The Happiness List. Annie Lyons
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.
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,