Walking Back to Happiness (6 page)

A fat tear rolled down her chin and she caught it quickly before it splashed onto the page. Ben had laughed when she’d gone to Boots with the memory stick from his digital camera, but that was exactly what bothered Juliet – something so small and losable couldn’t be responsible for holding her precious memories. She wanted printed-out evidence, in old-fashioned photo corners and tissue leaves, because their love was the old-fashioned for-life sort.

‘But it’s all in our heads,’ Ben had insisted. It was. But Ben had gone, and with it, the other half of her honeymoon.

The counsellor was wrong, anyway, she thought, forcing herself to turn the page. Looking at how happy they’d been was getting harder, because now, after eight months, she finally accepted that he wasn’t coming back. It had come to her one wakeful night, as if her brain had been waiting to spring it on her. As if she was hovering over her own body, Juliet had seen her future stretched out like a flat, grey sea: no land to aim for, no points to navigate round, just the sense that she was being swept further and further away from the happiness and solidity she’d assumed was there forever.

Juliet closed her eyes and let the music wash through her.

It’s like I’ve died too, she thought, curling her hand around Minton’s hot ear, as the opening bars of ‘Fix You’ sent shockwaves of longing through her. Nothing new is coming into my life, and all the old stuff is slipping out of my head. No one can fix me.

X&Y
had been ‘their’ summer album. It reminded her of lying on the balcony of their old house, slipping and out of dozy, sun-drenched sleep as the bees buzzed round the flowerpots. They hardly ever went on holiday – summer was the busiest time for Ben’s gardens and the weddings Juliet catered. They’d made a holiday at home instead, sleeping out on the balcony under mosquito nets, going to bed in the afternoon, getting woozily drunk on homemade sangria.

That was the happiest moment in my life, she thought, as the sudden memory of Ben’s warm body pressed against hers hit her with an unexpected force. She’d woken in the early morning to find his bare arm draped around her, his nose nuzzled into her neck. She’d lain there for ages, just looking at his gently muscular body, almost scared by how much she loved him, amazed that the perfect man for her had been born in her home town, not on the other side of the world.

Why
did he die? she asked for the millionth time, as hot tears leaked between her lashes. Why hadn’t she had any warning, so she could have pinned that last day in her head properly? Not just the last day – the last month, the last year? So she could have said some of the things she’d meant to. And so she could have bitten her tongue on some of the things he really
didn’t
need to hear her say.

Like, ‘How can we ever have a child, if you’re determined to be a teenager for ever?’

It had seemed such a brilliant line at the time. But as the last word in a stupid, petty row. Not as the last thing she’d say to the man who was her whole life.

Juliet flinched with shame. Ben’s cross face replaced the lovely image of his golden shoulders, and she flicked the CD on to something less painful. There were no specific memories attached to Athlete, other than a rather average gig they’d been to in Birmingham.

Minton stirred on her lap, picking up her distress vibrations in his sleep. He loved the armchair too; he burrowed into the tiny space she had left. Juliet could feel his little body heating up through his thin coat, and it was comforting as she gazed sightlessly into the long grass outside.

Ben had had big plans for the garden. Juliet still had the actual big plans: bright coloured-pencil sketches of masses of perennials, a cherry tree and a vegetable plot-herb garden affair, all labelled in his haphazard handwriting. He’d let her buy armfuls of interior décor magazines each month, so long as she didn’t try to interfere with his banks of crocuses and the arches of honeysuckle he wanted to grow, so the garden would smell as magical at night as it did during the day.

They were going to have a hammock, between the trees. And a swing, and an area for a sandpit for any future baby Falconers . . .

Juliet gulped for air as the pain swamped her chest again. The distant screams and giggles from next door’s garden were going through her like knives. She turned up the CD player in an effort to drown them out, and pressed the hot mug of tea to her lips.

Then suddenly the lights went off and the music stopped. The whole house was plunged into silence.

For a second, Juliet felt intense relief, as if she’d finally managed to turn off the rest of the world. Minton didn’t move. She closed her eyes and sank into the velvety peace.

Then the yelling started up from next door. There were thuds coming from inside now too. Annoying rhythmic thuds.

I could go to bed, Juliet thought, from behind her eyelids. I don’t need lights, or electricity. I can leave this until the morning; if it’s a power cut, it’ll be back on by then.

And if it’s not a power cut? demanded a voice in her head. Her dad’s voice. What if something’s gone wrong in the house? Where’s the fuse box? What if it’s a gas leak or something?

Juliet pushed the voice away. Her capacity to ignore whatever she didn’t want to acknowledge had grown amazingly over the last few months.

I can eat cereal. Minton doesn’t have hot food. I can go to Mum’s for a bath.

And if the house blows up? Are you covered? Did you renew the insurance? Are you just going to sit there?

Yes, she thought. I am. Because I’m on my own now.

There was another thud behind the wall, then a howl of protest, then the sound of rock music.

Juliet’s eyes snapped open.

Bloody hell. It was bad enough having her Grief Hour disturbed by their racket, but now she couldn’t ignore the fact that it wasn’t a general power cut; it was a problem with her house. Just her. Again.

An irrational surge of anger rose up in her, and Juliet pushed herself out of her chair so abruptly Minton had to scramble mid-air to land the right way up.

She marched through her darkened house, down the front path, and shoved open the Kellys’ gate. A couple of pink bicycles blocked her way on the path, but didn’t dissipate the hot energy coursing through her. She stood on the step and banged on the front door, but there was such a racket going on inside that she couldn’t hear if the bell was working. Juliet could barely even hear her own knocking.

Someone, deep inside the house, seemed to be playing the riff from ‘Whole Lotta Love’ by Led Zeppelin on a bass guitar. Over and over again, with one note wrong each time, while everyone else bellowed ‘Dur dur dur dur DUH!’ in encouragement.

Juliet wrapped her cardigan tighter round herself, though it wasn’t cold. If she’d thought about it, she’d have put her shoes on, instead of her sheepskin slippers. They weren’t very stampy, and she felt like stamping her feet.

Now she was here, the Kelly chaos had shifted its impact: it wasn’t irritating; it felt personal. They were noisy and annoying, but they were having a really, really good time. The whole family was joining in, and she was going to look like the bitter old widow next door, spoiling their fun.

Loneliness and anger swept through her. What had she done to end up here? She and Ben should have been expecting a baby by now. In a few months’ time they might have been apologising to the
Kellys
for the noise. When had fate decided that no, she wasn’t going to have a family, but these stupid, selfish people were going to have
four
?

Juliet clenched her fists, and was on the point of pounding again when the door swung open.

A man she didn’t recognise appeared, holding a can of beer. Blue jeans, plaid shirt over a Thin Lizzy T-shirt, curly black hair. Looked like a builder. Maybe he was a builder. That would explain some of the banging, she thought.

He lifted a hand to ward off her wrath, then gave her a disarmingly wide smile. ‘Before you say a word, I’m sorry about the noise, but it’s Salvador’s birthday,’ he said, in a strong Irish accent. ‘Alec’s back from the Philosophy tour, just for tonight, but he’s bought the kid a bass guitar – thinks he’s got to get him started early if he’s going to play Glastonbury before his old man’s too old to go and watch him.’

‘It’s so loud I can . . .’ Juliet started, but all she could imagine was the proud dad, standing by the side of the stage while a little boy grappled with the huge guitar. It was ridiculous – she didn’t even know these people, and anyway, this Salvador wasn’t going to be headlining Glastonbury for at least another ten years, if ever, going by his inability to grasp a five-note riff – but something snapped inside her, and her eyes filled with hot tears.

‘Jeez.’ The man looked horrified. ‘Don’t tell me – you’re a Zep fan? I’ll tell him to try something else if it’s . . .’

‘No, no. It’s my electricity,’ she said, wiping her eyes. She hadn’t come round to complain about the noise, after all. ‘I thought it might be a power cut, but obviously you’re fine here.’

He seemed relieved. ‘It’s probably just a fuse. You need to reset your trip switch.’

Trip switch? What the hell was that?

‘I don’t know where it is!’ Juliet gulped. ‘I don’t even know where the fuse box is. My husband dealt with all that.’

As she said it, she knew that made her sound like a spoiled housewife, but it wasn’t quite what she meant. She and Ben had a running joke about dividing the household chores into ‘your hassle’ and ‘my hassle’ when they married. They even had a whiteboard list that they were allowed to add to: she had to deal with family birthdays and Minton’s vet trips, while he changed fuses and cleaned the oven. It was a deal – for every hassle you passed on, you had to pick one up.

But how could you explain that to a stranger? It just reminded her that that list and the little acts of love it represented had evaporated when Ben died, and now her fuse box was very much her hassle – now and for the foreseeable future.

‘I . . .’ she began, and then stopped, fighting to control herself.

‘Hey, hey.’ The man reached out and patted her arm awkwardly.

‘Lorcan! Who is it?’ yelled a woman’s voice from the kitchen.

‘Lorrrrcaaaan! Loorrrrrcaaan!’ parroted the kids. ‘Come back, Looorcaaaan!’

‘I’m Lorcan Hennessey,’ he said, holding out his hand with mock seriousness. ‘Hello.’

‘Juliet,’ she managed. ‘Falconer.’

‘Right, well, now I’m not a stranger, do you want me to come next door and check out your fuses?’ He winked. ‘So you can plug your own stereo back in to drown out Sal?’

‘If you don’t mind.’ It occurred to her that she hadn’t actually told Lorcan that she lived next door. Had the Kellys been talking about the miserable woman next door who might kick off about the noise?

‘No problem. Hang on, let me grab a torch. Stay there. Emer? Emer, where’s the torch in this godforsaken kip?’

Juliet couldn’t resist peering into the hallway. She’d only ever been in as far as the porch when Wendy lived there, and hadn’t been in since. The black-and-white Victorian floor tiles were the same as hers, but they were almost hidden by a collection of stuff that oozed out from baskets, bags and shoe racks, creeping over the floor space. Trainers, books, wellies, footballs, magazines, supermarket Bags for Life – the flotsam and jetsam of family life.

Worryingly, there were a couple of empty cages there too. Hamster-sized, with abandoned wheels.

Juliet could smell curry, and hot bread. Her stomach rumbled and she remembered she’d fed Minton but not herself again.

‘Right, I’m with you.’ Lorcan reappeared, bearing an enormous torch. He gestured to the door. ‘Lead on!’

Feeling self-conscious, Juliet walked back down the overgrown path and through her own front door. Suddenly the stack of boxes still unpacked in the front sitting room seemed more obvious.

‘Just moved in?’ Lorcan asked, heading straight for the stairs. ‘Or are you having work done?’

‘We’ve been here a year. I mean, I’ve been here a year. Haven’t got round to starting the renovation,’ she said.

‘Makes sense. No point unpacking only to pack up again. Right, now, your fuses are most likely under the stairs. It’s where Emer’s are.’

He worked the torch beam up and down the panelled area, looking for the access to the understairs. Minton padded in from the kitchen, his claws making clicking noises on the tiles, and when he sensed a strange man, he set up a chilling growl, a furious noise Juliet had never heard him make before.

‘Sorry, he’s quite protective,’ she said.

‘Steady on, fella.’ Lorcan crouched down to let Minton sniff his hands. ‘There’s a good lad. Keeping an eye out for Mum, eh? Nothing to worry about here.’ He tickled him round the ear and Minton stopped growling. He didn’t roll over, though.

Juliet watched him. She didn’t get any weirdo vibes from Lorcan – quite the opposite – but Minton seemed wary. Minton was her barometer these days, now her own judgement about people was haywire, and she trusted him.

Lorcan straightened up and found the hidden catch to the stair cupboard. As he flashed the torch around in the depths, the rest of the hall was plunged into darkness, apart from the faint moonlight coming through the landing window.

‘So, be honest with me, what was it?’ His voice was muffled. ‘Dodgy hair straighteners? Plug you’d wired up yourself?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Juliet. ‘Everything just went off.’

Lorcan’s curly head emerged from the darkness. ‘Sure you do! Don’t have to tell me, though. You’d tripped it out,’ he explained. ‘Come and look, so you can do it yourself next time.’

Juliet stepped towards the cupboard, aware that her mother would be white-knuckled with panic at the thought of getting into a confined space with a complete stranger armed with a massive torch, in an empty house, with only a small terrier for protection.

‘You won’t get electrocuted,’ said Lorcan, mistaking her reluctance for DIY squeamishness. ‘Promise.’ He held up his hands and grinned, that wide smile again.

He looks as if he should be in a band, thought Juliet, randomly. His hands were broad and he wore some kind of Celtic ring on one finger and a plaster on another.