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The Happiness List
ANNIE LYONS
Copyright
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Annie Lyons 2018
Annie Lyons 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.
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.
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-book Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008221003
Version: 2018-05-10
For Rich, Lil and Alf,
who are always top of my happiness list.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fran
Pamela
A Letter From The Author
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
Also by Annie Lyons
About the Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Heather
‘And you’re absolutely sure you’re okay?’
‘Gem, I’m fine. Honestly.’
‘Because I know that Mother’s Day can be tricky.’
‘When you’re an orphan?’ asked Heather in a squeaky little-girl-lost voice.
‘You know what I mean, Heth. Remember the year you went AWOL.’
‘That was three years ago. I was in a funny place.’
‘Croydon, wasn’t it?’ teased Gemma.
‘Exactly. You were selfishly on your honeymoon…’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘…and so you should be. I was single, living in a dodgy flat in Thornton Heath, working at that school with the violent kids and depressed teachers. To be honest, it would have been some kind of miracle if I hadn’t ended up falling-down drunk in the Wetherspoon’s on George Street.’
‘The police had to take you home.’
‘And they were utterly charming. I’m not the first sad and lonely person to dance on a bar in Croydon and I doubt I’ll be the last.’
‘So you’re not planning to jump on a tram and head over there today?’
‘Gemma, those were pre-Luke, pre-engagement, pre-job in bakery, pre-lovely house on Hope Street days. I’m happy now. H-A-P-P-Y. Plus I’m planning to make the perfect New York cheesecake to welcome my perfect fiancé home from his perfect business trip.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘You better believe it, baby.’
‘So you’re sure you don’t want me to come over?’
‘Gemma. This is your first Mother’s Day as an actual mother. I appreciate you worrying about me and I love you dearly but you deserve to enjoy it with Freddy Fruitcake. How is my nutty godson by the way?’
‘Absolutely bonkers,’ laughed Gemma. Heather smiled as she heard the adoration in her voice. ‘I meant to say, we’re thinking of booking the christening for mid-May – does that sound all right?’
‘Sounds great and now you need to bugger off and enjoy your family time. I’ll catch up with you in the week.’
‘Okay. What time’s luscious Luke back?’
‘Around eight. Now stop worrying and get lost, loser.’
‘Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
Heather knew that New York Cheesecake was a risky thing to make for Luke – the self-proclaimed world cheesecake authority and a native New Yorker to boot. She had decided to seek advice from Pamela Trott, who made cakes for Taylor-made – the café and bakery owned by Caroline and Oliver Taylor, where Heather worked. Pamela was an incredible baker, whilst also being one of the nosiest people Heather had ever met.
‘I remember your nan,’ Pamela had said, beaming at her when they first met six months earlier. ‘Used to live two streets over from Hope Street. Lovely lady. Terrible gout. So you’ve decided to come back to your roots? That’s wonderful. And you’re engaged to that nice American fellow?’
Heather was astonished by Pamela’s insight. From the look on her face she was about to explode with joy at the prospect of Heather getting married.
‘Awww, your mum would be so proud if she could see you now, God rest her soul. I was very sad to hear about your parents passing away. Your mum and I used to play out together sometimes when we were little,’ said Pamela fondly. ‘Let me know if you need someone to bake the wedding cake – I’d be only too happy to help!’
Heather had given a polite smile and made a mental note never to tell Pamela anything she didn’t want the entire Hope Street community to know. She was, however, very keen to get her advice on baking. She’d practically swooned when she tasted Pamela’s mango and passion fruit cheesecake.
‘The trick to the perfect New York cheesecake is patience,’ said Pamela sagely. ‘You have to leave it to cool in the oven for two hours with the door shut and then leave it with the door ajar for another hour before you chill it.’
Heather did as she was told and felt a thrill later that day as she peered into the oven at the pleasingly honey-coloured crust. She left the oven door open a fraction and went into the living room to distract herself with another episode of Orange Is the New Black.
She felt as restless as a child waiting for Christmas. Luke had been away in New York for five days now. These trips were becoming increasingly frequent but he assured her that it was a good thing. He worked for an American drinks company and the stakes were high; soda was a serious business but Luke was doing well, with two promotions in the past twelve months. If he put in the hours, he was on track for the top. Heather understood. Of course, she’d like to see more of him but she wanted him to achieve the success he deserved.
Meanwhile, she had a job she enjoyed and a house she loved – an Edwardian mid-terrace with dark wood floors, original fireplaces and self-cleaning skylights. She had bought it six months ago with money inherited from her parents – an extravagant engagement present of which they would have certainly approved.
Heather settled on the sofa and caught sight of the last photograph of her with her parents. They were sitting at a café in Cornwall during the summer, her father grinning, her mother laughing and Heather smiling at them because they were reacting to something she’d said – some silly joke or remark. She hadn’t been able to look at that photo for years after her parents died, hadn’t been able to accept the fact that they were no longer in the world. But now, sitting here in her beautiful house with her gorgeous fiancé on his way home, she could smile at them and say, ‘Hey, Mum, Dad – I miss you but I’m okay.’
A while later, she went to the kitchen to transfer the cheesecake to the fridge and grinned. It looked perfect. She reached for her phone, ready to take a picture to post on Instagram.
The perfect New York cheesecake for my perfect New Yorker.
That should get a few likes. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a tight enough grip on the tin and the whole thing toppled out of her grasp, falling upside down onto the floor. She stared in horror for a second before realizing that her phone was buzzing with a call. Luke. Confused, she flicked the screen to answer. ‘Luke? Where are you?’
‘Hey, gorgeous. Listen, I got bad news. Snow in NYC – they grounded all the flights.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. We should get moving tomorrow but I’ve no idea what time. I’ll keep you posted.’
Heather felt her cheeks burn with frustration. ‘It’s just disappointing, you know? I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too but it’s only one more day, okay? I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I love you, Heather Brown.’
‘I love you too.’
‘Okay, I gotta go. See you tomorrow, beautiful.’
Heather stared at the blank screen and then down at the cheesecake-covered floor. She felt a prick of tears followed by a stab of irritation.
Get a grip, Heather Brown. Everything’s fine. There’s nothing to cry about. It’s not his fault. You’re just feeling emotional because it’s Mother’s Day. There’s no use crying over spilt cheesecake. Everything is completely fine.
Chapter Two
Fran
Fran was unloading the dishwasher when she found out that her husband had died. In fact, she was just cursing him for not rinsing the plates before stacking them so that they’d come out dirty again. Since that day, she often mused about the strangeness of the things she missed but lasagne-encrusted bowls, the carelessly dropped boxers in the corner of the bedroom, and his wallet on the side in the kitchen seemed to be right up there. They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. They don’t know the half of it.
It was Andy’s best friend Sam who called her. They’d been having lunch together when it happened. One minute he was pincering a piece of tuna sashimi with his chopsticks, talking about their Easter holiday plans, and the next he was gone.
A sudden arrhythmic death or, rather ironically Fran always thought, ‘SAD’ for short.
Aged forty-one.
Really?
Really? Fran would scream at everything from the sky to the untidy shoe rack in the hall. This is really happening, is it? This is really fucking happening.
‘Anger is normal and natural,’ the counsellor told her. ‘A completely understandable part of the grief process.’
Of course, that just made her angrier. An anger as unquenchable as a raging thirst. That was her life during the weeks and months following Andy’s death. One towering rage after another. She hated it but most of all she hated herself. She could see the worry, fear and embarrassment in her children’s eyes as she lost it with everything from the broken washing machine to the UKIP candidate on Croydon High Street (although he had it coming). That was why she’d signed up for the counselling.
But it didn’t help. Not really. She didn’t want to be the tragic widow, going through the grieving process, having her feelings validated and coaxed. She didn’t want to be a widow, grieving or otherwise. Like Brexit or Donald Trump, widowhood was something she was not prepared to accept.
Fran spotted her mother parking her small white car in a huge space in front of their house, revving backwards and forwards in a futile attempt to get closer to the kerb as her father winced from the passenger seat. She was a terrible driver with an unwarranted fear of leaving her car outside Fran’s house ever since Bernie from three doors down had his stolen last year.
‘It was a BMW, Mum. The police said they were stealing to order. I doubt Fiat Puntos are on their wish list.’
‘I’ll have you know that my car is extremely nippy,’ Angela retorted.
Fran did a quick scan of the living room to check that it was up to her mother’s legendary standards of cleanliness. Widow or no widow, she would be the first to criticize a stray cobweb or a grubby skirting board.
In many ways Angela had been the perfect support for Fran. Her father was lovely but he would look at her with a sorrow that Fran couldn’t bear. She knew exactly what he was thinking.
My poor little girl – I’m supposed to protect her from all this but I can’t and I feel helpless.
Fran didn’t do helpless; it was an emotion she couldn’t afford.
‘What can I do, Fran?’ he’d pleaded.
Nothing, she wanted to shout. There is absolutely nothing you can do so stop asking. But this was her dad – her dear, kind dad, who just wanted to make everything all right.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Bill, stop fussing and go and play with Charlie,’ Fran’s mother had barked.
Bill looked wounded but nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said, shambling off to the living room in search of his granddaughter.
‘Harsh, Mum,’ remarked Fran.
Angela shrugged. ‘Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking the same thing.’
And that was the main reason why Fran had turned to her mother for support after Andy’s death. Angela Cooper took on grief like an unpleasant stain that needed attention. She refused to indulge her daughter’s predicament. She was never unkind – she just didn’t give Fran an opportunity to wallow.
‘You’re too young to be a widow,’ she’d remarked almost accusingly within hours of Andy’s death, as if Fran had made a disastrous life decision instead of being the walk-on part in a terrible tragedy. The flash of anger Fran had felt at this stupidly obvious comment had actually helped to distract her and probably stopped her from collapsing with sadness.
Now, satisfied that the living room was relatively dust-free, Fran went to the front door to greet her parents. ‘Kids! Granny and Grandpa are here,’ she called.
‘Happy Mother’s and Grandmother’s Day!’ cried Charlie, skipping down the stairs.
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Angela. She kissed Fran on the cheek as she stepped into the hall. ‘Oh my, look at that gigantic cobweb on your hall light. Don’t you ever dust?’
Fran gave a wry smile. ‘What would you have to moan about if I dusted?’
‘Probably the length of your hair,’ retorted Angela. ‘When did you last get it cut?’
Fran rolled her eyes as she leant over to hug her father. ‘Are you all right, Dad?’
He held his daughter at arm’s length, giving her his customary frown of concern. ‘I’m fine, Fran, but how are you?’
‘Right, let’s open a bottle, shall we? It is Mother’s Day after all,’ interrupted Angela.
Fran smiled. Praise the Lord for bossy mothers.
Angela put an arm around Charlie’s shoulder and followed Fran to the kitchen with Bill shuffling behind. ‘Either I’m getting shorter or you’re getting taller,’ she told her granddaughter.
‘And look what I can do,’ said Charlie, stretching her leg straight up and pulling it to her head with one arm.
‘Good heavens above, where did you learn to do that?’
‘Gymnastics,’ smiled Charlie proudly.
‘Amazing,’ said Bill.
‘Such talent! You don’t get that from your mum.’ Angela shot a glance in Fran’s direction before grinning gleefully at her granddaughter. ‘She gave herself a black eye whilst attempting a headstand when she was doing her BAGA Three Award – kicked her own knee into her eye!’
‘Mum!’ guffawed Charlie. ‘You never told me that!’
‘And I never would have either if it weren’t for your motor-mouth granny,’ said Fran, handing her parents their wine. ‘Happy Mother’s Day, Mum. Cheers, Dad.’
‘Cheers, darling,’ replied Angela. ‘Now where is that delightful grandson of mine?’
‘Probably upstairs plugged into his laptop. He’ll come down once he smells the roast.’
‘Why don’t you challenge Grandpa to a game of something,’ suggested Angela to Charlie.
Fran’s heart sank. She could tell that her mother wanted to ‘chat’, which usually involved her talking and Fran listening to a list of everything she was doing wrong.
‘Okay, Grandpa, how about Connect Four? Although, you should know that I’ve been practising with Jude and I’m getting pre-tty good,’ said Charlie.
‘You’re on!’ cried Bill, following her in the direction of the living room.
‘Come on then. Out with it,’ said Fran, once they were out of earshot.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Angela with feigned innocence. Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, very well,’ said her mother. She stood up straighter and fixed Fran with a look. ‘It’s time you acknowledged your grief.’
Fran scowled. ‘I acknowledge it every day of my sodding life.’
‘No you don’t, Fran, and I’m partly to blame.’
‘Wow. Can I have that in writing?’
Angela cocked her head to one side and pursed her lips. ‘You kept going because you had to and I encouraged that but in doing so you’ve never properly faced the grief.’
‘Funny, because I felt as if the grief was punching me in the face on a daily basis but obviously I was skipping through meadows of wild flowers without even realizing it.’
Angela raised her eyebrows. ‘This is exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘What?’ snapped Fran.
Angela gestured with her hands. ‘This. This attitude. This sarcasm. This dark humour. You’re not facing your grief. You’re railing against it. And in doing so you avoid the pain instead of facing it head on.’
Fran was incredulous. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, my darling, you replace it with all manner of things – anger, cynicism and so on – when you need to open up because that’s the only way you can move on.’
‘I don’t want to move on,’ said Fran, folding her arms
Angela’s face softened. ‘I don’t mean forget Andy, I just mean get to a place where you can accept the world without him.’
‘Thank you, Professor Freud – you should have been my counsellor. It would have saved me a lot of bother.’
‘I just want you to be happy.’
Fran stared at her. She wanted to say, ‘I am happy,’ but there was no way she’d get a lie that big past Angela Cooper. She turned back to the carrot she was chopping and an uneasy silence descended. Her body stiffened as her mum placed a hand on her shoulder.
‘Just think about it, Fran. That’s all I ask. It’s been two years. Now shall I lay the table?’
‘Thanks.’
As her mother bustled round the kitchen, the same dead-end thought drifted through Fran’s head like a song on repeat.
Accept a world without Andy? Why on earth would I want to do that?
Chapter Three
Pamela
It was fine. Really. Absolutely fine. Two out of three Mother’s Day cards were fine. A declaration that the majority of her children were thinking of her. There were plenty worse off.
‘He’s a lazy, selfish bugger,’ Barry declared as they sat down to Sunday lunch. ‘Doesn’t think about anyone but himself. He lives the nearest and does the least.’
‘Oh shush, Barry. It doesn’t matter,’ said Pamela. But it did matter. Of course it mattered. Another moment in her life that she shrugged off, pretending she didn’t mind when in actual fact it exhausted her brain every waking second. Matthew. Her middle son. A constant worry and a big mystery to her.
Her other children were getting on with their lives. Her eldest, Laura was a chef, working for a trendy chain of Mexican restaurants in the West End, living in north London with her girlfriend, Jax. Her youngest, Simon was an app designer. He had set up his own business and become quite successful with a game called Run, Bob, Run, in which a gigantic polar bear called Bob had to run across various different landscapes, avoiding sharks, vultures and other similar nasties. Pamela had tried to play it once and felt rather sorry for Bob but apparently it was a big hit with pre-schoolers and meant that Simon could afford a lovely Georgian semi-detached in Bristol, which he shared with his software engineer girlfriend, Skye.
Pamela’s middle son Matthew, on the other hand, was a relatively unsuccessful journalist and writer, living in a flat-share in Clapham in the same place he had moved to after leaving university. He was thirty-three now and whilst the other residents had changed numerous times over the past twelve years or so, Matthew remained in situ. He made just enough money to get by, along with occasional handouts from Pamela.
‘Don’t mention it to Dad,’ she would cluck indulgently, posting a folded wad of twenty-pound notes into his pocket following another surprise visit. She chose to ignore the fact that he only popped round when he needed something. He was her son, after all. What was the world coming to if you couldn’t turn to your own mother in times of need?
Pamela stared down at her lunch – the perfect roast, with slices of tender beef, Yorkshires as light as clouds, crispy roast potatoes, veg and gravy. She glanced up at her husband, who was scoffing it with gusto.
‘Belicious,’ he declared through a mouthful of food. Within minutes, it was gone. Barry sat back in his chair, patting his bulging belly appreciatively. ‘Are you not eating, love?’ he asked, staring at her untouched food.
‘I’m not that hungry,’ she said.
‘Maybe have it later, eh?’ he ventured. Pamela nodded. ‘Right, well I’d best get back to it – got to get the peas in before dark.’ He hauled himself to his feet and left the room.
Pamela looked at the clock. Twenty past one on Mother’s Day. When families up and down the land were sitting down to celebrate the one who had given them life, who had brought them into the world and nurtured them as best they could.
And here she sat. Alone. While her husband tended his garden and her children got on with their lives. Weren’t these supposed to be her golden years – the time when she embraced her life again, like an old forgotten friend? And yet, Pamela had spent so long being a wife and mother that she felt like the last person at a party after everyone else had gone – sad that it was over and wishing she could do it all again.
She left the table and went upstairs to the box room at the front of the house where she kept her photographs. She liked to come in here, to wallow in the memories of when she’d felt really happy. She picked out a random album and flicked it open, smiling down at a photograph of the three children on holiday in Weymouth. They were sitting on the sand – Laura in the middle, Simon to her left and Matthew on her right. Laura had her arms around her brothers and they were all grinning, their faces covered with ice cream. Pamela knew their exact ages – Laura had been seven, a right little bossyboots, organizing her brothers for every activity from sandcastle building to beach cricket. Matty and Simon didn’t mind, of course. They were five and two and more than happy to comply with Laura who, as their big sister, seemed to know everything. They eyed her as if she was a mystical sorceress, holding the secrets of the universe in her pudgy grasp.
Pamela longed to leap into that photograph, to be back in that time when she still had so much to offer – when she was their whole world. They were still her whole world today. It’s just that she wasn’t theirs. She could remember Matty on the last night of that holiday. He had wrapped his chunky little arms tightly around her neck and whispered into her ear. ‘I’m never going to leave you, Mummy.’
Pamela realized that she was sitting with her arms wrapped around her chest now and felt breathless with sadness at the memory. She longed for the feel of a child’s body in her arms – that vital warmth and pure essence of love. She missed it so much. She missed being needed.
Pamela jumped with surprise as the doorbell rang. She made her way downstairs, thinking it would be Barry having locked himself out. She opened the front door and was confronted by a gigantic floral bouquet and the heady perfume of lilies.
‘Happy Mother’s Day, Mum,’ said the bouquet.
‘Oh, Matty,’ cried Pamela, her sadness giving way to delight.
Matthew peered around the flowers with a grin. Such a handsome boy. Although he did look a little pale. She would give him a plate of dinner. Feed him up a bit. ‘Hello, Mum. Can I come in?’
‘Of course, of course!’ she said, accepting the flowers and taking a step back to let him over the threshold. It was then that she noticed the large rucksack leaning in the porch. Matthew’s rucksack.
‘Actually, Mum. There’s something I need to ask you,’ he said with a wrinkle-nosed grimace.
Chapter Four
Heather
‘Excuse me. I ordered a flat white but this is clearly a latte.’
Heather stared into the neatly bearded man’s frowning face and immediately realized her mistake. ‘I am so sorry. Let me sort that out for you right away.’
‘Okay, but if you could be quite quick about it please – I’ve got a train to catch.’
‘Of course. Georg, please would you make a flat white for the gentleman? And could I offer you a complimentary cinnamon swirl by way of an apology, sir?’
‘I’m gluten intolerant,’ said the man.
‘Of course you are,’ said Heather. ‘How about one of our gluten-free brownies then? They’re delicious.’
‘Just the correct coffee, thanks,’ insisted the man irritably.
Georg held out a flat white. ‘Ahh, my glamorous assistant,’ joked Heather. Georg remained as stony-faced as Flat White man. ‘Here you are, sir. Sorry again. Have a lovely day. Thank you, Georg.’
‘Mmm,’ muttered the man before he left.
‘Mm,’ echoed Georg.
Tough crowd, thought Heather but then the caffeine-hungry, harassed commuters always were. The trick was to be bright and efficient – inject a little cheer into their day, encourage a fleeting smile perhaps.
Georg was a different story. Despite working alongside him for over six months, Heather couldn’t remember ever seeing him crack a smile. He was supremely efficient and made the best coffee in this corner of south-east London. Heather assumed that customers considered his taciturn nature a small price to pay for sublime barista skills. She in turn felt the need to overcompensate for his blank expression by smiling so hard that sometimes her face ached by the end of the day. Heather had made it her secret mission to solve the mystery that was Georg. It was proving to be a challenge.
By 8.45, the queue was thinning out as Oliver and assistant baker, Pete, appeared from the kitchen carrying trays of croissants and pains au chocolat. The air was filled with the irresistible waft of chocolate, coffee and freshly baked pastries
‘Post school-run provisions,’ Oliver said with a smile, plonking his tray on the counter.
‘Wonderful, thank you,’ said Heather.
‘Busy morning so far?’
‘Very,’ she replied, restocking the pastry baskets by the till.
‘She made mistake,’ reported Georg gravely.
‘Snitch,’ laughed Heather.
Georg frowned. ‘What is snitch?’
‘A person who tells tales to the boss. It’s a very serious crime, Georg,’ said Pete, winking at Heather.
‘Oh, sorry,’ muttered Georg, looking unsure.
‘Fortunately, Caroline’s not in yet so you’re off the hook,’ said Oliver, flashing a grin at Heather.
‘But you are boss too,’ insisted Georg.
‘Don’t let Caroline hear you say that,’ joked Oliver.
Heather chuckled, remembering the moment Oliver’s wife, Caroline, offered her the job at Taylor-made. Heather had been in no doubt who was in charge as she issued her specific instructions with a frown.
‘You’ll need to scrape back your hair into a neat ponytail for hygiene and wear a minimal amount of make-up – we want you to engage with the customers, not make them fall in love with you. Please arrive at six-thirty sharp. We open at seven in time for the commuter rush. Georg is our resident barista – he’ll show you the ropes. Oliver will be around but busy baking obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ repeated Heather feeling sick with nerves. I am a strong, confident woman. Until I meet another woman, who is stronger and more confident. And then basically I become a jelly.
Caroline had cast a critical eye over her newest employee. ‘We’ve had no end of troubles finding someone suitable for this job – please don’t let us down.’
‘I won’t,’ promised Heather, praying that this was true.
‘So I should tell Caroline about Heather’s mistake?’ asked Georg earnestly.
‘Georg!’ cried Heather, feigning outrage. ‘How would you feel if I told Caroline about all the mistakes you make?’
Georg looked confused. ‘I do not make mistakes.’
Pete patted him on the back. ‘We’re just joking, bro. You don’t need to tell anyone anything, okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Georg, fixing Pete with a look of relief. ‘Thank you.’
Heather grinned at Oliver. She loved working here. Despite Georg’s unusual nature and the fact that she now had a mild pastry addiction, it was good fun. The place was always bustling, the customers eclectic and mostly lovely, and its location, just around the corner from where her mother had grown up, gave Heather an unexpected feeling of comfort.
‘Aha, and who is this vision I see before me?’ cried Oliver as Pamela hurried through the door with two large cake tins in her arms.
‘It is Pamela,’ said Georg, confused. Heather and Oliver exchanged glances of amusement.
‘Hello, my loves. How are we all today?’ asked Pamela, plonking the tins on the counter.
‘All the better for seeing you,’ replied Oliver. ‘And what delights do you have for us this fine morning?’
‘Just a salted caramel layer cake and a strawberries and cream sponge.’
‘Pamela, if I wasn’t a happily married man, I would drop down on one knee right now,’ declared Oliver.
‘Oh, get away with you,’ she blushed.
‘These look incredible,’ said Heather, lifting the lids on the tins. Pamela might have been Hope Street’s resident busybody but she was the closest thing they had to Mary Berry. Credit where it was due.
‘Thanks, lovey,’ said Pamela with a smile. ‘Oliver, would it be okay if I put up this poster on your community notice board? It’s for a new course all about happiness starting tonight at Hope Street Hall.’
‘Of course – be my guest.’
‘Thank you. I just met the man who’s running it – lovely eyes and so charming. I think I’m going to give it a go. I’ve always wanted to find out about that mindfulness malarkey. Anyone else fancy it?’
She fixed her gaze on Heather, who felt a flash of irritation.
Back off, lady – just because my parents died, it doesn’t mean I need to go on a course.
‘Pete?’ asked Heather, deflecting the question.
Pete grinned. ‘As an Aussie, I’ve pretty much got the happiness lark sorted, thanks, Pamela – it’s mainly down to sport and beer. Now excuse me, lovely people, but I need to crack on with another batch of sourdough,’ he said, before disappearing into the kitchen.
Pamela gave an indulgent chuckle and then looked at Oliver with eyebrows raised. He put a hand on his heart. ‘I fear that if I told Caroline I was going to a happiness course, she would see it as a declaration of weakness, which, as you know, isn’t allowed in our house.’
Pamela giggled before turning to Heather. ‘Do you fancy it then, Heather?’ she asked, holding out the poster.
Heather smiled politely as she took it from her and read out loud.
‘The Happiness List – a course led by life coach, Nikolaj Pedersen, teaching you practical skills and exercises to achieve your own version of happiness.
Ten weeks from Wednesday, 29th of March, 7-9 p.m., Hope Street Community Hall, £8 per session including refreshments.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Thanks, but it’s not for me, Pamela. I’m about as happy as it’s possible to be. Besides, Luke and I are going to be busy tonight making wedding plans.’
Pamela clapped her hands together. ‘Of course – how wonderful. You deserve to be happy after losing your dear mum and dad. But you must miss them terribly, especially when you’re preparing for such a happy event,’ she insisted. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it must be organizing your big day without having them here to lend a hand and share in your joy. I mean, who will help you pick out your dress?’
Not you if that’s what you’re angling for, thought Heather, astonished at Pamela’s tactlessness. ‘My cousin, Gemma is very supportive,’ she said with a curt smile. ‘And it was a long time ago.’
‘Oh but you never get over it, do you? I mean, I still miss my parents after all these years. I wasn’t even that close to my mother but I still catch myself wondering if I should phone to check she’s okay.’
‘Everyone’s different,’ said Heather, trying to close down the discussion.
Pamela gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you by dredging up the past.’
Heather was annoyed with herself because she had no right to be irritated with Pamela. She wasn’t being unkind. She was just speaking the bald truth – a truth that Heather hadn’t properly considered until now.
Her parents wouldn’t be there for her wedding. Her mother wouldn’t help her pick out her dress. Or argue over the seating plan. Or hold her hand when the day finally arrived and she felt shaky with nerves.
She caught a whiff of ginger and cinnamon from the coffee Georg was brewing and felt herself transported back to the day her parents died. She was sixteen and remembered sitting next to Gemma on the sofa at her house – a green velvet sofa with brown sagging cushions. It was November and the air smelled of cinnamon and ginger because her aunt Marian had been baking parkin. Her uncle Jim walked in and cleared his throat. Heather could see his face, grey with concern, and her aunt behind him crying. She couldn’t remember her first reaction to the news but she did recall Gemma wrapping her arms around her for the longest time – an embrace so tight as if she was trying to hug away the pain.
Gemma. She was the one who had propped her up ever since it happened. She’d moved in to her aunt and uncle’s house as an only child and ended up getting a ready-made family with a big sister to boot. That wasn’t to say there weren’t arguments and disagreements. Suddenly Gemma had to share her parents, her house, her whole world with her younger cousin. Two teenage girls living under one roof was a challenge at the best of times – the cries from Gemma of, ‘Stop stealing my stuff!’ and Heather’s perfect storm of adolescence and grief made for some pretty epic battles. Heather couldn’t remember seeing Uncle Jim in the house much during those years. He retreated to the safe haven of his garden shed, and who could blame him?
Still, Heather’s overriding memories were of the good times – a blanket of laughter and comfort from the best friend and cousin all rolled into one, who counselled, cajoled and lent her nail varnish.
It had been Gemma who introduced her to Luke. It was the spring of 2014, months before Gemma was due to marry Ed. She and Heather had embarked on a series of nights out. Their ‘Final Tour’, they called it – drunken evenings where they tearfully declared how much they loved one another, drank too much vodka and danced to the Spice Girls. Heather couldn’t remember the name of the club but she did recall the moment when she returned from the toilet, walking towards the blue backlit bar where Gemma was silhouetted next to a tall man. He was resting his hand on her arm and talking into her ear. Gemma was laughing and shaking her head as she turned and caught sight of Heather.
‘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.
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