by Annie Lyons
‘Now this,’ she slurred, grinning at the man as she gestured towards Heather, ‘is the woman of your dreams.’
The stranger turned and Heather remembered feeling a jolt, not like electricity but more physical, like a lost piece of her clicking back into place. Luke Benjamin had a soft gaze and the longest eyelashes Heather had even seen on a man. Gemma had watched with smiling approval while Heather and Luke attempted a conversation over the thumping beat of the music. After a respectable amount of time, she had hugged her friend and warned Luke to ‘take care of my coz or else’, before heading off into the night.
Heather had spent the rest of the night walking around the streets of London with Luke, talking and laughing. Falling in love. It was as heady and romantic as it sounded and for Heather, it felt so right – her shot at happiness after so many years of fruitless searching. Heather knew that her current happiness was all down to Gemma and that even if her parents couldn’t be there to share in her joy, Gemma and her parents would do all they could to fill that gap.
‘It’s fine,’ Heather reassured Pamela. ‘It will be hard but my cousin and her parents will support me.’
Pamela reached out and squeezed her arm. ‘Of course. It’s wonderful that you’ve found this lovely man. You must be so happy to have him home. Did he like the cheesecake?’
‘He did,’ lied Heather. She wasn’t about to tell her that the cheesecake had ended up in the bin or mention the fact that she’d hardly had a chance to talk to Luke since his return from New York. Understandably he had arrived home exhausted, delighted to see her but in desperate need of his bed on the first night and on Tuesday night, after a punishing day’s work, he had fallen asleep on the sofa by nine and woken full of sheepish apologies.
She’d forgiven him immediately. It wasn’t his fault. He had pulled Heather into a kiss, promising to make it up to her.
So tonight was the night. She was planning a lovely dinner, a bottle of good wine and a proper discussion about the wedding. She already had a couple of venues in mind.
‘I’m glad,’ said Pamela. ‘Well if you change your mind about the course, you know where we’ll be.’
Heather nodded, safe in the knowledge that there would be no changing of minds, plans or anything else that evening. ‘Thank you.’
‘I will go,’ said Georg with an earnest frown as if he was signing up to join the Foreign Legion. Heather stared at him in surprise.
Pamela grinned. ‘Wonderful! I’ll see you later then, Georg – I’ve baked some flapjacks for us to share. I’m looking forward to it! Right, I’ll pop this flyer on the board and then I’ll be off. I need to get home and make sure that Barry and Matthew aren’t arguing. Again. Cheerio!’
Heather stared at Georg after she’d gone. ‘A happiness course? Really?’
Georg frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘Surely you don’t think that kind of stuff can be learnt, do you?’ she scoffed.
‘You do not?’ asked Georg.
Heather shrugged. ‘You’re either happy or you’re not.’
Georg fixed her with a look. ‘What did you say to Pamela? Everyone is different.’
Touché, thought Heather. Clearly there was more to Georg than met the eye. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘Each to their own.’
Georg gave a satisfied nod. ‘I think it will be interesting. I like to learn.’
‘Good for you,’ said Heather with a smile.
‘Okay. You take break now. I will cover.’ He handed her a cortado.
She frowned at the coffee. ‘But I usually have a latte.’
‘You try. You will like,’ he insisted.
Heather sighed and carried her coffee to a table by the window. She took a sip. It was rich and bitter but utterly delicious. Surprised, she shot a glance at Georg, who nodded a knowing reply.
She smiled and took in her surroundings. The Taylor-made café and bakery had become something of a hub in the community since Caroline and Oliver Taylor established it eighteen months ago. It was hip but friendly with its exposed brick and soft lighting and had already won awards for its signature sourdough. Heather had been surprised at how quickly she’d settled into the job. It was a far cry from her original career plan as a teacher, but it was considerably less stressful and she decided that there was enough stress in their lives already with Luke’s job. She didn’t earn much but felt at home here, and besides, her inheritance more than contributed to their financial commitments. She knew how important Luke’s job was to him – that he had ambitions to become a director and that there was a real chance of this happening over the next few years. She respected his desire to do well and was happy to support him because she loved him. Of course, she wished that he could switch off from work sometimes or reduce his hours a fraction but she wanted him to achieve his dream – he worked hard and he deserved it.
There was another flyer for the happiness course on the doormat when she got home later that afternoon.
‘It’s like you’re stalking me,’ she said, as she stuffed it into the recycling bin and made herself a cup of tea. She flicked her iPad into life and typed ‘Chilford Park’, taking in the stunning pictures of lush green lawns and the tastefully elegant ballroom. Wedding venue porn. Nothing quite like it to soothe the soul. Except wedding dress porn. That was her other current favourite.
She sipped her tea and Googled the recipe for twice-cooked chips. She was planning to cook steak with pepper sauce and chips, accompanied by a nice bottle of red. Heather stretched her arms, teasing out the tension in her aching muscles and decided that she would have a soak in the bath before getting everything ready for this evening. She wanted it to be perfect. She went upstairs and laid out the Agent Provocateur underwear that Luke had bought her last Christmas. He had been too tired for sex over the past couple of evenings so she was sure he’d be in the mood for a little seduction tonight. She ran the bath, filling it with Molton Brown bath oil, and lit some candles. Her phone rang from the bedroom and she felt a thrill of excitement as she saw that it was Luke calling.
‘I was just thinking about you,’ murmured Heather, tracing a finger over the lacy bra waiting on the bed. ‘I’ve got plans for us this evening.’
‘Oh, honey, I can’t tell you how much I’d love that and I’m so sorry but I gotta take a rain check. The boss has dropped this last-minute dinner on me. They’re important head office clients so I can’t say no. I’m really sorry, Heather.’
Heather grabbed the underwear and tossed it back into the drawer. ‘It’s fine. It’ll keep,’ she said, unable to hide the disappointment from her voice.
‘You’re upset, aren’t you?’
Heather sighed. ‘A bit. You got back on Monday and you’ve been knackered ever since. I was planning a nice dinner so that we could talk about the wedding and catch up, you know, properly.’ She winced at how desperate she sounded.
‘I’ll make it up to you. I promise. At the weekend – we’ll talk weddings for a solid forty-eight hours and do all the catching up you want,’ he said in honeyed tones.
She softened and gave an indulgent laugh. ‘O-kay.’
‘I love you, Heather Brown. And I’m really, really sorry.’
‘I know. I love you too.’
Heather stomped around the house, feeling annoyed and then irritated at her annoyance. There was no point in getting cross with Luke. It wasn’t his fault. He had to work and that was that – getting pissed off wasn’t going to change the situation. And yet it niggled – the feeling that she was always taking second place somehow, second place to an American drinks company. It didn’t exactly make a girl feel good about herself.
She drained the bath and went downstairs to make some toast. Somehow steak and twice-cooked chips for one didn’t hold much appeal. She carried her plate into the living room and switched on the TV, flicking idly through the channels as she ate. She felt restless and irritable. Was she being unfair about this or did she have a right to be angry? She knew one person who would tell
her for sure. She reached for her phone. Gemma answered after three rings.
‘Hey, Heth, what’s up?’
Heather could hear Freddy wailing in the background. She grimaced. These weren’t exactly suitable conditions for a heart-to-heart with your bestie. ‘Never mind about me – what are you doing to that baby?’ she asked.
Gemma gave a weary sigh. ‘I call it the baby witching hour. It’s a huge conspiracy – all the babies in the world start going mental at six o’clock and don’t stop until their parents are on the brink of insanity.’
‘Poor you.’
‘Thank you. It comes with the territory these days. Are you okay? Aren’t you supposed to be talking weddings with that perfect man of yours tonight?’
Heather sighed. ‘Yeah but he’s got to work.’
‘Again?’
‘Mmm. Do you think I’m wrong to be pissed off?’
Freddy’s cries intensified to a volume and pitch that sounded like something from a horror film. Heather realized that it was unfair to expect Gemma to counsel her. ‘Listen, Gem, I can hear that this is a bad time. You go.’
‘I’m sorry, Heth. It’s difficult to concentrate on no sleep with Hitler-in-a-nappy here wailing in the background. I’m always here for you. I’ll call you soon and we can talk it all through, okay?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Heather breezily. ‘It’s fine. You go and sort Freddy Fruitcake.’
‘Thank you, Heth and sorry again. Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ said Heather. ‘And I miss you,’ she told the blank screen as the call ended.
She turned and caught sight of her parents’ photo and felt an urge to cry as an unexpected wave of desolation hit her. Heather turned and headed quickly for the door. ‘Oh no you don’t. Not tonight.’ She stood in the hall for a moment, weighing up her options. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she muttered, as she remembered her earlier conversation with Pamela. ‘You’ve got no right to self-pity. You moved on from that emotion a long time ago.’ She exhaled.
What’s it to be then, Heather Brown? Another night in alone watching Netflix? That’s a sure-fire way of intensifying your self-pitying mood. Come on, there must be another option.
She glanced at her phone. 6.45. A surprising idea twitched in her brain.
Surely not? After everything you’ve said? You’re not actually considering it, are you?
She hesitated for a fraction of a second before making a decision. ‘Sod it,’ she said, reaching for her bag and jacket and heading out onto Hope Street.
Chapter Five
Fran
The trees that lined Hope Street were heavy with blossom. There seemed to be no scheme to their planting – tall ones, short ones, all intermingled in a mishmash of cloud-like whites and pinks. It was that time of year when the sun shone by day but the heat soon disappeared as it got dark. There was a chilly snap to the air so that Fran wished she’d pulled on her cosy-but-smelly dog-walking coat instead of her tatty leather jacket.
She could see a glow of light pooling from the doorway to Hope Street Community Hall and a few people making their way inside. She paused just short of the pathway that led towards the door. If it wasn’t for her mother, she would have quite happily turned on her heel, gone home, change into her PJs and binge-watched Modern Family with the dog on her lap and a family bag of Doritos by her side.
But Angela Cooper had arrived that afternoon, struggling up the garden path with the ancient carpet bag that she called her ‘overnighter’ and a determined look on her face. Fran knew better than to challenge that look.
‘Here, Granny, let me take your bag,’ Charlie had said, smiling and reaching out to her.
‘Oh, thank you, Charlie dear. Gosh, I do feel old sometimes.’
‘You’re not old, Granny, you’re young and beautiful.’
‘Thank you, my treasure. Hello, Fran dear,’ she said, stepping over the threshold and kissing her daughter on the cheek, while the dog ran in excited circles around them and Jude appeared on the landing. ‘And who is this handsome young man I see before me?’
‘’llo Granny.’ Jude smiled as he plodded down the stairs, leaning in to give his grandmother an awkward teenage hug. Fran marvelled at how relaxed teenagers were with other teenagers, wrapping arms around one another in an almost possessive way, but present them with someone outside their immediate friendship circle and you were lucky if they made eye contact.
‘It’s pizza for tea, Mum. I hope that’s okay,’ said Fran, leading the way to the kitchen.
‘What would you say if I told you it wasn’t?’ retorted her mother.
Fran pursed her lips. ‘I don’t like to swear in front of the children.’
Charlie looked confused. ‘You’re always swearing, Mummy. That’s why I made you this,’ she said, holding up a jam jar wrapped in exercise paper with the words ‘Mummy’s Swear Pot’ written in large purple writing.
Angela raised her eyebrows at her daughter. Fran shrugged. ‘All the books on grief tell you that swearing can be a very useful form of self-expression. Plus, I’m putting the money towards a holiday.’
Angela took the jar from Charlie and weighed it in her hand. ‘I’d say you’ve got enough for a trip to Disneyworld.’
‘Hooray!’ cried Charlie. Alan barked in celebration. ‘Please can I go and watch TV before dinner?’
‘Sure,’ nodded Fran.
‘Thanks, Mum. Love you.’ Charlie stared at her mother, waiting for the response.
‘Love you too.’ Satisfied, Charlie leant over to kiss her mother and then her grandmother before disappearing to the lounge. ‘Glass of wine?’ asked Fran, hoping to distract her mother from Charlie’s mildly obsessive behaviour.
‘I was wondering when you were going to ask,’ said Angela. Fran rolled her eyes and fetched a bottle from the fridge. ‘So is Charlie still sleeping in your bed?’ she asked, accepting the wine glass and taking a sip.
‘Sometimes,’ said Fran, feeling immediately defensive. ‘But where’s the harm? If she needs reassurance, there’s nothing wrong with it – that’s what the counsellor said.’ After Andy died, Charlie had insisted on sleeping in Fran’s bed every night for about a year. It happened less often now. Fran would never tell her mother but she relished the nights when she woke to find her long-haired, still baby-faced girl snoring softly next to her. She knew this wasn’t ideal for either of them but she didn’t care – whatever got you through the day and encouraged you to carry on putting one foot in front of the other was fine by her.
‘It ties you down, Fran, and it’s not fair on Charlie.’
‘I’m not going anywhere and Charlie’s still young so whatever she needs is fine by me. Now can we please change the subject? How’s Dad?’
Even Angela knew when to let things go. She sniffed. ‘He’s got an in-grown toenail.’
‘Ouch.’
‘You’d think he’d broken his leg the way he goes on about it.’
‘Everyone needs a hobby.’
Angela smiled. ‘So are you looking forward to this course?’
Fran gave her mother an incredulous look. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you should go with an open mind.’
‘Says the woman who makes her mind up about people within seven seconds of meeting them,’ snorted Fran.
‘Except you’re not like me, are you? You’re younger and receptive to new ideas.’
Fran sighed. ‘I’m going tonight but if it’s all hygge and hot air, I won’t be going again.’
Her mother fixed her with a look. ‘Let’s hope it brings you something unexpected, shall we?’
Fran knocked her wine glass against her mother’s. ‘To eternal happiness.’
Fran glanced at her watch. Five to seven. She wondered what her friend Nat was up to. She had a feeling that Wednesday might be Dan’s night to have Woody so there was a chance that her friend was home alone, with a tempting bottle of wine in the fridge…
‘I’m not sure whether to go i
n either,’ said a voice behind her.
Fran turned. The woman was younger than her. Fran was terrible at guessing ages but she estimated her to be mid-twenties. She had dark brown hair, which was scraped up into a loose bun and an air of nervousness, which Fran put down to the prospect of baring her soul in front of a group of strangers. She understood completely and flashed a sympathetic smile.
‘I like your jacket,’ said the woman.
‘Thanks. My son says I’m too old for a leather jacket, which is exactly why I wear it,’ she smirked. ‘And while we’re on the subject, I like your scarf.’
‘Thanks.’ The woman grinned. ‘I’m Heather by the way.’
‘Fran,’ she said. ‘So now that we’re officially best mates, shall we forget this and naff off to the Goldfinch Tavern?’ She thumbed towards the direction of the local pub.
Heather laughed. ‘Could do.’
Fran dismissed the idea with a flick of her hand. ‘I’m just messing with you. My mother’s babysitting and if I don’t go home with the secrets to a happy life imprinted on my brain, she’ll never speak to me or help with the kids again.’
‘Shall we then?’ asked Heather.
‘After you,’ said Fran, gesturing towards the door. ‘But please be warned that I am using you as a human shield.’
Heather laughed as they walked inside.
The Happiness List
WEEK 1: Introduction
WEEK 2: Mindfulness
WEEK 3: Exercise
WEEK 4: Laughter
WEEKS 5 & 6: Keep Learning
WEEK 7: The World Outside Ourselves
WEEK 8: Resilience
WEEK 9: Contentment
WEEK 10: Review
Fran picked up the handout from one of the chairs and wondered if she could slip out now. She could probably just Google these and work it out for herself at home without the fuss of having to come along every week. She had a mindfulness colouring book somewhere, although Charlie had stolen her colouring pencils. In fact, she probably had a book covering most of these subjects. Fran bought a lot of books. It had always been her natural antidote to any life problem that arose. She loved that sense of hope when she came home with a shiny new book. Surely this would be the one to give her the answer to everything from how to tame your toddler to communicating with your monosyllabic teenager? She bought dozens of books after Andy died and friends and relatives had given her dozens more. Alas, she rarely found the time to actually read them beyond skimming the first few chapters. Now they sat abandoned and unread on her bookshelves – an archive of her failed attempts to get her life in order.