to key his car, or crank call his work, or report him to the police for something, let alone sabotage his future relationships. Anyway, they say the best revenge is living well – so that’s what she was going to do. From now on.)

There was a gratifying thud as the post hit the doormat and she smiled to herself. Cards. Was it babyish to be excited about them? Probably. But she’d always loved receiving proper birthday cards – not because they’d sometimes used to contain money (although that had always been very welcome) but because they meant that someone had taken the time to choosea card, send her wishes, buy a stamp and pop it in the post to brighten her day.

She got up, slid her feet back into the ‘Naughty Forty’ slippers her best friend Bess had given her and padded to the doormat. Six white, card-like envelopes and one large, manilla one, with the tell-taledo not bend(probably a giant card from Bess), plus a couple of takeaway leaflets. Not a bad turn out.

‘Happy birthday to me,’ she said quietly as she made her way back to the kitchen table and its scattered crumbs.

She cleared a space in the rubble and put down her stack, starting with the smallest card first. Saving the best till last, she thought, looking at the manilla envelope. First card was from Mum and Dad, predictably with a picture of an impressionist oil painting on the front and garnished with a row of kisses in her mum’s swooping handwriting. Then one from Carl, her cousin, no doubt written by his wife Kelly – Carl had never been the most organised of people but since meeting Kel, his birthday and Christmas card output had gone up 200 per cent.

The other cards were from her aunt, an old work colleague and a couple of friends from uni. None of them had much more than a scribbledhappy birthdayor the usual half-arsedmust meet up soonbut it was the thought that counted. And now, the pièce de résistance, she thought, running her finger under the flap of the large, cardboard envelope. What had Bess gone and done now? A montage of funny pictures from across the years? A personalised message? Maybe a voucher for a best buddies’ spa day?

She jumped as the thick paper sliced into her finger and pulled her hand back, before sucking at the tiny, stinging wound. Then more carefully, she pulled the rest of the gummed paper open and gently slid out the interior, careful not to bleed all over the thick paper. Death by paper cut, she thought, how glamorous.

For a moment, when she turned the paper over, she felt her head spin and a prickle ran over her skin as her brain tried to marry up her expectations vs the reality.

The thick, card-like paper readDecree Absolute. The final paper in her divorce proceedings.

No happy birthday. No best wishes. No quips about her age. No cartoon women drinking from wine bottles.

Instead, a legal document. The rubber stamp on her single status. She was officially unattached.

‘Hang on, hang on, stop crying!’ Bess said, her voice crackling slightly over the phone. ‘Aren’t you meant to be happy about this?’

‘I know…’ she sobbed, feeling a runnel of snot descend from her nostril. ‘It’s… it’s… just. It hit me.’

‘What hit you?’

‘Bess! I’m forty!’ she said, her voice a strangled cry. ‘I’m middle-aged and now I’m divorced.’

‘I love you, honey. But none of this should be a surprise to you.’

‘I just… I wasn’t… ready.’

‘You’ve been waiting three months for this piece of paper – and your solicitor warned you it was on its way,’ Bess said calmly. ‘And you’ve had the whole year to get used to the idea of the big 4-0.’

‘I know but it didn’t seem real. And now… Now it’s really real!’

They were both silent for a moment, probably trying to extract meaning from the odd sentence.

‘Are you sure all this is just about the decree absolute?’ Bess asked, more gently.

Nina wiped her nose, trying to gather herself. ‘It’s just,’ she said, ‘it came today of all days. I mean, do you think Rory planned it?’

‘Nina,’ Bess said. ‘Rory doesn’t have the…’

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