Somewhere Close to Happy: The heart-warming, laugh-out-loud debut of the year

by Lia Louis

  ‘Well,’ I smile, leaning forward for a biscuit. ‘You’re stuck with me till at least the watershed, I’m afraid. I’m a bit of a party animal these days.’

  Auntie Shall smiles a tight smile back at me and says, ‘Well, as I said, it’s a nice surprise.’

  Moments later, we’re all gathered in Dad’s living room, bowls of snacks and cups of tea scattered about the room like ornaments. There’s something very sitcom-like about this scene; all of us sitting on armchairs and sofas, looking awkwardly at one another, Auntie Shall in front of us as if she’s about to perform a one-woman play. She dances nervously now, her long, lean legs, hopping from one foot to the other, and her eyes, which are clumpy with electric-blue mascara (Auntie Shall never left the 1980s) darting around the room, from the clock on the fireplace, to each one of us, smiling every now and then, in the way a teacher does before assembly begins. We’re rarely all in the same room like this. Even when my parents were together, Dad would visit Shall and Pete at their detached new-build around the corner on his own most Sundays, and Mum would breathe the sort of sigh of relief you do when you’ve been given the all clear on a full blood count when he’d leave without asking us to go with him.

  ‘Should you—’ starts Uncle Pete, nervously.

  ‘Wait,’ growls Auntie Shall. I stare at Nathan. The corner of his mouth twitches, and he disguises the smile creeping on his lips by taking a sip of tea. Pete looks around at us all, smiling, apologetically, shamefully, as if he would rather be in the centre of an erupting volcano than here, watching his wife wordlessly stare and huff at her watch.

  Then, the doorbell rings.

  ‘Oh, thank god,’ exclaims Auntie Shall, her hands flying up to her chest. ‘I would have bloody burst if I’d have had to have waited any longer.’

  She dashes to the hallway, and we hear her before we see her – neat, elegant giggles, part-birdsong, floating down the hallway. My cousin, Olivia.

  She appears at the door, beaming – her natural state – and holds a hand up in a wave bashfully at her side. ‘Hi, guys!’ She’s buttoned up to the neck in a floral rain mac which glitters with rain. She looks like she’s just stepped out of a Joules catalogue. ‘Gosh! It’s raining cats out there.’

  There’s a chorus of hellos, and Dad gets up to kiss her. He’s sweating, of course. Dad always sweats when we have guests. He does relay laps to the kitchen, trays and bowls of biscuits and pretzels and slices of cake instead of a baton and doesn’t settle until every surface of the living room resembles a tapas bar.

  ‘Go on in, Olivia.’ Auntie Shall gives her a shove. ‘Go on. We are all about to die of anticipation.’ Olivia walks into the room, and Auntie Shall dances behind her, all bouncy heels and tippy-toes – she’s practically juddering, fit to burst with excitement.

  Olivia takes off her coat and lowers herself on the armchair.

  ‘No!’ squeals Auntie Shall. Olivia jumps as if she has squatted on a gaggle of scorpions. ‘Don’t sit down!’

  ‘W-why?’

  ‘Not at a time like this, Livvy. Not now.’

  ‘Mum, I—’

  ‘They’re waiting!’ Auntie Shall whispers, motioning with her hands, as if doing breast stroke, to all of us, the audience, mugs-in-hands, biscuits-in-mouths, awkwardness oozing from our pores, all on the edge of our seats, waiting to hear the news. News I was sure, up until about sixty seconds ago, was something to do with Shall moving from Avon to Kleeneze, or Uncle Pete announcing a newly-discovered calling for the world of sadomasochism after stumbling upon a website on ball clamps. But since Olivia arrived, I’m pretty sure I know what it’s going to be.

  ‘Right. So. OK.’ Olivia takes a breath, puffing out her cheeks. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen on Facebook that David and I have recently been to Goa. We had the most amazing time, we really did.’ She’s beaming. So much, I fear her head might explode and throw out golden confetti. ‘Oh, it was the trip of a lifetime, it really was. We saw things we never dreamed we’d see, we did things we never dreamed we’d do and—’

  ‘We’ve got an announcement to make!’ swoops in Auntie Shall with an excited leap. Katie squeezes my foot under a cushion. Uncle Pete sighs, like a pool toy, deflating.

  ‘Mum,’ Olivia tuts, but quickly papers over her irritation with another beaming grin. ‘But yes. Mum’s right. We do.’

  Then, silence. We wait. Until from behind her coat, Olivia lifts her left hand as if in slow motion. The ring on her finger is huge and glittering. She wiggles her fingers, just like they do on the movies.

  ‘We’re getting married!’

  Like a switch being yanked, there’s an explosion of ‘Ohhhh!’s from us all, as Dad jumps up – well, as much as his chubby little legs allow – and envelops her in his arms. Nathan stands, like someone who has been called on stage, slowly, brushing creases out of his shirt, smiling, saying, ‘So, you’re joining our club then, Liv?’ and Katie is kissing Shall and Pete on both cheeks and grinning, ‘Congratulations to you all. I am so happy for you.’ And then there’s me, standing awkwardly in the unofficial waiting-to-hug-Olivia queue, frozen to the bone at the mere idea of kissing Auntie Shall’s sour cheeks. I’ve never hugged Uncle Pete or Auntie Sharon in my whole life. Am I supposed to now? Do I squeal like Olivia did? What am I supposed to say after ‘congratulations’? Plus, the last time I congratulated Olivia – which was on her graduation day – Auntie Shall leaned in and said, hand on my knee, ‘See, this is what your dad wanted for you. But … well, you can’t say we didn’t try, can you?’

  I turn to say something to her, but she is crying into a tissue, emitting greyhound-like howls, tears painting turquoise waves under her eyes.

  ‘I’ve got some Buck’s Fizz in the cupboard,’ announces Dad, making for the living room door. ‘I’ve been waiting for an occasion.’ But Olivia grabs his arm and stops him going any further.

  ‘There’s actually something else, Uncle Charlie,’ she says. Dad stops. The room freezes. ‘We’ve already booked a venue and set a date. And it’s this autumn—’

  ‘November. Like us! Like me and Pete!’ cuts in Auntie Shall again, from beneath the balled tissue. ‘Father Jonas even moved a church event for her, Charlie, just to fit her in, the same church we—’

  ‘Sharon, love,’ Uncle Pete huffs, ‘come on, let Livvy speak.’

  Shall snaps her head round. Pete looks so small, so feeble, hunched on the sofa, among us all on our feet, as if he is just inches from disappearing forever, never to be seen again, into his polo shirt.

  ‘Oh?’ snaps Auntie Shall. ‘Oh, I am sorry, Peter.’ She has this way of speaking to Pete when she’s annoyed. It’s the way a horror movie murderer speaks as they circle their victims who hang like cows in a slaughterhouse – slow, cocky, and almost affectionate – right before they cut out the spleen. ‘I am just excited, that’s all. I am excited about our beautiful daughter’s news. Is that OK, Peter? Is it?’

  Uncle Pete looks down into his coffee, as if contemplating diving into it, into another world, where a land full of fishing, bomber jackets and happiness awaits him, and says nothing else.

  Olivia continues. ‘It’s November. November the 26th.’

  ‘It’s a Saturday. One o’clock,’ chimes in Auntie Shall again.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ says Nathan. ‘Blimey. Nice one.’

  ‘David’s nan isn’t very well, and we just thought … why wait?’

  ‘Absolutely, my darlin’,’ says Dad, pulling Olivia into his huge round belly for another hug. ‘Fantastic news.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ I say over the hubbub, but nobody hears. The words are dry on my tongue, and I can feel my heart sinking slowly. I have no idea why. ‘Congratulations,’ I try again, but Auntie Shall has taken Olivia’s arm now and she’s whispering to her. She passes her something. I can’t see what it is.

  ‘Er, Katie?’ grins Olivia, Auntie Shall giggling at her side. ‘I hope you’re free.’

  Beside me, Katie’s face glows pink. Everyone turns to look at
her. ‘Um. W-well, of course.’

  ‘Good.’ Olivia steps forward and holds something out in her hand. It’s a wooden puzzle piece with a tag hanging from it. I can’t make out what it says, but when Katie takes it, her olive eyes widen. ‘Say you’ll be my bridesmaid!’ Olivia’s face explodes into a grin – rows and rows of clamped-together straight, white teeth – and lets out a long, high-pitched squeak. Before Katie can say a word, Olivia throws her arms around her.

  Shall is crying again, quivering to Dad, ‘It says my wedding won’t be complete without you, Charlie. Isn’t that clever? Isn’t that lovely?’

  But then silence falls over the room like a veil.

  Dad, Nathan, and Pete are looking at me, and from me, to Auntie Shall, to Olivia, to their feet, and to me again.

  ‘Oh. Oh, god.’ Olivia drops her arms from around Katie. Her hands fly up to her heart, one on top of the other. ‘And gosh, of course, you too, Lizzie.’

  My drooping heart picks up its speed. ‘What? Oh erm. No, no, don’t be silly, it’s fine.’

  ‘No, come on,’ says Olivia. She glances at her mum quickly, but her smile doesn’t falter. She strides forward and drops to the floor, searching around in the tiny little tribal-printed saddle bag beside the armchair. ‘Ah. Um. I’m sure I have another.’ She rustles and digs about for what feels like ages, muttering as she does. ‘Oh. No. No, it seems I don’t have another puzzle piece. But you must, Lizzie. You must be my bridesmaid.’

  I shake my head, and laugh a slightly hysterical, high-pitched laugh. My face is as hot as fire, my ears, sizzling like steaks on the sides of my head. My whole body feels like it’s being pulled downwards, like the ground is a magnet. Sinking. It’s embarrassment. Sadness. A feeling of utter inadequacy. All rolled into one. ‘Oh, no, don’t be silly, Olivia, honestly, it’s—’

  ‘No! Don’t even think about saying no!’ Olivia squeaks. ‘Seriously, Lizzie. How could I not have you, my only female cousin in the James brigade? You simply have to say yes. Say yes.’

  I open my mouth to protest, but then she squeals again and pulls Katie and me into her with both arms. Our heads bash together at her chest, as Dad, Nathan and Pete start clapping and cheering around us, as if this is a football game at the end of an American movie and I, the pathetic, knock-kneed underdog, have just scored the goal to secure us the state championships.

  I am cringing. No. I am beyond cringing.

  I am mortified.

  I have never wanted the ground to fizzle away and suck me into its roaring hot chasm of nothingness as much as right now. I can still hear them though, above the clapping, cheering and squealing: Auntie Shall’s stark, annoyed, panicky ‘Olivia? Olivia?’s.

  ‘This is going to be so fun!’ Olivia gushes, bouncing up and down. ‘So much fun!’

  The tray in my hands is piled high with empty boxes of chocolate fingers, plates of posh jam biscuits without their creamy halves, empty mugs, and half-empty glasses of Buck’s Fizz. Making my way down the hallway, I hear Olivia dictating the web address of a wedding dress shop to Katie in the next room, and Pete telling Nathan about the new fishing tackle shop in the high street, and how Jimmy, the owner, has a voice like Frank Sinatra and should go on Pop Idol. I’ve busied myself most of the evening, helping Dad with the tea-making, nominating myself to be the one to wash up the dessert bowls, refilling glasses, and nodding along at the dresses and flower arrangements Olivia has been swiping through on her phone as I’ve swept by with dirty crockery and fresh drinks. Because I can’t shake this feeling of plummeting, of deflating, and I don’t want to sit still long enough to feel it. Olivia is getting married. My cousin – younger by five months and six days – is getting married. The ultimate grown-up thing to do. She has found the person she wants to spend her whole life with. Just like that. She’s done it. She’s found him, and it took her twenty-seven years to be sure of such a thing – just a few months shy of the amount of time it took me to learn what APR means and that no, actually, I don’t like parsnips. Olivia is going to be a bride. A wife. She’s been to Goa. She’s slept in a hut in a rainforest, and she griddles asparagus for dinner out of choice. She owns a food processor, buys actual framed art for her walls, and would likely break out in hives at the sight of the Blu Tack stains and posters on my living room walls. Because she’s an adult. She is going to get married. Olivia will be someone’s wife – someone’s Mrs. And where am I? Besides being asked to be someone’s half-arsed, last-minute, because-she-feels-she-has-to bridesmaid. Besides being somewhere that feels like nowhere.

  The kitchen door at the end of Dad’s dark hallway is ajar, creating a perfect line of warm, syrupy light on the carpet. I pause by the door, tray rattling in my hands, and push out my foot to nudge it open. Then I freeze.

  ‘I appreciate it, Shall. I really do,’ I hear Dad say on the other side of the door, his words almost whispers.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I think she’s very happy to be asked.’

  ‘We were only meant to have the four bridesmaids,’ says Auntie Shall with a huff. ‘Olivia wasn’t expecting her tonight. She didn’t mention Lizzie at all before this evening. But she’s kind, is Livvy – too bloody kind.’

  ‘Liz is always here on a Thursday,’ says Dad. ‘And they’re cousins, Shall. I think it’s a nice idea.’

  ‘Mmm. Yes, I suppose they are.’

  Then there’s a moment of silence, a clatter of cutlery being picked up from the draining board, the sliding open of a drawer, and a loud nasal sigh from Auntie Shall.

  ‘Just make sure …’ she huffs. ‘Make sure she doesn’t, you know. Mess things up.’

  ‘Of course she wouldn’t. Lizzie would never.’

  ‘Well you say “of course” as if she didn’t completely ruin my—’

  ‘That was a long time ago, Sharon.’ Dad’s voice cuts through the silence, his words clipped. ‘She was a kid.’

  Auntie Shall clears her throat. ‘All I ask is that there is no funny business this time. No drama. This needs to be a happy day for Livvy.’

  Dad sighs. He says nothing else.

  ‘I mean it, Charlie. If she ruins my Livvy’s big day like she did mine – like her and that … boy did – then she’ll know about it. I can promise you that.’

  I make an excuse and leave Dad’s as soon as I’ve dumped the tray down in the kitchen and lined up the champagne flutes in the dishwasher. I barely get to the top of the road before I’m typing out a text to Priscilla, thumbs pummelling the screen.

  ‘Changed my mind. Let’s do it. Let’s go to the address you found. Are you free Saturday?’

  Chapter Five

  28th February 2005

  ‘So, this wedding you’ve invited me to …’

  ‘It’s not a wedding.’

  ‘Oh shit, apologies. The vow renewal ceremony.’ Roman grins as if he’s just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. ‘Do I have to wear a suit? What’s the deal, when you’re marrying the same dude again?’

  ‘I dunno. I don’t think so. Just smart, I guess.’ I pull a big, round sliver of sliced tomato from my chicken sandwich. Roman jerks his head.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  I pause. ‘The tomato? It’s so soggy and gross.’

  ‘Looks perfect to me.’ He opens his mouth, and leans back on the bench, arms crossed and hands under his armpits. ‘Come on. Hurry up.’

  I love how he says ‘up’. Op. I like it almost as much as when he says ‘bath’, or the way ‘foot’ and ‘cut’ rhyme when he says them.

  ‘God,’ I laugh, leaning over and dropping it into his mouth, the way a zookeeper might feed a dolphin a sardine. He clamps his mouth shut and chews. I stare at him. ‘You’re gross.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your mouth really is ridiculously big, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oi,’ Roman laughs, flicking out an arm and shoving my leg with his hand. ‘It’s all in proportion, thanks very much.’

  Oddly, Roman’s mouth was the first thing I mentioned
about him to Priscilla, when I’d had my first day at The Grove – well, his smile, anyway; all white teeth and pink lips, the top one so perfectly bow-shaped, it’s as if it’d been painted in one perfect flowing stroke. ‘It’s like a Mick Jagger mouth but not at all disgusting or elastic-y,’ I told her on the phone, about a week after I’d started.

  ‘Probably a rubbish kisser, then,’ she said. ‘All spit and licking ’cause his tongue’s blatantly the size of a swimming float.’

  I told Roman that the next day. He howled with laughter and said, ‘Priscilla should try me out. Me and my swimming float are renowned in this town.’

  Beside me, Roman stretches, and slumps down even further on the bench, the wood grey with age and years of rain. His long legs are straight in front of him on the path and crossed at the ankle. He’s wearing black Doc Martens and the laces are bright red. He doesn’t dress like anyone else I know. I’ve never seen him in jogging bottoms or pristine white designer trainers, like Nathan or the boys at school. ‘So,’ he yawns, ‘are you gonna be wearing the whole meringue-y bridesmaid thing?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, it’s sort of flouncy and yellow. A horrible yellow. Like mouldy mustard yellow.’

  Roman looks over at me and screws his nose up. ‘Like catarrh yellow?’

  I put my hand over my mouth to stop chewed sandwich flying from my lips and snort a laugh. ‘Yeah. Catarrh yellow’s pretty accurate.’

  ‘Jeez, what a liberty,’ Roman grins. He turns his face back towards the sun, the back of his neck resting on the shabby slats of the wooden bench and closes his eyes again. His thick dark eyelashes are the colour of old copper in the sunlight. ‘Yellow, eh,’ repeats Roman. ‘Your Auntie Shall definitely has it in for you.’