The Secrets of Happiness

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘It is good exercise,’ Rita agreed. ‘And makes you feel great too! But me, help? Well, I tried that. Health and safety issues, apparently.’ She gave a snort that made it quite clear what she thought of the home’s health and safety issues. ‘I’m not sure what they’re worried I’ll do. Cut off my toes with a spade or trip over a daisy, goodness knows. Scared I’ll sue them, probably. Me!’

  ‘How daft,’ Becca said. ‘How about we go for a walk today, then?’ she suggested. ‘Stretch our legs. Maybe drop in for a coffee somewhere nice, have a bit of a chat. Nobody could call you Jane Fonda for that, could they?’

  Rita hesitated, then nodded. ‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘Seeing as you’re here and all. A walk would be all right.’

  ‘You can tell me about your knitting too,’ Becca said as they got up and began ambling slowly away. ‘I’m a knitter myself – well, I used to be, anyway. Was that a windmill stitch I saw you doing back there?’

  Rita smiled. ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘Very good!’ She tucked an arm into Becca’s in a companionable sort of way. ‘Do you know, I’ve got a feeling you and I are going to get on just fine.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was Wednesday morning and the phone was ringing, but Rachel didn’t move from her chair. Her friend Jo had left a few messages by now – friendly, are-you-okay sorts of messages – but she had ignored them all, just as she had ignored another friend, Diane, who had knocked unexpectedly on the door the day before. Rachel had stayed silent and hidden in the kitchen while the other woman called through the letterbox (‘Rach? Are you in there? It’s Di’), only emerging when she was quite sure her friend had gone. Since the accident, she had left all phone calls and knocks on the door for Becca or the children to deal with – it was easier that way. Unfortunately for today’s caller, Becca had just gone to put a bin bag in the dustbin, so they were out of luck.

  The answerphone message started up. Please leave your name and number after the beep. Then came a voice.

  ‘Rachel? It’s Wendy here.’ Her stepmother sounded unusually timid. ‘Becky told me what happened, and I just wanted to say how sorry I was to hear you’d been hurt. Let me know if you want me to come and help at any time, won’t you? Or if you want to . . . Well, chat. About anything. Just let me know. Lots of love to you all. Okay, bye, then.’

  Rachel hobbled over and deleted the message. If she wanted to chat about anything – what did Wendy mean by that?

  Becca came in, wiping her hands on her jeans. She had a turquoise scarf in her hair and was wearing a bright pink top with a parrot print; quite an eye-popping combination against her flame-red curls. ‘All done. Shall we head off to the fracture clinic? Might take a while to find a parking space at the hospital, if it’s anything like the one in Birmingham.’

  ‘Sure,’ Rachel said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘By the way,’ Becca said, grabbing her car keys, ‘was that the phone I heard ringing?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rachel replied, turning her face away as she put on her shoes, ‘but it was nothing, just some sales thing. No-one important.’

  The fracture clinic was heaving with broken people, limbs in plaster, some patients swinging in carefully on crutches or in wheelchairs, children in school uniform with arms in slings, leaning against their mums, looking fed up. It was the first time Rachel had actually left the house since returning from Manchester two days ago, and as soon as she had stepped outside her front door she’d experienced the horrible panicky sensation again, her heartbeat speeding up, her breath short. Oh no, oh no, oh no. People would see her. People might hurt her again. There would be questions and stares and double-takes. Could she do it? Could she actually do this?

  Before dread could completely overwhelm her, though, Becca took a firm hold of her left arm and steered her into the car, and then somehow or other they were off and driving down the street. Her sister the rescuer, Rachel thought, dizzy with relief. It felt strange to have their roles reversed like this. She’d always seen Becca as a flake, someone inept and babied, used to having their dad rushing around fixing her car or mending the washing machine for her. Rachel had always felt secretly contemptuous of women who couldn’t change their own fuses – she’d never needed rescuing before now. Yet here they were: her meekly in the passenger seat, while Becca took the lead and drove confidently down the road. Maybe leopards did change their spots now and then. Or maybe her sister had finally grown up a bit after all this time; who knew?

  WAITING TIME TODAY: APPROXIMATELY 50 MINUTES, it said on a big whiteboard in the waiting area of the clinic, and Rachel groaned in frustration as she sank into one of the green vinyl seats. ‘Balls to that,’ Becca said. ‘Shall we grab a coffee somewhere and come back later?’

  Rachel, who had never been a risk-taker (she wouldn’t dream of going over the speed limit when driving, even on the emptiest of country roads), shook her head. Knowing her luck, they would have just walked out of earshot and her name would be called, the queue miraculously contracting by some quirk of fate. ‘I’ll stay here,’ she said. ‘Just in case.’

  Becca strode off to find the nearest coffee place while Rachel tried to get comfortable, her thoughts returning to the message she’d sent to Violet the day before on Facebook. Had Violet read it yet? What would she say in reply? And how would Rachel feel when the truth finally crashed into her inbox?

  Searching online for answers had proved fruitless. Dad had taken her away from Manchester, that much was clear, and they’d come down to Birmingham together – presumably to make a new start in life, to forget all about police and social services and court cases. But what of Emily, left behind? A person wouldn’t get sent to prison for neglecting their daughter one single time, would they? Surely it was always in the best interests of the child to stay with their mother? Unless the mother in question was really, really dreadful or didn’t even want the child in the first place . . .

  The thought pained her. That couldn’t be right, could it? Surely Rachel would have had some deep-seated memories of fear, of unhappiness, if Emily had been anything but a loving mother. The brief flashes of memory she did have were happy ones – the hand in hers, her mother’s laugh. My little Dandelion . . .

  Her head spun as she tried to make sense of the situation. What if those memories were false ones, though? It did happen sometimes, your mind playing tricks on you. Maybe the cool, reassuring hand she remembered was some other woman: her reception teacher Mrs Carlton, maybe, or a kind neighbour. Oh, who knew? Who could say, after all these years? She hated doubting herself, though. She hated muddling around in the dark for information; guessing, speculating.

  ‘Rachel Jackson?’

  She jolted from her thoughts at the sound of her name, and said ‘Here’ like a child in school, to the male nurse standing at the edge of the waiting area.

  ‘If you could just take this along to X-ray,’ he started saying as she approached him, but then a loud, shrill voice from behind drowned him out.

  ‘Rachel? Is that you? Rachel Jackson? Dear Christ. What the hell happened?’

  Oh no, thought Rachel, a rush of alarm rising in her like a spring tide, and then the panic was back, flooding her system as if it had never been away. Of all the people to bump into here today, it had to be Melanie Cripps, head of the PTA and Queen Bee of the playground. Melanie Cripps, Sara’s croney-in-chief, who never took no for an answer, who kept on at you until you bought a raffle ticket or volunteered to help with the cheese and wine evening. There was no Becca to rescue her now, either. ‘I—’ she floundered, reeling backwards a step, the words catching in her throat.

  Melanie’s meaty face loomed, her frank gaze pinning Rachel to the spot. She was large and busty, with a big mouth and an even bigger voice. ‘Let’s have a look – WHOA. Face-ache. My God! Did you go three rounds with a lamppost or something?’

  Everyone was staring. The whole waiting area had fallen silent; all eyes and ears tuning in to the drama. Rachel felt her knees buckle. Don’t fall again
, she thought in fright. Don’t fall! ‘I—’ she tried a second time, her voice little more than a whimper.

  ‘Just kidding!’ Melanie said, but her wide blue eyes were darting here and there, taking in all the details of Rachel’s injured face. She’d have her camera out any minute. Selfie time! ‘Jesus, though, love. What did you do? Makes a sprained ankle look like nothing, right, Jode?’ This was to her daughter, small, thin Jodie Cripps, who currently had one finger rammed up her nostril. Poor Jodie, doomed to a lifetime spent bowing her head in deference to the Force Ten gale that was her mother.

  ‘If you’ll excuse us,’ the nurse beside Rachel said just then, as Melanie drew breath for further questioning. His voice was polite but firm, and he took a step forward so that he was between the women, his body shielding Rachel’s. ‘We’re on our way to X-ray. Take a seat and someone will see you shortly.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Sure.’ Melanie didn’t look too thrilled at being interrupted in full flow, but the nurse was already ushering Rachel away. ‘Call me!’ Rachel heard her yell as the nurse took her around a corner and out of sight.

  The danger over, she felt limp, her adrenalin retreating like a tide sucked back into the sea. She could feel herself shaking, her vision clouding, and she fought hard to control herself. ‘Sorry about that,’ she mumbled. She was gripping onto his arm with her good hand, she realized in the next moment, and let go hurriedly. Now he would think she was a right sap.

  ‘God! No need to say sorry,’ he replied. He was about her age, his brown hair just greying a little at the temples, a calm sense of authority about him. There was a crease in his sleeve where she’d been clinging onto it, she noticed, and she looked away, ashamed of her own weakness. She never used to be so helpless. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me interrupting,’ the nurse went on as they walked down the corridor. ‘Is she a . . . friend?’

  Rachel gave a mirthless laugh. ‘No. Absolutely not. She’s just one of those mums at school who . . .’ Oh, why was she going on about mums at school to this nice man who probably couldn’t care less? ‘She’s just a bit . . . in your face,’ she amended, her cheeks burning. No shit, Sherlock.

  ‘Yeah. I kind of got that impression,’ he said drily. ‘Here we are, anyway.’ They had arrived at another waiting area, and he put a printed sheet of paper in the receptionist’s tray. ‘Take a seat; you shouldn’t have to wait too long to be seen. Once the X-ray’s over they’ll give you a form. Bring it back with you to the clinic waiting room and either give it directly to me, or there’s a box on the wall where you can leave it, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Rachel echoed, although she’d hardly taken any of this in. He had such kind eyes, she was thinking: mocha brown with flecks of amber, the sort of eyes you could trust. She blinked and looked away, worried that she’d been staring, then gave a nod. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Great. See you in a bit, then,’ he said, and disappeared down the corridor.

  Once the X-rays had been taken she made her way back towards the waiting area, but as she got nearer she could feel her breath tighten once more, dread liquefying in her stomach at the thought of bumping into Melanie again. The woman had the volume of a public address system, and all the tact and sensitivity of an ironing board. At least with an ironing board, you could put it away in a cupboard and shut the door. Alas, not with Melanie. Rachel could already imagine the chit-chat in the playground: Just like Frankenstein’s monster, I’m not joking. Stitches all over her face and wires in her mouth . . .

  I heard it was the husband. The ex-husband, I mean. Remember last year when he beat up one of her colleagues? . . .

  You can’t trust the handsome ones, can you? You just can’t.

  She shuddered, drawing to an abrupt stop in the corridor, her feet suddenly refusing to go any further. In the past, she’d have been able to deflect Melanie’s over-loud, personal questions with a gracious smile and a throwaway line, before swiftly changing the subject to the woman’s favourite topic of conversation: herself. But now she felt too raw, too vulnerable. She hadn’t realized until the accident just how much confidence she had always taken from her appearance – and how different this new patched-up face of hers made her feel. People had noticed her in the past, especially men; but she had known, without wanting to sound vain, that it was because she looked a particular way. Tall and slim, with blonde hair and good cheekbones . . . rightly or wrongly, the combination had lent her a certain cachet.

  The stares and second looks she was receiving now were of a different sort, though. The bruises on her face were gradually turning from dark purple to blue and green, and her cheeks remained swollen. Even in a hospital waiting room, where everyone else was injured, she could feel other people’s gazes rest on her a shade too long. It was horrible, like being a caged animal, viewed as a freak.

  And still her stupid feet wouldn’t carry her forward. Still her heart was pounding too fast. She leaned against the wall, imagining herself becoming trapped in this corridor forever because she was too scared to go out and face Melanie Cripps and her foghorn mouth.

  ‘There you are!’ Oh, thank goodness for Becca, appearing around the corner just then, coffees in hand, flip-flops slapping along the floor in her haste. ‘I thought you’d done a bunk on me. Is everything okay?’

  Rachel gave a shaky laugh. ‘Just . . . having a moment,’ she replied, feeling like an idiot. ‘I don’t suppose . . .’

  ‘What? Are you all right?’ Becca’s eyes searched her face. ‘You’ve gone really pale.’

  ‘Is there . . .? Did you notice . . .?’ Rachel made a valiant effort to pull herself together. Deep breaths. ‘A woman. Big, tall woman with a little girl, in a school dress like Scarlet’s . . .’

  ‘Bouffey sort of hair? Loud voice?’ Becca launched into an impersonation. ‘Jodie, don’t scratch. Jodie, sit nicely on your bottom. Jodie, start saving up for therapy, darling, because you’re gonna need it by the time you’re a teenager.’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Her?’

  Rachel nodded. ‘Yes. Her.’

  ‘They’ve just left. Telling everyone what a disgrace the car park fees were in this place, or something, I’d tuned out by then.’ Becca’s face changed. ‘Ahh – of course. Yes, I’ve seen her at Scarlet and Luke’s school, blah-ing on at top volume. She’s gone, anyway. Coast is clear. And by the way –’ She leaned in closer. ‘You’ve been missing some hot male nurse action in there. This dude on duty, he’s absolutely bloody gorgeous. Come back and let’s do some shameless ogling together while we wait.’

  Shameless ogling indeed. Only Becca would suggest such a thing at the fracture clinic. All the same, though . . . ‘I think I know who you mean,’ Rachel confessed. ‘Six-foot-ish, brown hair, nice eyes?’

  ‘Nice arse, you mean. Corrr!’ Becca’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed, because I won’t believe you.’

  They were stood there whispering together like – well, like sisters, Rachel thought, the word taking her by surprise. Like proper sisters, like friends, confiding and confessing. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she tried to say primly but Becca gave her such a look, she found herself feeling giggly. Sharing a joke with Becca! And then of course, who should come down the corridor but the man himself, he of the kind eyes and pert bum (yes, all right, so she had noticed), this time wheeling an elderly lady along.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asked. ‘You’re not lost, are you?’

  Becca elbowed Rachel in a completely unsubtle way. ‘We’re fine, cheers. In fact –’ she caught Rachel’s eye, and her lips twitched wickedly – ‘you could say we’re better than fine. Right, Rach?’

  Rachel turned bright red with embarrassment. ‘Yes,’ she squeaked.

  The nurse gave them both a doubtful look, but didn’t comment. Patrick, Rachel read on his name badge as he drew level. ‘Okay, great,’ he replied. ‘I’m just taking Mrs Amos here through to X-ray, then I’ll be back. I think it’s nearly your turn.’

  ‘Th
ank you,’ Rachel managed to say, not daring to look at Becca again. Honestly! She was acting like a teenager.

  ‘Phwooarrr,’ Becca whispered under her breath as they walked back along the corridor. Her wired jaw prevented Rachel from laughing but she could feel a rising hysteria, the awkwardness of the moment reducing her to a schoolgirl.

  ‘You’re a bad influence,’ she hissed to Becca, as they made it back into the waiting room and collapsed into a couple of chairs in the corner. Rachel could tell she’d gone bright red, and tried to pull herself together. ‘You’re a nightmare!’

  Becca was grinning, her eyes dancing. ‘Don’t give me that,’ she replied. ‘You loved it.’ She elbowed her again, making kissy noises. ‘Mmm, Patrick. Mmmm.’

  ‘Shuddup,’ Rachel said, elbowing back, but unable to help a snort of mirth, especially as Becca went on to entertain her with various awful photos and descriptions of men that her flatmate Meredith had been texting her recently.

  ‘That’ll teach me to go round asking if her new crush has got any sexy mates,’ Becca moaned after one particularly awful photo of a potato-headed man with full beard and cloak who apparently called himself Ulric the Wolf.

  Careful, a voice warned in Rachel’s head as she found herself experiencing an unexpected rush of affection for her naughty younger sister. Don’t start getting too close to her, remember. Not after what she did.

  ‘Rachel Jackson?’ a nurse called just then, and she got to her feet.

  ‘Want me to come with you?’ Becca offered but Rachel shook her head. She had to keep Becca at arm’s length, she reminded herself. Forgiveness had to be earned. But all the same, she felt disconcerted as she walked over to the consultant’s room. Every now and then she forgot about being angry and found herself actually liking her sister. It was all very confusing.

  Chapter Thirty

  Becca woke up the next day with a sense of impending doom. Oh joy, she had an appointment with her least favourite person that morning: Arsey Adam Holland himself. She knew already that the hour’s session he had booked would drag by like an entire week.