The Secrets of Happiness

by Lucy Diamond

  Back in the hospital, she’d felt similarly keen to escape. Of course she’d be fine, of course she would manage, did they not realize who they were talking to? But it only took a few hours of being at home for her to reconsider that actually, much as she hated to admit it, things were going to be pretty difficult for some time. Taking a shower, for instance, when you had one arm in plaster that you had to keep completely dry. Trying to help your kid with homework when your brain was so fogged by the mega-strength painkillers, it was all you could do to keep your eyes open. Buying food from the supermarket when your car had been towed away (Becca was on the case), you’d had to cancel all your credit cards (ditto) and couldn’t actually face going out in public . . . Not to mention the fact that she had client appointments to keep, and bills to pay. The next six weeks of enforced inaction were already looming in a scarily daunting way. What was she going to do? Oh, how she wished none of this had happened, that she’d never met Violet Pewsey and never boarded the train to Manchester in search of the truth!

  She was just having a little moment of panic in her bedroom that evening, having said goodnight to Luke, when Becca knocked on the door, the phone in her hand. ‘For you,’ she said. ‘Someone called Hayley George, about tomorrow?’

  God, yes, lovely Hayley, one of her new clients. Her smiling face swung into Rachel’s mind and she hesitated, at a loss for what to do. ‘Can I ring her back in five minutes?’ she asked in a low voice, and Becca nodded and withdrew again.

  This was the downside of not working for a big company, of course. No sick pay, no team of staff to pick up the slack when necessary, no-one available to stand in for her. She was going to have to cancel her clients, one by one, because none of them would want to wait six weeks until she was fit enough for another appointment. It seemed such a shame, though, when she’d managed to build up a decent list, when she was just starting to feel that she might be getting somewhere. If only there was some way around it!

  There came another gentle knock at the door. Becca again. ‘I’ve written down her number – or I can phone her back and pass on a message, if that’s easier,’ she said. ‘And . . . Look, tell me to bugger off if you want, but . . . are you sure you’ll be all right if I go tomorrow? I know they said to hang around just for twenty-four hours, but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘The thing is, I lost my job last week, so if you want me to stay here another few days, that’s fine. I can take the kids to school for you, do the cooking, basically step into your shoes as best I can.’ She gave an awkward smile. ‘I promise I’ve learned my lesson on the peanut front, too.’

  Rachel considered the offer. As angry as she’d felt with Becca over the last seven months, there was no getting away from the fact that her stepsister had been pretty heroic in recent days, stepping in at the drop of a hat, keeping the home fires burning in Rachel’s absence. ‘How come you lost your job?’ she asked while she tried to decide.

  ‘Um . . . Well, to be honest, I was meant to be working the night I came over here,’ Becca confessed, scuffing a foot around on the carpet as if she was a child. ‘I made an excuse to my boss, but he saw through me and gave me the boot.’

  ‘Oh God. Sorry.’ Rachel hadn’t even thought about the consequences of Becca having to uproot herself following Sara’s phone call, putting her own life on hold.

  ‘It’s all right. It was a shit job, anyway. But I don’t have to rush back, that’s what I’m trying to say. And I’ve spoken to quite a few of your clients already, so if you want me to ring around the others for you, or . . . or whatever, then just say.’ She paused. ‘It’s been nice spending time with the kids, they’re really brilliant. And maybe you and I could . . .’ Another awkward shrug. ‘Could get to know each other again?’

  Hmm. Rachel wasn’t so sure about that – Like you got to know my husband, you mean? I don’t think so – but one of Becca’s earlier comments had come back to her, about how she could step into Rachel’s shoes. It was a long shot, but maybe, just maybe, it was worth a try. There was only one way to find out. She took a deep breath. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rachel had been very un-Rachel-like since she’d come home, Becca thought: quiet and subdued, not making much eye contact. This was Rachel the reboot, without the can-do briskness, the go-getting energy that had always left Becca feeling sluggish and slobbish in comparison. The only time she remotely came to life was when she was talking to the children and her face softened with love for them. Poor Rachel. It made Becca feel uneasy to see her so lacklustre, as if the world had shifted off its axis, as if the zombie apocalypse might be nigh.

  Still, they had struck a kind of deal, born out of necessity. Becca was going to stay there for the week, to look after them all while Rachel caught up on her rest. Mabel had grudgingly allowed Scarlet to move into her bedroom for the duration, so that Becca could sleep in Scarlet’s bed (surrounded by about a hundred pictures of Harvey the golden retriever, all pink lolling tongue and adoring eyes). Becca was also – and this was the bit that terrified her the most – going to look after Rachel’s clients. Yep. Not joking. Rachel was going to work out a detailed programme for each of them while Becca guided the clients through each session, exercise by exercise.

  ‘I must be mad,’ she whispered on the phone to her mum that evening, from the safety of Scarlet’s bed. ‘I mean, me. Supposedly giving them a proper hard workout. They’ll all laugh at me like that horrible Adam bloke did. It’s going to be awful.’

  ‘You’ll be great!’ Wendy assured her. ‘They’ll love you. And think how thrilled your dad would be if he knew what you were doing for your sister. Think how happy it would have made him to see you two under the same roof, getting on so well!’

  Becca pulled a face. She wasn’t sure they were getting on all that well, to be fair. Rachel still seemed quite cold towards her; stand-offish, as if she was only putting up with Becca because she absolutely had to. She’d probably be even unfriendlier, cross even, when Becca made a hash of things with her clients too, she thought glumly; but she had promised to try. ‘I was just so surprised that she even asked me, Mum,’ she confessed. ‘It caught me off guard. I don’t think she’s ever asked me for a favour before. I know it sounds a bit pathetic, but I felt sort of . . . flattered.’

  ‘That all sounds really positive to me,’ Wendy replied. ‘Maybe this will be the start of a new friendship between you two, you never know. Good luck, anyway. Up and at ’em, as your dad would have said.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ Becca replied. Then her phone pinged with a new text as she hung up: Meredith.

  Hey! Long time no see. How are you? Banquet was DIVINE. Everyone loved the diadem! My friend Alianor wants one too – can I give her your no.? xxx PS Am rather smitten with Leofrick.

  Leofrick, that was it – not Baldrick, as she’d called him the other night. Becca read the message again and smiled at how Meredith-ish it was.

  YES! she replied. Please pass on number. Tell her she can pay the elec bill! (JOKE.) Am here for another week. I miss you! What happened with Hot L then? Tell all. xxx

  She was about to press Send, but Wendy’s words from the Sunday chat of doom rang around her head as if her mother was right there in front of her, finger wagging again. Oh, all right then, she thought. If I must.

  PS Has L got any sexy mates, btw??

  She pulled a face, but pressed Send. What the hell. At least she could tell her mum she was trying.

  Once the children were safely dropped at school on Tuesday morning, Becca girded her loins for the next job on her list: the ten o’clock appointment with Hayley. After the disastrous experience with Adam Holland the week before, the last thing she felt like doing was undergoing any more ritual humiliation at the hands of sporty people, but when she had phoned Hayley back the night before and explained the situation to her, offering her a cut-price discount, Hayley had sounded about a million times nicer than Adam.

  ‘Just promise to say the magic words “Wedding Dress�
� to me whenever I look like I’m about to give up, that’s all you need to know,’ she’d said to Becca, a hint of scouse accent in her voice. ‘And give Rachel my best wishes.’

  Being nice on the phone was one thing, but Becca still had butterflies in her tummy as she cycled across town to meet her client. She hoped Hayley would still be so easy-going about the situation when she opened her door to find Becca standing nervously there with her pale, wobbling thighs and her decidedly non-six-pack belly. Oh, she imagined the other woman saying in polite dismay – an improvement on grumpy Adam’s You’re kidding me response, admittedly, but still enough to make her feel terrible. What if she, Becca, was the sole cause of all Rachel’s clients dropping out, one by one, because she literally wasn’t fit for the job? Heat surged into her face at the idea. The shame she would generate would be enough to power the Birmingham Christmas lights.

  Hayley’s house was a nice old Victorian semi with an olive-green front door, just off Holmer Road. Becca’s faint hopes that Hayley would be the same sort of size as her, and that the two of them could compare notes about their favourite crisp flavours and the injustice of a slow metabolism, died an instant death when the front door was opened to reveal a slim, smiling woman with long chestnut hair in a ponytail. Oh God. Hayley was gorgeous and skinny. Why the hell did she need a personal trainer? With big brown eyes and dimples, plus great legs, she was the sort of woman who could look amazing in a sack, let alone a beautiful wedding dress with flowers in her hair.

  ‘Hi,’ Becca said apprehensively, positioning her cycling helmet faux-casually so that it hid her stomach and trying to swallow back the nauseating rush of nerves. ‘I’m Becca. Obviously. Hi there.’

  ‘Hello. Gosh, you don’t look like Rachel! I’m Hayley, pleased to meet you. And this is Wilf,’ she added as a whippet appeared behind her in the hallway, tilting its elegant head to stare up at Becca. ‘You don’t mind if he joins us, do you? Only I’ve got so much work and wedding stress and –’ she threw her hands up – ‘general stuff going on, that I thought I could combine today’s workout with his too. Get us both out of the house together.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Becca said. She was so desperate for approval – and keen not to antagonize another client – that she probably would have agreed to anything. She cleared her throat and took a last quick look at the sheet of paper, printed with the list of exercises that Rachel had drawn up. ‘So . . . Shall we get started?’

  Becca talked Hayley through a series of warm-up stretches, then they set off for a jog along a lane and into nearby woodland, Wilf trotting alongside them. Well – she said ‘jog’, but Becca was pedalling away on her bike, for the simple reason that her face was sure to puff up into a red tomato if she tried to run as well, and she’d barely be able to breathe, let alone call out instructions. Rachel, naturally, would have jogged along with her client, offering tips about technique and setting the pace, but never mind. Now if only Becca could think of something fitness-instructor-y to say, other than admiring Hayley’s cool neon-blue trainers.

  ‘Ahh, fresh air,’ Hayley said before Becca could blurt out any other inane remarks. ‘That’s better. Kind of defeats the point of living near the countryside if you stay in all day slaving over a hot laptop, right? This feels good.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Makes a change from the Birmingham ring road, too,’ Becca agreed. The fresh air was kind of nice, she thought to her surprise. She had never been much of an outdoorsy person, unless there was a pub garden involved, but she was glad not to be working in some sweaty pub kitchen or cafe with limited daylight right now. It was still early enough to feel fresh rather than sticky, and now that they were into the woodland, the sun was casting dappled light on the path. Somewhere in the distance she could hear a tractor’s slow chug, and closer by was the sound of birdsong. Much as she’d always prided herself on being Brummie, there was definitely something to be said for country living too.

  ‘That’s where you’re from, is it? Ahh, I love Birmingham. My dad’s a Villa fan. The rest of the family are from Liverpool, so you can imagine all the earache we give him.’

  ‘Poor guy,’ Becca said with a polite laugh, even though she knew nothing about football. ‘So when’s the big day, then?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘Are you wildly excited?’ Her front wheel wobbled slightly as she turned towards Hayley, and she panicked for a moment she was about to swerve into the dog. There must be a way to hold a conversation and keep your bike pointing straight ahead, but if there was, she didn’t seem to have cracked it yet.

  ‘First Saturday in October,’ Hayley replied, jogging steadily along. ‘And I am excited – well, at least I will be, once I’ve stopped being so stressed. Aarrgh. The mother of the groom is slightly doing my head in, put it like that. Imagine Genghis Khan in a pastel polyester frock, that’s her.’

  ‘Sounds tricky.’

  ‘She’s just . . .’ Hayley made a noise that sounded as if she was being strangled and the dog looked up at her in alarm. ‘It’s like she thinks it’s her wedding, do you know what I mean? Like, just because her son is getting married, it somehow means she gets to call all the shots, make all the decisions.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Well, take it from me – that is not going to happen. Even if we end up literally coming to blows across a wedding cake. My cake, by the way, which has gorgeous colourful macarons all around the top, not the break-your-teeth granny fruit cake she wanted us to have.’

  Becca laughed. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Yes. Totally “Oh dear”. That’s partly what I like about coming out for a run. No phone calls, no texts, no emails with her telling me about Dorothy, some godawful friend of hers who can fold serviettes into the shape of swans, and do we want her to do ours at the wedding breakfast?’ Hayley punched the air as she ran, and Becca couldn’t help but giggle. ‘No, Dorothy, we sodding well do not, but . . . Sorry,’ she said, breaking off. ‘I’m ranting, aren’t I? Ranting when I don’t even know you. I promise I’m not always like this. That woman brings out the worst in me.’

  ‘Hey, rant away,’ Becca told her. ‘Get it off your chest. Do some primal screaming if it won’t frighten the dog.’

  ‘Oh, he’s used to it,’ Hayley said. ‘Anyway, I’m supposed to be enjoying being out of her reach. Let’s not talk about her. How about you, are you married? I could do with some tips if you’ve got any.’

  ‘Nah,’ Becca replied. ‘I’m hopelessly single. In fact, things have been so dire, I’ve just had my mum, of all people, telling me I need to go out on the pull.’ She raised an eyebrow and Hayley laughed breathlessly. ‘She even made me promise I was going to “get out there” again and find myself a “hunky fella”. Like it’s that easy!’

  They chatted away for several minutes, Hayley jogging, Becca cycling, and Becca felt the tight knot of tension she’d carried all morning slowly begin to unwind. Hayley was lovely, really friendly and bubbly, and easy to talk to. By now the path had petered out and they were going along the forest floor, which was muddy in patches from the overnight rain but smelled gloriously fresh – of damp earth and pine needles. This was good, Becca thought in surprise, bumping in the saddle as she rode over a tree root. She was actually, weirdly, enjoying herself, even if her bum was going to be black and blue by the end of it. She’d be able to give Rachel a run for her money in the bruising stakes. Oh, but talking of Rachel . . .

  ‘Shit!’ she gulped, suddenly remembering what she was supposed to be doing. Working, not just gossiping and idly cycling along. ‘Sorry. I think we were meant to have started something called interval training now. I was so enjoying chatting, I forgot about it. Do you mind if we stop a minute so that I can check?’

  Hayley thudded to a halt, hands on her hips and panting while Becca consulted the creased piece of paper that she’d extracted from her back pocket. ‘Right, yes. Interval training,’ she said, scanning the instructions. ‘God, this sounds grim. You have to run a bit faster now for a minute – more of a challenging pace, Rachel s
aid. Then you walk for two minutes so that you catch your breath. Run, walk, run, walk, repeat to collapse.’ She pulled a face. ‘Rather you than me, girl.’

  Hayley let out a groan.

  ‘And she said to be really strict. I’ve got a stopwatch thing on my phone and she said I’ve got to make sure you’re running till the last second of each minute.’ She frowned, trying to envisage how this would work. ‘I’m not quite sure how I’m going to cycle and look at the timer, so I’ll set an alarm, is that okay? Right, here we go. Ready? Thinking about wedding dresses? Thinking about gasps of wonder as you step foot on that aisle?’

  ‘Always thinking about wedding dresses,’ Hayley confirmed. ‘Let’s get this over with, then.’

  The interval training looked pretty gruelling, it had to be said. Becca tried to liven things up with wild cheers of encouragement for her client, which led to an even more haphazard pedalling style. Then a squirrel made a kamikaze dive in front of them, proving irresistible to Wilf, who leapt joyfully after it, right in front of Becca’s bike, causing her to swerve straight into a tree. Both she and Hayley ended up laughing helplessly, despite the fact that Hayley could hardly breathe.

  ‘Sorry,’ Becca gurgled. ‘I’m shit at this, aren’t I? I’m a bloody awful personal trainer, I know. But I promise I’m trying to do my best. Don’t tell Rachel how crap I am, will you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Hayley said, trying to recover herself. ‘And you’re not crap. This is actually really good fun. Are you all right, by the way? Your face, honestly . . . Brilliant. Wilf, you’ll be banned from coming next time, you lunatic. Come here!’

  Becca heaved her bike back onto the track. One of the pedals had scraped the top layer of skin off her shin where she’d lost control, and she’d somehow whacked her funny bone on the handlebars, hard enough to know she’d be feeling the knock for the rest of the day. ‘This week on You’ve Been Framed . . .’ she said ruefully, rubbing her elbow.