A Way Back to Happy Read online

  A Way Back to Happy

  Olivia Spooner

  Contents

  I. Before

  1. Ten Weeks Before

  2. Nine Weeks Before

  3. Eight Weeks Before

  4. Seven Weeks Before

  5. Six Weeks Before

  6. Five Weeks Before

  7. Four Weeks Before

  8. Three Weeks Before

  9. Two Weeks Before

  10. One Week Before

  11. One Day Before

  II. After

  12. One Week After

  13. Four Weeks After

  14. Five Weeks After

  15. Six Weeks After

  16. Seven Weeks After

  17. Eight Weeks After

  18. Nine Weeks After

  19. Ten Weeks After

  20. Eleven Weeks After

  21. Twelve Weeks After

  22. Thirteen Weeks After

  23. Fourteen Weeks After

  24. Fifteen Weeks After

  25. Sixteen Weeks After

  26. Seventeen Weeks After

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

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  Copyright © Olivia Spooner, 2021

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  The moral right of Olivia Spooner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

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  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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  E ISBN 9781800249462

  PB ISBN 9781800249486

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  Cover design © The Brewster Project

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  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  Print editions of this book are printed on FSC paper

  To Mum and Dad, for everything x

  Part One

  Before

  One

  Ten Weeks Before

  “I hate Mondays.” Lily slams my front door closed, throws her handbag on the couch, and flops down opposite me at the breakfast bar. I pause from chopping carrots and wordlessly slide a glass of chardonnay towards her.

  “Please tell me your day held at least a glimmer of excitement,” Lily says, raising the glass to her lips.

  I try not to smile. “Does exhuming goldfish count?”

  Lily’s mid-gulp when she snorts, spraying my face. “What?”

  Wiping the mist of wine off my cheeks, I grin and nod. “Freddie’s goldfish died. God knows how. Honestly, I followed every instruction in that book.” Grimacing, I yank a rogue strand of hair from my mouth. “I buried them under the lemon tree, because I was sure Freddie wouldn’t want to see them all bloated and dead-looking, but when he got home from crèche he lost it. Said he didn’t have a chance to say goodbye.”

  “Please don’t tell me you dug them back up?” Lily asks.

  “In the pouring rain. I washed them off and put them in a shoebox lined with tissue paper. We had a little service. Freddie said he’d never forget them.”

  “I thought you only bought those fish a couple of weeks ago?”

  I put my knife down, reach for my glass, and stare at my friend over the rim. “We did.”

  Lily bursts out laughing. Her short black hair bounces up and down, and wine spills from her glass onto the bench. “Em, I love coming here Monday nights, ’cause you always make my days go from fuckin’ ordinary to hilarious.”

  With my eyes fixed on Lily, I take a long sip and swallow. “Sukkie ate them,” I say, levelly.

  Lily stares at me, her mouth open. “Fuck off,” she whispers.

  My eyes throb with pressure. I can barely get the words out. “I was giving Freddie a hug and when we turned around, Sukkie had her head in the box. I yelled, she looked up, and there was a goldfish tail hanging out of her mouth.”

  We lock eyes and then we start to piss ourselves. Seriously, we are a blithering mess. I have to sit down on the kitchen tiles to recover some sort of equilibrium.

  “Oh my God, Em,” Lily squeals. “You make my life worth living.” She staggers into the kitchen gripping her sides, and slumps down next to me. We lean our backs against the fridge.

  Wiping at my tears, I take a deep shuddering breath. “Freddie’s going to be traumatised for life.”

  “He’ll need years of fucking therapy,” Lily says, still grinning.

  I don’t swear nearly as often as I used to, and I’ve never sworn as much as Lily. I wonder if she’ll curb her profanities in every sentence once she has kids of her own. I doubt it.

  We lean into each other and wait till we can breathe properly again.

  “Does Paul know?” Lily asks, resting her head against my arm. She’s really short. We once worked out, after too many drinks at the pub, that the top of her head is exactly the same height as my nipples. And I’m not all that tall.

  My laughter drains in an instant. “Not yet.”

  Lily stands, reaches for my glass, and hands it to me. Then she retrieves her own, and sits back down.

  “Where’s Freddie now?”

  “Playing in his room.”

  “Should I go see him?”

  “Nah. You’re bound to say something completely inappropriate.” I nudge her with my shoulder.

  “True.” Lily pauses for a drink and picks a piece of lint off her black tight-fitting pants. She’s in her usual work attire of black on black. I swear the woman must have the most monochrome wardrobe in the universe. If it’s not black, it’s grey. The one time she wore a pale blue shirt I barely recognised her. Lily claims dark colours make her more badass. While she has most people running scared with the belief that she is, her close friends know better. She looks at me and raises her black-painted eyebrows. “Are you still going to leave Paul tonight?”

  There is a moment when the room around me sways, then I blink, and it steadies itself. “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Promise?”

  I don’t look at Lily, even though I know she’s staring at me. Instead I glare at her black shiny Dr Martens. “I’m going to do it this time, Lils.” My voice wobbles like I’m scared, which I’m not. I’ve never been more determined in my life. It’s because of Freddie I keep chickening out of leaving my husband – at least that’s what I tell myself. If I go – when I go – Freddie is coming with me. Which means I’m tearing my son away from the only life and the only house he’s ever known. I’m trading his comfort and security for a chance at getting my happiness back. It feels so incredibly selfish.

  Lily squeezes my thigh and leaves her hand resting on my leg. “I was thinking on the way over here, it’s third time lucky, Em. Those first two attempts, they were just bloody practice runs.”

  “Like the high jump?”

  “Exactly,” Lily says loudly, slapping my leg. “The last jump is the one that counts.”

  I hear a jangle of keys and scramble to my feet as the front door opens. Lily stays on the floor.

  Paul fills the doorway. “Daddy’s home,” he yells. His eye
s glance off me as he surveys the open-plan living room, dining room, and kitchen. Every time I see him these days, which thankfully is less and less often, I’m sure he’s put on more weight. I wasn’t kidding about the filling the doorway part. It wouldn’t surprise me if soon he has to come in that door sideways.

  My husband wasn’t due home for another two hours. He’s supposed to have a meeting till seven on Mondays. Lily’s usually gone by then.

  “Daddy.” Freddie runs into the room and throws his arms around his father’s legs. “Flip and Flop died.”

  “What?” Paul lifts Freddie up and I wince as Freddie wraps his thin little legs and arms about Paul’s body. Freddie loves his dad the way a child does – unconditionally. I can’t seem to love Paul regardless of the conditions.

  Picking up the bottle of wine, I fill my glass to the top. As I lift it to my lips, I meet Paul’s narrowed gaze. “Your cat ate them,” I say firmly. Still refusing to look away, I tip wine into my mouth.

  “Did you feed them to her?” he spits.

  I hear Lily getting to her feet. “Hey, Paul,” she says, coming to stand beside me. “Good day?”

  Paul looks from my glass, to Lily’s, to the bottle on the bench.

  “Starting the week as you mean to go on are you, ladies?” His smile is faker than the plastic pot plant on the hall table beside him.

  I’m annoyed at the way my hand holding my glass has started shaking. Hopefully Paul is far enough away he can’t see it. “It’s been a traumatic day, Paul,” I say quietly. “Freddie’s been very upset.”

  Paul scowls and reaches up to gently stroke Freddie’s strawberry blonde hair. “Come on, Buddy,” he says, his voice calm. “Let’s go get Daddy changed out of this suit and you can tell me what happened.”

  I watch them disappear down the hallway.

  “That went better than I expected,” Lily murmurs.

  “Yeah.” I sigh and pick up the knife. “Better get this dinner on.”

  Lily is silent and still as I start chopping again. “Should I go?” she asks.

  “Probably.”

  “Will you be okay?”

  I nod. “Course I will.”

  “Em?”

  I’ll need to try harder to convince her. I grin, and wink. “He’ll be so focussed on defending his cat’s honour, he’ll barely even register the fact that I’ve told him I’m moving out.”

  For the past five years I’ve made myself smile, crack jokes, and act as if everything’s fine. I’ve become an expert; it’s got to a point where acting this way doesn’t feel fake anymore. Just empty. Like I have no idea who I am anymore.

  Lily puts her arm around my waist and squeezes. “The spare room is all ready for you.” By spare room, she means the pull-out couch in her tiny downtown apartment.

  “Thanks,” I croak. Clearing my throat, I resume my chopping. Lily knows my life is less than ideal. She agrees Paul and I should never have married when I found out I was pregnant with Freddie. She knows we argue; that we can barely be in the same room with each other. But she doesn’t know Paul the way I do. No one does.

  Dinner is hell with a tasty Spaghetti Bolognese on the side.

  Freddie’s thankfully unaware of the tension at the table. Being four years old, he’s too self-absorbed to pick up on much. As long as Paul and I continue to talk to our son with a well-rehearsed smile on our face, Freddie’s fine. Especially when I mention the new caramel-flavoured ice cream in the freezer; it seems to eliminate all thoughts of dead goldfish from his developing young mind.

  Sukkie has been forgiven too. She’s curled up on Paul’s lap. It’s perfectly acceptable for us to eat at the table with her on his bulging legs, but on the rare occasions when Sukkie jumps ship to land on Freddie or me you’d think a cardinal sin had been committed. Eating naked, using nothing but our bare hands, would be less disgraceful.

  Chewing on my pasta – which, by the way, is one of my least favourite foods on the planet, but since Paul loves the stodgy stuff, I have to keep cooking it – I wonder when I became so bitter and negative. It makes me feel so ugly. Correction: uglier. I used to be an optimist, and now I struggle to have a single positive thought about anything. Hard to imagine Dad used to call me ‘Little Miss Sunshine’.

  I’m so exhausted from pretending to be relaxed and happy that the second I give Freddie a kiss goodnight and turn out his light, I go into my bedroom to lie down. Paul is on the couch watching his favourite show. Some CSI crime thing I can’t stand. He’s addicted to it. Refuses to miss an episode. He’s already onto his third beer, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s polished off the packet of crisps.

  My suitcase is packed. It has everything I can think Freddie and I will need for the next few weeks. It’s in my wardrobe. I haven’t even attempted to hide it. If Paul opened the door, he’d see the suitcase straight away. Not that he’s likely to look; unless my husband has suddenly decided to become a cross-dresser, which I very much doubt, as he’s about the most conservative person I’ve ever met. Plus, he wouldn’t fit any of my clothes. I’ve lost track of the number of times Paul’s told me I’m too skinny; that I need to develop some more curves. He used to call me petite, affectionately. He’d grab me round the waist with one arm, lift me off the ground, and kiss my neck over and over while I squealed and begged him to put me down. It’s impossible to believe that version of Paul ever existed.

  I’m still in my leggings, T-shirt, and trainers because I’m determined to go through with it. I just need to make sure:

  The stupid programme is finished,

  Freddie is fast asleep.

  Once my son is sleeping, nothing, and I mean nothing, can wake him. I could pick Freddie up and carry him to the car with a monster screaming in my face and he’s guaranteed not to stir.

  While I wait, I prop myself up on the bed and flick through Instagram on my phone. I spend a lot of my spare time following inspiring females around my age. I’m sure the photos are carefully executed and edited but they appear effortless.

  It’s not just Instagram I have a minor obsession with. I spend at least an hour a day reading blogs. Mostly I follow lifestyle bloggers – the ones who make sourdough bread from scratch, grow their own vegetables, or give up their corporate career to teach yoga. These gorgeous women – they are always insanely attractive – are committed to nourishing their perfect bodies with wholesome food. They inspire me to get into the kitchen and create interesting things like coconut chia pudding, or quinoa porridge. I’ll admit to feeling a little disappointed in the end product and the general lack of boost to my wellbeing after eating it, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop marvelling at everyday people following their passion. They’re free to make decisions. To choose, instead of being yelled at by a controlling, overweight husband. I imagine not one of them feels trapped, paralysed by their lack of self-worth.

  My absolute favourite blogger – who also posts the most incredible pictures on Instagram – is Harriet Galway. I love her. I feel like we are the best of friends already and I’ve never met her. I’m not a complete freak; we have at least communicated with each other. I’ve commented on a few of her posts and she’s personally replied to me every time. She has two adorable little curly-haired angels, a husband who is constantly surprising her with little romantic gestures – a beautiful cane basket full of plump lemons, a thick, gnarly piece of ginger and a jar of local honey when she was sick in bed with the flu is my all-time favourite – and she writes the most wonderful, inspiring words. She works from home as a food writer, photographer, and stylist, and has recently moved out of the city, as she wanted her children to have more space to roam. They now live in a wee cottage by the sea her husband is slowly restoring. They have their own chooks, and vegetable garden, and can walk through their property of native bush to the beach.

  I don’t even want her life. Not exactly. I can’t imagine moving out of Auckland to some remote place where the nearest café is miles away and I never see my friends. I lik
e being able to walk to the shops, or Freddie’s crèche, or a wine bar. There’s comfort in having people going about their everyday tasks around me – mowing the lawn, emptying groceries from the car, hanging out washing, pushing their child on the swings at the park. I envy Harriet for going after her dream. She’s taken risks, refused to be afraid. Said to herself, ‘this is what I want’ and gone for it.

  Harriet’s latest blog post is about taking her two-year-old to a mother and child yoga class. I’m slightly disappointed Harriet is getting on the yoga bandwagon, but I should have known it was only going to be a matter of time.

  For a while I got all excited about yoga myself. Every blog post I read kept telling me it was the answer to everything. I dragged Lily to a class with me one Sunday afternoon on a rare occasion when I could convince Paul to take care of Freddie. We were useless. Plus, we kept cracking up at inappropriate moments. I mean really, can you blame us? I challenge anyone to lie on their backs, bend their knees out wide and hold their feet in the aptly named Happy Baby while rocking from side to side, without wanting to let out a nervous giggle.

  The hardest part of the class was the last agonisingly long five minutes. We had to lie still, focus on our breath, observe our thoughts. I hated the way it made me feel – exposed and on edge, to the point I started to hyperventilate. I haven’t been back to a yoga class since.