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.

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 in 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.

Fran sat down. The chairs had been set up in a semicircle. She nodded to Jim the postman and a couple of other people who were already seated. She identified the course leader in seconds – a tall man with George Clooney hair and an air of self-assurance and experience – he would definitely be one to encourage ‘show and tell’. The very thought made her shudder with dread.

‘He looks friendly enough,’ whispered Heather, taking her place next to Fran and nodding towards George Clooney. ‘Although of course he may have two horns underneath that magnificent hair.’ Fran laughed. ‘Do you know Pamela? And this is Georg,’ added Heather, gesturing to her left.

‘Hello.’ Georg wore a blank expression.

In complete contrast, Pamela looked as if she might burst with delight. ‘Hello! It’s lovely to meet you. Now forgive me but I feel as we’ve met before. Did you used to come to the toddler group?’

Fran nodded. ‘Yep, although that was a while back now. My oldest is at secondary and my youngest is in year five.’

Pamela shook her head in disbelief. ‘Time flies and I’ve got a brain like a sieve. What was your name, lovey?’

‘It’s Fran,’ she replied, holding her breath, ready for the moment of dreadful recognition.

It was as if a cloud descended over Pamela. She patted Fran’s arm. ‘Of course, Fran. How could I forget? I’m so sorry. How are you?’

Heather frowned with confusion.

‘My husband died a couple of years ago,’ explained Fran. That’s my cover blown then.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Heather. ‘That’s terrible.’

Fran nodded because that was all you could do. It was terrible – everyone’s worst fear. Over the past couple of years, she had become practised at dealing with the way people reacted when she told them – the fear in their eyes as they desperately scanned their brains for the right thing to say. It was down to her to console their shock and reassure them that they didn’t need to be sorry – it was really shit but it wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. And that was the worst thing of all.

‘Heather’s mum and dad passed away a few years ago,’ said Pamela brightly. Fran shot a surprised glance at Heather and realized that she was trying to swallow down her mirth at this inappropriately cheerful remark.

‘Best friends for life then,’ said Fran with a wink. Heather chuckled.

They sat up straighter in their chairs as George Clooney clapped his hands together and called them to attention.

‘Okay, everyone, let’s make a start. Welcome. My name is Nikolaj Pedersen but everyone calls me Nik. So no doubt you are wondering what to expect, you may be thinking, why am I here? You may be doubting why you have come or thinking, what can this Scandinavian weirdo teach me?’ The assembled group gave a nervous laugh and Nik smiled. ‘That is okay. Don’t worry. The point is that you are here – something has brought you here and for that you should be grateful. I don’t need to know what that thing is – no one needs to know. You can share your stories of course but it is by no means obligatory. Everyone’s story is different, just as everyone’s version of happiness is different. My aim is to help you reframe your lives so that you can find your version. The handouts in front of you contain the list of what I see as the fundamental steps towards achieving this – it’s my happiness list.’ He smiled. ‘These are the things I will try to teach you over the next ten weeks in order for you to find whatever it is you seek. After each session, I will set you homework based on that list item so that you can practise what we have discussed and learnt but I’ll tell you more about that later.’

‘Blimey, he’ll be giving out detentions next,’ mused Fran under her breath. Heather smirked.

Nik continued. ‘I cannot promise that you will find exactly what you need but if you come to each session with an open mind, it will be possible. So, I want you to think of this hall as a drama-free space, where you leave behind your problems of everyday life – take a moment to depart from day-to-day competition and stress, a moment to be open and to open yourself up to possibility. That is all I ask. If you find this isn’t for you, that is okay but I would say that you need to give yourself time – give yourself a chance.’

Fran shifted in her chair as Nik continued.

‘This is also not an individual activity. We are in this together as part of a team. We will help and support one another without judgement or prejudice. We will do all we can to help others find the happiness they seek. Are we in agreement?’

There were hesitant murmurs around the room.

Nik seemed satisfied. ‘Good. So, with that in mind, I am going to put you into groups.’ Fran found herself in a three with Pamela and Heather. ‘These are your official course buddies,’ Nik told them. ‘You will undertake your exercises and challenges alongside them – think of them as family.’

‘Not sure that’s necessarily a good thing,’ murmured Fran to Heather. She laughed.

‘This is going to be fun,’ declared Pamela, grinning at them both.

Fun? thought Fran. Really? Was it realistic to expect people over the age of ten to have actual fun?

She used to watch the kids on the trampoline, bouncing with joy, laughing their heads off. One day last week, Charlie was on there so Fran decided to go out and join her because it had been a shit day and she thought, why not? Fran winced as she recalled bouncing higher and higher, encouraged by her giggling daughter, before realizing with horror that women her age really need to empty their bladders before they tried it.

Fran admired Pamela’s child-like wonder but she reserved the right to remain deeply cynical about the next ten weeks being any kind of fun. She got the feeling that she might have an ally in Heather in this respect. Fran focused her attention back on Nik.

‘After tea, I would like us to try a simple meditation, but, before that, I think it would be helpful if we introduced ourselves and gave one piece of information that we are happy to share – it can be anything, not necessarily to do with happiness. Something that we don’t mind the world knowing – it can be funny or sad or just a fact. I’ll go first to give you an idea. My name is Nik and I play the euphonium.’

Fran snorted with laughter. Nik turned to Jim, who was sitting to his left.

He looked embarrassed, running a hand over his bald head as he spoke. ‘My name is Jim and I used to sing in a Take That tribute band.’

‘Bravo, Jim, and welcome,’ said Nik with an encouraging smile.

Fran felt her mouth go dry as Nik made his way around the circle. Among the group was Sue, who once appeared on Britain’s Got Talent playing the washboard, Georg, who had won awards for his latte art and Pamela, who was a star baker. Even Heather had won a Blue Peter badge. When it was Fran’s turn, she decided to play it for laughs.

‘I’m Fran,’ she began. ‘And I have a dog called Alan.’ Everyone laughed. ‘Yep,’ she went on. ‘I thought it would be funny too but you try calling that name in the park on a Sunday afternoon. You get a lot of attention from middle-aged men and not in a good way.’

More laughter. Fran felt herself relax.

Got away with that one, Fran. You could have announced that you had a dog called Alan who saved you from the brink of insanity but maybe keep that for another time.

It was true. When her brother had turned up on the doorstep six months after Andy died, carrying a spaniel puppy under his arm, she’d wept until she felt weak. Then she punched her brother on the arm for being so bloody irresponsible. Then she hugged him and said he was the best brother ever. The children were over the moon but worried that Fran wouldn’t let him stay.

‘Please, Mum,’ Charlie begged. ‘We’ll help look after him.’

Jude looked at her from behind that floppy fringe, a peppering of spots just visible on his forehead above a pair of huge blue eyes. His father’s eyes.

Fran felt a wave of grief – the widow’s version of a hot flush she called it. It came and went and made you feel bloody terrible. The puppy waddled over and sat on her feet. Her slippers suddenly felt warm. She stared down at him in horror. He stared back at her, eyebrows raised in amazement at his own audacity.

Fran threw back her head and roared with laughter. Her brother and the kids gaped at one other with alarm. Fran knew why. It was the first time she had laughed since Andy’s death and they were worried that this was the sign of her losing it properly. Ranting and raving was understandable but hysterical laughter? Not so much.

‘What’s so funny?’ smirked Charlie, who loved a shared joke.

Fran picked up the puppy. ‘Any animal who has the gall to wee on my slippers in order to gain affection, gets my vote.’

‘So we can keep him?’ asked Charlie, who was sometimes slow on the uptake.

‘We can keep him,’ laughed Fran.

‘Can we call him Alan?’ suggested Charlie. ‘I’ve always liked that name. It’s friendly.’

‘Alan?’ Fran frowned.

Jude shrugged. ‘S’good name. Better than calling him something stupid like Daniel.’

Fran’s brother snorted with laughter. ‘Daniel the spaniel. Good one.’

Fran held up the puppy and squinted into his eyes. The puppy stared back. ‘Alan,’ she said. The puppy gave a cheerful bark of agreement. Fran shook her head with a grin. ‘Alan it is then.’

I wish Alan was here right now, thought Fran as Nik instructed them to find a comfortable seated position after the tea break. She felt nervous and, for some reason, her daft dog always calmed her down.

‘Next week we shall be focusing on mindfulness properly but today by way of an introduction, I would like us to try a simple exercise to give you an example of what it feels like to be mindful – a basic meditation based on breathing. I believe that it is a good skill to learn on the path to a happier existence and we shall be doing our best to practise it as much as possible. It can be tricky to start with so don’t worry if you don’t get it straight away. Now. Close your eyes and place your hands softly in your lap. Be aware of the sensations in your body as you breathe in and out. Focus on nothing but the breathing in and out.’

Fran heard a nervous fart and felt Heather’s body shake with laughter next to her so that she had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing too.

‘If your thoughts start to wander, do not worry. Simply bring your mind back to your breathing. In and out. In and out.’

Shake it all about, thought Fran. Oh dear. This wasn’t going very well. She tried to focus on her breathing but her overall thought was how ridiculous this was. A group of grown people sitting around in a draughty community hall waiting for it to be over. She opened one eye and looked furtively left and right. Jim’s eyes were tightly shut as he mouthed the words ‘in and out’ to himself. Fran dared a glance at Heather and realized that she was peeking too. They both suppressed giggles as Pamela started to snore peacefully. Nik had his eyes closed so Fran pulled a face at Heather, who had to stuff a fist in her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

‘Okay,’ said Nik, his eyes still closed. ‘Allow yourself to come back to the moment and if it didn’t work for you this time…’ he opened his eyes and looked directly at Fran and Heather, who exchanged sheepish smirks ‘…please be aware that the realization that your mind has wandered is actually an integral part of meditation.’

‘Gold stars for us then,’ whispered Fran to Heather, who chuckled.

‘Ooh, I feel so refreshed,’ declared Pamela, stretching out her arms.

‘That is because you sleep,’ pointed out Georg with a frown. ‘That is not meditation or mindfulness. That is sleep.’

‘Oh. Right,’ said Pamela looking disappointed.

‘Don’t worry, this is all good practice,’ said Nik reassuringly. ‘And an excellent start – well done. So, now I will set your homework. Firstly, I want you to practise mindfulness in your everyday life, find something that works for you. It could be mindful baking, Pamela or mindful dog-walking, Fran.’

‘Yeah, I’m not sure Alan will go for that,’ she retorted.

‘Well, try things out and we can discuss it next week, when we will focus on mindfulness properly. You also have my happiness list and as you can see it is generic. I would therefore like you to come up with your own list. This week, write down one thing, relating to your happiness, that you would like to work on or achieve by the end of the course. It could be “get fitter” or “learn to paint” or something more emotional like “stop feeling guilty”.’ Fran felt her skin prickle. ‘Try to be honest. You don’t have to share it, unless you want to. I would like you to add to your list after every week as we learn together so that by the end of the course you have your own happiness list. Does this make sense?’

There were enthusiastic murmurs and nods from everyone in the room apart from Heather and Fran. They shared a knowing smile, which gave Fran an unexpected feeling of hope.

‘Okay, that’s enough from me,’ nodded Nik. ‘Feel free to ask me questions afterwards or email me in the week if you need to. Good luck and I look forward to seeing you next week.’

‘A happiness list, eh?’ said Fran as she followed Pamela and Heather onto the street. ‘Well I don’t know what Mads Mikkelsen in there is going to make of me listing “eat more KitKat Chunkies, go on a date with Idris Elba and finally clear out the loft”, because that would definitely make me happy.’

Pamela chuckled before turning to Heather. ‘I bet I can guess what the first item on your list is,’ she said with glee before humming the tune to ‘Here Comes the Bride’.

Heather shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

Fran got the feeling that Heather wanted to rein in Pamela’s enthusiasm. ‘Any idea what you’re going to focus on then, Pamela?’ she asked, changing the subject.

Heather gave her a grateful smile.

Pamela sighed. ‘I don’t know. Try to stop my Barry and Matthew arguing all the time probably.’

‘That doesn’t sound much fun,’ said Fran. ‘I refuse to referee my kids’ disagreements. Let them sort out their own arguments – make sure you do something for yourself,’ she added kindly.

Pamela patted her arm and nodded. ‘I’m definitely going to give that mindful baking a try. I do love my baking and I think it would calm me down if I was a bit more, you know, in the moment.’ She smiled, making inverted commas in the air.

‘Good for you,’ declared Fran, keen to draw the conversation to a close before Pamela started to grill her. ‘Right, I’d better get back home to Mum. Good luck,’ she added, giving a hasty wave before heading off along the street.

‘How was it then?’ asked Angela as Fran flopped onto the sofa a while later and took a large sip of wine.

‘Yeah, it was great. I’ve learnt all the happiness and everything is fine.’

Angela regarded her daughter for a second before shaking her head. ‘Oh Fran,’ she said. ‘Please at least try to make some effort.’

The next day Fran lay back on the uncomfortable sofa and stared up at the crack in the ceiling that seemed to get bigger every week.

So are you going to give the mindfulness a go? he asked.

I think I’d rather poke myself repeatedly in the eye.

You’re not really taking this seriously, are you?

When did I last take anything seriously?

True. But you need to, Fran. You know that, don’t you? You can’t hide behind the humour all the time.

Funny but that’s pretty much what my mother said.

Well, maybe it’s time to listen.

Traitor. Anyway, can’t you see? My sardonic humour is all I’ve got to stop me from standing in the garden and howling at the moon.

You’ve got the kids. And Alan.

I know. And I love them.

I know you do. But you need something more, don’t you? Something beyond the cynical humour and pretence that everything’s okay.

So you’re saying that I can’t just keep hiding behind the jokes?

You know the answer to that.

Spoilsport.

Later that afternoon, Fran sat at her kitchen table staring down at the page in her notebook where she had written ‘Happiness List Thing’ in careless, barely legible handwriting. She had been sitting there for half an hour now, during which time she had underlined the words with a decorative curly line, drawn a doodle of some flowers and was contemplating adding a cartoon picture of Alan. She smiled down at the dog, who was, as per usual, sitting underneath the table by her feet.

‘Who’s a good dog, eh?’ she cooed, reaching down to stroke his head. Alan stared up at her with mournful eyes. He really was the most beautiful dog – all caramel fur and velvet ears. You couldn’t help smiling at him. Or giving him a treat. Alan knew this, of course, and milked it to perfection. ‘You’re a good dog. Yes, you are.’ Alan gave a gentle bark of agreement. ‘Right, well you have to help me with this,’ she told him, holding up the notebook, ‘because I need to exceed my mother’s rock-bottom expectations somehow but I don’t know what to put. I am on the verge of writing “more walks with Alan”, even though that would pretty much turn my life into one long dog walk.’

Alan jumped up, barking with excitement, and then to further illustrate the point, ran to the hall and began a charming chasing-his-tail dance in front of the coat rack.

‘Bugger. Rookie mistake. I said the “w” word out loud, didn’t I?’ Another bark of affirmation. ‘Right, okay. I guess we may as well head out because I’m not getting very far here.’ Fran pulled on her dog-walking coat, trainers and clipped on Alan’s lead. ‘After you, doggy.’

They trotted along the street in the sunshine. Fran felt its warmth on her face and a sense of calm descend. Maybe this was what mindfulness felt like and she’d simply never realized. Fran wouldn’t call it happiness as such but she wasn’t unhappy. It was just that grief had that annoying habit of being there all the time so that these small moments of joy were a bit like licking the icing off a cupcake and finding that the cake was made of shit. Yeah. Even two years on.

Fran didn’t honestly believe that people got over grief. How could they? Someone you loved more than anything was gone. For ever. How could you ever reach a point where you blithely said, ‘Yeah, I’m fine with that? I’m happy again.’

Never. Gonna. Happen.

The problem was that after two years, people sort of expected you to have moved on. They weren’t being unkind. She would probably do the same. You couldn’t keep doing the sympathy thing for ever, the ‘how are you?’ voice.

Still, just because the rest of the world had moved on, it didn’t mean that she had. In the days immediately after Andy’s death, she had found herself thinking, This time two days ago, he was here, having dinner at home with us, and then, This time three weeks ago, we were watching an episode of The Sopranos and drinking that delicious wine Sam bought us. It then became, This time three months ago he was here. He was alive. But now it was ridiculous. She couldn’t say to herself, This time one hundred and four weeks ago, he was still breathing. She knew something had to change but at this moment in time, she had no idea what it was.

As she returned home from their walk, she let Alan off his lead and made her way to the kitchen. She spied her notebook sitting on the table, open, the blank page taunting her. She grabbed her pen and started to write.

‘There,’ she said to Alan. ‘Done.’ She flicked on the kettle and gazed out at the overgrown mess of a garden. She glanced back at the book. Alan gave a quizzical whine. She stared at him. ‘You’re right. It is too soon. I’ll think of something else.’ She grabbed the pen and put a neat cross through what she had just written.

Chapter Six
Pamela

My Happiness List

1. Just bake

‘Observe the soured cream as you gently pour it into the chocolate mixture. See how it changes the consistency of your batter. Look at the way it alters as you stir, creating swirling patterns and a light tinge to the colour.’

‘Do we have any Jeyes Fluid, Pammy? That bloody fox has done his business on the front path again.’

Pamela pressed pause on the iPad. ‘Barry. I am trying to do some baking here. I don’t know if we’ve got any Jeyes. Why don’t you look in the shed?’

‘So-rree,’ he huffed. ‘I was only asking.’

Pamela closed her eyes and sighed. Three deep breaths and bring yourself back to the moment. That’s what the nice American lady said. Satisfied that Barry was safely foraging around in the shed, she pressed ‘play’ on the recording.

‘And now we add the vanilla essence. I recommend Madagascan for the ultimate aromatherapy experience. Open the bottle and allow the sweet scent of vanilla to fill your nostrils.’ Pamela wrestled with the cap – it was an unopened bottle, stubbornly sealed. ‘Pour one teaspoon into the mixture.’

‘Hang on a second, ducks,’ she said, gripping at the cap and trying without success to unscrew it.

‘Now mix it all together, allowing the mingled aromas of chocolate and vanilla to waft into your senses.’

Pamela tried to gnaw at the bottle top with her teeth. A loose crown flew from her mouth into the mixture. ‘Bother,’ she declared, fishing it out with a spoon.

‘Take a moment to admire what you’re creating.’

Pamela frowned at the resolutely sealed bottle of vanilla essence. ‘Never mind,’ she told the batter. ‘You look lovely as you are.’

‘Now observe the sensations in your arms and body as you mix.’

Pamela wondered if the woman meant her to dwell on the nagging pain in her wrist but decided she probably didn’t.

‘Once you have mixed it thoroughly, spoon evenly between the muffin cases, taking time to focus on what you’re doing.’

I wonder if Barry found the Jeyes? Oh, I forgot to take the sausages out of the freezer for tea. I wonder if Matty will want to eat with us tonight? Unlikely after Barry went on at him for not having a job. How can he be so unkind to his own son? You have to support your children no matter what.

‘If you find your mind wandering, just bring it back to the task in hand.’

‘Sorry, lovey.’ Pamela grimaced.

‘And now place the cupcakes in the oven. Have a seat a safe distance away and close your eyes. Take three deep breaths. You have nothing else to do but sit here for the next fifteen minutes while they bake. Listen to the sounds around you, feel the warmth of the oven and inhale those delicious smells as they start to waft over you. If your mind wanders, don’t worry. Just focus on this gentle music and bring it back with three deep breaths. Enjoy this moment in your comfortable, warm kitchen filled with its wonderful aromas.’

Pamela did exactly as she was told. She closed her eyes and began to breathe.

Oh damn, I still haven’t taken the sausages out of the freezer. Never mind. I’ll do it in a sec.

Breathe, Pammy.

I wonder when Matthew’s going to get up. He doesn’t always help himself with his dad by lying in bed until goodness knows when.

Breathe.

If only he’d find a job – something he enjoys. I might take a look in the shops on the high street to see if there are any ads.

Breathe. Keep breathing.

Mmm, those cakes do smell delicious…

It’s a drizzly day – cloud-heavy and dull. Laura is splashing through the puddles on the way to school, Matthew is kicking his welly-clad feet in the pushchair. They’re singing. Singing in the rain. We’re singing in the rain! Laura glances up at her mother and gives her a gap-toothed grin. They reach the school gates and she runs off to class with her friends in a flurry of brightly coloured cagoules. ‘Have a good day, my little duck – love you!’ Matthew peers up at his mother, one eye obscured by the hood of his raincoat. ‘Shall we go to the park and feed the ducks then, Matty?’ ‘Ducks! Ducks!’ he cries gleefully, kicking his legs again. They reach the deserted park and head straight to the lake. There is a flock of nesting herons making a dreadful racket on the island in the middle. ‘Dinosaurs!’ declares Matthew happily. ‘Arrrck! Arrrck!’ Pamela laughs. ‘Yes, Matty – they’re just like dinosaurs. Now do you want to feed the ducks?’ she asks, releasing him from the pushchair and holding out a slice of bread. He joyfully accepts it, pushing himself to a standing position and tottering towards the railings. He tears pieces of bread with clumsy little fingers and flings them towards the grateful ducks now gathering in front of him. Pamela smiles through the drizzle, placing a hand on her pregnant belly. She feels a surge of pure happiness as she watches her sweet little boy. How perfect life is. ‘Ducks, Mummy. Quack! Quack!’ he cries. ‘Quack, quack, Matty,’ she laughs. ‘Quack, quack.’

‘Mum? Are you okay? I think there might be something burning in the oven.’

‘And gently come back to the moment. Open your eyes and focus on something beautiful, like a flower or a tree in the garden.’

Pamela opened her eyes and stared into her son’s confused face. ‘Oh bother! I must have dropped off or set the oven too high,’ she cried, leaping to her feet and flinging open the oven. Twelve charred buns belched out a wave of black smoke.

‘Allow the delicious aroma of your cupcakes to infuse you with positivity as you bring them out of the oven.’

‘Oh, shut up you!’ snapped Pamela, reaching forward to stab at the ‘stop’ button.

She rescued the buns and threw them straight into the bin. She never burnt her cakes. Never.

‘Are you okay, Mum?’ asked Matthew again with concern.

She gazed up into his worried face and felt a little restored. ‘I’m fine, lovey. I must have been tired.’ She noticed that he was dressed and she smelt aftershave too. That was a good sign. ‘Are you off out somewhere?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to make you some breakfast?’

Matthew leant forward to plant a kiss on her forehead, like a blessing. ‘You’re an angel, Mum, but I’m meeting someone in an hour, so thanks but I’m good.’ She smiled at him. He hesitated for a second, fixing her with a troubled little-boy-lost look. Pamela knew that look. It tugged at her heart and said, This is your child – help him. She reached for her purse.

‘Here,’ she said, fishing out a twenty-pound note. ‘Take this, get yourself something to eat.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, but his fingers were already closing around it.

‘Of course. I know you haven’t got much work at the moment so this is to help you out until you find a job.’

He hugged her then, kissing her cheek. ‘Thanks, Mum. I’ll pay you back – every last penny. I promise. See you later, ’kay?’

‘Okay, Matty. Will you be home for tea? I’m planning sausage toad.’

Matthew grinned. ‘You said the magic words – that’ll be great. Thanks, Mum. Love you.’

‘I love you too,’ said Pamela as the door slammed shut. She felt a dip of sadness at the silence, the empty space where her son had been until a second ago. ‘Sausages,’ she said, rousing herself, moving towards the fridge freezer to retrieve them. She glanced at the time. Eleven o’clock. Coffee time. She flicked on the kettle and opened the fridge, frowning at the space where the milk should have been.

Unfortunately, Barry chose that moment to stick his head around the back door. ‘Is it coffee time, Pammy? And will there be one of your baked goodies to go with it too?’

Pamela slammed the fridge shut. ‘No! There won’t be coffee or cake, Barry, because someone has used up all the milk!’

Barry frowned. ‘Don’t look at me – it’s Matthew who eats all those night-time bowls of cereal.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, I saw him the other night. He was downstairs eating cereal and fiddling about on his laptop – he’s up to something, mark my words.’

Pamela folded her arms. ‘He’s probably working on a new book so why don’t you give him a chance, Barry!’

Barry shook his head. ‘You just can’t see it, can you? He takes you for a mug, Pammy. A complete mug.’

Pamela’s face flushed with indignant rage. She grabbed her handbag and made for the front door.

‘Where are you going?’ he cried after her.

‘To buy milk!’ she shouted, realizing how ridiculous this sounded. She wanted to make a stand. To show Barry that she was cross. She pulled on her coat and shoes and was steeling herself to slam the door on her way out, hoping he’d get the message. Pamela wasn’t really a door-slammer. She tried hard not to let life fluster her. But there was something about Barry and his attitude towards their middle son that made her blood boil. Where was the man she married? That charming, twinkly man always so full of fun and love – he used to look at her as if she were the only girl in the world and now all he cared about was Jeyes Fluid and his blessed roses.

She pulled open the door and stopped. Fran stood on the doorstep and Pamela could tell from her wincing expression that she’d heard every word.

‘Fran, what a lovely surprise,’ she said. ‘I was just on my way out…’

‘For milk?’ asked Fran, pulling a pint from her shopping bag. ‘If you be the coffee, I’ll be the milk,’ she added kindly.

Pamela smiled sheepishly. ‘Well, if you’re sure. Sorry if you heard me shouting.’

‘Don’t apologize. You should hear what goes on in my house. We’ve made shouting into an art form.’

Pamela laughed. ‘It is nice to see you. Come on through.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fran. ‘Is it okay to bring the dog?’

‘Oh yes of course,’ said Pamela, reaching down to pat Alan. ‘Such a lovely boy.’ Alan gave her hand an appreciative sniff in reply.

Fran followed her down the hall to the kitchen, pausing to admire the framed photographs of children at various ages – upward-grinning babies, gap-toothed schoolchildren and university-robed adults. ‘You have a lot of photos.’

‘My babies,’ said Pamela misty-eyed. ‘All grown up now but still my babies.’

Fran smiled. ‘How many children do you have?’

‘Three,’ said Pamela. ‘Laura, Matthew and Simon. All living wonderful lives.’

‘Do they come home much?’

‘They’re very busy and all spread out around the place,’ said Pamela hastily. ‘Simon lives in Bristol and Laura’s in north London but Matty is staying with us at the moment.’ Her eyes shone at the mention of his name. ‘He’s a writer,’ she added with pride. She loved telling people this – it made her life sound interesting.

‘Wow,’ said Fran. ‘What kind of things does he write?’

‘He’s a journalist really but he’s got all sorts of projects on the go. You know how it is.’

Fran nodded. ‘Well if he ever needs an editor, let me know.’

Pamela smiled. ‘I’ll do that – thanks, Fran. How do you fit your job around your kiddies? Must be tough juggling it all.’

Fran shrugged. ‘I’m lucky. I’m freelance and I’ve got some good contacts who trust me and get in touch whenever they need an editor. I enjoy the work, but after I had the kids, I wanted to be at home and then after Andy died, it was all a bit trickier, but I keep my hand in – I manage.’

‘You have to, don’t you? I really feel for you young women – so much pressure on you to do it all. In my day, you gave up your job when you got married, you didn’t have a choice.’

‘Sometimes the choices make it harder.’

‘Don’t they just?’ agreed Pamela. ‘Anyway, where are my manners? Let me make you that coffee.’

‘How are you getting on with your happy homework?’ asked Fran. ‘To be honest, I’m struggling.’

Pamela flicked on the kettle and fetched three mugs from the cupboard. ‘I went with the obvious.’ She handed Fran her notebook. ‘It’s my favourite hobby but I get the feeling I could do more with it.’

‘Just bake,’ Fran read out, nodding. ‘Looks good to me and, for the record, I shall do all I can to help you. I’m an excellent eater of cakes.’

Pamela laughed. ‘I might have had some chocolate muffins for you today. I had a go at that mindful baking that Nik suggested but I fell asleep and they all burnt!’

‘I think there’s a fine line between meditating and sleeping – so easy to get the two mixed up,’ joked Fran.

Pamela smiled. She liked Fran – she was easy to talk to and good fun. She felt rather protective towards her too. She was very young to be a widow and as for her poor children – Pamela’s heart went out to them.

She placed a mug of coffee in front of Fran, along with milk and sugar. She opened the back door. ‘Barry! Coffee!’

Moments later, Barry appeared. ‘Thanks, Pammy. Did you get milk then?’ he asked before spotting Fran. ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t realize you had company. Hello.’

Fran smiled. ‘Hi, I’m Fran.’

‘Fran and I are doing that course together.’ Barry nodded without comment. ‘Barry thinks it’s a lot of old mumbo-jumbo, don’t you, Barry?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You didn’t need to. It’s written all over your face.’

Fran looked uneasy. ‘Well, I suppose some of it is a bit “out there”, but I was surprised how much I enjoyed it.’

‘See? Fran’s enjoying it and she’s a widow. No offence, Fran.’

‘None taken,’ laughed Fran.

‘My garden gives me happiness,’ declared Barry. ‘So if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the pruning. It was nice to meet you, Fran.’

‘You too.’

After he’d gone, Pamela turned to Fran. ‘Sorry, lovey. That man infuriates me sometimes. All he thinks about is his garden. It’s as if I’m invisible.’

‘Maybe you should try telling him?’

Pamela snorted. Fran made it sound so easy and maybe it was for her generation, but Barry and Pamela didn’t really talk about their feelings. She would have liked to but wasn’t sure where to start. ‘You saw what he’s like. He doesn’t want to know. He can’t get back to his garden quick enough.’ She stole a glance at Fran and felt a pang of guilt. ‘Sorry. Here I am moaning about Barry when you’ve got real problems.’

Fran laughed. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

Pamela looked horrified. ‘Sorry, Fran, I didn’t mean it like that. I get a bit carried away sometimes.’

Fran waved away her concerns. ‘It’s fine. Honestly. I’m joking.’

‘So how is your list going?’ Pamela asked, trying to cover her embarrassment.

‘Not great. I need to open up but old habits die hard,’ said Fran, pulling a face.

Pamela reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘You’ve been through a lot. You stick with me and Heather – we’ll help you.’

‘Thanks, Pamela. So what do you think Nordic Nik’s got in store for us next? Knitting big jumpers and field trips to Ikea?’

Pamela laughed. ‘I don’t know but I’m looking forward to it.’

Fran held her gaze for a second. ‘You know what? Me too. Thanks, Pamela – you’ve given me the kick up the bum I needed.’

‘Have I?’ asked Pamela, feeling buoyed by the compliment. It was so much nicer than being taken for granted. ‘Well I am glad.’

‘So you should be. It’s easy to be cynical, much harder to see the bright side. Right, I’d better get back. Those psychological thrillers and cupcake romances won’t edit themselves.’

Pamela followed her to the front door and before Fran left, she folded her into a hug. Fran’s body was rigid at first but she relaxed into the embrace. ‘Thanks for popping round, Fran. I really enjoyed our chat.’

Fran smiled. ‘Me too. And remember, if ever you need a guinea pig for your recipes, I’m ready and willing. See you soon.’

‘Mind how you go,’ said Pamela, feeling ticklish with excitement. It was lovely to have a new friend like Fran and she was determined to support her as best she could.

Pamela closed the door and walked back to the kitchen, pausing to gaze at her children’s photos. Her gaze rested on Matthew’s university picture. She’d been so proud as she watched him collect his degree from the Dean. But even then, Barry had been disparaging.

‘What’s he going to do with an English degree?’ he’d scoffed. Pamela had shushed him but she saw from the dark look on Matthew’s face that he’d heard. Poor Matthew. Pamela felt for him. He’d had articles published, of course, and managed to get by, but she sensed that he compared himself unfavourably to his siblings. Pamela had therefore taken on the role of chief protector. Laura and Simon seemed sorted but Matthew – her Matty – needed a bit more support. Barry might disagree but wasn’t it important to feel that your mum had your back, regardless of how old you were? Pamela’s maternal instinct told her that it was and Barry would just have to deal with it.

Pamela moved around the kitchen fetching the ingredients for toad in the hole. She liked to make her batter early and leave it to sit – it seemed to make for a fluffier Yorkshire. She went to the fridge and realized that she still didn’t have any milk, having insisted that Fran take home the remainder of the pint she’d brought with her.

Pamela picked up her bag and made for the door. She considered telling Barry where she was going but realized that he wouldn’t notice anyway. She felt as if she was punishing him somehow by just leaving the house. She knew it was childish but she was still cross with his comment about Matty earlier that morning. Didn’t he understand that he would push their son away if he carried on like that?

Pamela breathed in the fresh spring air as she made her way to the end of the road to Doly and Dev’s shop. She loved this time of year – the trees bursting with new life, everything beginning again.

The bell tinkled above the door as she entered the shop. Doly’s head popped out from behind the shelf she was stacking. ‘Pamela! How are you?’ she said with a smile. Pamela felt a surge of warmth from that smile. Doly always seemed so happy and calm. She wondered what her secret was.

‘I’m fine, thanks, dear. How about you? How are your lovely girls?’

‘Noisy but beautiful.’ Doly beamed. ‘How is your son? Has he found a job yet?’ Pamela shook her head. ‘Well, it’s not much but I may have some runs to the cash and carry if he’s free. Dev and Hasan have had to go back to Bangladesh for a while as their grandmother is ill.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Doly. Thank you for the offer, I’ll talk to Matthew.’

Doly nodded. ‘Tell him to come and see me if he’s interested. Now what can I get you?’

‘Just milk, thanks, Doly. Oh, and I’ll take this too,’ she said, picking up a large bar of Fruit and Nut.

‘Happiness is a big bar of chocolate, right?’ said a voice. Pamela turned to see Heather smiling at her.

‘Oh hello, lovey. I didn’t see you there. How are things?’

Heather nodded. ‘Pretty good, thanks. I’ve just finished my shift at the bakery and popped in for this.’ She held up a bottle of white wine. ‘Luke and I are finally going to talk weddings tonight.’

Pamela clapped her hands together with delight. ‘How exciting! Don’t forget to let me know if you need a wedding cake baker.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I look forward to hearing about your plans next week.’ Heather looked puzzled. ‘At the next course?’ prompted Pamela.

‘Yeah, I’m not sure if it’s for me. I mean, I’m pretty happy,’ said Heather, screwing up her face.

Pamela tried and failed to hide her disappointment. ‘Oh. But I thought you, Fran and I were a team.’

Heather bit her lip. ‘It’s only been a week, Pamela – I’m sure you’ll be fine without me.’

‘Of course.’ Pamela nodded, embarrassed. ‘I’m just being silly.’

A silly old woman getting ahead of herself. Why would this lovely young girl want to spend her Wednesday evenings with an old frump like me?

Heather looked guilty. ‘No, you’re not silly. It’s me. I’m just not sure I need the course.’

Pamela nodded. ‘I understand. Although I did think we’d make a good trio and was looking forward to getting some tips from you bright young things. I’m sure Fran and I will manage. She’s been through so much losing her Andy – I want to support her if I can. But then you understand that what with losing your parents too.’

Heather eyed Pamela for a second before shaking her head and smiling. ‘All right, you win. I did enjoy it more than I thought I would. I’ll come along to the next one and see how it goes, okay?’

Pamela brightened. ‘Oh that’s wonderful, Heather! What’s your favourite cake?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Your favourite cake – I’ll make it for next week.’

‘You don’t need to…’

‘I’d like to.’

‘Okay…lemon drizzle?’

‘Perfect.’ Pamela handed over her money to Doly. ‘Cheerio for now and thanks again, Doly, for offering to help my Matthew,’ she said before heading back on to Hope Street. Pamela felt a wave of hope as her concerns about her son and irritation with Barry were pushed to one side for a moment. She’d found Matty a job, had two new friends and was embarking on something fresh and exciting. It was as if a different door had been opened in her life. All she had to do was take a step through and see what was on the other side.

Chapter Seven
Heather

Happiness List

1. Marry Luke!

Freddy stared at Heather, a look of sheer puzzlement on his funny little old man face. It was as if he was trying to figure out a particularly difficult calculus problem. Without warning, his face reddened with exertion as he emptied his bowels to the sound of a loud wet fart.

‘O-oh, somebody needs a change,’ remarked Gemma. ‘Heather? Do you want to take this one?’

‘I’ll give it a go if you want me to?’ winced Heather.

Gemma laughed. ‘Your face! I’m kidding. I couldn’t do it to you. It’s like dealing with nuclear waste. One day you’ll understand that you never agree to change a baby’s nappy unless that baby belongs to you. Right, come on, my boy,’ she cooed, plucking Freddy from his rocker chair. ‘Back in a sec.’

Heather watched Gemma go, pondering her ‘one day’ remark. The thought of having a baby of her own thrilled and terrified Heather in equal measure. Seeing Gemma with Freddy had been strange at first but now, she couldn’t picture a world without him and it had sparked her own maternal curiosity. Heather was used to being second in the running when it came to the milestones of life but then Gemma was two years older. She didn’t mind. Gemma was her trailblazer and she loved her for it – where she went, Heather followed.

She looked around Gemma’s living room now at the baby paraphernalia – you clearly needed a lot of stuff for these tiny human beings. There was a pram the size of a smart car in the hall, a fleece-lined rocker chair, which Heather decided that she wanted if they ever made scaled-up versions for adults, as well as all manner of black and white, mirrored, textured, squashy toys, which Freddy seemed to mostly ignore.

Heather tried to picture all these items in her living room. She and Luke kept a pretty tidy house. They weren’t compulsive about it – no bean tins facing outwards in the cupboard or magazines kept at right angles – but it was neat and ordered. Still, maybe babies stopped you worrying about stuff like that, maybe you had to just go with it.

She tried to picture Luke with a baby. She couldn’t ever remember seeing him with a child. He’d been working the last couple of times she’d met up with Gemma. They’d talked about babies in passing and she remembered him being positive – not effusively so but enough for her to feel satisfied that he would want kids one day. Maybe it was time for Luke to get to know Freddy a little better – one flash of that gummy smile and he’d be signing up for fatherhood quicker than you could say ‘baby-led weaning’.

‘Here we go – all clean,’ said Gemma as she carried Freddy back into the living room and held him out to Heather. ‘Would you like a cuddle?’

‘With you or the baby?’ Gemma laughed. ‘Come on then, Freddy Fruitcake, let’s see if I can make you cry like last time,’ said Heather, reaching out her arms to take him.

‘He was much smaller then, don’t worry, he’s a bit sturdier now. In fact, Ed reckons he could have a promising rugby career.’

‘Okay, but be ready for the first sign of trouble,’ warned Heather. ‘I haven’t had much practice.’ Heather shifted Freddy so that he was sitting, cradled on her arm. They were eyeball to eyeball. Heather held her breath – this could go one of two ways. All of a sudden, Freddy’s eyes brightened with recognition as if he’d spotted an old acquaintance who he hadn’t seen for years. His mouth lifted into an ‘o’ as he bowed forwards and planted a wet, gummy greeting onto Heather’s face.

‘He kissed you!’ cried Gemma with delight. ‘He only does that to Mum and me. You should feel very honoured.’

Heather felt her throat thicken as Freddy drew back and eyed her with a look that said, I like you. She had a sudden glimpse into Gemma’s world and it was lovely. ‘Thank you, Freddy,’ she laughed, kissing him on the top of his head. Freddy’s smile widened even further and he kissed her again and again, relishing Heather and Gemma’s delighted reactions.

‘You should get one,’ joked Gemma, gesturing towards her son. ‘He likes you and he’s a notoriously tough one to please. He screamed when this little old lady cooed at him in the supermarket the other day. Mind you, she did stink of fags and was missing a couple of teeth.’

Heather laughed. ‘Well, seeing how happy he makes you,’ she said, tickling Freddy under the chin, ‘and given that you and I share a love of vodka-based cocktails and Justin Timberlake…’

‘A round of cosmopolitans for the JT girls!’ cried Gemma.

‘Cheers to that, my friend!’ Heather grinned, holding up an imaginary glass. ‘I think it stands to reason that I would enjoy this motherhood lark as much as you do. Plus, he smells so good. Why does he smell so good?’ she asked, inhaling her godson’s downy head, making him giggle. ‘And that laugh? Surely, that’s the best sound in the world.’

Gemma regarded her for a second. ‘I’m going to level with you, coz. For me, having a baby has been the most knackering experience of my life, my fanny’s a car crash and my nipples are so effing sore, but honestly?’ She gazed over at Freddy with a look of pure, unadulterated love. ‘I wouldn’t change it for the world. I mean, between ourselves, it would be good if Ed helped out a bit more, but aside from that, I’ve never been happier.’

Heather smiled at her cousin. ‘Well here’s a thought. How about Luke and I help out by having Freddy overnight one Friday so that you and Ed can go out?’

Gemma stared at her wide-eyed. ‘That’s a big ask. He can be a pain to settle. Are you sure you’re up for it?’

Heather nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Absolutely. It’d only be one night and it’s win-win. You get a night out, I get time with my godson and Luke and I get to practise at being parents.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t put you off for life,’ laughed Gemma.

Freddy gazed up at Heather as she covered his ears. ‘Mummy doesn’t mean it, Freddy. You’re going to have all the fun with Auntie Heather and Uncle Luke.’

‘Do you think Uncle Luke will be okay with it?’ Gemma frowned, doubtfully.

‘Why do you say that?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘Oh, I dunno. Pardon the pun but I thought he was a bit lukewarm about kids.’

Heather frowned. ‘When did he say that?’

Gemma chewed her lip for a moment before dismissing Heather’s concerns with a wave of her hand. ‘Do you know, it’s probably just my baby brain getting mixed up. I’m sure you’ll have a great time. Well I’m not but I want to go out and drink gin so let’s pretend, shall we?’

Heather laughed. ‘Stop worrying. It’s going to be brilliant, isn’t it, Freddy?’ Freddy squeaked in reply. She smiled and glanced at her watch. ‘Blimey, I need to get going. Wednesday night is happiness night.’

‘Oh yeah, your course. How’s it going?’ asked Gemma, reclaiming her son and following Heather into the hall.

Heather gave a positive nod. ‘I only went along to the first one because I couldn’t face another night in on my own, but actually, it was pretty interesting.’

‘Luscious Luke still working all hours then?’

Heather sighed. ‘Yeah, but at least we’ve had a chance to sit down and discuss the wedding. I have a shortlist of three venues.’

‘That’s great. Sorry, Heth – I meant to ask you about that but we got distracted by babies.’

‘It’s fine, Gem, he’s a gorgeous distraction,’ she said, leaning forwards to kiss them both.

‘I’m glad you’re getting the wedding sorted and remember to shout if I can help with anything.’

‘Just being my chief bridesmaid and helping me choose my dress is all I need.’

‘Done,’ said Gemma with a grin.

Heather made for the door. ‘Right. I’m off to talk mindfulness and eat lemon drizzle cake in a draughty community hall.’

‘There are worse ways to spend an evening.’

‘Very true. Take care and speak soon. Bye!’

Heather glanced back before she drove off, waving at Gemma standing on the doorstep with Freddy in her arms. As she focused on the road, she felt a dip of sadness in her chest, a tug of longing for when she and Gemma were growing up. Heather missed those days – Saturdays shopping in the nearby town, trying out lipstick in Boots and sitting in McDonald’s nursing a strawberry milkshake for hours as boys would come and go like interview candidates. Gemma always seemed so in charge when it came to the opposite sex. Heather would watch in awe as some teenage boy, his face peppered with acne and sprouting stubble, would sidle over and try to get her attention. Gemma would flirt with the ones she liked and introduce the ones she didn’t to Heather. Heather didn’t mind – she received all her cousin’s cast-off clothes so why not the boys as well? As the younger cousin, she was just grateful to be in Gemma’s presence – she was her guiding light and her protector too. When one boy tried to persuade Heather to go for a ‘walk’ in the municipal gardens, Gemma tipped the rest of her milkshake over his head and told him to get lost before she told the whole restaurant that he was a pervert. Heather smiled at the memory. No one messed with Gemma Sharp.

She and Gemma were still close and they would always have that bond from growing up together but there was a distance now. It wasn’t just the geography – Gemma lived less than an hour away. There was an emotional distance too – the inevitable growing apart that came with marriage and motherhood. It was normal and natural but it made Heather feel as if she was drifting and somehow losing her anchor to the past.

It made her realize how much she needed Luke, how much she loved and couldn’t wait to marry him – to get on with their life, to make it something happy and wonderful, something she’d needed ever since her parents died.

‘So,’ said Nik, smiling as he stood before the group hours later. ‘Did any of you experiment with mindfulness this week?’

‘I tried mindful baking,’ admitted Pamela ruefully.

‘And how did it go?’

‘I fell asleep.’ She grimaced. ‘I ended up burning my buns. I never burn my buns.’

Nik gave her a sympathetic smile.

‘Sorry to say it but I don’t think I have time to be mindful,’ declared Fran. ‘I can’t be present whilst chopping up cucumber, admiring the glistening discs of translucent green or whatever. I just need to get it done and move on to the next thing.’

Nik nodded. ‘The world is busy. But let me ask you this, if you go for a run, can you keep on running indefinitely?’

‘Well no, obvs. You need to take a break from time to time.’

‘Exactly, so mindfulness is a way of taking a moment, a break from the constant rushing, a time to reset your brain if you like – to observe what is happening. Some people learn to be mindful all the time and if you practise enough, this is possible. But I would say that perhaps this isn’t realistic so you should think of it as a form of exercise to start with. And tonight we’re going to try something to help us practise.’ Nik took a Tupperware box from his bag and lifted the lid. ‘Sultanas,’ he said, walking around the circle. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Sorry, I’m on a diet,’ joked Fran as she took one.

Nik smiled. ‘I would like you to imagine that you have never seen a sultana before.’ Heather and Fran exchanged amused glances. ‘Take a moment to look at it properly, observe its appearance. What do you see?’

‘Sorry, Nik?’ said Jim.

‘Yes?’

Jim looked sheepish. ‘I’ve already eaten mine. I thought it was a snack.’

‘Me too,’ said Sue. ‘I haven’t had my dinner and I was hungry.’

Nik laughed. ‘Okay, here you go,’ he said, handing out replacements. ‘Now, try for a moment to observe the sultana. Look at it carefully and share your thoughts if you want to.’

‘Brown?’ offered Pamela.

Nik nodded encouragingly.

‘Shrivelled,’ said Heather.

‘Like old person,’ observed Georg. ‘My grandmother had wrinkled face like this.’ Everyone laughed. Georg looked surprised. ‘Is true.’

‘Good,’ said Nik. ‘And now how does it feel in your hand – consider this for a moment with your eyes closed.’

‘Soft,’ said Sue after a pause.

‘Sticky,’ added Pamela.

‘Knobbly,’ said someone else.

‘And the smell?’ asked Nik. ‘Take your time.’

‘Sweet,’ said Heather.

‘Rich,’ said Georg. ‘Like dark sugar smell.’

‘Like my mum’s larder,’ observed Jim with a smile. ‘She did a lot of baking, like Mrs T.’ Pamela grinned at him.

‘And now we taste,’ said Nik. ‘Don’t chew it at first, just let it rest on your tongue and focus on what comes to mind.’

There was a long pause before they answered.

‘Liquorice,’ said Pamela with a confused frown.

‘Longing,’ added Heather. ‘I know it’s sweet but I can’t taste it yet.’

‘Salt and sweet,’ said Fran, looking at Nik. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t wait – I had to bite it.’

Nik smiled. ‘It’s okay, it’s not a test. What this shows us isn’t about the sultana itself. It’s about our ability to focus on the present moment, to concentrate on the thing that is right in front of you. Congratulations – you all have the capacity to be mindful. I promise that if you practise, you will feel the benefits.’ Fran arched a brow at him. ‘Even you, Fran.’

‘Cheek,’ she laughed.

Nik addressed the group. ‘So this week’s homework is to find an activity that enables you to be mindful or present in the moment or however you would like to phrase it. Add it to your own happiness list and do your best to incorporate it into your life. Try to view it as you taking a deep breath when you need it most.’

As they left the course a while later, Fran turned to Pamela and Heather. ‘Right, all that breathing and focusing on the present has made me realize that I need a drink and, as my mother is staying over again, I intend to take full advantage of the fact. Who fancies the pub?’

Heather checked her phone. No messages from Luke but as he’d been working late all week, Heather fully expected more of the same. What was the point in going home to an empty house again? ‘I’m in,’ she declared. ‘Pamela?’

‘Barry will only be glued to one of his gardening programmes and Matty’s out so why not?’

‘I love it when a plan comes together,’ said Fran with a grin.

The Goldfinch Tavern used to be a spit-and-sawdust kind of pub with a decidedly dodgy clientele until a forward-thinking brewery took it over, replaced the sticky floor with dark wood and peeled back the Anaglytpa to expose the brick behind it. It had a cosy, shabby-chic feel and was much loved by the local community.

An open mic night was kicking off as the three women arrived, so they made a beeline for a quiet table in an adjoining room where they could hear each other speak.

‘My choir often does gigs in here,’ said Pamela as Fran returned from the bar carrying a bottle of Prosecco and three glasses.

‘Ahh yes, the famous Hope Street community choir. My friend Nat always says it saved her after she and Dan split up,’ said Fran.

‘Lovely Nat, she’s a treasure,’ said Pamela.

‘Caroline told me that she formed the choir in order to save the community hall,’ remarked Heather.

‘That sounds like Caroline,’ observed Fran with one eyebrow raised. ‘She had quite a lot of help.’

‘Ahh, Caroline’s got a good heart,’ insisted Pamela.

‘She just keeps it well hidden,’ said Fran.

Pamela giggled. ‘Oh, get away with you.’

‘Come on then ladies, let’s practise what we’ve learnt,’ said Fran as she poured the Prosecco. ‘Observe if you will, the flow of golden liquid…or does that sound as if I’m talking about wee?’ She smirked.

Heather laughed. ‘Watch the bubbles lift and pop on this glistening sea of gold.’

‘Still sounds like wee,’ grinned Fran. ‘You try, Pamela.’

‘Um, look at the foaming surge of liquid?’ she offered, frowning with concentration.

Fran snorted with laughter. ‘Okay, stop now because that sounds plain wrong.’ Heather and Pamela chuckled as Fran handed them a glass each. ‘So, enough with the mindfulness. Here’s to my happiness buddies – cheers!’

‘Cheers!’ they chorused.

‘So are you still singing with the choir?’ said Heather to Pamela.

Pamela nodded. ‘Oh yes – they’re wonderful. You should both come. Choir always gives me a lift.’

Fran grimaced. ‘I think you might end up with all the stray cats in the neighbourhood lining up outside the hall – I can’t sing for toffee.’

Heather laughed. ‘I love music but I always preferred dancing to singing.’

‘Ooh, I used to love dancing as a girl – ballroom mainly but I did enjoy a bit of jive,’ said Pamela.

‘Go Pamela!’ cried Fran. She nudged Heather. ‘It’s great that you decided to come along for another session of the course.’

Heather flashed a smile at Pamela. ‘I’ll go anywhere for a decent slice of lemon drizzle. Plus, it’s good to make some friends round here. Luke’s often working so…’

‘You get lonely sometimes,’ said Fran as if she understood.

Heather held her gaze for a second before nodding. There was something about Fran that reminded her of Gemma – both straight-talking women with teasing humour.

‘It must be hard living where your mum grew up but not having her or your dad around,’ added Pamela with her customary tact.

Fran and Heather exchanged glances. ‘Don’t feel too sorry for me, Pamela. I’ve got my lovely cousin, Gemma, who’s supported me ever since Mum and Dad died. I moved in with her family after it happened and we’ve been best mates ever since.’

‘Does she live nearby?’ asked Pamela.

‘About an hour away. She’s married and had a baby six months ago. I saw them today actually.’ She took out her phone and showed them a picture. ‘That’s Freddy, he’s my godson.’

‘Cute,’ said Fran.

‘Awww, what a poppet,’ declared Pamela.

‘He’s lovely. I just wish I could see them a bit more but they’re busy and I’m over here so it’s tricky.’

‘Babies ruin everything,’ said Fran. ‘Friendships, fannies – the whole caboodle.’

‘Fran!’ cried Pamela scandalized. ‘Babies are wonderful!’

‘In small doses,’ said Fran. ‘Sorry, Heather – you were saying about things being tricky?’

Heather smiled, feeling a wave of affection for them both. ‘It’s just lovely to make new friends over here.’

Pamela patted her hand and Fran grinned. ‘Well, Pamela and I know how to get a party started,’ she quipped, knocking her glass against Heather’s. ‘Which is more than you can say for young Georg. What is going on with him?’

Heather laughed. ‘I get the feeling there’s more to Georg than meets the eye.’

‘He told me that his happiness goal is to find true love,’ sighed Pamela. ‘Bless him.’

‘Now see how we all complement each other perfectly?’ said Fran. ‘So Pamela here is our hopeless romantic, whereas I’m the jaded cynic so that must make you…’

‘The lost soul?’ blurted Heather, surprising herself. ‘Sorry – not sure where that came from.’

‘From the heart,’ said Fran. ‘It’s what comes with hanging out with Pamela. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us. We’re a not quite perfect dream team.’

‘We should have T-shirts made!’ said Heather. She turned to Pamela. ‘So how’s Matthew getting on?’

Pamela sighed. ‘Doly is going to give him some work so that will help but he is a worry. I’m not entirely sure what he’s up to half the time.’

‘Well, he’s a big boy, you can’t watch his every move,’ said Heather.

Pamela nodded. ‘I know I have a tendency to mother him a bit too much but it’s hard, isn’t it? You just want to help your kids get what they need.’

‘Don’t forget what you need though,’ said Heather. Pamela gave her a grateful smile.

‘Poor Pamela,’ said Fran. ‘Makes you wish that you could keep your kids on a lead for the whole of their lives, doesn’t it? I’m dreading the day I don’t know where mine are. My mother makes Margaret Thatcher look weedy but at least I know my kids are safely tucked up when she’s in charge.’

Heather looked distracted for a moment. ‘Sorry, Fran, I am listening. I just heard that boy singing – he sounds a bit like Ed Sheeran. How old do you think he is?’

As Fran tuned in, a look of horror spread over her face. She stood up. ‘Fourteen,’ she said. ‘He’s fourteen.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Pamela.

Fran made for the bar. ‘Because that’s my bloody son and I’m going to kill him!’

The evening had fallen apart after that. Fran frogmarched a mortified Jude from the pub but not before she’d given the landlord an earful. From the thunderous look on her face, her mother was in for similar treatment.

As Heather let herself back into the house a while later, she could hear the television and peered into the lounge to find Luke asleep on the sofa. Her heart soared at the sight of him. She knelt down, watching him for a moment. He stirred and opened his eyes, smiling as he saw her. She leant over to kiss him.

‘You’re home,’ she said.

‘I’m home.’ He smiled.

‘You should have called me. I went for a drink with Fran and Pamela – I would have come straight home if I’d known.’

‘It’s okay, beautiful,’ he said, stroking her cheek. ‘I had a report to write. Anyway, how was your day?’

She grinned and took out her phone to show him a photograph. A Facebook notification popped up – Gemma had tagged her in a post. It was a picture of Heather and Freddy smiling at one another with the words,

Hanging out with my favourite auntie.

‘Look.’ She held out the phone for Luke to see.

He frowned at the picture. ‘Oh wow, look at you,’ he said, making no comment about the baby.

‘Isn’t Freddy cute?’ she insisted.

Luke shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess. How was Gem? Feels like ages since I’ve seen her.’

Heather felt a prickle of disappointment. ‘Yeah, it was great to see her – she was tired but well. She loves being a mum.’

‘That’s good.’ She moved to snuggle next to him, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. ‘Oh hello,’ he said, leaning down to kiss her.

‘Hello.’ She smiled, pulling back slightly. ‘So listen…’

‘Uh-oh, sounds serious. What’s up?’

Heather felt her mouth go dry. Where to start? This was a big life question. She didn’t want to mess it up and she didn’t want to scare off Luke either. ‘Well, when I was with Gemma and Freddy today, she mentioned in passing that she didn’t think you were very keen on having kids.’

‘She said that?’

Heather felt a twist of panic that he wasn’t flatly denying it. ‘She did. And it made me realize that we’d never talked about it properly and that I’d stupidly assumed that we would just have kids one day.’

Luke sat up and ran a hand through his hair. ‘O-kay, well if I’m honest, I haven’t given it much thought.’

Heather turned to face him and was taken aback by his guarded expression. She reached for his hand. ‘Well, maybe we should talk about it. We’re about to get married – it feels pretty important.’

Luke shifted in his seat. ‘O-kay.’

Heather took a deep breath. ‘Well, personally, I know I’d like a family. I love the idea of miniature versions of you and me and I think we’d make great parents. What about you?’

Luke gave a faint smile. ‘I don’t know. I guess I still feel as if I’m too young to think about it. To be honest, I’m not about planning years into the future. I’ve got you, I’ve got my job. We’re getting married and that’s enough for now.’

Enough for now. That sounded reasonable. Maybe rushing into the future was wrong. Maybe it was better to live in the present. ‘But you’re not ruling out kids?’ she asked.

He put an arm round her shoulder and kissed her cheek. ‘Of course not. I think we should enjoy our lives now and see what happens.’

She stole a glance at him. ‘Okay, well I’ve kind of offered to have Freddy overnight for Gemma.’

‘Oh. Huh,’ said Luke, nodding slowly.

Heather nudged him. ‘Listen, it’s going to be great. He’s my godson and he’s very cute. It might just give us some perspective on parenthood.’

Luke gave a resigned smile. ‘Okay. I’m not great with babies but, you know, if you’ve offered and it helps out Gemma then fine.’

Heather nodded. Enough for now. She stood up, feeling heavy with tiredness. ‘It’s been a long day,’ she said. ‘I’m going to grab a glass of water and head up to bed.’

He caught hold of her hand. ‘Okay, beautiful. I won’t be long. I love you, Heather Brown.’

‘I love you too.’

I really do love you, she thought as she filled a glass from the tap and stood frowning out at her reflection. And maybe that was enough for now but there was a seed of uncertainty threatening to take root in her heart. What if Luke never wanted kids? Would Heather be happy with that? What did she actually want from her life? Would enough for now be enough for ever? Maybe the truth she blurted out in the pub was just that. Maybe she really was a lost soul, still searching for what she needed and maybe, at the moment, she needed the course more than she cared to admit.

Chapter Eight
Fran

Happiness List Thing

1. Accept a world without Andy (too soon!)

2. ‘Digital Detox’ day with kids

On Sunday morning, Fran woke to bright sunshine and the sinking feeling that she couldn’t justify yet another pyjama day. It was time to leave the house. She knew that if they stayed in, Charlie would be glued to her iPad whilst Jude shut himself in his room, playing Bob Dylan protest songs as a pointed gesture to the fact that she had taken away his phone and grounded him for a fortnight. Fran couldn’t face the heavy atmosphere that would descend or the fact that she would be very likely to spend another wasted afternoon poring over Pinterest without being entirely sure what she was looking for.

She loved the idea of home improvements but since Andy died, the thought of making changes to the home they’d shared filled her with horror and sadness. The cruel irony of the situation was that she could afford to get the work done now thanks to the money from Andy’s life insurance. Also, Fran’s brother had had the good sense to become an independent financial advisor so their future was secure. Fran wasn’t rich but she wasn’t under financial pressure.

Her job as an editor had always been a constant. She’d been lucky in this respect. She’d worked for a large publisher in the years before marriage and kids. During this time, she’d had the happy fortune to acquire a little-known author, who went on to become a global phenomenon. When Fran bit the bullet after Charlie was born and decided to go freelance, the superstar author demanded to keep her as his editor. The publisher agreed because they loved Fran too. This meant that she was able to earn decent money from the author’s annual bestseller and pick and choose her other projects as well.

‘You’re so lucky, Fran,’ her former colleagues would cry. ‘You’ve got the dream job that fits around your kids and the money’s good. You’ve hit the jackpot.’

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