Walking Back to Happiness

  Michael had stopped pushing the buggy and looked at her. ‘Really?’ he’d asked, with a different tone in his voice. A new tone that unsettled her. ‘You don’t want that amazing cherry blossom feeling, even if it’s just once a year?’

  That had been the moment when something had tipped inside Louise, and she’d realised she wasn’t quite what she thought she was. And after that, when she watered Ben’s sturdy baby trees in her greenhouse, she saw Michael’s hands on the buggy handles, his strong arms under his polo shirt. The flicker of excitement in her stomach, and her horrified fascination at this new, new Louise emerging.

  Ben had warned her not to over-water the saplings. Louise had to remind herself of that each time she headed for the greenhouse.

  By ten o’clock, Juliet was curled up in her big chair with Minton snoring on her knee, making hot patches on her leg with each breath. The television was off – night-time schedules didn’t have the same comforting predictability as daytime – and she was listening to Coldplay, and crying gently, so as not to wake him. On the thick arms of the chair were photos, one of Ben’s work diaries, and his wallet, still with exactly the same receipts and cards in it as had been there when the nurse handed it back.

  Juliet didn’t feel any worse or better for her tears, just tired.

  Minton’s ears drew back and he sat up, suddenly alert. Juliet ignored him. Minton could tell if a cat had so much as stepped into their back garden; he took it very personally. She stroked his ear and tried to bring Ben’s summer clothes back into her mind. That had been the year he got badly sunburned on an unexpectedly hot day and had had to wear shirts for the rest of . . .

  Or was that the previous year? She frowned, with her eyes shut, and her brain was about to ask Ben; then – as happened ten times a day – she realised there was no way she could ever check that again. It was gone. A yawning pain rose in her chest.

  There was a noise in the porch and Minton slipped off her knee to investigate. It sounded like the brass letterbox clattering. Probably pizza leaflets. For six months after Ben died, her dad had had all her mail redirected to his house, so she wouldn’t have to be faced with Ben’s name every morning. Eric had sorted it carefully, dealing with the financial red tape, and gently redelivered packages of cards and notes each morning, pretending each time that he was ‘just passing’.

  The condolence letters had dried up now, as had the phone calls. It was as if everyone had forgotten she was still abandoned, The first junk mail addressed to Ben had sent a chill through her heart, though, and it was only then that Juliet realised what a shield her dad had been. Showing his love with tender efficiency, not words.

  She heaved herself out of the chair and went through to the porch to see what had come through the letterbox.

  It wasn’t a pizza leaflet. It was an A4 envelope, addressed to Juliet in a bold print she didn’t recognise. Her name was written in purple felt tip.

  She headed back to the kitchen, opening it as she went. Inside was a stapled set of papers, partly typed and partly written over. Intrigued, Juliet flipped on the kettle and the small table lamp that really belonged in the bedroom, but was doubling as a kitchen light for the time being.

  Juliet, said the postcard on the top. It was a free postcard from a cinema.

  I’ve done you a full quotation for the work on your house. One set to show any workmen, so they know you mean business. The other set I’ve marked up for yourself. It’s more realistic. I could probably fit you in if you want me to do the work, but can’t do it all at once. Give us a call, anyway. You know where I am.

  Cheers,

  Lorcan

  The list went on for several pages in Lorcan’s measured handwriting. Juliet hesitated, before she read on. She still had another thirty minutes of miserable wallowing left; did she have the energy to look at this? Was it cheating to distract herself early?

  Minton’s claws skittered over the kitchen floor. He ended up underneath the Tupperware box with the Bonios – not begging, just hinting with his shiny eyes. He looked perky. He looked, Juliet thought, quite happy that Grief Hour had ended early and normal night-time service had been resumed.

  Me too, she thought. There’s only so much Coldplay a girl can take.

  With a sigh, she opened the lid and offered him a Bonio, which he took delicately from her hand and carried off to the kitchen sofa to eat in peace, keeping an eye on her at the same time.

  Juliet made herself a coffee and started to skim the list, which went on for page after page: Plaster sitting room, repaint rooms x 8, check windows, refit bathroom suite . . .

  In her mind’s eye she could see the house changing around her like a fast-forwarded home-improvement show, soft colours climbing the ragged walls like ivy and neutral carpets swooping over bare boards like the tide coming in. Part of her shrank from that. How will I know if it’s what Ben would have chosen, she agonised, without Ben here to ask?

  Lorcan’s notes were frank. Don’t let any cheeky bastards charge you extra for paint, he’d written. I’ve got a contact who can get you trade prices.

  Juliet tried to stand outside her body for a moment. It made sense to use someone she knew. Lorcan had said himself that builders needed supervision; who better to get than the builder who lived next door? She could supervise him from the comfort of her own room, and check out his lunch breaks from her garden.

  ‘God,’ said Juliet out loud, ‘that almost sounds like Louise talking.’

  Minton looked up from the sofa.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just trying to think how Auntie Lou would tackle this.’

  Louise would make a plan, then action it – just like she had with marriage, career, babies. It was almost surprising that Lou hadn’t been round to look at the building work herself – she’d had their conservatory built in the same time it had taken Juliet and Ben to choose a bird table.

  For some reason, Juliet got a snakes-and-ladders image in her head whenever she thought of Louise: one moment she and Louise had been level pegging, with something in common for the first time in years, and then Louise had shot up a ladder to motherhood, while she’d slid back so many squares, right back to the beginning. No baby. No husband. Nothing. Just a slow climb back and no chance now of a golden wedding, not unless they invented eternal-life tablets before she was fifty.

  Juliet closed her eyes and let the jealousy wash through. It wasn’t a nice emotion, but Louise had everything she’d ever wanted. Everything. And she didn’t seem to realise how precious it all was, how easily it could all be lost.

  She opened her eyes again, this time shying away from the memories that sprang into her mind.

  Focus on what you can change, she told herself. Like this house.

  At the end of the notes was a costing, and it made Juliet feel a bit sick. Lorcan had added, I could do it for 20% less but not in one go, which would spread the cost out.

  She put the list down on the kitchen table and clutched her hot cup between both hands. It was a lot more than she’d expected. The romantic plan had been for her and Ben to do up their dream house together, room by room, in their own vision. Romantic meaning ‘no choice’ – they’d stretched themselves to get it in the first place, with most of their savings going into the deposit. And ‘her and Ben’ really meant Ben doing the DIY with help from his mates, and her choosing colours and where the plug sockets went.

  There was no budget for builders. Most of his life-insurance pay-out had been swallowed up by the mortgage – and that made Juliet’s mind turn uncomfortably to the other matter she’d been trying not to think about: her job.

  Juliet had worked for her friend Kim’s catering company, Kim’s Kitchen, since she’d left college. They’d built up a reputation for wedding receptions, mainly because of Juliet’s intricate cupcake towers, which had become their signature. Kim had other caterers working for her, but she and Juliet were old friends, and when Ben died, she’d generously given her leave with some pay, even though she didn’t h
ave to.

  It had been awkward, extending her time off, but she wasn’t sure she could work anyway: Juliet’s tastebuds had completely gone. She didn’t want to eat anything, or bake anything, or cook anything, now Ben wasn’t here to taste and enjoy her meals. There didn’t seem to be any point. And for someone as keen on their food as Juliet, that was a genuinely disorientating sensation.

  But Ben’s life insurance had only paid for the house, not her bills. She’d have to get some money coming in at some point, now what little savings she’d had had almost gone. She wasn’t eating, but Minton was. Like a king, as she tried to make up for his loss with sell-by-date steak and sausages.

  Juliet looked at Lorcan’s estimates again. Daytime-television wisdom used to say that doing up a house and then selling it could be a worthwhile job in itself, but the experts had gone quite quiet on that front lately.

  ‘No money in dream homes any more, Minton,’ she said, then rolled her eyes at herself. When had she started talking non-ironically to him? That was a sign that it was time to turn in. ‘Bedtime.’

  Minton leaped happily off the sofa and they headed upstairs together.

  Chapter 9

  When the doorbell rang at eight in the morning, it cut through a dream Juliet was having about Ben’s funeral. This time, she wasn’t just sitting in the front pew like a statue; she was standing up at the lectern, saying all the beautiful, honest things that only occurred to her later, when her brain emerged from the haze of Xanax, and it was too late.

  Everyone was crying as she spoke, and when she looked up from the shiny black coffin, covered in flowers from Ben’s old clients’ gardens, she saw Ben himself at the back of the church, listening, crying, smiling at her, in his favourite old shirt. It was the green one.

  The doorbell rang again.

  She struggled to consciousness and realised Minton was curled up on her chest. When she moved, he jerked to life.

  ‘Who the hell’s that?’ She checked her watch. ‘At this hour?’

  It was warm under the duvet, and snug. Juliet considered pretending she wasn’t in, but the doorbell rang more impatiently. Then someone knocked, for good measure.

  Minton leaped down to investigate, and with a sigh, Juliet threw back the duvet and followed him downstairs.

  Outside, she found Diane on the step, plucking dead heads off her climbing rose while Coco watched. Diane looked perky and upbeat in her new Power Granny outfit – nothing dangly, flat Clarks pumps and dark trousers. All very wipe-clean.

  ‘Hello, love! Oh! Did I wake you? Are you . . . up?’ she added, frowning at her pyjama bottoms coupled with an outdoor fleece.

  ‘I‘ve been out already this morning.’ Juliet rubbed her bleary eyes. She’d tossed and turned for hours; then when she’d given up and gone downstairs for some tea, there’d been no milk or biscuits, so she and Minton had driven over to the all-night Tesco, where exhaustion had finally ambushed her at the self-checkout. Her moonlit wanderings round the supermarket weren’t so comforting now she was keeping daylight hours too.

  ‘Not Tesco’s again?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Not that she was going to tell her mother, but Juliet planned to make up the missing hours on the sofa, with Coco.

  Diane pulled a worried face. ‘Well, talk about it later – I can’t stop. I thought I’d bring Coco to you this time. Save you driving over to Louise’s.’ She handed Juliet a zip-lock bag of food, with a separate one of treats. ‘Make sure she gets her full walk, darling. She’s got her weigh-in at the vet’s tomorrow – she’s on their diet plan. We both are. The surgery’s in league with the vet.’

  Diane looked a bit shifty and handed Juliet a plastic clip. ‘Oh, and . . . would you mind popping this on?’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A pedometer. I’m supposed to wear it then times it by three for Coco.’

  ‘But, Mum, that’s cheating!’ Juliet protested. ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Bye!’ And Diane was gone.

  Juliet, Coco and Minton stayed under Juliet’s duvet for a soothing hour of antiques and toast. Minton and Coco ate most of the toast.

  Sewing boxes were bought, then sold. The TV sun shone. The dogs snored, content, and Coco’s warm bulk soothed Juliet in a way that made her pathetically grateful to the big Labrador. There was something comforting about being lain on; it wasn’t quite as good as a human cuddle, but it was enough.

  The three of them could have stayed like that indefinitely, but they were disturbed at eleven by the sound of drilling from next door. Drilling that the television couldn’t drown out. Just when Juliet thought she might be able to cope with earplugs and subtitles, Roisin and Florrie arrived on the doorstep with a slice of sponge cake covered in green icing and coconut.

  ‘Are you not up yet?’ demanded Roisin. ‘Why aren’t you up? Grown-ups should be up and dressed before children. It’s the law.’

  ‘Mum’s sent you some cake,’ said Florrie, proffering the plate.

  ‘Is this to do with that noise?’ Juliet asked. She had to raise her voice.

  ‘What noise?’ yelled Roisin. ‘We’re not having building work done!’

  Juliet narrowed her eyes. That sounded like a practised response. It made her wonder about building regulations. She was pretty sure this was a conservation area.

  ‘Is this Salvador’s birthday cake?’ she asked. If it was, it was several days old.

  ‘Yes,’ said Florrie. ‘Mum says it’s a bribe. But it’s nice cake. Roisin ate some of the icing off it, sorry. Hello, doggies!’ She shoved the plate at Juliet and bent down to stroke Minton, who’d appeared like Juliet’s shadow.

  Juliet grabbed him with her spare hand before he could sniff out any pet rodents concealed about Florrie’s person. ‘Mind out for your mice.’ She scooped him up awkwardly under one arm. ‘How long’s this going on for? This not-building work?’

  ‘Till Lorcan’s put up the big plank.’

  ‘Right.’ What was that? Juliet’s heart sank. ‘Are they knocking down walls in there?’

  ‘Do you want the cake?’ asked Roisin. ‘Because I’ll have it if you don’t.’

  ‘I’ll have it,’ she said. ‘Tell your mum thanks, but I hope this won’t be going on all day.’ Juliet paused. ‘Tell your uncle Lorcan that too.’

  The girls eyed her, not suspiciously, but with a curiosity that seemed beyond their years.

  ‘What do you do?’ Roisin went on. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’

  Florrie nudged her. ‘Rois-in. Questions.’

  ‘I’m going out,’ said Juliet. ‘With my dogs. And I hope it’ll be a bit quieter when I come back.’

  A quick shower later and Juliet stood by the front door, readying herself for the outside world. She stuffed a bag of kibble, some poo bags and Ben’s whistle into her jacket pockets, then checked her bag for her phone, her purse, her hankies, her mints, her keys, the Rescue Remedy she’d need if she bumped into someone she knew who’d ask her how she was getting on . . .

  Don’t bother, said a silkily persuasive voice in her head. There’s a St Trinian’s film on at two. Just put Mum’s pedometer on Minton and make them run round the garden. Give Roisin and Florrie a quid each to throw balls.

  She closed her eyes and fought to keep the energy going, but when she opened them, Minton was gazing up at her. He was actually trembling with excitement at the prospect of going for a walk, even with his harness on, but even so, he wasn’t pawing the door or tugging at the lead.

  Even Coco looked quite excited.

  ‘Oh, Minton,’ she said, feeling bad. His world used to be the whole of Longhampton and all the gardens within twenty miles. Now it was just the house. And the towpath, if he was lucky.

  I’ll take my iPod, she thought. If I put that on, I won’t have to talk to anyone. I’ll be out, but not open for chatting.

  ‘Step on it,’ she told the pair of them, over the sound of renewed banging next door. ‘I want to be back for Flog It!’

  Juliet par
ked in the free car park by the library and set off on Diane’s prescribed route towards the municipal gardens, then out of the gate at the end of the park and up the hill into the Forestry Commission trail.

  The path was quiet, but Juliet put her iPod on, anyway – music blocked out any real thoughts, and sent out a ‘not for chatting’ message to other walkers. She walked briskly, to keep up with Minton’s bustling investigations, and let her eyes drift around as they turned down towards the canal. The route was familiar now, but her eye, sharpened by Ben’s enthusiastic botany lessons, spotted the difference in the wild hedges: the blackberry bushes and nettles were taller and lusher after a few days’ rain, and white flowers had spread out along the hedgerows.

  Coco and Minton obviously saw changes everywhere, stopping every hundred metres to sniff furiously at nothing and, in Minton’s case, leave a calling card. ‘Pee-mail’, as Diane had put it, indulgently.

  Juliet did not want to turn into that sort of dog owner. The pun-making kind.

  As they got nearer the town centre, they passed a few people she recognised by sight – the woman who owned the café in town that let dogs in being towed along by a basset hound, a man with a Border collie – and all of them would have stopped to pet Minton, but Juliet smiled politely and kept walking. She didn’t mind them smiling at her dogs, but she wasn’t ready yet to talk to anyone herself. The outside world, in its unpredictability, was something she wanted to keep at arm’s length.

  Juliet stopped at the coffee stand by the wrought-iron gates and ordered a cappuccino to drink as she did a lap of the park, to keep herself awake as much as anything. She was juggling leads and bags when she heard someone call her name.

  ‘Juliet!’

  Juliet spun round, but she didn’t see anyone she knew.

  ‘Your change?’

  ‘Oh. Right, thanks.’ She turned back to put her purse in her bag, with two leads over one wrist, when a woman in a quilted jacket and knee-length skirt came right up to her.