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‘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 (#u5c3859b4-bf0a-5533-9def-f065b138817a)
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.
