The Secrets of Happiness

by Lucy Diamond

  Becca laughed, and checked her watch. Another minute before they had to stop so that he could try the awful-sounding bench-jumping exercises. She was determined to do everything properly today. ‘The other thing I’ve found tricky is knowing what to say when they’re upset,’ she went on. ‘I had my nephew telling me he was getting a hard time at school the other day, and I had to try and come up with a proper, adult response, rather than saying, “Punch the little shitbag in the face.”’

  ‘So what is the proper adult response? “Kick the little shitbag in the nuts”?’

  She laughed again. ‘No, it’s more like, “Let Aunty Becca punch the little shitbag in the . . .” Joking. No, I sensibly told the teacher instead, and she’s keeping an eye on him. Them. But . . .’ She glanced over at him. ‘I don’t know. Boys. What would you have said to him, just out of interest?’

  He thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, I always did karate as a kid, and made sure everyone in my class knew about it,’ he replied. ‘I might have overplayed the black belt situation slightly – make that flat-out lied about it – but nobody ever started trying to punch me or anything. Maybe I’d have suggested to your nephew taking up some kind of self-defence? Even if he never has to use it, it’ll make the lad feel more confident. Give him a bit of swagger in the playground, too.’

  Becca gave an appraising nod. ‘Do you know what, that’s a bloody good idea,’ she said thoughtfully. She could already picture Luke gleefully attempting karate chops, especially on his sisters. ‘I’ll run it past Rach, see what she –’ Bollocks. Her sister’s name brought her back to what she was supposed to be doing. Not going for a pleasant cycle ride and chat, but cracking the whip in a tough boot-camp fitness session. ‘Bench!’ she yelled, seeing one ahead and braking to an abrupt stop. ‘Sorry, Adam. I’m about to make you cry.’

  Jumping two-footed up onto the bench and down again was obviously as hardcore as it looked because after just four jumps, Adam looked pained. ‘I’m sorry,’ Becca said sympathetically as he puffed and panted through another two.

  ‘You’d be . . . a shit . . . dominatrix,’ he managed, finishing the set with a groan.

  ‘Sorry, yeah. Wait, why am I apologizing again? You’re the one paying to undergo this kind of hell. Weirdo. Now stop talking and START RUNNING!’ she yelled, and he gave a sighing sort of laugh but duly set off. She allowed a minute or two to go by in silence and then, when she was sure that he’d be able to breathe and talk, said, ‘Tell me something about you now. Are you from Hereford?’

  ‘No, Bedfordshire originally,’ he replied. ‘My grandparents lived around here though, and we used to stay in the summer holidays, go walking with my grandad in the Black Mountains. When things went belly-up in London, it felt like a good idea to come back and make a new start.’

  Ahh, so there was a story after all. She knew it. ‘What happened in London?’ she asked when he paused. ‘If that’s not too nosey a question, of course.’

  ‘Well, to cut a long story short, I kind of . . . burned out,’ he said after a moment. ‘I had a really successful business, I was working all the hours under the sun. Basically pushed myself too hard and paid the price. Ended up having a heart attack—’

  Her bike wheels wobbled, she was so shocked. ‘A heart attack? Shit, Adam. Are you even supposed to be doing exercises like the last one?’ Worse, she remembered her very own thoughts the week before: how she’d been so angry, she’d punished him by harder exercises than she was supposed to give him in the hope – yes, Becca, you awful person – that it would give him a heart attack. She’d actually thought those exact words, to her shame. Christ, she must never tell Rachel that she had been so cavalier with the routines her sister had painstakingly worked out.

  Thank goodness telepathy was beyond Adam. ‘I’m fine now,’ he said, unaware of her evil thoughts. ‘It was nearly two years ago, anyway. I was thirty-five, not looking after myself. Drinking and smoking too much, not eating properly, never exercising . . . I barely left my desk. Slept there sometimes.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Sorry, but that sounds completely joyless. Apart from maybe the drinking bit.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said simply. ‘That was what my wife said, too. Then I ended up in hospital, our marriage imploded, and then my doctor sat down and basically said I was going to be dead by the time I was forty if I didn’t make a few big changes to my life.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Becca said, trying to imagine being told such a thing. She thought of all the wine and vodka she’d been putting away recently, how she’d never really done much exercise herself until she came to Hereford and ended up cycling everywhere. She had taken her health – and her heart – completely for granted, as he presumably had too, in that I-am-invincible thirty-something way. ‘So coming here, trying to lead a slower life . . . those are your changes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘although it’s not been that easy, to be honest. I’ve been here six months, and I’ve filled up the hours with work, basically, set myself up as a freelance consultant, trying to build up a new business from scratch. It’s not exactly been a stress-free way of life.’

  ‘Ahh. Things haven’t changed all that much, then.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Not at first. But I’m trying. It was when I went to see the doctor to get some sleeping pills and she took one look at my record and said no, do some exercise instead. Factor in proper breaks. Find a training partner, she said, book some sessions at a gym so that you have to go. And then of course I got home to find a flier from your sister on the doormat – problem solved, I thought.’

  ‘Until I turned up, and you regretted shelling out for so many sessions in advance,’ Becca couldn’t help reminding him.

  He had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Yes. Sorry about that. Look, I’m not trying to excuse my behaviour but I’d had a difficult week of it. Ex-wife announced she was going to marry my old boss, the very same bloke she always used to slag off for being the most repulsive man alive.’ His expression became scathing. ‘Funny how becoming a millionaire makes even the most repulsive man alive oddly attractive, right?’

  ‘Oh, that is pants,’ Becca agreed, feeling sorry for him. ‘What an absolute cow. Sorry. I mean . . .’

  He waved a hand. ‘No need to apologize. They’re welcome to each other. I happen to know he prefers men, so it’s not exactly what you’d call a love match anyway.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Becca said. ‘Isn’t it just the most special thing in the world when someone reveals their hidden shallows?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ His expression was stern for a moment, but then he gestured at their surroundings and his features relaxed. ‘This is good, though, don’t you think? Trees. Fresh air. Getting away from a laptop screen . . . It puts everything into perspective somehow. Makes me feel better.’

  ‘This is good,’ Becca agreed. ‘And actually doing this for the last couple of weeks, I can really see the difference it makes to people’s lives. Time away from the day-to-day routine, putting on a pair of trainers and leaving your problems behind . . . it’s almost like therapy. Makes me feel better too.’ She checked her watch: almost bang on five minutes again. ‘Okay, time’s nearly up, I’m afraid – prepare yourself for more torture.’ She grinned. ‘You might change your mind and be desperate to get back to that laptop by the time I’ve finished with you today.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sometimes it took a pokey vodka tonic and a metaphorical kick up the bum to shake a person from their torpor, Rachel thought the next day. Because look at her now, out in the depths of the Herefordshire countryside, miles from the comfort zone of her own four walls. This would have been unthinkable a few days ago, but Becca’s plain speaking had resonated. And after all her agonizing, being out in the fresh air felt plain glorious. The bracken was springing into life, there were larks carolling high above, and the air smelled of hot, sweet earth. They’d taken it easy, only tramping along for a mile or so before stopping for a cold drink and a chance to admire the view
, but that was enough to leave Rachel feeling like a new woman as she gazed out at the lush green countryside around them: dense, leafy woodland, a snaking silver stream, golden fields of rapeseed and wheat. This makes me happy, she thought, almost surprised by the sudden surge of joy that rushed up inside her. I feel happy again. There was something about getting away from it all, being amidst the unchanging hills and valleys, standing under the big old sky, that put a person’s worries into perspective. The world was still turning, the sun would go on rising and falling, and the hills and rocks and trees had seen it all before. For the first time in weeks, her mind felt completely at peace. The secret of happiness: climb a mountain, she thought.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to Becca. ‘This is exactly what I needed – to climb high and look out at the world again. It’s perfect.’

  Becca was glugging back a bottle of water and wiped her mouth on her hand. ‘I agree. And I say that as someone who always assumed the countryside was for people with nothing better to do.’

  Rachel smiled. The boulder she was perching on was warm beneath her bare legs as she turned her face to the sun and shut her eyes, the sun painting colours on the insides of her eyelids. ‘Lawrence and I first came up here years ago, before the kids were born,’ she said. ‘His mum lives about forty-five minutes away. It’s a lovely part of the world.’

  Becca said nothing immediately. ‘How . . . how do you feel about him these days?’ she asked tentatively after a few moments.

  ‘About Lawrence? Sad, mostly,’ she replied. She opened her eyes but looked away over the valley, not wanting to see her sister’s face. It felt strange to be discussing her ex-husband with her when they’d both been avoiding his name. ‘Sad that it didn’t work out. We were good together for a long time. Everyone said, so it must be true,’ she added, mocking herself.

  ‘So what went wrong? If it’s okay to ask.’

  ‘He was . . .’ She swallowed, her mouth dry. ‘He was quite a jealous person,’ she said carefully. ‘And insecure. Things got . . . out of hand.’

  There was silence again, Becca seemingly waiting for her to go on. But what else could Rachel say, without getting into the whole grim story? The day felt too golden, too hopeful, to start digging up the details of Craig, and the B&Q showdown, and the Christmas works do punch-up. Squirming, she was just about to change the subject to one more inane, less awkward, when Becca spoke first. ‘Rach, I’ve been wondering whether or not I should have said something earlier,’ she began nervously, and Rachel’s heart seemed to constrict in response.

  Oh no. Here it came, the conversation nobody wanted, the elephant that stubbornly refused to leave the room. ‘It’s all right,’ Rachel said quickly, trying to head her sister off. Not today. Let’s not do this today. ‘You don’t have to—’

  ‘There was this night last year,’ Becca went on doggedly. No. No. Don’t say it. Don’t tell me. ‘And Lawrence . . . tried it on with me.’

  Rachel flinched as the words fell like grenades around her. But they weren’t quite the words she had been expecting. ‘Lawrence tried it on with you?’ she echoed, eyes narrowed. That wasn’t how he had described it, of course.

  ‘I am so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you, but . . .’ Becca wrung her hands. ‘He was drunk at this conference. I was—’

  ‘You were waitressing, yeah, I know.’ Oh, she knew. The raspberry sorbet spooned into her husband’s mouth, the black dress, the tinsel. Was v v bad girl last night.

  Becca stared at her. ‘He . . . he told you? What I did?’

  ‘That you slept with him? Yeah.’ There. The accusation was out, stabbing into the air like a thrown knife. Over to you, Becca. Wriggle out of that one.

  ‘That I slept with him?’ Becca’s eyes were as wide and blue as the sky. ‘Wait, no. But I didn’t. I didn’t sleep with him, Rach. He tried to. I mean, he was groping me and writing his room number on my hand . . .’ Becca’s mouth twisted awkwardly, she flapped a hand as if trying to fly away from the situation. ‘But I never . . .’ She shook her head, the sentences trailing to a halt. ‘I didn’t sleep with him.’

  Rachel turned away, her mind in tumult. ‘He told me you were all over him,’ she said quietly. ‘Sitting on his lap. Feeding him dessert. He said you were way better than me in bed, too, by the way.’ She gave a hard, painful laugh. ‘So there you go.’

  ‘Well, he’s lying.’ Becca’s voice was loud with indignation. ‘I promise you, Rach, I swear on my life, he’s lying.’

  They stared at each other. There was complete silence save for a bird calling in the distance; they were alone together, miles from anywhere, and push had just come to shove. ‘Just a minute ago, you said, and I quote, He told you? What I did?’ Rachel pointed out, eyeballing her. ‘If he’s lying, why did you say that?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Becca hung her head and Rachel stared at her sister’s coppery curls, glowing around her head in the sunlight as if she’d been plugged into the mains. Tell me the truth. Just tell me. ‘Because me and my friend, we sort of took our revenge on him,’ Becca mumbled. ‘Because he’d been so horrible to me.’

  Rachel’s expression was steely as the story came out. Room service. Pizzas. Disgusting breakfast and a wake-up call. Childish and silly, but with just enough details to give it the ring of truth, perhaps. Becca might be creative, but Rachel wasn’t sure even she could make up that lot on the spur of the moment. Her head swam uncertainly as she tried to make sense of the conflicting versions of events. Who should she believe? Who did she want to believe? She hated the thought of either of them lying to her face, but one of them obviously had. ‘I guess there’s only one way to find out,’ she said eventually, jerking her thumb approximately westwards. ‘We’ll pay Lawrence a visit and ask him what he’s got to say about it.’

  Becca looked panicked. ‘What – now?’

  ‘Yes, now,’ Rachel said. She was done with not knowing who she could trust, she realized. She’d had it. They might as well clear this up, once and for all, then put the thing to bed. So to speak. ‘Let’s go.’

  Lawrence had grown up in Hampshire, but on retirement his Welsh-born parents had sold up and moved back to Builth Wells to live out the rest of their years in rural peace, surrounded by rolling hills, greenery and tea-shops. Lawrence’s dad had died several years ago but his mother, Janice, was very much alive (frighteningly so, in fact). As the two sisters trudged back down the hill towards the car in an uneasy silence, Rachel found herself hoping that Janice would be out when they arrived. Plain-spoken and matronly, if Janice thought for a minute that her daughter-in-law was waging an attack on her precious son, she would leap to his defence, probably brandishing a floury rolling pin.

  Once in the car, Rachel gave stilted directions and they headed off, Becca staring intently at the road rather than chattering away in her usual style. Rachel could tell she felt awkward and embarrassed about the forthcoming confrontation, after revealing her juvenile behaviour on the night in question. (If she was telling the truth, of course.) Rachel, meanwhile, was already regretting her impulsive decision to go at all. This was not what anyone would call a win–win situation.

  A long, uncomfortable hour later, Rachel uttered the words, ‘And it’s just down there on the left, the one with the big hedge,’ and Becca heaved on the handbrake.

  ‘So here we are,’ Rachel said needlessly as Becca switched off the engine. Janice’s street was a tranquil, pretty one, full of stone cottages and well-kept front gardens. Caravans stood in repose. A cat lay on the dusty pavement in a patch of sunshine and licked its front paw in quiet contentment. This was not the sort of neighbourhood where squabbling sisters arrived to settle an argument, hell-bent on a screaming match with an ex-husband. Oh, what were they even doing here? The whole thing felt like a wild goose chase now, their lovely sisterly walk turned on its head, tarnished by the ugliness of suspicion. And she was the one who’d forced the issue, who’d insisted that they come at all.

  ‘Here we are,’ Becca repeated d
ully. ‘We’d better get on with it, if I’m to be back to pick up the kids at three-fifteen.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rachel agreed. It was one o’clock already, she noticed; they’d have to leave again in an hour. ‘Right. Let’s see if he’s in.’

  She felt a peculiar sort of bravado as she marched up the front path, Becca hanging back in her wake. Janice’s car was not in the driveway, thank goodness, but Lawrence’s silver Beamer sat there, a relic from his old job that he’d been able to buy at a cut price when he was given the push. (He would have to sell it if he didn’t find himself some new form of employment soon, she reckoned. He was a proud man, Lawrence, he wouldn’t want to be out here sponging off his mum for eternity, however good her Welsh cakes and bara brith.)

  Knocking on the white-painted door, heart in her mouth, she was cheered to hear the sound of an answering bark from inside: Harvey. Oh, Harvey! Somehow she had forgotten he would be here too. He had always been such a loyal companion, such a lovely, funny, cheerful dog. At least she was guaranteed a rapturous welcome from him, if not from her ex.

  The door opened, and there was Lawrence; unshaven and not a little paunchy in a faded FatFace T-shirt, jeans and bare feet. Harvey immediately barrelled out from behind him and greeted Rachel with a volley of delighted barking, his feathery tail beating the air in joy. She crouched over him, hugging him, accepting his slobbery welcome, glad of the excuse not to look at Lawrence immediately. ‘Hello, my darling. Hello, lovely boy. Yes, it’s me. Yes, it’s me!’

  ‘Hello,’ said Lawrence, sounding mistrustful. ‘What’s all this about, then?’

  Rachel stood up again and he jerked in horror at the sight of her altered appearance, his eyes boggling as they took in first the yellow and green patterns of bruising around her jaw and then her plaster-encased wrist. ‘Shit, Rach. Are you all right? I heard you were . . . Fuck. Excuse me. Get down, Harvey, you idiot. Is everything okay?’