Ten Steps to Happiness

by Daisy Waugh

  Maurice, too, was feeling good. He had ridden the rocky patch of the last few miserable weeks with his usual deftness of touch, he thought, and his life was once more in control again. Sue-Marie had not mentioned Derek or his ludicrous Kenyan holiday again, and Maurice was confident that she never would. That dark Fiddleford night, a pact of silence had been forged between them – between two desperate people – and it had been sealed with the most revolting kiss of Maurice’s life. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. His phantoms had evaporated the moment that Very Important commiseration call came through, and he knew he was back in the fold again.

  ‘It’s at difficult times like these,’ said his benign absolver’s most valued adviser, who had seen Mr Morrison sobbing on the evening’s news, ‘when we need our families around us, I think.’

  ‘Ah hahahaha!’ Maurice had laughed hysterically. ‘My thoughts exactly! I’m so glad He agrees. You agree. We all so very much agree. I am a man, and I say it myself, who is desperately in need of a wife! In need of a woman. A divine, delicious, devastating woman! Ha ha! But I’m working on it! Have no fear!’

  And today was a very special day, because Maurice was giving a very special lunch. He had hired the city’s best caterers, the city’s best florists, a flautist, a magician, a contortion artist and a delightful duo of brooding Croatian boys to help with the parking.

  Only sixteen guests were expected, and among them only two who signified. Perhaps they had taken pity after his terrible last few weeks; after the sterling performance he gave outside the London Central Hospital. Perhaps they wanted money off him. They could have it! Honestly – who gave a fuck? But sitting that very day at his very own dining table and for the very first time would be no less than the marvellous, utterly marvellous, marvellous, marvellous Mr and Mrs Tony B.

  …Ting ting ting. In fact he’d tinged early because he glanced across the dining-room table and noticed Sue-Marie Gunston stuffing a meringue into her fat face, and he thought, with a flush of anger, that she might at least have had the decency to forego her pudding today. Under these circumstances. There were little globules of cream seeping out from either side of her mouth and she was smirking. No doubt boring Tony senseless about fucking thermometer probes…

  …Ting ting ting. ‘Prime Minister…Cherie…Tony…Mr Blair, Ms Booth…Ladies and gentlemen, ha ha! All of you…Perhaps I should begin, Cherie, by saying how stunning you’re looking today, and what an honour it is to have you and your redoubtable husband at my humble abode.’ A smattering of applause. ‘And how grateful I am for your unstinting support in recent, terrible weeks…’ Maurice Morrison paused for effect. ‘And now, if I may, I would like to take this opportunity to introduce to you all a lady without whose kindness and sheer…gumption…I simply could not have survived them. She’s a lady who has dedicated herself to safety in the workplace – and that’s something which has always been very close to my heart – and even more so as I stand before you now. A humbler man…Even more so…Sue-Marie, God bless you, you have been my tower of strength!’ He smiled at her, and she smirked back, almost believing every word. ‘…We met,’ Maurice continued, ‘while I was staying in the West Country at a beautiful house to which, fingers crossed, I hope soon to be in a position to invite you all. As my guests! It was the house we both fell in love with, wasn’t it, Sue? And the house, ladies and gentlemen, where we both fell in love…’

  ‘Awww!’ said the Prime Minister.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Tony…Cherie…May I present to you my future wife. Sue-Marie Gunston!’

  Dear Joe and Charles Maxwell-Macdonnald,

  As you will no doubt ever so shortly learn, my circumstances have diversified somewhat since I last encountered you. I am not in the employment of Lamsbury Council any longer, and do not envisage retrogressing to this location in the foreseeable future.

  As it is I am very happy at this moment in time, encountering all sorts of celebrities and other fascinating personalities, and frankly, Mr Maxwell, I do not know how much of the situation you are sentient of but suffice it to say – no way is Fiddleford Manor the house for me!

  Unfortunately, for copious reasons with which it would certainly be unpolitic to encumber yourselves, I cannot offer any advice re reparation of stables, but you might find it serviceable to know that all other restrictions and costly alterations being imposed on the house at this time can be reversed with a simple un-registering of your location as a hotel. This can be achieved, I believe, since consumers are in actuality paying for the service of advice which is provided while they are in residence there, and therefore edibles, bibulations and all facilities and amenities provided at your private domicile are purveyed free of all or any charge.

  I hope this is of help to you all, and that it may cause you to foresee a situation in which you could keep hold of the house, and not recommend it for external purchase! And I anticipate you will comprehend when I request you to demolish this communication, as I would not like ‘certain persons’ to know I had been assisting you in any way!

  I wish you the best of luck in the future,

  Yours sincerely,

  Sue-Marie Gunston

  So when Messy, Chloe, Colin, the General, Mr and Mrs Deagle, Nigel and Anatollatia returned to the house they found Jo and Charlie, each carrying a mewling baby in one hand and joyously ripping down Sue-Marie’s prohibition notices with the other. ‘We have our house back!’ shouted Charlie, passing the letter round.

  The General rushed off to the cellar and returned holding the only bottle of champagne which had survived poor Caroline and Jasonette’s final rampage. And after the first wave of twin worship and general celebration had died down, and they were all seated around the old kitchen table, and they’d drunk to the babies, and to Jo, and to Charlie and Jo, and to Nigel and Anatollatia, and to Colin, and to the General, and to Messy and Grey, and even to Sue-Marie Gunston and Maurice Morrison, there was a tiny lull.

  ‘We thought we’d call the boy after you, General,’ Jo mumbled suddenly, looking unusually embarrassed. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh!…Goodness.’ He blushed with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Jo.’ He beamed at her, and she beamed back. ‘Thank you. Both. Charlie. Joanna. Thank you. Well – To Georgina—To Georgie and James, then.’

  ‘To Georgie and James,’ they all shouted.

  And then another lull. ‘But the sad fact is,’ Charlie said, ‘none of this really solves the basic problem. We still can’t run the refuge if they take the stables. We still need to find the money for the stables.’

  Nigel cleared his throat. He nudged Anatollatia. ‘…Oh!’ she screamed. ‘The stables! I meant to say! God—’ She slapped herself on the forehead. ‘You guys will never guess what we found when we were mooching around down there yesterday. Didn’t we, babe? Wait a moment. Wait there. I’m going to get it.’

  As she left, they heard the gate buzzer sounding. It echoed through the hall, the dining room, the drawing room, library, kitchen, pantry, back hall, boot room…There wasn’t a corner of the house where it couldn’t be heard.

  It buzzed once. It buzzed twice. Corrine and Eddie Deagle looked at each other in bemusement. ‘Isn’t that the front gate?’ said Corrine. It buzzed a third time. Colin and Chloe quietly slunk out of the room. It buzzed a fourth time. Charlie, Messy and the General all started talking at once.

  ‘Oh my God, of course!’ exclaimed Jo, grinning suddenly. ‘How could I forget? I’m worse than Anatollatia!’ Charlie was already holding one twin, so she handed hers to her father-in-law, who scowled about it but didn’t quite dare to complain. ‘I’ll just be a second.’

  …‘You see,’ said Anatollatia, dodging round Jo as she made her way back in, ‘it’s virtually exactly the same as one my uncle left to me. And my father was in a terrific bate because Uncle Ernst had known for years he was leaving it to me, so he should have signed it over before. Because of the taxes. Anyway. Boring. The point is—’ She laid a scroll on the kitchen tabl
e and very carefully unrolled it. It was a sketch, a small dirty sketch of an old rural scene, with what looked like Salisbury Cathedral in the background. ‘You know it’s times like this,’ she said, enjoying the moment, ‘people should be grateful I’m such a nosy parker…Because look, it’s actually of the same churchy-thing as mine is, if you can believe it. Only from a slightly different angle. Plus I know it’s the same artist because I did History of Art A level and you can sort of recognise his yokels and stuff…plus…’ She bent closer to it. ‘If you look down there—’ they all craned forward to see, ‘there’s a teeny-tiny siggie. See? C-O-N-S-T-A-B…Guessed it yet?’ She grinned. Never before had she been the recipient of such respectful, grateful attention. Never before had she felt so useful. ‘Good news, hey, guys! And guess how much it’s worth?’ she said. ‘I mean even after death tax?’

  ‘Charlie?’ Jo poked her head back round the kitchen door. ‘Come out here a moment, will you? There’s something I want to show you.’

  ‘Jo! My darling Jo! You will never guess what Anatollatia has found in the stable! You will never ever, ever guess—’

  ‘Hm?’ She wasn’t listening. ‘Can you come out here a second, Charlie. Please. Just very quickly. There’s something I want to show you—’

  ‘Jo, she’s discovered a fucking—’

  ‘Quickly, quickly, come here!’ She pulled him out into the hall and opened the front door. ‘Go on,’ she said, nudging him through. ‘Go on! Go on!’

  Parked up on the gravel was a truck, its back ramp down. Out of which…

  ‘For the new generation,’ said Jo triumphantly, ‘for our twins…’

  …tumbled two very small Highland calves.

  ‘But then I felt so sorry for them,’ she said. ‘The poor things are so young. It seemed so cruel to separate them from her. And ten months in the country may have turned me slightly savage, but I’m still a sentimental townie at heart…’

  The trailer shook. There was a loud scraping sound. And behind the calves, very slowly, with a hay net hanging haphazardly off one of her giant horns, emerged their big, fat, clumsy Highland mother.

  The Soppy End

  The New You Survival Kit

  Daisy Waugh

  Is it time to break all the rules?

  Jo Smiley has got a desperately glamorous job, she’s a member of all the right clubs, and her friends are the coolest and cruellest in London.

  Ed is a TV producer famous for his gritty and important documentaries. He’s also a liar, a cheat and a phoney. In other words, he’s Mr Right.

  And Charlie’s a charmingly clueless pub singer in cowboy boots. Until he meets Jo who thinks she can make him a social success.

  But who is really showing who the way to survive? Will Charlie learn to play by the rules? Or is it Jo’s breathless life that needs the makeover? And is it too late for either of them?

  From PR heaven to paparazzi hell, this wickedly funny novel has all the social tactics you need to survive the twenty-first century.

  ‘A hilarious, witty comedy of modern manners.’

  ADELE PARKS, author of Playing Away

  ISBN 0 00 711906 2

  Acknowledgements

  Hammersmith and Fulham Council, though I bitterly resent its parking fines, was incredibly helpful in the research of this book and I am very grateful – most especially to Environmental Health Officer Claire Godfrey, who sent me so much useful literature, answered hundreds of questions and, most generously, let me accompany her on several of her inspection tours. She was intelligent, friendly, elegant and utterly sane. So Claire, if you read this, please don’t be offended.

  Many, many thanks also to Dr Lauren Turner and Dr Arabella Onslow. Also to Kristy Jell and Jamie Donald, Pat Van Hoey Smith and her colleagues at Somerset County Council, Jamie Hibbert, Layland Branfield, Terry O’Leary of the London Fire and Emergency Planning Authority, Bob Bacon of the British Hospitality Association, Imogen Edwards-Jones, Charles Campion, Patrick James, Anthony Harwood and Tanith Carey, Ian Cook, Glyn and Kate Howells, the HSE (Health and Safety Executive) for its prodigal supply of ‘free’ information sheets, Maxine Hitchcock, Fiona McIntosh, Esther Taylor, Martin Palmer, James Prichard and Jane Harris.

  And special thanks to Lynne Drew, Clare Alexander and of course to my magnificent husband, Peter.

  Since writing The New You Survival Kit, in which the imaginary village of Fiddleford features in a small way, I have discovered that in Dorset there is already a village called Fiddleford. I only hope it’s as lovely as the Fiddleford of my imagination, which is not in Dorset but much further from London, near an imaginary town called Lamsbury, in a distant and imaginary county which I purposely haven’t named.

  About the author

  Daisy Waugh is a journalist and author. She lives in London and has two magnificent children.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  By the same author

  WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH MARY JANE?

  A SMALL TOWN IN AFRICA

  THE NEW YOU SURVIVAL KIT

  Copyright

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  A Paperback Original 2003

  Copyright © Daisy Waugh 2003

  Daisy Waugh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 978-0-007-39048-9

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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