The Lonely Heart Attack Club - One of the funniest, feel-good books you'll read this year! You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll love it!

by J C Williams

  Jayne tilted her head in a slightly condescending manner. “But you’re thirty-five.”

  “Thirty-four!” said Emma. “Besides, I don’t just work there, I’m now a shareholder and I’m doing something I like!”

  “Emma, I love you like a sister, but you’re working in a crappy little shop. You’re single with no kids. You can move to Singapore and use that degree to earn some serious money. We’ll have a ball.”

  “I know, but it’s not that simple. There is someone.”

  Jayne looked troubled. “Who, and why have you never mentioned him?”

  Emma was reluctant. “It’s complicated and I knew what you’d say,” she said, lowering her head like a guilty dog.

  “You’re going to have to tell me now,” said Jayne.

  Emma rested her head in her hands. “It’s Jack.”

  “Who’s Jack?” asked Jayne. “Wait, not Jack… Jack? Please, Emma. Please tell me it’s not Jack from work.”

  Emma looked forlorn, like she was confessing to a schoolyard crush. “Yes, it’s Jack from work.”

  Jayne arched her back. “I think I need another gin. How long has this been going on? I thought he had a girlfriend?”

  “He did, but they broke up. There is nothing going on, but he thinks we’re just friends. There is this other girl he likes now, as well,” she said, dropping her shoulders.

  “Emma, don’t get me wrong. Jack is a nice guy and all that, but you’re, well, stunning. You could have your pick of any man in here. He’s just, well… Jack. A bit of a buffoon. I don’t mean to be harsh, Emma. But this is a staggering opportunity, don’t waste it.”

  Emma knew she was right. Where was her life going? It was something she’d often pondered but she’d become complacent. The Jack issue was as bewildering to her as it was to Jayne. When he was with Helen, it’d never entered her head. It was only when they were breaking up that she noticed another side of him. She convinced herself it was a phase, that it’d pass. But it hadn’t.

  “Jayne, it sounds amazing. Let me think about it?”

  “Of course you can. Don’t let Jack get in the way of this chance, Emma, and remember, it’s only for two years.”

  Emma stared at her drink and pushed her finger around the lipstick covered rim. She looked at Jayne and shook her head. “I don’t know what’s going on. How have I fallen in love with an oaf like Jack?”

  .

  Chapter Five

  T he ageing Vespa was struggling; something didn’t feel as it should. Aesthetically she’d seen better days, but the engine had never missed a beat. Home was along a promenade two miles long which ran parallel to the charming Douglas coastline. Toward the end of the sandy expanse was the formidable Summer Hill, a long and arduous climb towards home in Onchan. As a child, Jack would cycle along the promenade at pace, to carry sufficient momentum for the climb ahead. All but a few would succumb by the first corner, where a convenient and welcome bench lay; the single-geared BMX would be dismounted, and the remainder of the journey would be completed on foot. Jack always smiled as he passed the bench, but now, twenty or so horsepower provided the thrust, rather than tired legs. His confidence that his ageing steed would continue to make it further than the bench was starting to wane. He willed the bike up the remainder of the hill and took a mental note to take a slightly less abrupt route home. On a warm evening in June, the Isle of Man was one of the finest places you could hope to live. The pleasant breeze and an open-faced helmet brought a contented smile to Jack’s face, with the wind up the leg of his shorts an added bonus.

  The left rear indicator was currently out of order, so he raised his left hand to take him onto his grandad’s road, which, was another sharp climb. Jack would be the first to acknowledge his deficiencies when it came to sporting fashion, but the sight that greeted him at the foot of the hill caused even him to stare in bewilderment. He was drawn to the 1970’s style tennis shorts which would be considered tight, bordering on obscene. The back of his knees were barely visible, all but covered by stretched white socks — a contrast to the black formal shoes. The ensemble was completed with a less-than-fetching off-white vest. Jack was about to scoff when he recalled his initial efforts at exercise, and his sneer turned quickly to admiration.

  “What… the… what?” he said, slowly. He pulled the bike to the side of the road and jumped off, removing his helmet. He walked up the road and soon caught the man jogging a smidgen quicker than walking pace. “Oi, what the hell are you doing! Grandad! Hey, you crazy bugger, it’s me, Jack!”

  Geoffrey didn’t break his stride, continuing his journey up the hill towards his bungalow. “I’m not stopping, Jack, I’ve been trying to make it up this bloody hill all week.”

  Jack walked behind, but with enough distance to avoid a direct association to the man in front. The only saving grace for Geoffrey was that he was jogging; if he were dressed like that and walking, he would surely have been arrested by now. Two schoolchildren on the opposite side of the road looked over in astonishment as he ever so slowly moved up the hill. “Go on, Rocky!” shouted one of the boys, causing Geoffrey to punch the air in acknowledgement. His pace slowed further as the incline increased, but to Jack’s surprise he continued to push on. It’d been years since Jack walked up the hill and he’d forgotten how challenging it was. “C’mon, Grandad!” he shouted, as he approached the crest of the hill.

  Geoffrey stood by his front path and placed his hands on his hips, looking proudly back to where he’d just climbed. “What are you doing, Grandad?” asked Jack.

  Geoffrey puffed out his cheeks as he caught his breath. “I’m on my way to Wimbledon, what’s it bloody look like I’m doing? I’m getting fit.”

  “You’re a bit…”

  “What? Old?” barked Geoffrey.

  “No. Well, yes, of course you are. No, I was going to say a little… revealing. You’ve already been nicked once this week, you don’t want to add a charge of indecent exposure to your expanding ‘rap sheet’ do you?”

  “Your mum told me about this dating club for pensioners you’ve set up. I’m trying to get a bit more buff before I go.”

  “Well, it’s more of a social club, Grandad.”

  “So it’s not a dating club?”

  “Well, not specifically. I don’t want to end up as Cilla Black for the infirm.”

  “I’ve told them all down at the legion that it’s a dating club. I’ve got about fifteen people wanting to come.”

  Jack’s eyes widened. “Fifteen, that’s good. What are they expecting, though? They don’t think I’ve set up some knocking shop, do they?”

  “Don’t be bloody stupid. Well, Dirty Eric did ask, but he didn’t get his nickname for nothing. They just want to meet other people, and if there were a few attractive ladies who wanted their dance card stamped, well, even better. That’s why I want to be in peak condition. I feel fit — the doctor gave my blood pressure the clean bill of health as well.”

  “Good! That’s what I was coming to check on, make sure you actually went. Does the doctor know you’ve taken up running?”

  “No, but he did say gentle exercise was good.”

  “I’m not sure this is what he had in mind. If you’re serious about getting fit, we need to get you something to wear. Seriously, Grandad, you can’t go out looking like that. I’ll take you shopping for something more appropriate.”

  “This is it, Horace. Time to see if all the hard work is paying off.”

  Jack had been to the gym every morning; it was something he now looked forward to. The muscle pain had dulled, and he was now on a first-name basis with the staff. He stood in the exact spot where he first discovered his breasts and removed his t-shirt. He cupped them and sure enough, they’d reduced. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and examined a picture he’d taken a week ago. His chest had reduced and the ‘muffin tops’ at the side of his waist had shrank.

  “How can Hayley resist that, Horace?” said Jack, flexing his biceps. He was eatin
g healthier and sleeping better as he wasn’t drinking. He felt good and his efforts in the gym were starting to pay dividends.

  “We’ll be out of this rubbish dump soon, Horace,” said Jack, collapsing onto his sofa. He chuckled to himself as he thought about his grandad. He’d taken a sneaky picture as he ran up the hill and texted it through to Emma, with the caption:

  He re-read the letter from the estate agents and looked around the flat. He strained his face as he realised it wasn’t that bad. The main issue was the memories of Helen. This was their flat and this was their dream, one that was quickly shattered when she met Jerry from work. He was completely over Helen, but the flat was a constant reminder. He’d never made the connection about his weight gain and the sudden interest in Jerry. Was she really that shallow?

  The phone vibrated on his lap:

  The letter from the estate agent served as one month’s notice on the flat. He’d been willing this day for months, but a wave of panic hit him; he would soon be homeless. He didn’t have any money other than his deposit on the flat and the Vespa was about to pack in. The shop was on the bones of its arse and needed new customers or, in reality, he doubted they’d see the end of the summer out. He texted Emma to tell her about the fifteen punters Grandad had rounded up. He knew he needed to get on board with this initiative otherwise he’d be going to the jobcentre, and he knew he was far from a desired candidate.

  He’d always seen the shop as Helen’s dream and a small part of him harboured a desire to see it fail. It was irrational; Helen had long since moved on and the only person that failure would hurt was him and Emma. The shop was more than work; it was like a micro-community. People genuinely cared about it — the majority, a lot more than Jack. He’d taken Emma for granted for too long. She was forever coming up with wacky ideas to drum up business, which he’d often dismiss without consideration. She was on minimum wage which she didn’t always take if the shop was short; she put her heart into making it a success and she’d be devastated if it failed. He didn’t know if it related to feeling fitter, but he was motivated like no other time in his life. He was part of something that he’d miss if it were taken away. His approach to the shop had been the same as the approach to his waistline — one of blissful ignorance that bordered on neglect.

  Being outside early on a Sunday morning was a novelty. Normally, Jack would be sleeping off the previous night’s excess and watching repeats of Columbo all afternoon. He awoke with a sense of purpose and motivation that took him outside on his day off. Things that would usually irritate — such as the flat — somehow seemed a little more bearable. Even the terminally ill Vespa burst into life at the first time of asking. The sun glistened off the tranquil sea and the promenade was packed with people taking advantage of the glorious weather. It was a child’s paradise, with two miles of uninterrupted walkway which provided the ultimate test for a young cyclist. There was a unique smell that carried in the wind on a day like this — sea salt mixed with fresh seaweed — and it conjured fond memories of sandcastles and ice cream. Growing up in a seaside resort was a privilege, and through a child’s eyes, it never rained and the beaches were always full to capacity. The Isle of Man was not immune to the effects of mass tourism and had seen a steady decline in visitor numbers over the years. Guesthouses had given way to executive flats, and the sound of funfairs and bingo callers had long since vanished. There was always a sense of melancholy when he rode along the promenade — thinking of how it once was — but this was eased as he looked at the happy families enjoying their day.

  There were people milling about as he pulled up outside the shop. Emma had suggested opening on Sundays, but he’d given the idea short shrift; he was starting to reconsider. He stood in front of the expanse of glass and took a few steps backward. There was no sugar-coating it — the shop, as it was, was an eyesore. It was by far the worst in the street, and the flaking black paint now had a dull grey look to it. He took the pile of sandpaper and the scraper, paint, and brushes from his backpack, and moved forward with purpose. He wasn’t proficient at DIY, as the angled curtain pole in his flat would attest, but he was determined to give the shop every fighting chance of survival. He only hoped his efforts were not too late.

  The morning soon disappeared, and he was only disturbed by the occasional comment of, “missed a bit,” by a passing joker — funny the first time, but quickly worn out. The classic anthems on his phone kept the spring in his step and as he stood back to admire his handiwork, he was frustrated with himself for leaving it so long. Not only was it an easy job, it was enjoyable, and the difference in a lick of paint was staggering. All he needed now was a ‘J’ for the sign.

  He was proud of his efforts, and the first person he wanted to tell was Emma. He sent her a picture with the message:

  None of the shops in the street were open, so Jack was surprised to see lights in the locksmiths. They hadn’t seen Ray since he’d been taken away in the ambulance and even Postman Pete hadn’t heard anything. He was an unhealthy specimen and they speculated that they wouldn’t see him again. Jack moved closer and the door was slightly ajar. He looked around but the street was desolate. He rushed to put his helmet on for protection, and he held his scraper in an offensive manner.

  “Hello, Ray. It’s Jack. Are you there?”

  There was no response, so he called out again, moving forward cautiously. “Ray, it’s Jack from across the road.”

  He gagged as the scent of stale alcohol hit him; it was an obstacle course of discarded bottles. He used the scraper to push food wrappers from the counter next to the till, causing a rancid sandwich to fall to the floor. He jumped back as a muffled groan came from behind the door at the rear of the shop. He raised the scraper and tightened the straps on his helmet. “I’m armed!” he shouted, with a shaking voice. “Come out!”

  He gingerly opened the door and peered into the room; the small frosted glass window provided a nominal amount of light. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but through the darkness a silhouette could be seen stooped over the worktop, right hand shaking vigorously. Jack retreated in disgust. “Ray, It’s Jack. I did knock, several times!”

  Ray spun ’round. “Bloody hell, Jack! You could have given me another heart attack, you stupid bugger!”

  “Did I catch you at an awkward time?” said Jack, with a childish smirk.

  Ray paused for a moment before it dawned on him what Jack was on about. “I’m shaking my tin of soup, you mucky bugger! The chance for the other would be a fine thing. At my age, I’d need a stiff north-easterly breeze and a bicycle pump. I’m softer than a wet biscuit these days.”

  “Thanks for that, Ray. Your door is wide open, I thought you were a burglar.”

  “It’s a shop, lad. The door is supposed to be open.”

  “But it’s Sunday, Ray. And, to be fair, we thought you might be…”

  “Dead?”

  “No. Well, yes, a little bit. How are you, anyway?”

  “Never better. Until you scared the hell out of me. Touch of high blood pressure caused a funny turn. Doctor’s said to lay off the booze and get some exercise.”

  Jack picked up two empty bottles. “Ah, the sobriety going well, then?”

  “Have to start somewhere, Jack.”

  The room was full of rubbish and empty bottles. Ray looked sheepish, as he struggled to pick up a discarded bottle. “Let me,” said Jack. “You make your soup and I’ll sort this lot out.”

  Jack was sorry to see him in this state. They weren’t close, but he liked him; he was a similar generation to his grandad, and very funny. Not funny that your mum would approve of, mind, but bawdy, like a 1970’s workingman’s club comedian. He was well-built for his age, with broad shoulders and a well-worn face — clearly an ox of a man in his youth, but there were signs of frailty. His bulbous nose was pockmarked and reddened, his eyes were sunken and tinged with yellow.

  The smell of stale red wine was making Jack ill. “We’d make a fortune if we could ret
urn these bottles, Ray. Fair play to you, that’s an impressive collection.”

  Ray was taken aback at the number of bottles, now neatly placed into several shopping bags. “I wasn’t always like this, Jack. I didn’t touch a drop for twenty years.”

  “You’re certainly making up for it now?”

  “Aye, son,” said Ray, sitting on a delicate wooden stool. “Every time I’ve turned to the drink there’s a woman involved. Stay away from them, Jack. Nothing but bloody trouble. My first wife left me, I hit the drink hard. Same with my second and third.”

  “Why did they leave you?” asked Jack.

  Ray was pensive. “Probably because of the drink, son.”

  “How was there a woman involved in the latest sobriety relapse?” asked Jack. “I thought you were single?”

  Ray chuckled at the thought of a woman in his life. “I’m single, son, but I can see how you wouldn’t be certain. I’m a prize catch, after all. No, this is what you could call a long-distance relationship with two American sisters, Candy and Charity.”

  Jack’s interest was piqued, and he placed the final empty bottle on the worktop. “Now that is the perfect start to an anecdote, Ray. Please… do continue!”

  “It was about six months ago, just a few days before Christmas, and the phone rang. That was strange enough because I’d forgotten I owned a phone. This bubbly voice on the phone introduced herself as Candy, or Charity — one or the other. She said she’d phoned me by accident and chatted for a few moments. She told me where she lived and how she worked for one of the big, fancy, finance companies. She said goodbye and I didn’t think any more about it. A couple of days later the phone rang and it was her, again. She told me how nice it’d been talking, and she told me a bit more about herself, how she and her sister worked together as investment advisors. She made out that it was fate that she’d called me by accident. Anyway, she started talking to me about stocks and shares and how her clients were making a fortune.”