The Secret of Happy Ever After
About the author
Lucy Dillon was born in Cumbria in 1974. She now divides her time between London and the Wye Valley, where she enjoys walking in the Malvern Hills with her Basset hounds, Violet and Bonham.
Also by Lucy Dillon
WALKING BACK TO HAPPINESS
LOST DOGS AND LONELY HEARTS
THE BALLROOM CLASS
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Lucy Dillon 2011
The right of Lucy Dillon to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 72704 3
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
When I was seven, I broke my elbow and spent the whole summer in hospital. Missing the holidays was bad, but much worse was that with my left arm in a cast, I couldn’t hold a book to read. I’d had my nose in a book virtually before I could walk, thanks to my mother’s own passion for reading, and was halfway through a Hardy Boys mystery at the time of the accident. My strongest memory of that summer isn’t the pain of the operations or the loneliness of the ward, but of my father sitting by my bed every night, patiently reading chapter after chapter of
Malory Towers
to me until I fell asleep. While his familiar voice was whispering Enid Blyton’s words into the darkness, I was miles away from Whitehaven in a Cornish dorm with my friends Darrell and Alicia and their tuck-boxes and lacrosse sticks, sharing common-room dramas, planning pranks on scatty French teachers. Reading was the best medicine for a scared, bookwormish little girl, and I’ve never ever forgotten how magically effective it was, or how lovingly it was given.
This book is dedicated to everyone who reads aloud, and everyone who listens. But mainly to my daddy, who never once complained when I reminded him that he’d ‘missed a bit out’.
Thank you to all the people who sent me long and hilarious emails describing their favourite children’s books – I wish there had been room to use them all. You can tell a fair bit about someone from what their formative reading experiences were, and I’m happy to say that I seem to know a lot of Tiggers and Darrell Riverses. (As well as a Burglar Bill, a Very Hungry Caterpillar, and a book that I think is now outlawed in most public libraries in the UK.)
Special thanks, always, to my editor Isobel Akenhead and her assistant Harriet Bourton, who were patient and encouraging and never short of a brilliant suggestion, usually about Jilly Cooper; and to my inspiring agent Lizzy Kremer, who makes everything come right, like Mary Poppins but with better jokes. And to her lovely assistant Laura West, for reading Michael Morpurgo for me.
Thanks most of all, though, to my Mrs Pepperpot mother, for piling our house with books, and never telling me anything was too hard. And for reading, reading, reading.
Once upon a time . . .
Michelle stood in the middle of her new shop, trying to think of a name for it (Nightingale’s? Home Sweet Home? Domestic Goddess?) whilst imagining the room filled with hand-sewn lavender bags and chunky beeswax candles, but, most of all, without the lingering aroma of smoked mackerel.
The sheer magnitude of what she was undertaking, all on her own, hit her for the fifth time that day, but she frowned and told herself – also for the fifth time that day – that she was doing the right thing. New start, new shop. New Michelle.
In an ideal world, she wouldn’t be starting a homewares business in a fishmonger’s, and certainly not on this high street, in a market town somewhere between Middle-of-Nowhere and Back-of-Beyond, but Michelle had a knack for selling, and she knew the most important things about this shop were right. Shabby Longhampton, with its red-brick terraces and depressing concrete precinct, was crying out for some prettiness. The premises were cheap (probably on account of the fishy smell), light and spacious, and located on the main street, right next to offices full of lunchtime browsers. Plus – and this was the main thing – this particular shop was 137 miles away from Harvey Stewart.
That bit had been the only part of her new life that Michelle had planned. Harvey’s brain started to lose oxygen ten miles outside the M25, so out here, where even the dogs wore quilted jackets, she reckoned she’d be safe enough from him and his subtle ways of making her hate herself.
Thinking about Harvey made Michelle’s armpits prickle. She distracted herself by tossing her big bunch of keys up and down and focusing on her new space, mentally sweeping away the plastic shelving, washing the walls with soft calico paint, and filling it with beautiful, clever things, until she felt in control again. If it hadn’t been for the soothing powers of redecoration she doubted her marriage would have lasted the five years it had. Their house had been like the Forth Road Bridge; as soon as she finished it, she’d started again, just to take her mind off everything else.
Harvey had always said she had OCD. Obsessive Changing Disorder. That she’d never be happy until everything was perfect. ‘
If you had the faintest idea what that was.
’
For a second, Michelle wobbled on her high heels, as if she were standing on the crumbling lip of a cliff. Her head felt too light on her shoulders, unanchored to the rest of her. She hadn’t let herself think too hard about what she was doing while it was happening, but panic had been flickering at the outside edge of her senses all the time. In the end, she’d left while she was still angry – no planning, no lists, none of her usual props – and now here she was, on her own in a town full of total strangers, but free. The rest of her worldly goods were coming in a van by Friday, but for now, she felt untethered, like a balloon accidentally released.
Her palm stung, and Michelle realised she was clutching the keys so hard the sharp metal wing of the Aston Martin key fob was cutting into her palm. Slowly, she opened her fingers and looked at the last remaining trace of her old life, already so far away it felt like someone else’s.
Michelle’s green Aston Martin DB9 Volante was now sitting on a Birmingham forecourt, sold to put down a deposit on the shop and on the run-down terraced cottage she’d moved into, but she’d kept the key fob to remind herself what she could do when she put her mind to it. Michelle had loved her Aston. Not just because it turned heads, especially with a small woman in shades behind the wheel instead of a middle-aged bloke, but because she’d bought it with the commission she’d earned as the top salesperson in her dad’s dealership. There weren’t many twenty-eight-year-olds determined enough to rack up sales like that. Especially when they didn’t even like cars that much. As the pang of regret bloomed in her chest, Michelle reminded herself that some people didn’t even get going properly until they were thirty, let alone start a whole new life. Loads of time to earn another car.
She looked around at the unpromising material she had to make that happen, and wobbled again. She didn’t want to look at this much longer, but she didn’t want to go back to the tatty canalside house, with its loud wallpaper and damp patches either. The shop was fishy and the high street was deserted, but it was still better than flinching every time the phone rang.
‘Get a coffee, make a list,’ she said aloud, her voice echoing in the empty shop, and she felt a little better.
Next door to the soon-to-be-ex-fishmonger’s was a café and, unlike most of the shops nearby, it was open and doing a good Sunday afternoon trade.
Michelle ordered a double espresso and a piece of cake at the counter and settled down with her to-do list at a table near the window, where she could analyse her high street competition. Something about the place – the spotless cleanliness? The homemade cakes? – relaxed her, but next to the chatting couples and families at the other tables, she felt self-conscious, as if her loneliness hung round her like a bad smell. How did you make friends as a grown-up if you didn’t have an office, or a school run? Not business acquaintances like her new solicitor and the estate agent – that was easy, she knew the role to play there – but
friends
. Like . . .
Michelle frowned. Like who? Owen, her youngest brother, was the only person she really confided in; her female friends were really just the wives of Harvey’s poker buddies. She’d slotted into his social life at twenty, just like she’d slotted into the family business at eighteen. No university mates, no exes, no schoolfriends . . .
Without warning, the door burst open and a huge Dalmatian barrelled in, black eyes gleaming and spotted ears pricked with excitement. The dog paused near the umbrella stand, tail whipping back and forth as it looked round the café, as if sizing up who was most deserving of attention, then its gaze fixed on Michelle and charged towards her.
To Michelle’s surprise, no one else in the café reacted, and for a second, she wondered if she was the only one who could see it. The Dalmatian wagged its tail at her and Michelle felt touched, until she realised it was actually her slice of carrot cake that the dog wanted to make friends with. It already had its head angled to snaffle the cake, one paw on the chair next to her for better purchase, and she grabbed its red collar and pulled it back down.
‘Sit!’ she said sternly, and when the Dalmatian didn’t respond beyond an amused loll of the tongue, she repeated it more firmly. ‘Sit!’
The dog dropped obediently to the floor, its spotty tail thumping against the table legs as if Michelle was playing a game. Still no one around her seemed bothered by the dog’s entrance. Michelle was amazed. The one time she’d tried to take her springer spaniel Flash into her local café, they’d acted as if she’d waltzed in scattering anthrax from a poo bag.
Flash. Flash and his melting gaze and big feathery feet. Her stomach clenched. Of all the things she’d left behind with Harvey – money, clothes, so-called eternity rings – the only thing she wished she’d packed in her car was Flashie. Was he wondering where she’d gone? Was he waiting by the door, pining for her? She’d only left him because taking him would have given Harvey the perfect excuse to turn up on her doorstep every other weekend, demanding ‘access’. Playing the reasonable, bereft husband.
