In Pursuit of Happiness

by Freya Kennedy

  ‘Mum, you know that’s more Noah’s dream than mine. I mean, I love it, but I never thought it was going to be my whole life.’

  In fact, until Noah had raised the idea of her investing in the pub and coming on board to work with him she had never really seen herself as someone who would ever be a business owner. As it had happened, it had saved her sanity during a particularly difficult time in her life but it wasn’t her dream. It wasn’t how she thought her life would pan out.

  ‘Tell me this,’ her mum said, ‘what did you think your whole life would be?’

  Jo felt her face redden. Could she find the strength in herself to say it out loud? She took a deep breath… ‘I want to be a writer. A proper writer.’ She thought of how brave her friends had been and she closed her eyes. ‘I want to write things.’

  ‘You do write things! You’ve so many notebooks full of writing. And you’re at Libby’s every Thursday.’

  ‘But I want to write things people will actually read!’

  With more than a hint of frustration, her mother replied: ‘I’m always offering to read your work, darling.’

  ‘No, I mean… God, I’d just love to be published.’ Her face now blazed. As if she had admitted to some horrible seedy secret.

  ‘So get published,’ her mum said.

  ‘But what if I’m not very good?’ she asked, her voice small and quiet. She could barely even look at her mother, afraid she’d see her fears reflected back at her.

  ‘Then learn how to be very good. If you want it, then do it. I know you, Josephine Campbell. I know you better than you know yourself and you have never been a person to look for the easy route or run from a challenge. You’re the girl who went to university in Scotland, not knowing a single other person who was going and who had the best time and got a great degree to boot. Then you wanted to travel, so you did. You worked your arse off and you were good at it and then, when you came home, you helped your brother set up in business.’

  ‘He’s the brains behind the operation,’ Jo said.

  ‘Jo, I love my boy. I am so very proud of him. He has a heart of gold, but if Noah was the only person behind that business he’d give away the profits to the needy, serve Pot Noodles for lunch and the toilets would be a health hazard. You keep the place running. You got him to hire Erin, a proper chef. You oversaw the refurbishment of the function room. And suggested the beer garden. Give yourself some credit.’ She paused. ‘And I remember the young you, who always wrote stories and made me read them. Even then you had something. So use it. Chase it and work at it. You don’t think every published author in the world didn’t almost kill themselves learning their trade? Do it. Don’t just sit and wish for it to happen. Make it happen.’

  Jo felt a wave of love wash over her for her mother, who knew the right thing to say even when that right thing involved a verbal kick up the bum.

  ‘I love you, Mum,’ she said. ‘You’re right. I’ll try.’

  ‘None of this try nonsense,’ her mother said, as she switched the washing machine on. ‘Do it. Change your thought patterns. Auntie Mags is mad into these affirmations these days. We’re not allowed to say anything negative. We’ve to say it like we’ve already achieved it. Like, I’m losing weight, instead of I’m trying to lose weight. That kind of thing.’

  Jo smiled. Auntie Mags went through phases of obsessions with new hobbies. She had done almost every evening class the community centre at Pilots Row had offered and could turn her hand to sewing, glass painting, pottery and car maintenance to varying degrees – although Jo wasn’t sure she’d entirely trust her godmother to change a tyre. Now she was in a positivity and empowerment phase.

  ‘How is Auntie Mags anyway? Did you have a good night last night?’

  ‘I did. It was such a laugh. You know, just silly stuff, but my sides were sore from laughing. Auntie Mags was in great form, telling us all her stories. I keep telling her she should write them down some time. You wouldn’t think she was a woman in her sixties – the life she leads. She’s always up to something, and she rarely behaves. She has me roaring laughing. But, fun as it was, I’m paying for it today. Never again!’ she declared, shaking her head.

  ‘Yeah right,’ Jo said. ‘It will be the same next Thursday.’

  ‘You’re probably right, love,’ her mother replied. ‘But it will be an early night for me tonight. What about you?’

  Jo revealed her own plans for a long soak, a glass or two of wine and a family bag of Maltesers. She didn’t mention that she’d read over some of her book again. Her mum was right. She needed to be brave. How could she ever know if she was any good if she didn’t show her work to someone?

  6

  Coyote Ugly

  Saturdays were, by far, the busiest day of the week at The Ivy Inn. And they were traditionally Jo’s favourite days to work. She’d happily pull a twelve-hour shift and not think anything of it. Saturdays never seemed to drag. From lunchtime to last orders, they would be packed – at first with the Saturday lunchtime crowd, groups of shoppers calling in for soup and sandwich, family groups grabbing some lunch or brave souls who decided to start their evening festivities early.

  By mid-afternoon, there would be a buzz of conversation and laughter around the place that always lifted Jo’s spirits. Yes, they had a wide clientele, but they also had a core bunch of regulars who she loved to catch up with and spend some time chatting to.

  The mid-afternoon crowd would give way to the pre-drinkers who would go on somewhere more raucous and the regulars who enjoyed the live music Noah always insisted upon for a Saturday night.

  Jo often found herself singing along loudly, and not necessarily in tune, while she poured pints and waited tables. Occasionally she’d even have a quick dance to her favourite songs.

  It was a tradition when the bar was emptied and everyone had gone home that Jo and Noah, and, more often than not these days, Libby too, would enjoy a drink or two after cleaning up. Jo would sleep over in Noah’s flat above the bar, allowing them to continue their party into the wee hours before collapsing into bed with little extra effort. It was at those times that secrets were spilled, alliances were made and plans hatched. This, Jo realised, was her downtime.

  While she worked incredibly hard, she thrived in the atmosphere. It was fun. It was raucous at times. It allowed her to be among happy people enjoying themselves, but, in truth, it still wasn’t ultimately where she saw herself. Her mother had been one hundred per cent correct when she had told her that to achieve her dream she had to go for it full throttle. She couldn’t continue to cower in her little safe space, bopping along to ‘Sweet Caroline’ in the bar on a Saturday night. She had to stop with the half-arsed approach to being a writer. She had to go full-arsed at it.

  The first step in that process, she realised at 3 a.m. on Sunday morning, while sitting in an empty bar drinking a bottle of beer with Noah and Libby, was to stop feeling weird about her aspirations. She had to own them, just like Auntie Mags had explained to her mum. She had to declare that she was a writer. She absolutely had to let other people read her work, even if it made her feel sick to contemplate it. She had to feel the fear, possibly even throw up, but do it anyway.

  The soft fugue of intoxication – caused by both the cold beer she had been drinking and the feeling of sweet relief that washed over her when she took her shoes off and cooled her tired feet on the tiled floor – gave her the bravery she needed.

  ‘So,’ she said, interrupting a discussion about wedding favours, ‘I have something to tell you both.’

  Libby looked at her, her soft blue eyes wide with concern.

  Noah tilted his head. ‘Is this to do with you being so upset yesterday?’

  ‘Sort of, but not really,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sick? Please tell me you’re not sick?’ Libby blurted.

  ‘Oh God, no. I’m not sick,’ Jo said. ‘Noah said you had both been worried about me. There’s nothing to be worried about. But I’m going to put it out there
now. I’m a writer. I’ve written a book. I think it’s good, but I’m not sure if anyone else will think it is. But the thing is, I want to have that book published. That’s my dream, just like the bar was your dream, Noah, and the bookshop was yours, Libby. So I’m going to do it. I’m not sure how, but I am going to do it. And, actually, Noah, you know how I’m owed about a million days off, I was thinking I could take the next ten days to work on that dream.’ Jo had no idea where that declaration had come from, and she most certainly hadn’t planned to say it before she did. But once the words were out there, she realised it wasn’t a bad idea at all.

  There was a moment’s pause while Jo waited for their reaction. Even though she knew them both to be very supportive and lovely, she worried they’d laugh in her face, or tell her to calm down. It would be very unlike them, admittedly, but still she worried there’d be some manifestation of her inner demons.

  ‘Well,’ Libby spoke first. ‘If you ask me, it’s about time. You’ve been squirrelled away in that nook for a year, writing and dreaming. Noah tells me you’ve piles of notebooks bursting with ideas. I see it in you, you know. You have the heart of a writer and I’ve been dying to read what you’re working on. Do you think you could show me?’

  Before Jo could answer, Noah spoke. ‘You know having time off isn’t a problem,’ he said. ‘I always wondered how much of the bar was your dream or if I was just dragging you along into it all.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Jo said. ‘I love the bar. I don’t want to leave. You absolutely didn’t drag me along and I’m so happy to be a part of it. It’s very special to me, but it’s not my everything. It’s not what I dream about when I put my head on the pillow at night.’

  ‘You dream about writing?’ he asked.

  ‘Not just writing, but being successful at it. Having people read it and like it. And Tom Hardy. I dream of him too, but I think I probably have more chance of being a writer.’

  ‘Why not aim for both?’ Noah said with a wink. ‘You are single after all? Tom Hardy would be lucky to have you.’

  Jo laughed. Already her fears were being washed away. No one had told her she was mad. Not her mum. Not Libby. Not Noah. ‘You’re very kind, Noah,’ she said. ‘But I think Tom Hardy can probably do better. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s married, or else I’d be in there like a shot.’ She turned to Libby. ‘Okay, this is taking every ounce of courage I possess, but I’d love you to read it. As long as you promise to be honest. If I’m going to be serious about it, then I need that from you.’

  Libby reached out to Jo, and Jo let her take her hand. ‘I promise,’ Libby said. ‘I will be honest and constructive. I’m so excited for you.’

  ‘Oh please don’t get too excited,’ Jo said. ‘Not until you’ve read it, at least.’

  ‘Tell us more about it,’ Noah said as he opened another bottle of beer and sat back in his chair. ‘I want to know what goes on inside your mind. All these years I’ve seen you scribbling in notebooks or losing yourself in a daydream. But you’ve never let me in to that part of you. So let me in. Pitch me the book as if I’m a red-hot agent and you have five minutes to sell yourself to me.’

  Jo took a deep breath. This was the first time she was going to say all this out loud, although she was sure if Noah really was a red-hot agent and she really did have five minutes to sell herself, she would throw up with nerves and disgust the agent from the very beginning. ‘Right, okay. Don’t laugh. Or, actually, can I do this with my eyes closed, or can you face the other way?’

  ‘Jo, would an agent look in the other direction or allow you to do this with your eyes closed?’ Noah asked, his eyebrow raised.

  ‘Well, probably not. But I’m nervous and kind of afraid you will laugh at me and, c’mon, give me a break!’

  ‘Yes, Noah. Give the woman a break.’ Libby nudged her fiancé and he responded by raising his two hands in surrender.

  ‘Okay. I cave. Although I want to make it known that I’m much, much more scared of you than you could ever be of any agent,’ Noah said.

  ‘Very funny,’ Jo said. ‘But here goes. It’s called The Lies We Tell, and it sort of, well…’ Her face reddened. She willed herself to calm down and own the moment. Own her dream. ‘Well, it’s a crime novel. But over two generations. So, I suppose it’s a bit of a family saga. It’s about a family who live a really basic, uncomplicated life in a cottage on the Irish coast. They’re removed from everyday life and shun modern advances. It all feels very idyllic, but the younger sister in the family isn’t even aware that a different life exists outside of their home. And she definitely isn’t aware that they are actually in hiding – and the very worst thing that could happen would be for people to find out where they are.’

  Jo allowed herself to look at both Noah and Libby, at the expressions on their faces, and, to her surprise, they weren’t cringing, or laughing or looking as if they would rather be anywhere else but exactly where they were.

  ‘Oh, Jo, that sounds brilliant,’ Libby said, sounding genuinely excited.

  ‘I’d read it,’ Noah chimed in. ‘And you know me, I don’t read. Not much anyway.’

  ‘And I’m just thinking,’ Libby continued, ‘you know how Ewan McLachlan is coming into the shop this week for a reading and signing? I’ve heard he’s really personable. I bet I could ask him to give you some advice? He might even read some of it?’

  Jo’s eyes widened. She didn’t think she’d have the nerve to let the great Ewan McLachlan even read the title of her book, never mind all the words that followed.

  ‘Ewan McLachlan?’ Noah said, before he took another swig from his beer bottle. ‘Who’s he?’

  Jo’s eyes widened further, so much so in fact that she feared they might pop out of her head. ‘Noah Simpson! Please tell me you’ve heard of Ewan McLachlan? The famous Scottish crime writer? It’s a massive coup for your fiancée here to get him to Derry and into the shop. His reading has been booked out for months.’

  Noah shrugged.

  Libby tutted, clearly sharing Jo’s disbelief. ‘Noah, there are posters of him all over the shop. Brown eyes, messy brown hair. Intense-looking. Really kind of hot.’

  ‘Guys, you both know I don’t read much,’ Noah said, putting his hands up in faux surrender. ‘And as for hot – he’s not my type. He shouldn’t be yours either, Libby Quinn. You’re spoken for!’

  Libby rolled her eyes. ‘I’m spoken for, not dead. I can admire a fine-looking man from a distance. You might not read much but you watch TV. And you loved The Knock and The Call on BBC – you know, those dramas with Inspector Tom McCreadie?’

  ‘Aaah!’ Noah said, his eyes wide in recognition. ‘I know who you’re talking about now. Yes, Jo, you should definitely get him to read your work. He’s amazing. I love a bit of McCreadie. Get him to make your book into a TV show too. I can be an extra!’

  ‘I’m only now feeling brave enough to let Libby read it, I’m not anywhere near being able to let someone like Ewan McLachlan read it,’ Jo said, the very thought making her stomach flip.

  ‘Sometimes you have to take a chance when one arrives at your door,’ Libby said, her voice soft. ‘I risked everything – every penny I owned – to open the bookshop because the property I had always loved came on the market. Look how that turned out. I love the shop, it’s doing better than I could’ve hoped for, and, well, I’ve your brother here in my life.’

  ‘For better or worse,’ Noah said with a smile. He looked at Libby and Jo watched as the pair of them kissed. Libby had made quite a compelling argument, but she wasn’t quite ready for taking a chance of that magnitude yet.

  ‘Some advice from Ewan is more than enough,’ she said. ‘You read it, and tell me what you think. God, I hope you like it. Or at least, I hope you don’t hate it. I’ll email it to you as soon as I get home.’

  ‘Good. I’ll drink to that,’ Libby said, and raised her beer bottle to clink it against Jo’s. Noah, of course, joined in and the three of them sat and chatted, and ponder
ed all of the what ifs until they were so tired they simply had to sleep.

  7

  The Breakfast Club

  Libby and Noah were still sleeping soundly when Jo got up and showered. She poured herself a glass of orange juice – or, more accurately, half a glass of orange juice as that was all that was left in the carton. It did little to quench her thirst, so she downed a pint of cold water from the tap, before pushing open the windows to the flat and letting the fresh morning air in.

  It was April and while she could still detect some freshness in the air, she guessed by looking out that it would turn into one of those blissful spring days where the sun would give a taster of what was to come later in the year.

  It was likely to be a busy day at the pub, she reckoned. It was that time of year when winter was cast aside and people were itching to make use of the beer garden now that the sun brought a little warmth with it.

  Jo liked working on days like these. The sun always brought a lighter mood to proceedings. People seemed happier. More content in themselves. She smiled as she breathed in a lungful of the fresh morning air, and then quickly realised – as her tummy rumbled loudly – that she was starving and needed to eat.

  Tempted as she was to just raid the pub’s kitchen, where she knew Erin had fresh home-baked sourdough bread for her famous toasties, as well as plenty of bacon, she also knew she wasn’t brave enough to face her friend’s wrath if she meddled with her meticulously maintained stocks. One look would be all it would take for Erin to spot something was amiss and, never being able to lie to her friend convincingly, Jo knew she would be in big trouble.

  Besides, a Sunday morning wouldn’t be a Sunday morning without a stroll down to see Harry, where she’d have a chat and pick up some of the Sunday papers for the pub too. It was a tradition she enjoyed – that early-morning chat when the shop was quiet.