The Secrets of Happiness

by Lucy Diamond

  Her mind was sparking. There was a bag of small silver skulls, left over from when she and Debbie had done an Alexander McQueen-inspired grungey range of earrings (all right, a straight rip-off, same thing). Mabel would love those, she thought, picking up the bag and fingering the ghoulish contents. Then she stroked the fabric remnants and flicked back to the tea cosy designs, wondering if she should resurrect the idea for Wendy’s birthday in November. If it made her feel happy, then why not?

  ‘How do I look?’ Meredith was knocking at her bedroom door, peering inside. She was wearing a velvety blue dress, floor-length, that had a low ruched front and tightly laced bodice. She had brushed out her long hair and it lay around her shoulders, with the circlet’s moonstone gleaming softly on her forehead.

  ‘Stunning,’ Becca replied honestly. Meredith did not have a conventional twenty-first-century beauty. She had strong facial features and quite a broad, mannish frame that didn’t suit jeans or leggings or short skirts. Somehow the old-fashioned outfit looked perfect on her, though. So right that Becca could just imagine her with a falcon on one arm, or riding side-saddle on a galloping horse, home towards her castle. ‘You look ravishing,’ she went on. ‘You’ll have those lords and earls vying for you. All sorts of stirrings under tunics and robes, you wait.’

  She felt an unexpected twist of envy at the thought. The two of them had been flatmates for almost a year now, and in that time neither of them had had a serious relationship. A few awful blind dates, a handful of terrible flings, the occasional crush to show for themselves, but no more than that. She turned up for these blind dates feeling uncomfortable and nervous, trying to contort herself into preconceived ideas about how she should behave, and acting out the part because she’d lost all her confidence in being her real self. She’d suck in her stomach, try not to laugh too loudly, pick at a salad in the hope that she wouldn’t look greedy. In the hope that they would like her. But it never seemed to work. ‘Great to meet you, Sally,’ the last date had said as they parted after an evening in a French restaurant punctuated by nervous silences. She had never heard from him again.

  If Meredith got herself a boyfriend, fell in love and started swooning after some bearded twerp in doublet and hose . . . there was a selfish, jealous part of Becca that would resent her flatmate for it, would be unable to respond with appropriate joy. Great! How exciting! she imagined herself saying, shortly before locking herself in her bedroom and crying despairingly into her pillow, alone.

  ‘Thank you. I’d say come along, but it’s ticketed, and I’m not sure there are any spares,’ Meredith was saying now. ‘Do you have any plans for tonight?’

  Becca forced a bright smile. Plans for tonight? Her only plans were for staying in again, flicking through television channels in the hope of finding a good film and maybe nipping out for a takeaway pizza and more beer. She was so used to working at the pub most evenings that she hadn’t thought to organize anything more sociable. ‘No, but I’ve got stuff to do,’ she replied, her smile becoming fixed, ‘and I’ve got a busy one tomorrow – it’s a Dad dinner at Mum’s, and then I’m back over to Rachel’s, so . . .’ Her voice trailed off, and she was left feeling awkward.

  ‘You’re still doing those? The Dad dinners? That’s nice,’ Meredith said, then the intercom buzzed. ‘Ahh. That’ll be Leofrick. See you tomorrow!’

  For some reason Becca felt vaguely depressed as her flatmate bustled out, long skirts swishing across the floor. This felt all wrong. Mean as it might sound, she’d always felt a tiny bit superior to Meredith – humouring her rather eccentric ways while privately thinking, ‘At least I’m not as weird as she is.’ And yet, of the two of them, Meredith was all dressed up and off with friends about to have a really great evening, swigging goblets of mead and chomping into a roast hog or however these historical types got their kicks. While Becca was left at home with crappy summer-Saturday-night telly for company, babbling on about the Dad dinner like that was the highlight of her week. So who was the loser now?

  She sighed, and put the telly on. The thing was, the Dad dinner generally was the highlight of her week. She would go to Mum’s and they’d have steak pie, chips and peas in honour of Terry (his favourite meal), an extra place set at the table as if he was still there. They would talk about him, look through photos, sometimes have a little cry. It was lovely.

  You’re still doing those? Meredith had asked, seeming surprised, and Becca couldn’t help feeling defensive. Yes. They were still doing those. All right?

  The next day Becca stayed in bed until ten, had a long bath and then packed up an overnight bag to take to Rachel’s, this time with a hairbrush and a change of clothes. Meredith still wasn’t back by the time she left, although a text had come. Everyone LOVED the diadem!!! Amazing night xxx

  Trying not to feel too envious, Becca typed back Fab! Back to Hereford today. Prob home again Tues xx

  Then she got into the car and set off for her mum’s.

  ‘Becky, love! How are you, sweetheart? It’s good to see you!’

  Wendy was tanned and beaming after her break in the sun, there on the doorstep in a loose floral-printed kaftan and bare feet. Painted toenails, no less, Becca noticed, as she was enveloped in a billowing-sleeve hug. This had been the longest they’d gone without seeing each other since Dad had died.

  ‘I’m fine, yeah,’ she said. ‘How was your holiday? You look amazing.’

  ‘It was lovely. Fun. Just what the doctor ordered. Cocktails every night and a bit of dancing . . .’ Wendy’s eyes sparkled, and Becca felt happy for her. Grief had knocked them both sideways for so long, it was good to see Mum with a spring in her step again.

  ‘Come in, come in, isn’t it a fabulous day? The flight back was a bugger – landed at nine this morning and we’d hardly slept a wink the night before, so I’ve just been snoozing in the garden, keeping the tan topped up. Good, isn’t it? I even braved it in a bikini, you know. I thought, sod it, who cares? All the girls were in them too, so it was like a mutual fatties’ support group. We just went for it! And actually, after all that worrying, the men seemed to like us a lot.’

  ‘You’re a great colour,’ Becca said. ‘Good for you. Oi, and less of the “fatties” talk, by the way,’ she added automatically. ‘You’re gorgeous just as you are.’

  Wendy had had a love–hate relationship with food for as long as Becca could remember. Love, mostly. There was a sign up in her kitchen that read, ‘I keep losing weight, but it keeps finding me again’. Working in the bakery for years on end had not exactly helped matters, as she constantly brought home bags of leftover cakes, pastries and bread rolls that she went on to consume almost out of obligation. ‘Waste not, want not,’ she’d say. ‘And who in their right mind can chuck a cream puff in the bin, eh? Not me!’

  Wendy set up an extra deckchair for Becca in the small, sunny garden and told her to make herself comfortable while she poured drinks. There was no sign of the usual steak pie lunch, though, which was odd; it was normally well under way for Becca’s arrival, delicious smells of gravy and meat wafting through the house. Maybe Mum was on some kind of post-holiday diet, Becca thought (did anyone go on a post-holiday diet, though?) or maybe she was still a bit mañana from her time away. There was no rush. Becca didn’t need to be back in Hereford until six, after all.

  Unhooking her feet from her flip-flops, she leaned back in the warmth, watching a cabbage white butterfly flitting drunkenly through the air, turning slow, random loops. A few gardens away she could hear children’s laughter and wondered how her nieces and nephew were getting on in Builth Wells. Happy families, she hoped.

  Wendy returned with two glasses of lemonade clinking with ice cubes, and settled herself next to her daughter. ‘So, listen,’ she said, hitching up her kaftan to display plump brown thighs, ‘I’ve been having a think.’

  Becca glanced at her in surprise. ‘What?’

  Wendy reached across and took Becca’s hand. ‘Being away . . . Well, the thing is, it’s ma
de me realize that we’ve got to get on with our lives again, sweetheart. We’ve got to pick ourselves up and move forward. Doing this, having our Dad dinners . . . it’s been lovely, but maybe the time has come to . . .’ She swallowed and gripped Becca’s fingers, her chin giving an anxious sort of wobble. ‘To stop.’

  Becca’s mouth fell open for a full five seconds. It was only the sight of an approaching fly that made her snap it shut again. ‘I don’t . . . Why . . .? Do you really . . .? Oh,’ she said, her sentences refusing to complete themselves.

  Wendy went on, tanned shoulders set in determination. ‘I’ve thought about this a lot, and although I’m convinced it was the right thing for us to do at the time, it’s been over a year now. Your dad would hate to think of us two still meeting up and wallowing in our sadness.’

  ‘We’re not wallowing!’ Becca felt stung by the accusation. Not in a million years had she expected the conversation to take this turn.

  ‘We are, love,’ Wendy said flatly. ‘I know I have been, anyway. Deliberately or not, I used it as an excuse not to do anything for a while. Oh, I can’t come out, my husband’s just died. Oh, not tonight, I’m a bit sad about Terry. Oh, I would, but you know, it’s not easy being a widow.’ She grimaced. ‘If it hadn’t been for Jen and Pamela in my earhole about the holiday in Crete, refusing to take no for an answer, I wouldn’t have gone to that either, but I did, and do you know what? I had the best time. I had fun again. Whole hours would pass where I didn’t even think about him, not once.’ She sipped her lemonade, her eyes trying to read Becca’s expression. ‘I think we’ve both been in ruts, ducky. We’ve both got a bit stuck.’

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ Becca retorted. It was all very well privately worrying that you were in a rut, as she had been this weekend; but it was another thing altogether when someone else said it. There was a moment of silence while she sieved through her brain, hoping to find some examples of how she was moving on perfectly well with her life, how she was doing absolutely great. Annoyingly, nothing came.

  ‘What’s happened to that brave, bold daughter of mine who drove all the way to Spain once because she was in love with a boy?’ Wendy went on. ‘Where’s the sparkle that used to be in your eyes? Come on, Becky, admit it. I think you’ve lost your way a bit this year. I haven’t even heard you laugh, properly laugh, for ages either.’

  Becca was still reeling from the unexpected attack. Her mum never usually spoke to her like this. ‘Well . . .’ she floundered. ‘The boy in Spain turned out to be a dick, didn’t he, so . . .’ More to the point, it had been eight years ago, when she was twenty-two, back when she thought she could conquer the world. She had grown up, that was all. Couldn’t Wendy see that?

  ‘That’s not the point, and we both know it.’ Wendy leaned forward. ‘When was the last time you went out on the pull? Had a laugh with your mates? Did a job that you absolutely loved, got out of bed feeling great about the day?’

  ‘Mum!’ Becca protested. ‘What’s that got to do with – ?’

  ‘Nor me,’ Wendy said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, nor me. Until I went on my girls’ holiday, I’ve been as miserable as sin too. Trudging through the days. Seeing out the weeks as if doing time, not really caring about anything. And you’ve done the same. Taking those evening jobs so you didn’t have to go out with friends – don’t argue! We both know it’s true! Giving up on your love life. Have you had a single date, a single kiss?’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re even –’ She thought of the last awful date, the one who’d called her Sally, and her throat tightened. He’d left his phone on the table the whole time, seizing it whenever a message came up, as if she wasn’t even there. The date before him had had BO and talked about football constantly. He hadn’t called her back, either. What was she doing so wrong, that she couldn’t even get an arsehole like that to want to be with her?

  ‘I’ll take that as a no. But it needs to change, kid. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘I’m not going out on the pull with you, and that’s final,’ Becca said, feeling trapped. ‘You’ve got Jen and Pamela for that kind of thing, not me.’

  Wendy laughed. ‘Don’t you worry, I’m done with all of that. I’ve had the best; nobody else is ever going to compare to my Terry. But you . . . You need to promise me you’ll get off your bum and see your friends again. Properly. In pubs where there might be hunky single fellas about. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘Mum! I’m not completely clueless. For goodness’ sake!’

  ‘Do we? Was that a yes?’

  Becca rolled her eyes. What had got into her mum today? ‘Fine! All right? YES. Deal. Anyway,’ she said quickly, before Wendy could ask about her job and she had to confess to having lost it, ‘I have been doing stuff. I made a sort of crown for Meredith. I’ve been in Hereford, looking after Rachel’s kids. And I’m going to . . . What?’

  She’d been about to tell Wendy how she’d packed up a whole box of craft stuff to take to Hereford with her, but her mum’s eyes were wide with surprise, and Becca could tell she had stopped listening a sentence ago. ‘You’ve been at Rachel’s? Oh! That’s nice. Since when did you two get so friendly? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted, but she’s been so quiet, not even a Christmas card since Terry died. I just assumed she didn’t want to know.’

  Somehow, with all the nagging, Becca had not actually managed to tell her mother the biggest news of all. ‘Sorry, I should have said at the start. She’s in hospital. She was mugged in Manchester, and—’

  ‘In Manchester?’ For some reason, Wendy seemed to latch on to this as being the key element of the story, rather than the slightly more dramatic mugging and hospital parts. ‘What was she doing in Manchester?’

  ‘I don’t know, but she was knocked down and – Why? What’s the big deal about Manchester?’

  Wendy opened her mouth, then hesitated. She had the worst poker face ever. ‘Er . . . Nothing. So how is she? Goodness! Is she going to be all right? And how are the kiddies?’

  ‘She’ll be home again tomorrow, hopefully,’ Becca said, still wondering why her mum was being so weird. Manchester? WTF? she remembered Mabel texting. There had been that thing about Didsbury Library, too, the Google search, but she’d never followed it up. ‘Er . . .’ she said, dragging herself back to the conversation. ‘And the kids are great, actually. Really chaotic, but fun too. Luke’s so sweet, and Scarlet’s dead scathing and witty, and Mabel . . . Mabel’s got a boyfriend and blue hair, can you believe? She’s suddenly all grown up.’

  ‘Blue hair, eh? Goodness. She sounds a bit of a rebel, just like her aunty.’ Wendy poked Becca’s leg with her bare foot and smiled. ‘Hey, maybe that’s what we should do, me and you, give ourselves makeovers to start our new positive outlook on life.’

  ‘What, with blue hair? What is in that lemonade anyway, you nutter?’ But they were laughing at least, and the tension had gone, and everything seemed a bit more normal. Just about. Now she had to keep her mum distracted from the subject of ‘moving on’ and ‘hunky single fellas’ for the rest of the afternoon. ‘So, are you going to show me your holiday photos or what?’ she asked. That would buy a few hours, for starters.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Well, it’s your last night here with us, hopefully,’ the nurse said on Sunday evening, as she checked Rachel’s stitches and blood pressure with approving noises. ‘Your sister should be here about midday tomorrow, I think, so that’ll be nice, won’t it?

  ‘Mmm,’ Rachel said noncommittally. That was one way of putting it.

  In truth, she had never particularly hit it off with her stepsister, right from when Dad married Wendy and she’d suddenly had to share him with a one-year-old. She’d hated it, actually. ‘Carry me!’ Rachel would cry to him when it was time for her to go up to bed, lifting her arms in the air. ‘Carry me up to bed!’

  She just wanted to be babied too, but her dad had laughed. ‘Don’t be silly! Carry a great big g
irl like you? Give over, Rach.’ And so she had trudged up the stairs to bed every night, feeling dejected and praying that Dad would come to his senses and take the two of them away. Please, God, I just want it to be me and Dad again, like it used to be.

  As Becca grew older, the resentment began to thicken and expand, like mutating cancer cells taking over a body. It wasn’t just hearing her stepsister calling him ‘Daddy’ that bugged her (‘He’s not your daddy,’ Rachel wanted to shout every time), it was the way she hogged his attention each evening when he came home from work – for bathtime, stories, the endless night-night cuddles, her chubby pale arms curled tight about his neck. He’s mine now, her smiles and giggles seemed to say. See how I have wound him round my little finger! Rachel, trying to get on with her homework, would scowl and stomp off upstairs to play music in her bedroom more often than not.

  Then came the wild teenage years where Becca broke every rule in the house, got cautioned by the police for shoplifting, threatened with expulsion from school for trying to set fire to the science lab, and seemed to be leaning out of her bedroom window smoking or in a clinch with some awful boyfriend or other whenever Rachel came back to visit. She had turned Terry’s hair white with stress, basically. And what about the day Rachel gave birth to Mabel – one of the most important events of her life! – and she couldn’t get through to her dad on the phone because he was down at the police station bailing out Becca, who’d been arrested for hunt sabbing? You just could not make it up.

  She had never quite forgiven her stepsister for that alone; for the weariness in her dad’s voice when she finally got through to him. Oh, a little girl, how lovely. Well done, love! It should have been her moment of glory, her hour in the spotlight – and yet all she could hear in the background was Becca shrieking at Wendy, and of course she felt obliged to ask what was going on. Mabel had been tucked in the crook of one arm, pink and perfect, her eyelids flickering with her first baby dream, and Rachel just felt like hanging up in defeat as her dad started detailing the latest teenage antics back home. Actually, do you know what? I don’t care, she wanted to say. Can we go back to talking about me now, and my baby?