The Forgotten Guide to Happiness. Sophie Jenkins
Читать онлайн книгу.
kept me standing there was the fact that I could afford it.
‘And this way to the ensuite,’ Louis announced, quite the joker. He threw open the bathroom door.
I looked around, which took all of two seconds. ‘It’s not quite what I was looking for,’ I told him. ‘Basically, we’d be sharing a room.’
‘It’s cheap though, isn’t it?’ he pointed out, to tempt me. ‘See, what it is, my girlfriend’s just left me and I need someone to share the rent.’ He played a plaintive chord on his guitar.
We had more in common than I thought.
‘Not keen on the partition, am I right?’
‘Right.’ I stood there thinking: this is what it’s like to have no options. I’d never experienced it before; never want to again. ‘No offence, but I’ll keep looking.’
‘No worries,’ he said philosophically, and he stood cheerfully on the gloomy landing and strummed an accompaniment on his guitar as I descended the stairs.
I caught the bus home.
The evening stretched ahead, long and empty, and I opened the window, breathing in the cool night air to calm myself – fresh air costs nothing. Through the green netting I saw two buses idling at the terminus, their destination, Victoria, all lit up. Behind them the Heath was dark and humped with bushes. A drunk meandered along the pavement, shouting hoarsely into the night.
I was anxious, restless with adrenaline and at a loose end. I wanted to move time on, to fast-forward to happier days when all would be well again. I wanted the hard stuff to be over. I wanted to leave the flat now and move somewhere safe. I wanted it all done with and finished.
In this restless frame of mind, I wandered into the bedroom and opened Mark’s end of the wardrobe for the first time in months.
His clothes queued calmly on the brass rail in tasteful, ice-cream colours of cream and beige. His Paul Smith suits, shirts, moleskin trousers, khaki cargo pants, all radiating the faint smell of his aftershave. My throat tightened and my heart softened. Mark’s stuff. I’d loved those clothes when he’d loved them. I’d loved them when he loved me.
I took a shirt out of the wardrobe and held it up – it was creased around the tails, where he’d tucked it in. I sniffed it and then put it around my shoulders and tied the arms around my neck, as if he was hugging me from behind. The sleeves were cool and soft. I could smell his deodorant on them.
Angry at my self-indulgent sentimentality, I dashed into the kitchen, tearing a bin bag off a roll. I unhooked his clothes, setting the coat hangers jangling, and stuffed them into it like the rubbish that they were. I put my coat on, slung the bag over my shoulder and headed to the Oxfam Clothing Bank near the Forum in Kentish Town. Shifting the heavy bag to the other shoulder, I passed the school, still lit up. On the top floor, a man in a high-vis jacket was operating a floor-polisher with one hand. I slowed down by the rug shop – the Orientalist has a life-sized model of a camel outside. It’s been there for years and nobody has stolen it or vandalised it or even put a traffic cone on its head, which tells you something.
My destination, the recycling bins, were surrounded by interesting stuff – a folded buggy, a clothes airer, and some lengths of pine which, reconstituted, could be a bookcase. Refusing to be diverted I opened the lid and, with a grunt, hoisted the bin bag up to stuff it in and hesitated on the brink.
Just do it.
Listened to the thwump of its soft landing.
I flexed my shoulders and caught my breath. Then I looked inside the bin, suffering from sudden separation anxiety, but the bin bag was lost in the dark. Too late.
I had reached what publishers call a plateau. I couldn’t write. My worries took up all the space. Time was going by and I still had no story.
Little did I know I was about to experience a turning point. Publishers like these – the more the better.
It was sunny, one of those autumn days when the sun is still warm on the skin but the shadows are chilly, and I thought the fresh air might stimulate my brain. I was walking on the Heath, distracted from my reflections by a parakeet screeching overhead like a haunted door in the kind of horror film that goes straight to DVD.
Parakeets are everywhere now, flying around with their long pointy tails and screaming hysterically, but really, it’s all show because they have little to scream about. Parakeets in London have no natural predators. Is it because they’re green and look too vegetarian for raptors? I walked past the boating pond. The ducks were fighting over a M&S prawn sandwich. You know that research that concluded ducks prefer kale? Not in London, they don’t. London birds prefer fast food. But only the gulls eat chilli.
My phone rang and it was Kitty, asking how the writing was coming along.
I watched the ducks moving their squabbles into the reeds. ‘I’m still at the planning stage,’ I said.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘keep at it. The reason I rang is, I got a call. Someone’s looking for you.’
‘Who?’
‘He didn’t give his name. He said he was your hero and you’d know who he was.’
I felt as if I’d been Tasered.
And then I felt a sudden rush of euphoria.
Thank you, God! ‘Did he leave a number?’
‘He did. Shall I text it to you?’
‘Yes please.’ I stood on the Heath flooded with happiness and laughing to myself. Mark was looking for me. I’d changed my phone number but he’d tracked me down. He cared! I stared at my phone and when the message pinged it was like having a winning lottery ticket in my hand.
I’d known this was going to happen!
It was preordained and I was generous in my happiness, gloating over my good fortune, smiling at people as they passed me. It felt like the glory of life had suddenly been revealed to me! I walked up Kite Hill and the grass was greener, the sky bluer, the passers-by more glamorous than they’d ever been before. I was seeing everything with new eyes.
I leant against a tree, feeling the cold bark through my jacket, filled with gratitude at my good fortune. I thought of Mark’s Trek bike fondly. What amazing good luck it was that I hadn’t sold it! I realised at that moment that I’d misunderstood my motivation. I hadn’t kept it because it was his; I’d kept it for him.
I dialled the number. The phone rang, once, twice; my heart was thundering and then:
‘Jack Buchanan.’
What the? Who?
What kind of trick was this?
My glittering bauble of happiness shattered into bits, irrevocably broken.
I squashed my bag against my face and screamed into it. It had all been a delusion. I was such an idiot. The worst thing about losing an imaginary future is that the lights go out and you stare into the blackness and you can’t see anything there. There’s no destination. It is a bleak and frightening feeling. Time heals, they say, without adding that it moves in a slow and arduous way, like sludge, and the only way to time-travel is to sleep.
‘Hello?