Читать книгу The Happiness List - Annie Lyons - Страница 9

‘Excuse me. I ordered a flat white but this is clearly a latte.’

Heather stared into the neatly bearded man’s frowning face and immediately realized her mistake. ‘I am so sorry. Let me sort that out for you right away.’

‘Okay, but if you could be quite quick about it please – I’ve got a train to catch.’

‘Of course. Georg, please would you make a flat white for the gentleman? And could I offer you a complimentary cinnamon swirl by way of an apology, sir?’

‘I’m gluten intolerant,’ said the man.

‘Of course you are,’ said Heather. ‘How about one of our gluten-free brownies then? They’re delicious.’

‘Just the correct coffee, thanks,’ insisted the man irritably.

Georg held out a flat white. ‘Ahh, my glamorous assistant,’ joked Heather. Georg remained as stony-faced as Flat White man. ‘Here you are, sir. Sorry again. Have a lovely day. Thank you, Georg.’

‘Mmm,’ muttered the man before he left.

‘Mm,’ echoed Georg.

Tough crowd, thought Heather but then the caffeine-hungry, harassed commuters always were. The trick was to be bright and efficient – inject a little cheer into their day, encourage a fleeting smile perhaps.

Georg was a different story. Despite working alongside him for over six months, Heather couldn’t remember ever seeing him crack a smile. He was supremely efficient and made the best coffee in this corner of south-east London. Heather assumed that customers considered his taciturn nature a small price to pay for sublime barista skills. She in turn felt the need to overcompensate for his blank expression by smiling so hard that sometimes her face ached by the end of the day. Heather had made it her secret mission to solve the mystery that was Georg. It was proving to be a challenge.

By 8.45, the queue was thinning out as Oliver and assistant baker, Pete, appeared from the kitchen carrying trays of croissants and pains au chocolat. The air was filled with the irresistible waft of chocolate, coffee and freshly baked pastries

‘Post school-run provisions,’ Oliver said with a smile, plonking his tray on the counter.

‘Wonderful, thank you,’ said Heather.

‘Busy morning so far?’

‘Very,’ she replied, restocking the pastry baskets by the till.

‘She made mistake,’ reported Georg gravely.

‘Snitch,’ laughed Heather.

Georg frowned. ‘What is snitch?’

‘A person who tells tales to the boss. It’s a very serious crime, Georg,’ said Pete, winking at Heather.

‘Oh, sorry,’ muttered Georg, looking unsure.

‘Fortunately, Caroline’s not in yet so you’re off the hook,’ said Oliver, flashing a grin at Heather.

‘But you are boss too,’ insisted Georg.

‘Don’t let Caroline hear you say that,’ joked Oliver.

Heather chuckled, remembering the moment Oliver’s wife, Caroline, offered her the job at Taylor-made. Heather had been in no doubt who was in charge as she issued her specific instructions with a frown.

‘You’ll need to scrape back your hair into a neat ponytail for hygiene and wear a minimal amount of make-up – we want you to engage with the customers, not make them fall in love with you. Please arrive at six-thirty sharp. We open at seven in time for the commuter rush. Georg is our resident barista – he’ll show you the ropes. Oliver will be around but busy baking obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ repeated Heather feeling sick with nerves. I am a strong, confident woman. Until I meet another woman, who is stronger and more confident. And then basically I become a jelly.

Caroline had cast a critical eye over her newest employee. ‘We’ve had no end of troubles finding someone suitable for this job – please don’t let us down.’

‘I won’t,’ promised Heather, praying that this was true.

‘So I should tell Caroline about Heather’s mistake?’ asked Georg earnestly.

‘Georg!’ cried Heather, feigning outrage. ‘How would you feel if I told Caroline about all the mistakes you make?’

Georg looked confused. ‘I do not make mistakes.’

Pete patted him on the back. ‘We’re just joking, bro. You don’t need to tell anyone anything, okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Georg, fixing Pete with a look of relief. ‘Thank you.’

Heather grinned at Oliver. She loved working here. Despite Georg’s unusual nature and the fact that she now had a mild pastry addiction, it was good fun. The place was always bustling, the customers eclectic and mostly lovely, and its location, just around the corner from where her mother had grown up, gave Heather an unexpected feeling of comfort.

‘Aha, and who is this vision I see before me?’ cried Oliver as Pamela hurried through the door with two large cake tins in her arms.

‘It is Pamela,’ said Georg, confused. Heather and Oliver exchanged glances of amusement.

‘Hello, my loves. How are we all today?’ asked Pamela, plonking the tins on the counter.

‘All the better for seeing you,’ replied Oliver. ‘And what delights do you have for us this fine morning?’

‘Just a salted caramel layer cake and a strawberries and cream sponge.’

‘Pamela, if I wasn’t a happily married man, I would drop down on one knee right now,’ declared Oliver.

‘Oh, get away with you,’ she blushed.

‘These look incredible,’ said Heather, lifting the lids on the tins. Pamela might have been Hope Street’s resident busybody but she was the closest thing they had to Mary Berry. Credit where it was due.

‘Thanks, lovey,’ said Pamela with a smile. ‘Oliver, would it be okay if I put up this poster on your community notice board? It’s for a new course all about happiness starting tonight at Hope Street Hall.’

‘Of course – be my guest.’

‘Thank you. I just met the man who’s running it – lovely eyes and so charming. I think I’m going to give it a go. I’ve always wanted to find out about that mindfulness malarkey. Anyone else fancy it?’

She fixed her gaze on Heather, who felt a flash of irritation.

Back off, lady – just because my parents died, it doesn’t mean I need to go on a course.

‘Pete?’ asked Heather, deflecting the question.

Pete grinned. ‘As an Aussie, I’ve pretty much got the happiness lark sorted, thanks, Pamela – it’s mainly down to sport and beer. Now excuse me, lovely people, but I need to crack on with another batch of sourdough,’ he said, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Pamela gave an indulgent chuckle and then looked at Oliver with eyebrows raised. He put a hand on his heart. ‘I fear that if I told Caroline I was going to a happiness course, she would see it as a declaration of weakness, which, as you know, isn’t allowed in our house.’

Pamela giggled before turning to Heather. ‘Do you fancy it then, Heather?’ she asked, holding out the poster.

Heather smiled politely as she took it from her and read out loud.

‘The Happiness List – a course led by life coach, Nikolaj Pedersen, teaching you practical skills and exercises to achieve your own version of happiness.

Ten weeks from Wednesday, 29th of March, 7-9 p.m., Hope Street Community Hall, £8 per session including refreshments.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Thanks, but it’s not for me, Pamela. I’m about as happy as it’s possible to be. Besides, Luke and I are going to be busy tonight making wedding plans.’

Pamela clapped her hands together. ‘Of course – how wonderful. You deserve to be happy after losing your dear mum and dad. But you must miss them terribly, especially when you’re preparing for such a happy event,’ she insisted. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it must be organizing your big day without having them here to lend a hand and share in your joy. I mean, who will help you pick out your dress?’

Not you if that’s what you’re angling for, thought Heather, astonished at Pamela’s tactlessness. ‘My cousin, Gemma is very supportive,’ she said with a curt smile. ‘And it was a long time ago.’

‘Oh but you never get over it, do you? I mean, I still miss my parents after all these years. I wasn’t even that close to my mother but I still catch myself wondering if I should phone to check she’s okay.’

‘Everyone’s different,’ said Heather, trying to close down the discussion.

Pamela gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you by dredging up the past.’

Heather was annoyed with herself because she had no right to be irritated with Pamela. She wasn’t being unkind. She was just speaking the bald truth – a truth that Heather hadn’t properly considered until now.

Her parents wouldn’t be there for her wedding. Her mother wouldn’t help her pick out her dress. Or argue over the seating plan. Or hold her hand when the day finally arrived and she felt shaky with nerves.

She caught a whiff of ginger and cinnamon from the coffee Georg was brewing and felt herself transported back to the day her parents died. She was sixteen and remembered sitting next to Gemma on the sofa at her house – a green velvet sofa with brown sagging cushions. It was November and the air smelled of cinnamon and ginger because her aunt Marian had been baking parkin. Her uncle Jim walked in and cleared his throat. Heather could see his face, grey with concern, and her aunt behind him crying. She couldn’t remember her first reaction to the news but she did recall Gemma wrapping her arms around her for the longest time – an embrace so tight as if she was trying to hug away the pain.

Gemma. She was the one who had propped her up ever since it happened. She’d moved in to her aunt and uncle’s house as an only child and ended up getting a ready-made family with a big sister to boot. That wasn’t to say there weren’t arguments and disagreements. Suddenly Gemma had to share her parents, her house, her whole world with her younger cousin. Two teenage girls living under one roof was a challenge at the best of times – the cries from Gemma of, ‘Stop stealing my stuff!’ and Heather’s perfect storm of adolescence and grief made for some pretty epic battles. Heather couldn’t remember seeing Uncle Jim in the house much during those years. He retreated to the safe haven of his garden shed, and who could blame him?

Still, Heather’s overriding memories were of the good times – a blanket of laughter and comfort from the best friend and cousin all rolled into one, who counselled, cajoled and lent her nail varnish.

It had been Gemma who introduced her to Luke. It was the spring of 2014, months before Gemma was due to marry Ed. She and Heather had embarked on a series of nights out. Their ‘Final Tour’, they called it – drunken evenings where they tearfully declared how much they loved one another, drank too much vodka and danced to the Spice Girls. Heather couldn’t remember the name of the club but she did recall the moment when she returned from the toilet, walking towards the blue backlit bar where Gemma was silhouetted next to a tall man. He was resting his hand on her arm and talking into her ear. Gemma was laughing and shaking her head as she turned and caught sight of Heather.

‘Now this,’ she slurred, grinning at the man as she gestured towards Heather, ‘is the woman of your dreams.’

The stranger turned and Heather remembered feeling a jolt, not like electricity but more physical, like a lost piece of her clicking back into place. Luke Benjamin had a soft gaze and the longest eyelashes Heather had even seen on a man. Gemma had watched with smiling approval while Heather and Luke attempted a conversation over the thumping beat of the music. After a respectable amount of time, she had hugged her friend and warned Luke to ‘take care of my coz or else’, before heading off into the night.

Heather had spent the rest of the night walking around the streets of London with Luke, talking and laughing. Falling in love. It was as heady and romantic as it sounded and for Heather, it felt so right – her shot at happiness after so many years of fruitless searching. Heather knew that her current happiness was all down to Gemma and that even if her parents couldn’t be there to share in her joy, Gemma and her parents would do all they could to fill that gap.

‘It’s fine,’ Heather reassured Pamela. ‘It will be hard but my cousin and her parents will support me.’

Pamela reached out and squeezed her arm. ‘Of course. It’s wonderful that you’ve found this lovely man. You must be so happy to have him home. Did he like the cheesecake?’

‘He did,’ lied Heather. She wasn’t about to tell her that the cheesecake had ended up in the bin or mention the fact that she’d hardly had a chance to talk to Luke since his return from New York. Understandably he had arrived home exhausted, delighted to see her but in desperate need of his bed on the first night and on Tuesday night, after a punishing day’s work, he had fallen asleep on the sofa by nine and woken full of sheepish apologies.

She’d forgiven him immediately. It wasn’t his fault. He had pulled Heather into a kiss, promising to make it up to her.

So tonight was the night. She was planning a lovely dinner, a bottle of good wine and a proper discussion about the wedding. She already had a couple of venues in mind.

‘I’m glad,’ said Pamela. ‘Well if you change your mind about the course, you know where we’ll be.’

Heather nodded, safe in the knowledge that there would be no changing of minds, plans or anything else that evening. ‘Thank you.’

‘I will go,’ said Georg with an earnest frown as if he was signing up to join the Foreign Legion. Heather stared at him in surprise.

Pamela grinned. ‘Wonderful! I’ll see you later then, Georg – I’ve baked some flapjacks for us to share. I’m looking forward to it! Right, I’ll pop this flyer on the board and then I’ll be off. I need to get home and make sure that Barry and Matthew aren’t arguing. Again. Cheerio!’

Heather stared at Georg after she’d gone. ‘A happiness course? Really?’

Georg frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘Surely you don’t think that kind of stuff can be learnt, do you?’ she scoffed.

‘You do not?’ asked Georg.

Heather shrugged. ‘You’re either happy or you’re not.’

Georg fixed her with a look. ‘What did you say to Pamela? Everyone is different.’

Touché, thought Heather. Clearly there was more to Georg than met the eye. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘Each to their own.’

Georg gave a satisfied nod. ‘I think it will be interesting. I like to learn.’

‘Good for you,’ said Heather with a smile.

‘Okay. You take break now. I will cover.’ He handed her a cortado.

She frowned at the coffee. ‘But I usually have a latte.’

‘You try. You will like,’ he insisted.

Heather sighed and carried her coffee to a table by the window. She took a sip. It was rich and bitter but utterly delicious. Surprised, she shot a glance at Georg, who nodded a knowing reply.

She smiled and took in her surroundings. The Taylor-made café and bakery had become something of a hub in the community since Caroline and Oliver Taylor established it eighteen months ago. It was hip but friendly with its exposed brick and soft lighting and had already won awards for its signature sourdough. Heather had been surprised at how quickly she’d settled into the job. It was a far cry from her original career plan as a teacher, but it was considerably less stressful and she decided that there was enough stress in their lives already with Luke’s job. She didn’t earn much but felt at home here, and besides, her inheritance more than contributed to their financial commitments. She knew how important Luke’s job was to him – that he had ambitions to become a director and that there was a real chance of this happening over the next few years. She respected his desire to do well and was happy to support him because she loved him. Of course, she wished that he could switch off from work sometimes or reduce his hours a fraction but she wanted him to achieve his dream – he worked hard and he deserved it.

There was another flyer for the happiness course on the doormat when she got home later that afternoon.

‘It’s like you’re stalking me,’ she said, as she stuffed it into the recycling bin and made herself a cup of tea. She flicked her iPad into life and typed ‘Chilford Park’, taking in the stunning pictures of lush green lawns and the tastefully elegant ballroom. Wedding venue porn. Nothing quite like it to soothe the soul. Except wedding dress porn. That was her other current favourite.

She sipped her tea and Googled the recipe for twice-cooked chips. She was planning to cook steak with pepper sauce and chips, accompanied by a nice bottle of red. Heather stretched her arms, teasing out the tension in her aching muscles and decided that she would have a soak in the bath before getting everything ready for this evening. She wanted it to be perfect. She went upstairs and laid out the Agent Provocateur underwear that Luke had bought her last Christmas. He had been too tired for sex over the past couple of evenings so she was sure he’d be in the mood for a little seduction tonight. She ran the bath, filling it with Molton Brown bath oil, and lit some candles. Her phone rang from the bedroom and she felt a thrill of excitement as she saw that it was Luke calling.

‘I was just thinking about you,’ murmured Heather, tracing a finger over the lacy bra waiting on the bed. ‘I’ve got plans for us this evening.’

‘Oh, honey, I can’t tell you how much I’d love that and I’m so sorry but I gotta take a rain check. The boss has dropped this last-minute dinner on me. They’re important head office clients so I can’t say no. I’m really sorry, Heather.’

Heather grabbed the underwear and tossed it back into the drawer. ‘It’s fine. It’ll keep,’ she said, unable to hide the disappointment from her voice.

‘You’re upset, aren’t you?’

Heather sighed. ‘A bit. You got back on Monday and you’ve been knackered ever since. I was planning a nice dinner so that we could talk about the wedding and catch up, you know, properly.’ She winced at how desperate she sounded.

‘I’ll make it up to you. I promise. At the weekend – we’ll talk weddings for a solid forty-eight hours and do all the catching up you want,’ he said in honeyed tones.

She softened and gave an indulgent laugh. ‘O-kay.’

‘I love you, Heather Brown. And I’m really, really sorry.’

‘I know. I love you too.’

Heather stomped around the house, feeling annoyed and then irritated at her annoyance. There was no point in getting cross with Luke. It wasn’t his fault. He had to work and that was that – getting pissed off wasn’t going to change the situation. And yet it niggled – the feeling that she was always taking second place somehow, second place to an American drinks company. It didn’t exactly make a girl feel good about herself.

She drained the bath and went downstairs to make some toast. Somehow steak and twice-cooked chips for one didn’t hold much appeal. She carried her plate into the living room and switched on the TV, flicking idly through the channels as she ate. She felt restless and irritable. Was she being unfair about this or did she have a right to be angry? She knew one person who would tell her for sure. She reached for her phone. Gemma answered after three rings.

‘Hey, Heth, what’s up?’

Heather could hear Freddy wailing in the background. She grimaced. These weren’t exactly suitable conditions for a heart-to-heart with your bestie. ‘Never mind about me – what are you doing to that baby?’ she asked.

Gemma gave a weary sigh. ‘I call it the baby witching hour. It’s a huge conspiracy – all the babies in the world start going mental at six o’clock and don’t stop until their parents are on the brink of insanity.’

‘Poor you.’

‘Thank you. It comes with the territory these days. Are you okay? Aren’t you supposed to be talking weddings with that perfect man of yours tonight?’

Heather sighed. ‘Yeah but he’s got to work.’

‘Again?’

‘Mmm. Do you think I’m wrong to be pissed off?’

Freddy’s cries intensified to a volume and pitch that sounded like something from a horror film. Heather realized that it was unfair to expect Gemma to counsel her. ‘Listen, Gem, I can hear that this is a bad time. You go.’

‘I’m sorry, Heth. It’s difficult to concentrate on no sleep with Hitler-in-a-nappy here wailing in the background. I’m always here for you. I’ll call you soon and we can talk it all through, okay?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Heather breezily. ‘It’s fine. You go and sort Freddy Fruitcake.’

‘Thank you, Heth and sorry again. Love you.’

‘Love you too,’ said Heather. ‘And I miss you,’ she told the blank screen as the call ended.

She turned and caught sight of her parents’ photo and felt an urge to cry as an unexpected wave of desolation hit her. Heather turned and headed quickly for the door. ‘Oh no you don’t. Not tonight.’ She stood in the hall for a moment, weighing up her options. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she muttered, as she remembered her earlier conversation with Pamela. ‘You’ve got no right to self-pity. You moved on from that emotion a long time ago.’ She exhaled.

What’s it to be then, Heather Brown? Another night in alone watching Netflix? That’s a sure-fire way of intensifying your self-pitying mood. Come on, there must be another option.

She glanced at her phone. 6.45. A surprising idea twitched in her brain.

Surely not? After everything you’ve said? You’re not actually considering it, are you?

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before making a decision. ‘Sod it,’ she said, reaching for her bag and jacket and heading out onto Hope Street.