Another Night, Another Day

  ‘So how’s business?’ he says, eyeing the store. The shelves look sadly depleted.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ says Ali, shaking his head. ‘I am OK here for now, but I cannot open any more hours, or lower my prices any further.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ says Michael. He has a surge of anger. I should have put a brick through the window of the Tesco Metro, he thinks, rather than smashing up my shed. Though a fat lot of good it would have done.

  ‘Oh, never mind me,’ says Ali, clapping Michael on the back. ‘Everything will turn out for the best, I am sure, in the long run. So, can I get you a cup of tea?’

  Michael’s hot from his cycle ride. ‘Actually, a glass of tap water is fine.’ And as Ali disappears into the back of the shop to fetch one, Michael considers his friend. Ali always was more optimistic than me, he acknowledges. I used to think he was naive, taking on this greengrocer a few years ago. Maybe I’ve been the one who lacked wisdom.

  ‘What have you been doing these last months?’ asks Ali when he returns. ‘Have you been working?’

  ‘Truthfully?’

  Ali nods. ‘Yes, please. I do not wish you to lie. Look at me here.’ He shrugs, but his expression is cheerful. ‘Please do not feel you have to impress me.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking, mainly. Yeah . . .’ Michael pauses, wondering how best to sum up. ‘Initially I just kept going round and round, churning stuff over.’ That barely touches on how bad I got, he admits to himself, but it’s not this he wants to share with Ali. ‘Anyway, I got to mulling about my . . . er . . . life, if you like. I realize I’ve spent years being rather at sea.’

  ‘It sounds as if you transformed your joblessness into a sort of spiritual retreat,’ says Ali. These aren’t the words Michael would choose, but the gist is right. ‘I believe being spiritual can be a very good use of time.’

  ‘I’m still not sure what I’m going to do next,’ Michael continues. ‘But Chrissie has a job now, and Ryan and Kelly are earning a bit as it’s the university holidays, which helps take the immediate pressure off.’

  ‘I am glad about that,’ says Ali. ‘It was a lot of responsibility you had. Too much for one man to have on his shoulders.’

  I’m glad too, thinks Michael, I’m very glad indeed.

  And as he cycles back along the prom to Rottingdean, he recalls something Leona said before she waved goodbye to him that afternoon.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder whether what we call depression isn’t depression at all. Instead, like physical pain, it’s an alarm of sorts, alerting us that something is wrong. Maybe for you it’s been like that, showing you that perhaps it was time to stop, to take time out, and address the unaddressed business of filling your soul.’

  Very soppy way to phrase it, Michael thinks, but the sentiment rings true all the same.

  48

  ‘Ahem . . . Hello?’

  Michael is up a ladder putting the final touches to the display when he hears a voice behind him. He turns and sees a woman he thinks he recognizes, though she looks so different he’s not entirely sure.

  ‘It’s Abby,’ she says helpfully. Little surprise he failed to place her. He’s never seen her out and about. Plus it’s been months. But the child in the pushchair helps – he remembers her little boy being brought to visit her at Moreland’s.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he says, before he can stop himself. He can’t tell exactly what’s changed – maybe her hair is longer, she’s put on weight, or perhaps it’s simply that she’s caught the sun. After such a cold, grey start to the year, it’s turned out to be a spectacular summer.

  ‘I saw on Facebook you’d initiated this,’ she says.

  Michael is caught off guard. That must have been Kelly; his daughter appears to have taken it upon herself to manage the event’s social media PR. ‘It’s not entirely down to me. My son’s sorted all the music, and Lillie’s sister has helped fund it.’

  ‘Still,’ says Abby. ‘It’s a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Michael is embarrassed, but hopefully she’ll just think he’s pink from the heat. It is very warm today – and he’s been working in the sunshine for hours. It’s a good job they’re due to start soon, or the flowers will have wilted.

  ‘You’re OK,’ she says, eyeing the banner he’s securing to the highest point of the wrought-iron pillars that hold up the roof of the building. ‘It looks straight.’

  He climbs down from the ladder and joins her on the tiled walkway that leads from the bandstand to the promenade. At that moment there’s a fizz of electricity, and the BOOM! BOOM! bass of what he now knows is Ryan’s favourite Missy Elliot track.

  At once Abby’s little boy claps his hands over his ears. ‘I’m not sure he’s going to manage this,’ she says. ‘He hates loud noise.’ She reaches beneath the seat of the pushchair, retrieves a pair of ear defenders and eases them over his head.

  ‘I think my son’s only testing the system,’ says Michael. ‘We’re not due to start with anything that full-on.’

  As he says this, the music stops. Thank God, he thinks. I like a bit of volume occasionally, but I still can’t stomach rap. He’s looking forward to the punk section at 7 p.m.; he’s insisted Ryan include that. Michael might not have a full-time job yet, but he’s doing one day a week teaching flower-arranging to the patients up at Sunnyvale House, and he sure as hell feels like pogoing.

  * * *

  Karen is heading along the seafront with Molly and Luke and Lou. Little Frankie is asleep in his pushchair, wrapped in a handmade patchwork quilt Lou says she received as a surprise gift in the post that very morning. As they approach the bandstand the music is getting louder – Frankie’s slumber seems unlikely to last.

  ‘Hurry up!’ says Molly. She yanks on Karen’s sleeve to encourage her, but Karen can feel her mobile vibrating in her handbag, and stops to answer.

  ‘Hold on, darling,’ she says to her daughter. She can tell from the screen that it’s Abby.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m having to take Callum home, so won’t be able to meet up with you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity.’

  ‘I thought he’d find it too much, in all honesty. But I’m glad we came down here. I just saw Michael.’

  ‘Michael? You didn’t!’

  ‘I did. He was doing the flowers.’

  ‘So you were right, it was his idea.’

  ‘I told you I read that online,’ says Abby. ‘Along with some other people.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ says Karen. ‘Just shows what you can do if you put your mind to it.’

  ‘Yes, doesn’t it? Anyway, I hope you have fun. And I’m seeing you on Saturday, aren’t I?’

  ‘Oh God, yes.’ Karen winces.

  ‘You promised!’

  ‘I know, I know, we will do it. I told you, my friend Anna has been on at me to for ages.’

  Heaven help me, what am I letting myself in for, she thinks.

  ‘Is she the one who met her boyfriend that way?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Karen. ‘The writer.’

  ‘Maybe she could advise us on our profiles,’ says Abby.

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ Anna would love nothing more than to use her copywriting skills to help us sell ourselves, she thinks. Maybe if we crack open some wine after I’ve put the kids to bed I’ll lose my inhibitions. Yes, Karen can picture them now, the three of them crowded round her computer screen, ogling potential suitors and giggling . . . ‘I’ll see when she’s free.’ Molly yanks Karen’s sleeve once again. ‘Sorry, I’d better go.’

  ‘Who’s Michael?’ says Lou, the moment she rings off.

  Karen blushes.

  Lou peers at her closely, eyes narrowed.

  ‘No, no,’ protests Karen. ‘You’ve got that all wrong.’ But given the event they’re going to, it seems more ludicrous than ever that she’s not filled Lou in on this properly before. ‘Er . . . You know I told you I met Abby on a course?’

  ‘Ye–es . . . ?’

  ‘I met Michael at the same ti
me. She says he’s done the flowers for the bandstand.’

  ‘Ah.’ Lou appears surprised. ‘You did a course in flower-arranging?’

  Karen has to laugh. ‘No. We met at Moreland’s, actually.’

  Lou looks even more startled. ‘What, Moreland’s Place? In Lewes?’

  Karen nods.

  ‘I didn’t know you went there.’

  ‘When Dad died I got really down, so I went as a day patient for a bit.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Karen grasps Lou is wounded. ‘I didn’t want to bother you with it at the time, but it wasn’t anything to do with my not trusting you. It’s only it was exactly when you were having this little one.’ She leans to coo over Frankie. ‘I’ll tell you the full story later, I promise. Let’s go and see what’s happening first.’

  Karen quickens her pace – Molly and Luke are eager, and she doesn’t want to lose them in the swelling crowd.

  A young man close by is keenly jangling a yellow bucket of coins. There are several others dressed as he is; all proceeds are going to a mental health charity, according to the jacquards they are wearing. Karen reaches for her purse and is so intent on rummaging for change, it’s not until she looks up that she sees who is holding the bucket.

  ‘Colin!’

  ‘’Tis I,’ he says, and takes a little bow.

  ‘But you’re outside,’ says Karen.

  Colin holds out a foot. ‘And in shoes.’ He chuckles.

  ‘Oh, I’m so proud of you!’ she says, and gives him a hug.

  ‘Took some doing,’ he admits. ‘Baby steps, you know. This is the first time I’ve been this far from the hospital, but, well—’ he coughs, ‘ – you know, I had to.’

  Karen hugs him even tighter. He’s lovely and cuddly, she thinks, reminded for a split second of Simon.

  ‘She was one of the best mates I’ve ever had,’ says Colin, as Karen releases him from her embrace. ‘I always found it hard to make friends, but Lillie, I dunno, she just kind of got me, right from the start . . .’

  His voice wobbles, and Karen can tell he’s finding it hard to hold himself together. Though I wouldn’t care if he bawled his eyes out, she thinks. ‘Colin,’ she says on impulse. ‘I’d like to be your friend. I can’t promise to be anything like Lillie, but I’d love to stay in touch.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, and I see Abby, so maybe we can meet up from time to time. I’ve got your number.’

  ‘I thought you were just being polite, when you asked for it,’ he says.

  ‘And I thought you were just being polite, when you gave it to me.’ Karen smiles. ‘What are we like?’

  Colin grins. ‘Rubbish. Hey, you know, Johnnie said some of the staff are coming to this, too. Or he and Beth are, at any rate.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ It would be good to say hello to Johnnie again, thinks Karen.

  ‘And that’s Tash, up there—’ He points to the promenade up above them, and sure enough, she glimpses a flash of pink frizz. ‘I’m sure she’d like to see you too. Maybe we could go for a drink some time: me, you, her and Abby. It’s not like we’re Bads or anything.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  At that moment, the strains of the ‘Blue Danube’ waltz fill the air.

  ‘Oh, look, Mum, lots of Auroras!’ says Mollie, pointing.

  Karen follows her daughter’s gaze. On the bandstand are a dozen couples, swooping and twirling in time to the music. The women are in floor-length ball gowns; the men in jackets with tails. It’s all rather ad hoc, but that only makes it more enchanting, somehow. One of the dancers is more elderly and seems a bit unsteady on her legs compared to the rest, and when Colin nudges Karen and murmurs, ‘See who that is?’ she realizes it is the snowy-haired Rita. Her gown, a silk sari, is covered in beads, and she’s waltzing with Karl, the Mohican.

  What a shame Callum missed this, thinks Karen.

  And as for the flowers . . . They are like something from a fairy tale. There is ivy entwined round every pillar, and hundreds of white trumpets burst from the roof, as if heralding the talent of each of the performers below.

  ‘Bravo!’ As the waltz finishes, Karen claps enthusiastically along with the rest of the crowd and says to Lou, ‘I gather we’re working through from traditional ballroom to today – and anyone who fancies taking part can have a go. Apparently there’s all sorts later – you know, the street dancing Lillie was known for, break-dancing and stuff.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll last through all that.’ Lou glances down at Frankie. ‘We’d better make the most of this tamer bit of the celebration.’

  Normally Karen would only stay for the gentler music, too. But today she doesn’t give a damn if the tracks aren’t to her taste or no one’s rehearsed or has any idea what steps they’re supposed to be doing. She doesn’t care if the kids insist on staying too late or it gets so noisy that the council is inundated with more complaints than they know what to do with. The whole experience of being here right now will be worthwhile, whatever happens.

  As they move round the bandstand to get a better view, she can see there’s a banner strung high above their heads facing the prom. It’s glistening in the sun, so she has to shield her eyes to see it properly. When she reads the words, she’s unsure whether to laugh or cry.

  A LAST DANCE FOR LILLIE, it says.

  A note from the author

  People often ask if my novels are drawn from experience, and the honest answer is ‘Of course they are.’ That doesn’t mean my books are autobiographical: they’re not. My husband didn’t die on a train like Simon in One Moment, One Morning, and I’ve never been through IVF like Lou and Cath in The Two Week Wait. Equally, my circumstances are not identical to those of Karen, Abby or Michael in this story. However, I do have first-hand experience of anxiety and depression, and it’s this that made me want to write this book.

  Because the problems of mental illness are very real and immensely painful, I feel passionately that mental health should be taken as seriously as physical health. Yet by and large it isn’t. Too often sufferers are told to pull themselves together or snap out of it. This is partly because the symptoms are often not visible, but it’s also because the topic is still hard for many of us (myself included) to talk about. And yet mental illness is something that touches all of us. Statistics such as ‘One in four suffer some kind of mental health problem’ are often bandied about and can be helpful in illustrating how widespread problems are. To view mental illness as something you either have or don’t have still boxes people off, however – and makes it easy for others to keep the lid of that box firmly closed. The result is that we live in a world where suicide is rarely spoken of, much mental illness is surrounded by shame and blame, and politicians can make cuts to services whilst we who voted for them turn a blind eye.

  Instead, perhaps it’s more helpful to see mental health as a continuum – no one is 100 per cent healthy, no one 100 per cent ill – and it’s my belief that we all fall somewhere within this range. Moreover, individual mental health is dependent on many variables – our age, physical health, economic circumstances, relationship status and so on. The list is endless and it’s different for each of us – so where we fall on that continuum will change over time.

  Let me put this another way: ordinary people get mentally ill. Michael, Abby and Karen are not bad people or mad people; they’re just people. As are George and Callum and Lillie and the rest. They’re people on a continuum, who I hope don’t seem so very different from me or you. And if reading about them helps lift the lid on the subject of mental illness, just slightly, so that a handful of people feel able to talk a little more freely or others feel a touch more understanding, then the time I’ve spent writing this particular book will have been worthwhile.

  Acknowledgements

  Many people have helped shape this novel. I very much appreciate those who shared their experiences with me: Catherine Newell told me of her Aurora-loving son Ax
el, my local florist Ian Graham helped me understand what goes into running a shop, and it was an honour to chat with Natasha Bevington, Kirsten Bicât and Simon Rattenbury. I benefited from the expert insights of child psychotherapist Dilys Daws (my stepmother), nurse Rhoda McClelland, psychiatrist Sarah Daley, psychotherapist Liz Bubez and the staff at the Priory Hospital in Brighton. Any inaccuracies about treatment, medication or protocol (both private and NHS) are mine, not theirs.

  I am also very grateful to agents Vivien Green, Gaia Banks and Lucy Fawcett at Sheil Land Associates. I suspect many people think ‘all’ agents do is do deals – i.e. sell books, scripts and so on to publishers, film companies and the like. Yet this is only part of what Vivien, Gaia and Lucy have done for this novel; just as vital was their input as keen readers and wise critics, thereby helping produce a manuscript worthy of submission.

  Next I must thank my friends. It was over coffee with Nicola Oatham that I first discussed the idea, and she and Zoe Hammel encouraged me from the start. A big hug goes to those generous people who made the time to read the manuscript in advance of publication – Alexandra Addison, Nicola Lowit and Rachel Williamson tackled draft 1, then Mark Dawson and Hattie Gordon gave me invaluable feedback on draft 2, and Emma Hall went through draft 3.

  I must also express my gratitude to Francesca Main, my editor at Picador. She has an eye for detail but equally vital is her appreciation of character development and the overarching story – skills which immeasurably helped sharpen, shape and strengthen this book.

  I’d also like to acknowledge my father’s input, which didn’t come in the form of direct feedback, but instead was, if anything, more profound. My dad, Eric Rayner, is now in his late eighties, but he worked as a psychoanalyst for almost fifty years. He was dedicated to his patients and campaigned to make psychotherapy more widely available to all. His passionate interest in mental health rubbed off on me, and his influence permeates every page of this novel.

  As with all my books, I’d like to say thank you to my mother, Mary Rayner, for her support and wisdom. Finally, thank you to Tom Bicât, my husband. Throughout the whole process he’s listened and advised. He says he doesn’t read novels, yet he’s read Another Night, Another Day more times than I suspect he cares to remember.