The Secrets of Happiness

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘Can we come in?’ Rachel heard herself say in an artificially bright sort of voice. ‘We won’t stop long.’

  Looking uncertain, Lawrence acquiesced and then led them down the hall. The house smelled of Pledge and Janice’s lavender perfume, as it always did, with an added whiff of burned toast (Lawrence’s contribution, she suspected). His hair needed cutting, she thought, following behind, and the left pocket was starting to come away from the back of his jeans. Not her problem any more, though. Nothing to do with her.

  Once in the living room, with its sludge-green paint and the huge red-brick fireplace that took up far too much wall, the three of them formed a strained sort of tableau: Rachel perched on the edge of one of Janice’s mustard-coloured armchairs, with Harvey shoving his face in her lap, tail still pumping like a metronome set to allegro; Lawrence posed by the fireplace like something from a cheesy 1960s catalogue; and Becca leaning against the radiator near the door, as if planning a quick escape.

  Lawrence looked from one sister to the other. ‘So,’ he said gruffly. ‘What’s all this about, then?’

  Rachel folded her hands in her lap. ‘We’re here to clear up a little misunderstanding,’ she said demurely. ‘It won’t take a minute. Basically: did you, or did you not sleep with Becca?’

  Whatever he’d been expecting, it was definitely not that question. ‘What on earth . . .?’ He swung round to glare at Becca before turning back to his ex-wife. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘No,’ Rachel replied. ‘It is not. It’s a very simple question, in fact, Lawrence. Did you, or did you not—?’

  ‘I heard you the first time,’ he interrupted, one hand tightening into a fist. His eyes were stormy, but he had been caught off guard, Rachel knew it. You could almost hear his brain whirring as he chose his next words. ‘And . . . Look, what’s the point of going over this sort of thing? The past is in the past. You’ve got to move on, Rach.’

  ‘How can she move on?’ Becca put in, her voice clear and cutting. ‘When you told her such a lie?’

  ‘I –’ His lip curled, and he gave an exasperated snort. ‘Oh, I get it. Best friends, you two, all of a sudden, are you? Ganging up on the ex-husband, is that the idea?’

  ‘Nobody is ganging up,’ Rachel replied evenly. ‘But you still haven’t answered the question. You told me you had slept with Becca. She says you didn’t. I’m asking you now what’s really the truth.’

  He smacked the flat of his hand against the hearth. ‘Why does this even matter?’ he blustered. ‘Look, I get it. You’re angry. You’re trying to score a point. Let’s kick Lawrence while he’s down. Girl power. Whatever.’

  Rachel stared at him, incredulous. ‘Lawrence, this is not about girl power or scoring points,’ she said. ‘It’s a simple yes–no question. Why won’t you answer it?’

  ‘Answer the bloody question!’ said Becca, hands on her hips. ‘Tell her the truth, for goodness’ sake, and then we can all get on with our lives again.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ came a sharp voice, and Rachel quailed inside. Oh shit. Janice was back, and now they were in for it.

  Harvey gave a low woof of greeting as she entered the room: a tall, forbidding woman in a navy padded gilet, tweed skirt and polished brown walking shoes, hair set in pewter-grey curls. ‘Hello, Rachel,’ she said. A flicker of surprise passed over her face as she took in her daughter-in-law’s injuries, but she was not a touchy-feely sort of woman, nor one who went in for personal remarks. ‘I’m Janice,’ she said to Becca, holding out a hand.

  ‘Becca,’ said Becca, shaking it somewhat apprehensively. ‘Rachel’s sister. Um. I think we met at the wedding.’

  Rachel smiled politely at her mother-in-law, hoping that nobody could hear the rapid thump of her heart. Hoping that there wasn’t a rolling pin within grabbing distance, either. ‘We’re just trying to settle an argument,’ she said, shooting a sideways glance at Lawrence.

  ‘So I heard,’ said Janice severely. Something about her tone of voice made Rachel wonder exactly how much she had heard. Then to everyone’s surprise, the older woman steepled her fingers together and turned her gaze on her son. ‘Go on, then, Lawrence, you’d better answer the question,’ she said. ‘Even I want to know what you’ve got to say now.’

  ‘I . . .’ he began, a genuine look of fear flashing across his face. Nobody messed with Janice. ‘Look, there’s been a bit of a mix-up, that’s all,’ he said, floundering under her direct stare. ‘Of course I haven’t slept with Becca. That’s ridic—’

  ‘But you told me you had,’ Rachel cut in. No, Lawrence. You’re not getting away with this ‘mix-up’ line, she thought, cold anger creeping through her. ‘Why would you tell me you had done such a thing if it wasn’t true?’

  There was a moment’s silence, save for the ticking of the gold carriage clock on the mantel. ‘Yes, Lawrence,’ Janice said coldly. Her gaze flicked from her son to a framed photograph beside the clock. ‘Why would you do that?’

  Rachel had never expected to think the words, ‘I love you, Janice,’ but there they were in her head, as her mother-in-law went on to unravel the whole messy situation and then – in a wholly unexpected turn of events – plant herself firmly on the side of the women. ‘How could you?’ she exploded, as the story emerged. ‘To do that to your wife, and to her sister. What were you thinking, for heaven’s sake? I’m very disappointed in you!’

  Lawrence hung his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, spots of colour in his cheeks.

  But Janice wasn’t done yet. ‘I should think you are!’ she thundered. ‘You should apologize to poor Rebecca too, this minute, for besmirching her reputation. For shame, Lawrence. For shame! This is not the way your father and I brought you up. To lie to women. To cause trouble like this, between sisters!’

  Another flicked glance to the photograph, Rachel noticed – and then the penny dropped. Of course. Janice was one of three sisters herself, and very close to them both. There they were in the photograph, flanking her, the three of them faintly terrifying even when smiling into a camera.

  She sat there, fussing Harvey’s gorgeous silky ears and quietly enjoying the spectacle of her former husband making slavish apologies while his mother berated him. She would have to make her own apology later, to Becca, of course, for ever doubting her word. But weirdly, she realized how glad she was that it had been Lawrence that lied, not Becca. The deceit hurt less that way around, somehow.

  She reached down to pat Harvey’s side and he turned his head to gaze up at her adoringly. I wonder . . . she thought, an idea suddenly occurring to her. Could she somehow turn this situation to her own advantage?

  She cleared her throat. Do it, Mum, urged Scarlet in her head.

  ‘Before we go,’ she said, one hand still resting on Harvey’s warm flank, ‘there’s just one more thing. The dog?’ They all looked at the dog, who wagged his tail, swish-swish, across the porridge-grey carpet. ‘Perhaps it’s our turn to have him, in Hereford,’ she went on, heart hammering at her own daring. ‘The children would all love him to come home and –’ She shrugged innocently. ‘Perhaps this could be your way of making amends, Lawrence.’

  Lawrence looked as if he was about to argue, but Janice got there first. ‘That sounds like a very good idea to me,’ she said firmly. ‘Besides,’ she added, narrowing her eyes, ‘it’s shedding everywhere at the moment, that creature, and it’s ruining my upholstery. I’m having to hoover twice a day.’

  ‘Nightmare,’ clucked Becca sympathetically.

  Knowing there could be zero argument to be made against dog hair and twice-daily hoovering, Lawrence seemed to deflate by the fireplace. Game over. ‘Fine,’ he muttered with a shrug.

  ‘Great,’ Rachel said, just about controlling her urge to punch the air and cheer. Now to leave while the going was good. The going – in fact – could not be bettered. ‘Shall we make a move?’ she said to Becca, and rose smoothly to her feet. ‘Come on, then, Harvey, you too. It’s time we went home.’

/>   Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Rachel and Becca managed to keep straight faces while they made their goodbyes, accepted from Janice the bag containing Harvey’s food and water bowls plus his favourite tartan blanket, and then accepted from Lawrence yet another gritted-teeth apology.

  Then they were in the car, Harvey ensconced in the back seat, and just as soon as they drove round the corner Becca pulled over again so that the two of them could cheer and high-five each other in semi-hysterical disbelief, Harvey barking too as he sensed their excitement. ‘Oh my GOD,’ Rachel gasped, leaning back to pat him. ‘Did that really just happen? Oh Harvey, mate. We’ve got you. We’ve got you!’

  ‘Scarlet is going to combust with happiness,’ Becca said. ‘She’s just going to bounce off the walls. Hey, and she’s actually quite a dude, old Janice, isn’t she? I loved her back there – she was awesome. Solidarity with the sisters!’

  ‘She was amazing,’ Rachel agreed, then felt herself sobering up. ‘But Becca, oh gosh, I owe you such a huge apology. For believing him. For putting you in that situation at all just then. For wasting half a tank of petrol on a whim today – I promise I’ll give you the money for it. And I’m sorry. Really bloody sorry.’

  ‘Shucks.’ Becca waved the apology away. ‘You believed your own husband. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? I understand. Obviously I am deeply wounded that you could think such a thing of me . . .’

  She was joking but sort of not-joking too, Rachel realized. ‘Sorry,’ she repeated, hoping it would be enough.

  ‘It’s all right. We’re cool,’ said Becca. A moment passed, and then her eyes sparkled with another smile. ‘I’m just glad he didn’t mention the room-service revenge, to be honest. I was convinced he was going to throw that one in my face and have a go at me about it. But instead – we won!’ They high-fived again, and she started up the engine. ‘Now we’d better head home. We’ve got some children to make very, very happy. Right, Harv?’

  They set off down the road and Rachel let her shoulders fall back, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from them. Becca hadn’t betrayed her, she thought dazedly. Quite the opposite, in fact: Becca had turned down her lecherous brother-in-law and then tried to protect Rachel from the whole grisly story. She’d even driven them out to Builth Wells to help Rachel face Lawrence down. That was good, wasn’t it? That was proper sisterly behaviour, the real thing. And with this cheering thought, the final barrier between them seemed to come down at last, crumbling to dust. A second chance had been issued, and they could start again.

  As for Lawrence . . . Well, she probably should have guessed that he had made the whole thing up to hurt her. Competitive to the last, he had resented being pushed out of the house, and if she’d been able to think straight she could have seen how entirely predictable he was in being unable to resist a last cheap pot-shot. Much as the taunt had hurt her then, it now made her feel steely towards him. Their marriage really was over. She owed him nothing. And after that little episode, she had the feeling he would think twice before trying to pull any future stunts, too. Especially with Janice up in arms about the sisterhood.

  ‘You all right there, smiling away to yourself like a madwoman?’ Becca asked, glancing over just then.

  Rachel nodded. ‘I’m good,’ she replied. ‘Listen, thank you. For all of it – dragging me out today, and going along with my mad impulse to drive out to Builth Wells, and—’

  ‘And for not sleeping with your husband—’

  ‘Yeah, that too. Everything. For being a bloody good sister. Thanks, Becca.’

  Becca glanced back at her again, and she was smiling too. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Rachel’s new-found happiness stayed with her for an entire twenty-four hours: through children screaming with sheer unconfined joy over the return of their canine companion, a really positive return trip to the fracture clinic the next day (especially the bit where they glimpsed the gorgeous male nurse again, even if Becca did keep teasing her and saying ‘Swit-swoo’ under her breath in a stupid voice) and definitely through the lovely hour she spent in the garden with the dog, feeling the sun on her face as she threw ball after ball for him to chase. Becca had mentioned her idea – Adam’s idea – about karate lessons, and she went online and found a club nearby that Luke was keen to join – so that was great, too.

  For a whole glorious day and night, it was as if her troubles were temporarily suspended and she was able to forget them all: the anguish she’d felt on discovering the truth about her mother, the debilitating physical pain she’d experienced in the last fortnight, the doubts still plaguing her about her long-term future as a single parent and whether she was seriously up to the job.

  But everybody knew that happiness was only ever a split-second away from turning into something else; that problems had the annoying habit of creeping right back in. And sure enough, that very next evening, along came trouble in the form of her elder daughter.

  If she’d told her once, she’d told her a thousand times: Mabel was supposed to be home by four o’clock every afternoon, unless she’d expressly let either Rachel or Becca know otherwise in advance. There was even the whiteboard up in the kitchen now, supposedly charting everybody’s whereabouts so that no-one could be in any doubt. And so when four o’clock came and went that day, swiftly followed by five o’clock, Rachel felt her stress levels begin to rise.

  There had been a few texts, for what they were worth – At homework club, revising first of all, followed by Going back to Zoe’s for a bit – whoever the hell Zoe was. Rachel hadn’t been allowed to meet very many of Mabel’s new friends, let alone have any contact details of their parents (‘God, Mum, no way! That would be, like, so completely embarrassing and weird’). Instead she had to contend with these vagaries of her daughter’s whereabouts, the lateness home, the unthinking, unapologetic attitude. (‘I was fine! What’s the big deal? Nobody else’s parents go on at them for hanging out with mates after school.’)

  Be back for seven, please, she texted back, but no further word came in reply, and then they were eating dinner with an empty place at the table, with Becca setting all her jewellery kit out afterwards in readiness for Hayley’s arrival that evening.

  By now, Rachel was feeling sick. She had tried ringing Mabel’s number but the calls went unanswered. It had got to the point where she felt more anxious with every minute that passed on the clock. Where are you? she texted at seven-fifteen. Come back NOW or you will be grounded for a week. I mean it!

  Still no reply. Maybe Mabel’s phone had run out of battery – it had a convenient habit of doing this when Rachel was trying to get hold of her. But maybe, also, it had been stolen from her as she walked home alone, a vulnerable thirteen-year-old in the badlands of Hereford. Well, all right, not the badlands as such, but still . . . Oh, Mabel. Just come home, she willed her. Don’t do this to me. She tried to summon up the calm she’d felt up in the hills the day before, but the feeling had deserted her. At what point did you give in and start ringing round people in the hope of locating your child? At what point did you panic and call the police?

  The doorbell rang and her heart jumped in relief – but it turned out to be Hayley, looking very pretty with her long brown hair falling in waves around her shoulders, wearing a crisp white shirt and cut-off jeans.

  ‘Look at you, in your nice clothes and lovely hair,’ Becca said, welcoming her with a hug on the doorstep. ‘I hardly recognize you without your ponytail and trackie bottoms.’

  ‘I could say the same,’ Hayley laughed. Then she caught sight of Rachel hovering further down the hall, and her eyes widened. ‘Rachel! Good to see you! How are you?’

  Rachel shrank back, unable to help feeling self-conscious, knowing that the other woman had last seen her at full fitness, demonstrating sit-ups and press-ups, jogging with her through the woods. ‘I’m on the mend, thanks,’ she said shyly. ‘Nice to see you too.’

  ‘I have silver, I have jewels, I have wine,’ Becca was saying. ‘
Shall we get stuck in? I’ve set everything out through here.’

  They went off to the kitchen, and Rachel was about to follow – she would be brave! She would be sociable! – when the doorbell rang again. Oh, thank goodness. It must be Mabel this time, having forgotten her keys. She yanked open the front door, the scolding ready to trip off her tongue, but words failed her at the sight of the man in dark uniform by Mabel’s side.

  ‘Evening. Mrs Jackson? I’m PC Foster from Hereford police. Is this your daughter?’

  It turned out that Mabel had not been at Homework Club, revising like a good student, after all. She hadn’t been at the mysterious Zoe’s house either. Instead, she and a group of mates had been mucking about down by the river and generally annoying the people whose gardens backed onto the water, according to the policeman. ‘Do you want to tell your mum what happened next, or shall I?’ he said grimly.

  Mabel was tearful and shaken up as they sat there in the living room, door closed, so that Hayley’s lovely tiara-making session wouldn’t be tarnished by sordid tales of youthful wrongdoing. Her face was puffy, her mascara in black trails down her cheeks, and she looked about ten all of a sudden, any last traces of cockiness and bravado snuffed out by the presence of an actual police officer sitting heavily in the opposite armchair. Not so grown-up now.

  ‘We weren’t doing anything wrong,’ she began, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers. The turquoise streak she’d added had almost washed out by now, leaving a ghostly blue residue only visible in certain lights. One of her school socks sagged below the knee and the nearest cuff of her blouse looked as if it had been nibbled. She was such a child, still. Rachel could look at her and see that little blonde imp still visible, the tot who’d wanted to be a Disney princess not so very long ago. ‘We were just having a bit of a laugh,’ Mabel muttered. ‘But this old bloke—’

  ‘I presume you’re referring to Mr Davidson, a retired local magistrate who is now the full-time carer for his ill wife,’ PC Foster put in severely. His face was unsmiling, his eyes as hard and grey as granite. Rachel felt terrified of him herself, and she was approaching forty. Goodness knows how her daughter must have felt when he’d arrived on the scene.