Welcome to Happiness Is An Option

Your girlfriend’s left you.

You find a notebook belonging to a woman on a park bench. What to do?

That’s the dilemma facing 35 year old Archie Bryant.

Happiness Is An Option began life as a weekly serial novel on Time Out, and has received coverage in The Guardian, The Camden New Journal, The Londonist and both London and American blogs.

If you’re new to the story, scroll down to Chapter 1. Each chapter is bite-sized, and there are just 12 in total. It’s an hour’s read, no more.

Get in touch by clicking “about the author”. It’d be good to hear from you.

Thanks!

Final Chapter: The Stillness The Dancing

Benedict considered his mother’s earlier phone call. To be honest he expected her to be happier with the news that Leonard had offered him a room. A man can know his parents as well as possible and yet there still might be nothing between them but a kind of loving incomprehension.

He was in Soho, leaning against the counter at the French House, waiting for his benefactor to show for a celebratory glass of red (‘it’s a darling place,’ Leonard had enthused, ‘but as crowded as a dictionary’). Fiddling with a beer mat, Ben’s mood darkened. Were his relationships doomed like his parents’? Was that the reason he had cheated on Daniel? After all, his dad had done the same twenty years earlier (with a colleague too). Maybe neither of them was capable of love.

No-one was thinking morbid thoughts here. Or perhaps the thoughts were submerged by the rising tide of drinking. God, he loved Soho: even at four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon discussions swelled, glasses clinked. A customer pushed through to the bar, speaking loudly on his phone. Regulars jeered, pointing at the sign saying ‘no mobiles’.

He thought of Marianne working for Leonard and how, even in London, it was a small world. A small world: a stupid expression, because all we can do is clutch at coincidences and interpret them as good fortune. But people acted like it might reduce the gaping chasms between us if God was puppeteering every move.          

He sipped his Gamay. We’re here for a fraction of a second, that’s all. Yet how free he was, with his uncluttered future in the big city, accommodation included (‘Rent?’ Leonard had snorted. ‘But you’re Vivienne’s boy!’) There, in the clatter of the bar, everything was possible. Happiness was a life without meaning. From now on he was going to enjoy himself.

*

‘I really didn’t think you’d text me.’ Marianne sipped her wine and turned to Archie, feeling vaguely cheated, as if she’d been awarded a prize without suffering. The bar’s red-lit shabby interior was like somewhere you imagined in New York, or Bangkok – not that she had been to either. He smiled at her. How different from Joe he was. Quiet, sometimes, but she liked that.

‘You’re quiet.’ She stroked his arm. ‘So what did you want to ask me?’

‘I’m just thinking.’ He put his pint down. ‘Do you want to come away for the weekend?’

‘Yes!’ She blurted it out without even thinking. Happiness was boxing her ears, they were so red. ‘But where?’

‘My band Summer Holiday are playing in Berlin on Saturday night. Have you ever been?’

She shook her head. She could fall in love with this man. She simply loved spontaneity.

‘They’re on at this little bar in Kreuzberg. Did I tell you they’re in the charts in  Germany right now? Massive. So we could stay at this place by the old stretch of Wall, which is now a gallery− Hang on a minute,’ Archie eased himself out, ‘sorry, busting for a waz.’ He sauntered off to the men’s.

The phone rang. She put a finger over her left ear to listen to her mother properly; the music was loud and she didn’t want to step outside and lose their candle-lit booth. Yes, she said, everything is fine. I have a great job as a famous writer’s assistant. No, I haven’t met a boy. My flatmates are nice but they’re always out. But her mother was speaking over her, enthusing about the new coffee shop on the seafront, and their neighbour Julia’s new toyboy−

And then it happened. History takes no time at all to change everything, does it? To render what was happening before meaningless. In less than a second Joe flew out of the men’s toilets and through the double doors. Outside a car screeched to a halt.

*

Rose left the tube at Chalk Farm, pleased to be admiring the Roundhouse again. It was fantastic to be back in NW1. She planned to surprise Archie, and, as she curved around the station, she enjoyed the smoothness of its blood-red tiles with her hand. (Of course it was a risk not calling first, but she’d find him as fate dictated.)

At the lights up she crossed the busy road, as a man with one leg swung himself over on crutches. Hip hop blasted from a window of a passing souped-up Escort. A black boy, a bit younger than her little brother Michael, idled along in a slow dance.

She took a left up Queen’s Crescent. On one side were imposing Victorian terraces, and on the other low-rise social housing: a classic London street, split down the middle, rich against poor. A dive bar called Monkey Chews perched on the corner, and she felt that maybe a drink would be in order first.

But even in the dark she could see there was a commotion. Uniformed men poured out of an ambulance with a stretcher. A car lay diagonal in the road; was that its driver clutching his head in his hands? A crowd had gathered round a pretty young blonde sobbing violently. As Rose drew nearer, she could see street kids dancing wildly around their bikes. It must be the best thing to happen here for ages.

Pub smokers were garbling what they had seen to non-smoking friends. A man in glasses and a cap pointed. ‘Her boyfriend’s been run over.’

‘Dead?’

And then a barman emerged from the pub holding Archie – Archie! – by the arm, his face covered in blood. Rose watched helpless as Marianne strutted over and slapped him.  

The most senior ambulance man came up to Marianne and shook his head. She screamed: a noise that circulated through the rat-runs of the estate. When she stopped she screamed again, this time so piercing that the kids on bikes covered their ears, and exchanged looks.

*

How quickly does a moment become the past? Archie considered this as Rose cleaned up his face. The man who punched him was now dead−

‘You’ll be alright, babe,’ Rose was saying. ‘But when we get in I think we both need to talk.’

We both need to talk… like it wasn’t she who had disappeared without warning; like the mess here was his fault? He didn’t answer, but let her words gather weight in his mind. In fact, there was no point discussing what couldn’t be discussed; it would be like trying to drink a symphony. A wave of disappointment swept over him, its grey swell threatening to roll forever. Dreams escape us as quickly as we imagine them, he knew that. What are they replaced by? Awareness? Experience? It wasn’t enough. He wanted to ask Rose one word: why?

He turned away from Rose, from the ambulance, from the crowd, from Marianne being comforted by strangers.

‘Wait here,’ he said, moving his feet backwards, tissue clasped to bloody nose, before curling round the pub.

‘Archie?’ Rose was trying to follow him. ‘What are you doing now?’

‘I’m just getting some fags.’ 

‘I thought we’d agreed that you’d stopped?’ She threw her arms up – already, she despaired – and shook her head. ‘OK, but be quick: I’ll wait here. You’ll need to give a statement. You’re a key witness.’

He was trying to picture how it would all end – with Rose, with Marianne – but romantic love, he realized, it’s just a projection. We all remain mysteries to each other. We all soak in the same water. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, he thought, pace quickening in the night air, but I know one thing: we’re all hurtling towards death – which comes faster than you think – and here we are, alive. For a fraction of a second. And just knowing that fact was the first step to knowing anything. Marianne, she was welcome to blame him, she had to blame him. And Rose? Who cares? Why live in the vague hope that something will change to make you feel connected, to feel alive? He didn’t want to wake up at sixty and realize his future was behind him.

Out of Rose’s sight, he paused by the newsagent, not wanting cigarettes. He flung the bloody tissue into a bin, and instead turned left up the hill, with as much joy as if it were the first step up a mountain. His heels hit the pavement quicker and lighter.

Is the end built into the beginning? Archie began to run, past the market, past the basketball courts, up to the petticoat of leafy streets beneath Parliament Hill, across the curve of the playing fields, and up, up, up, blood dripping behind him like a trail. He didn’t know what to do, but that thought itself made him feel tiny, elusive. He could still escape. At the summit the moon was full, his favourite bench empty.

THE END

Chapter 11: If You’re Eager, It Makes Other People Less Eager

Every human being, of course, remains a mystery to every other. But what had unnerved Marianne most was that, after Joe had said hello – with the clenched eyes and defiant look of a species under threat of extinction – he had shrugged and sauntered upstairs. And she couldn’t chase him for an explanation because Archie would see them. Joe was cunning.

The warm glow of the pub could not soothe her. And now they were on the pavement, as alienating as if she had stepped out onto a new planet, in that first-date purgatory between the end of dinner and the night ahead.

Archie looked at her. ‘Are you OK? You’ve gone quiet.’

‘Sorry, just a bit tired. First day at work, you know?’

‘You can’t go back to Dalston by yourself.’ He held her delicate shoulders, paternal rather than amorous. ‘Stay at mine, I promise nothing will happen. I’m a gentleman.’

‘OK.’ She cast him a smile, took his arm, and they started to walk. The road curved through Gospel Oak, just as rough as Dalston, Marianne thought, perhaps rougher still, with its gangs like crows outside kebab shops, or teetering on the backs of benches. Ambulances flooded towards the hospital; a violent evening. She shuddered.

At a green arch by a pet shop they turned left down a deserted street, a little like Ridley Road, but its silence seemed piled so high it might at any minute fall on them. Archie, enthused by his neighbourhood pointed out his favourite shops (‘There’s the Cypriot tailor’s, she’s lovely, and Al Magreb, where you can buy a whole bowl of veg for a quid…’)

Benedict and a friend were leaving Archie’s flat. ‘This is Hanif,’ he said. ‘He came round for a drink – hope that’s OK?’

 ‘I see.’ Archie raised an eyebrow. ‘Ben, this is Marianne.’ She held up a hand and waved nervously. ‘And how do you like my apartment, Hanif?’

‘Very nice.’

‘Anyway,’ – Ben glanced at his date – ‘listen, we’re off to the Black Cap for one. See you later, yeah?’

Marianne watched as they giggled down the dark street. ‘Flatmate?’

‘Old uni mate who’s staying with me. ‘Now: nightcap.’

As Archie turned the key in the lock, Marianne’s handbag slipped onto the pavement. Picking it up, she sensed eyes on her from the fried chicken shop opposite.

She flung her arm round Archie’s shoulders as they entered.

*

So Joe was, apparently, in Kentish Town. The guesthouse offered a single room for £17.50 which seemed good value. Here, he could decide his next move.

He paid upfront in the white light of the reception, where a small group of English people and foreigners sat on orange formica chairs, some knocking back cans of strong beer, others playing cards or fiddling with plastic pot plants. Blue mugs lined the counter and a couple of sunflowers drooped out of a vase. Actually, he realized, hardly anyone here was speaking English, which was humiliating, because he wasn’t some kind of immigrant, like they must all be, trying to claim asylum; he was just sleeping here because it was cheap – and he had nowhere else to go. At least he could return to his Dad if he chose.

A woman in a veil, who spoke with a London accent, showed him to a box room, whose door opened out directly onto the street, an uncomfortable feeling. He kicked off his trainers, unzipped his hoodie, the mattress frowning as he sat. The pillowcase was stained. It would do. He reached into his bag for his own can of cheap beer and outlined the facts in his mind: Marianne had slept with him last night, admitting her love for him. Now she was being unfaithful, in an act that was pre-meditated. Anyone would be upset, wouldn’t they? How could he ever trust her again?

He stood, chest out, like a king surveying his kingdom, and gazed into the mirror on the back of the door, his complexion fish-belly white. He poked his nose in the bathroom, which smelt of urine. He was so tired. Shadowing someone was a full-time job – but not without its highlights: freaking her out in the pub, for example, and, even better, catching those frightened eyes from the chip shop.

The bare bulb flickered and the room went dark. Headlights from shapeless cars blurred beyond the net curtains. He sat still for longer than he intended, as if he realized there was now no turning back. Danger lurked beyond, its current overpowering. He peeled his jeans off and climbed under the cold sheets.

 *

Sleep is like a performance, thought Leonard Mulberry as he answered the door: if it goes well there is absolutely nothing more satisfying! It was Tuesday morning, and on the porch hovered Marianne, basking in his smile. Did two lonely people equal two happy people?

 ‘Come in, come in. Let me take your coat.’

The living room, with its intended aromas of coffee and baking, shone with matinal light, as he announced: ‘I’ve just made cup cakes.’

She took one – so delicately-iced – and perched on a Queen Anne chair. She breathed in and smiled again.

‘So,’ he began, fingertips pressed together as if he were praying. ‘How good’s your typing?’

She had told him.

‘You are ambitious, aren’t you? I can tell.’

She nodded. ‘What does the job involve?’

‘Why, helping me write my autobiography, my dear.’ And, as a taster, Leonard launched into his life story: how he had been a hit author in the seventies – ‘I suppose you weren’t even born then!’– before struggling to follow his debut novel ‘Larger Than Life’, depending instead on journalism. (He didn’t tell her something else on his mind: that Vivienne’s boy Ben, who was arriving shortly, may be his son. It had been 1975, they were young, and there had been those couple of times before she met Yoav and moved to Israel. Ben had been born less than a year later. Unlikely but−)

‘Mr Mulberry?’

‘Sorry, dear - call me Leonard, Leonard. I lost my place, like you do in a book. Anyway, in the late eighties, the novel was filmed and became what, in the industry, we call a sleeper hit. My sequel ‘Even Larger’ came out at the turn of the millennium, and was filmed for BBC4 in 2007. So I’m in demand again! But what will really make my memoir so compelling is that I’ve had a…a slew of famous lovers, both male and female−’

The buzzer went.

‘Excuse me-’

Leonard’s heart beat like a wild horse as he prepared a smile in the hall mirror, the buzzer sounding again, as urgent as a battle-cry. And there grinned Ben: dark hair and eyes, a strong chin, shadowy stubble. He has my ears, he thought, as they hugged. ‘The last time we saw each other,’ he said, ushering the young man in, ‘you were this high.’

Ben and Marianne checked each other up and down, like reality show finalists, or soldiers in a field.

She gasped. ‘You’re Archie’s friend, aren’t you?’

*

I love it here, Marianne thought. People have stories. The meeting with Leonard had gone well (and how funny that he knew Archie’s friend) and now she was back in Dalston, sitting outside a bar on Gillet Square, reggae music drifting like smoke through the air. At its top end, street drinkers in caps hunched on a low wooden seat around pine trees, clasping plastic bags, some shouting, others staring out into the silence. The sky was darkening over the terraces of Kingsland Road, as well-dressed cyclists sped across the diagonal, their children bobbing behind them in baskets like baguettes.

Was she wrong to have declined Archie’s offer to stay last night? They had sipped that last drink, and kissed, but she had detected a change of mood, and asked him to call a cab. She couldn’t explain it any clearer than that. She had discovered long ago that if you’re eager it makes other people less eager. And if you’re less eager it makes people more eager. And it particularly worked with boys. So she was sure he would call.

But Joe was like a cloud over everything. Happiness can flutter so near, can’t it? She had nearly warned him by text to stay away, but any communication would encourage him, justify this silly performance. Had he followed her today, to Leonard’s, and now here? She peered, blinking, into the café’s interior. Her eyes scanned the square. No sign of him. She hoped he had finally gone back to Deal.

Her phone beeped. Meet me at Monkey Chews, Queens Crescent. 7pm. Have something exciting to ask you. Archie x

Chapter 10: A Love Like That

They strolled past semi-detached Victorian villas bright with life. Maybe, Marianne reflected, the wine lightening her step, the fact that Archie had fallen short of her ideal wasn’t his fault; it reflected the vividness of her imagination. He had a quiet confidence; and his record company was a romantic prospect. He was an artist, a dreamer, the kind of man whom she felt comfortable with. And his words were pleasant to the taste. Archie believed in a future that would be open, successful: isn’t that what we should all do? That was why she had moved to London, anyway, to escape the confines of a world pressed between sky and sea.

They had reached a pub at the bottom of the hill. It was dark now. The overground rail station slouched opposite, and beyond, the hospital was carved in the black sky. Cars flowed, headlights on, along the road.

‘This is where Ruth Ellis shot her lover.’ Archie raised an eyebrow.

‘Who?’

‘The last woman in the UK to be hanged.’ He wrapped his fingers lightly round her throat. ‘Still wanna come home with me?’

Marianne blushed. For a moment he seemed to look right into her, to know her in a way that was somehow un-cluttered by actually knowing her.

She said: ‘I didn’t think I’d agreed to that anyway.’

And neither of them had agreed to being followed by Joe, who was behind a lamp post, watching every move.

 *

‘Stay.’ Sabine held Rose’s hands on the deck of her boat, as the wind gusted around them, and they gazed up at the night sky.

‘I can’t. I love him.’

Sabine put her wineglass down. ‘I’ve got to be honest, Rose. I think you have an unrealistic expectation of what is going to happen.’

Rose had known Sabine since university, but she wasn’t someone you went to for advice. Her Frenchness – the gamine face, elfin hair, bohemian existence – did not mean she was an expert on love matters; in fact, Sabine had been through so many men – and women – it was like she’d fallen down a pothole of bad relationships-

‘You are angry, I can tell.’ Sabine stroked her cheek.

Rose pulled away. ‘No. No, I’m not.’ She stood. ‘But you can’t change my mind.

‘The main obstacle to happiness is what we think of as happiness itself.’ Sabine smiled, no doubt quoting some book or other. ‘You think you will be happy if you go back to Archie and try and carry on as normal, but how can you be? There will be deceit, resentment…Don’t you understand, it’s this unreal expectation which means you will never be happy-’

 ‘So the alternative is what? Being an artist? Opting out of life and living on a fucking canal boat in the middle of nowhere?’ Rose slammed her glass down and stormed back down into the cabin to pack her things. It wasn’t the first time they had disagreed over a man.

She yelled. ‘Can you drive me to Colchester, please?’

‘No.’

‘Right, I’ll call a cab. It’s only 9 o’clock.

‘Go ahead, but expect a long wait. This is Mersea Island not Camden Town, Rose.’

Rose wrenched the lid off the kettle and filled it. As the water seethed, she could feel the adrenalin of a wild argument in her blood; she had a lust for destroying everything; it was as if she needed to purify her mind after what had happened. Sabine was watching her from the wooden steps.

Rose pulled out two mugs from the tiny cupboard and clunked them on the counter.  ‘You know what it is,’ she said. ‘You’re jealous. Jealous of what I’ve got. And jealous of Archie.’

‘What?’

‘You’re jealous of Archie. Work it out.’

‘Who are you?’ Sabine walked in calmly, ducking her head at the low ceiling as she paused behind her friend. ‘You – how do you say – bite my hand and then make these accusations. Could I not say the same thing about you? That you envy the way I live? You’re obsessed with trying to be happy. It’s all you talk about. You need to let go. Listen, honey, I’ll drop you at the station first thing in the morning.’

Rose poured the boiling water into one mug, stabbed the teabag with a spoon, and took her drink out on deck. It was as if the secret they shared was such that, though they could hardly bear to be in each other’s company, they were unable to break free, bound together by an invisible rope.

 *

‘But try your uncle.’

Benedict held the phone away from his ear.

‘Who?’

His mother was shouting into the receiver, as if it would improve the line from Tel Aviv to London. He had only called to inform her that he had quit his job as a vet, and that he was well. He most certainly hadn’t asked her for advice on accommodation.

‘Your uncle. He’ll have a spare bedroom and may not even charge you. Oh, Ben, you must remember Uncle Leonard don’t you?’

Ben frowned. ‘Well, yes, vaguely, you mean the one who’s not my real uncle…but is he even still alive?’

 ‘Of course he is. He’s only my age. I’ll give you his number. Lives in North London. You can’t sleep on someone’s sofa – promise me you won’t a night longer.’

Her friend Leonard, his mother reminded him, had tried to stop her being dragged off to Israel in the mid Seventies by his father (who she then divorced). Ben put the phone down and jumped in the shower. He had a date tonight, a boy called Hanif who he’d met online this afternoon.

Towel around waist, admiring himself in the mirror, he dialled. The phone answered after just two rings.

‘Is that Leonard Mulberry?’ he asked.

*

There were two halves to the pub. One side was carpeted, its dark mahogany tables and chairs filled with ale drinkers, the other a simple dining room with lead windows, globe lights and blond wood floors. It was hot and noisy, crowded with steam from the open kitchen. Authentic was the word.

Authenticity. An important concept, thought Archie. That was why he had disliked New Malden, where he had grown up, with its suburban sheen (nowadays, of course, it hosted a vibrant Korean community). The word’s meaning didn’t stop there for him, either. Having only found out he was adopted at the age of eighteen, he had never been able to track either parent down. If we build our lives on the ruins of our ancestors, where were his? He loved the couple he called Mum and Dad, but he had no blood lessons to learn from, no paths to follow or ignore.

Which is why he would always praise things or people he saw as authentic; like Marianne. In fact, conversation had been lively on the bench – easier than he had feared, and he had unreeled his funniest stories; been endearingly honest about his business. She had smiled and laughed along.  With relief he knew his pursuit of Rose was over. How futile to fight one so difficult, when, across the table, sat this uncomplicated girl with happy eyes; in fact, how unhappy he had felt for a long time-

‘Archie, I said, shall we have the Calamari to Share to start?’

‘Sorry. Miles away-’

‘And what are you having for your main? I fancy the scallops.’

 They ordered.

‘So when was your last relationship?’ Marianne pushed her hair behind one ear; furrowed her cute brows.

‘Now, that’s a question.’ He sipped his pint, resting his chin on his hands in consideration. ‘Not for a while, really.  Few months I suppose.’

‘Oh.’

‘Was that the wrong answer?’ He smiled. A careful smile, a treasured possession pulled out of the back of a drawer.

‘What about you?’

‘Nothing for a long while. I’m too choosy!’ She flinched.

‘What’s wrong?’ Archie touched her arm.

‘Nothing. I just had a feeling, almost like deja vu. How strange. Where are the ladies’?’

Archie pointed through a double door. She took the stairs carefully; they were steep.

When she emerged, he was leaning against the wall by the cigarette machine, smiling, waiting.

She spun round. ‘Joe? What the-’

Chapter 9: Next To You?

The wind is like the sea, thought Marianne, as she moved across the sweeping curve of the park, hair blowing across her face. Hills or water: she would have to make her life next to one or the other (Dalston was fine for now of course.) Near the café, shuttered over like an eyelid, a mother released a kite into the air, to squeals from her tiny children.

The air smelt after-the-rain. She climbed past the wildflower meadow, with its tufty grass, yellow like it wouldn’t succumb to anything other than summer. But why, in October, were the blackberry bushes so wizened? In Deal they’d be ripe and juicy. At the rosehip bushes she began to run: a healthy glow would be perfect to greet Archie.

The bench where she had left the notebook was empty, expectant. Nearly dusk, the summit was deserted, other than two Americans exclaiming at the distant landmarks. Highgate stretched behind, nothing to prove.

She shivered. The weather was turning and her first day at Lean Green Cars had been just as dreary: she had made tea and answered two enquiries. Even Marianne could see that the recession wasn’t a good time for an eco-taxi company, although Mr Ivry – her shrunken, grinning boss – had insisted it was a blip, and anyway Mondays were often quiet; the phones rang non-stop Wednesday to Saturday. She wondered who these customers were – presumably the rich and guilty, those who fly weekly whilst making donations to rainforests – as she knew she would never be able to afford an eco-cab herself.

‘Marianne?’ She spun round.

‘Archie?’

Even as they shook hands, kissing once on the cheek in an awkward half-hug, a wave of disappointment swept over her. He was so ordinary! Short dark hair, scruffy jeans, a smart coat, almost handsome, except his cheeks were too thin and his chin was hidden under a thick beard. Marks lined the ridge of his nose where he had removed glasses.

A pale moon peeped between the clouds. ‘Sit down,’ she said, patting the bench, trying to be coquettish, although she felt more like an elderly relative.

Archie produced a bottle of fizz from a plastic bag – and two copies of the evening paper to sit on.

‘Want a glass?’

 *

Down at the foot of the hill, on the edge of the estates, an older man couldn’t stop thinking about Marianne, either. There was something charming about her, decided Leonard Mulberry, in his living room, lamps on in daylight, in fact she was just the person he needed to pen his memoirs. His problem was this wretched RSI in his wrist – it had paralysed his writing to the point where every idea was in danger of evaporating. What had Marianne said she was doing for a job? Mind you, if it was that forgettable, it couldn’t have been anything much.

He chuckled as he remembered waving to Tom last night. The internet’s giddying potential never failed to amaze. Note to self, though: he must never again leave a stranger downstairs whilst he took a late afternoon nap. He trusted people too much; enjoyed helping them, almost to a fault. Tom had been honest, however, and very sexy, although thin as a novella. Leonard pottered into his kitchen; boiled a kettle; pulled a ginger snap out from a Tupperware box. As he eased himself down onto a kitchen chair – too low for the table – he was already dialling Marianne’s number.

She answered after a dozen rings. ‘Hello?’

 ‘Good evening Marianne, it’s Leonard Mulberry. You came round to collect your notebook at the weekend.’

‘Oh yes-’

‘Where are you? It’s terribly noisy.’

‘I’m- I’m on the Heath. Sorry, it’s really windy, quite dificult to hear-’ She turned to Archie and pulled a face.

‘Oh right. Obviously an inconvenient time-’

‘No, no – ’

‘Well, it’s just that I have a business proposition for you and wondered if you’d be interested.’

‘A what?’

‘A business proposition.’ He was shouting; this girl wasn’t making it easy; she must have a man with her. ‘I said, would you like to come and work for me? Why don’t I call you back another time?’

She smiled. ‘Oh wow, that sounds brilliant. Thanks. Can I call you back?’

The phone in her handbag, she turned to Archie: ‘That was the man who brought us together.’

*

We all invent the story of our lives, Joe knew that, but his was still confused. Marianne had enjoyed last night – just listening to her pleasure, it was obvious – but she’d kicked him out at dawn. No excuses, she kept on repeating, I’ve got my new life here. Blah blah blah. But it had been easy enough to follow her – a bit like being on one of them TV shows.

He had waited for Marianne to shut the front door whilst hiding in the churchyard opposite, then trailed her – all tarted up like a secretary – at fifty feet. She was one of those mugs who thought the world danced around her, so she would never expect someone – him – to fall “off message”. When they were growing up, she had enjoyed her pick of the lads at school, a different sucker every Friday at the ice cream parlour on the seafront. Haters used to call her a slag behind her back, and it was only sheer persistence on his part that had brought – and kept – them together.

Watching her saying hello to half the stallholders – foreigners, all of them – along that market street, was odd: was she having some kind of breakdown? And why was she leaning over, talking to the woman selling the homeless magazine? At least his anonymity was secure in the throng on the platform; and once on the train, he had kept careful watch for her stop.

Now he was in this famous place, Hampstead. Dalston wasn’t English really, was it? Areas like that were the reason this country’s losing its identity. He wouldn’t vote BNP – although a lot of his mates were – but the simple fact was that there were too many people here, too many cultures, all trying to grab a slice of the pie. Too much clatter. How on earth was everyone meant to get along? Straightforward common-sense, wasn’t it? But here, in Hampstead, people seemed calmer. He could get used to this, an England he could identify with.

It had been hard to follow Marianne up that hill – what the hell was she thinking, breaking into a run? He had taken cover in the bushes, and, sure enough, she had met a bloke there, on a bench. Slag. They were drinking wine out of plastic cups, and seemed to be laughing and joking, and at one point the bloke – who was a proper show-off – had his arm round her. Joe had to stop himself from running out and punching the bastard; no, he couldn’t be that hasty. Be brave.

Oh yes, he decided, as he watched them wander downhill, he’d take his revenge – action over inaction – but first, he’d have a bit of fun.

Chapter 8: The Day Before You Came

 

Quilted clouds, a glimpse of sun, the hymn of traffic. Yes, Marianne thought, big open skies – even over Highbury Fields – make you greedy to gulp down more air. Twenty minutes early for her first day at Lean Green Cars, she perched on a bench with a cappuccino, licking the creamy moustache from her top lip. A few feet away, a Chinese woman chopped the air slowly with her arms and legs, in a silent dance, whilst behind her, a young couple were sharing a joke. It’s an amazing thing hearing people laughing, Marianne thought, the way it takes them over, the way, like crying, it must be done until it’s spent.  

Her recent decision to practice kindness was proving harder than she imagined. Trying to greet the noisy traders on Ridley Road as they set up stall felt silly. But she had chatted to the Big Issue lady outside Dalston Kingsland station who, she learnt today, was called Felicia and had moved here from Romania ten years ago; and she had flirted with the Italian-looking boys who operated the mobile coffee stall (‘Where are you from?’ she had asked. ‘Tottenham,’ one answered.) At Canonbury, her offer of the last seat to a pensioner had been met with an obscenity, his face screwed up like a walnut.

The wind rustled in the oaks, and the clouds now loomed overhead like dark continents, some so sculptured it was as if God had appointed a new, enthusiastic underling. Oh, why had she slept with Joe? She fished out her notebook to list the reasons – it always helped to write things down – but found herself staring at dogs bombing along the grass, fetching sticks and balls without question. To fetch and be happy: that was their purpose, wasn’t it? It seemed moronic, but… but what was hers? She would never marry Joe, for a start. She may have weakened, but a wedding was not going to happen. She had kicked him out today. Go back to Deal, Joe. 

She re-read Archie’s latest text, a smile warming her face. They were meeting tonight on the bench on top of Parliament Hill. 

 * 

The eternal spool of time returns us again and again to a new day. Archie left Ben asleep on the sofa, his head throbbing from yesterday’s pub marathon. Outside, Queens Crescent bristled with Monday morning usefulness: kids dragged to school, fruit stalls doing brisk trade from passing commuters, vans dispensing loaves of bread or tinned goods, and a curling queue outside the post office.  

It was a fifteen minute walk to his office, a box room behind an open-plan space near the canal. He had two bands on his roster, rather than the five or six of previous years. The process was complex these days, with fewer financial dividends, but constant gigging, licensing, and utilizing social new media, brought in just enough money to survive (although in truth he had relied on Rose’s Sales Director salary, which now worried him).  

He sat with his back to the blinds. The antique desk was tidy: laptop, moleskine diary and a pile of magazines. To the right, books filled a shelf – trade manuals, an Oxford dictionary, a thesaurus and the collected stories of Chekhov (he’d studied English at university) for when he needed distraction (and because it impressed a new band). To the left was a photo of Rose on their first holiday to Lille, six years ago.  

They had met on the number 29 bus, an occurrence no less strange than this thing with Marianne and the notebook. One morning he had sensed a girl’s eyes on him, but continued to stare out at a bus travelling in the other direction, its passengers nodding like dressed-up dogs. But the next day he felt her gaze again, and there was momentary eye contact, as an alternate future started to spin in his mind: because that’s what pure love is, isn’t it – the future? 

On the third morning serendipity deposited them at the same stop on Oxford Street; in the hot summer air there was a kind of distortion, a sense of possibility, adventure. But it wasn’t till the following day, when she dismounted two stops earlier than normal, that he found himself leaping off the crowded vehicle to chase her down the road, without knowing how or what he would say.

‘Excuse me-’ He was panting, red in the face, sweat dampening his brow.

‘Yes?’ She eyeballed him. It wasn’t going to be easy.

‘Um-’

‘You want to ask me out, don’t you?’

He nodded.

‘It was a little undignified though, wasn’t it?’ She pointed at him and laughed. ‘Your sprint, I mean.’

He blushed. ‘Didn’t you feel it too? These last few days-’

She smiled. ‘You’re cute, what do you want me to say?’

He was paralyzed with happiness. There’s a lot under the surface of life – we all know that – but there’s loneliness where you wouldn’t expect to find it, too.

‘Look-’

‘Archie-’

‘Archie, I’m Rose. I’m in a mental rush, cow of a boss, here’s my number’ – she had scribbled it on an old ticket – ‘call me.’ He eyed the ticket. ‘It’s real,’ she said. 

But now Rose had disappeared. And it was probably his fault. The strip light flickered as he boiled a kettle, and the buzzer went; it must be Bryony, his new intern. His phone beeped. Marianne. The edge of a smile crossed his face as he went to the door.

Chapter 7: Tomorrow We Will Run Faster

They were enjoying a nightcap on the balcony, faces illuminated by lamplight, breath visible. The street glistened after the rain, its silence punctuated by the occasional siren. Benedict knew he was very drunk, but wasn’t happiness hovering above him somewhere, just out of reach? He glanced at the leaves clogging up the guttering, the colour of pears. Should he tell Archie the truth? Risk the friendship?

‘Wait here. You have to try something.’

Archie disappeared into the kitchen. Archie.  His friend and host. Whom he had lied to. Because the reality was that Ben had no job, and no flat to return to either; Daniel had kicked him out – not the other way round – for having an affair with his boss. (Arrangements were made at the practice for his swift removal.)

He sighed. There had been that one time, way back – we’re talking ten or twelve years – when he and Archie had both been as drunk as now, maybe a little more−

‘What’re you thinking about, bright eyes? Missing the touch of your loving bovines?’ Archie had reappeared, and handed him a glass of whisky. ‘It’s very expensive. Enjoy. Here, give me one of those fags.’ He sparked up. ‘What always surprises me about Queen’s Crescent is that, if you look up, you can still see stars.’

‘I love the sound of the gulls too,’ said Ben. ‘In the daytime. I didn’t expect that in central London.’

They were quiet again. The sign outside the derelict butcher’s opposite creaked in the wind. ‘Y’know,’ said Archie, ‘I thought you were a proper geek when we met.’

It was true. When Ben had first arrived in Newcastle, fellow students would ask why he had left Israel, and he’d respond ‘the weather’. They would laugh, but he had meant it: he knew exactly what every day would look like back home, and could have carried on his family business for forty years, but – as his uncle used to warn him – you can fall asleep professionally. So he had flown to a strange northern city where, even in winter, locals crowded the streets in t-shirts, and spoke in a dialect it took him years to understand. And he had slowly bonded with Archie, his neighbour in halls, their friendship easing out of indifference.

‘Well,’ Ben retorted, ‘I thought you were an arrogant bastard.’ He smiled at Archie. ‘Do you really think Rose won’t come back?’

‘No.’ Archie picked up an empty can and scrunched it with one hand. ‘I don’t. But it’s cool. You know what?’

‘You’ve cut yourself.’

Archie looked down and sucked the blood from his palm. ‘Geek or not, I respect you now. I’ve spent my whole life wondering who I’m gonna be and I still have no idea. But you−’ A dustbin lid rattled to the pavement below, followed by a screech.

‘The famous copulating foxes!’ They peered over the railing but the animals had scarpered. Archie turned to face Ben, his crow’s feet softened by the orange glow.

‘I mean, I like what I do, but we’ve had a few drinks, I might as well be honest. I’m on the verge of bankruptcy, although luckily I have a cheap mortgage. But it feels like everything’s collapsing, and I keep thinking: what do I do from here? I’m thirty five. At least you’re a vet. A real job; I envy that−’

Ben put his arm round Archie. Grief – and intoxication – makes everything intimate. ‘But I’ve been lying to you too.’ He stared him in the eyes. ‘I should’ve told you earlier: there is no job. I’m not cut out for it–’

‘But it’s all you ever wanted to be −’

‘I’m serious.’ He leant forward. ‘Putting down an animal is horrific – try doing that every day.’

Archie’s phone beeped.

‘Another text from that girl?’

‘Marianne.’ Archie nodded, unable to resist a smile as he read.

‘I’m boring you. It’s late−’

His friend shook his head. ‘Go on.’

‘Recently I did a caesarean on a cow, and ended up with a dead calf. She was ripped apart. It stayed with me. I had night sweats, so I quit. Can I stay here while I look for something else?’

‘Sure.’ Archie exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘But what? Another job as a vet? What about your flat?’

‘I’ve rented it out already. Archie, I need to start afresh. That was why I called you the other day. No more Daniel. No more Manchester. And no more cow’s bottoms.’ He tried to laugh.    

Archie stubbed his cigarette out. ‘You’re crazy. But do what you need to do. I’m gonna crash. Beauty sleep and all that.’

‘You’re meeting her tomorrow then?’ asked Benedict, but Archie had already gone inside. He stared at the drained glass, regretting not telling the whole truth. But he thought he could glimpse something like happiness beyond the rooftops. 

 *

Marianne lay awake, counting shapes on the ceiling. Every hour of the past is written on the body: it was a quote she’d always remember from her English class, and it was true because, no matter how hard she had scrubbed herself in the shower just now, she couldn’t quite remove the uncomfortable sensation that he had been there. Joe. Whom she promised to herself, as the train had pulled out of Deal station two weeks ago, she would never sleep with again. But night is sometimes a harder prospect than day, and it’s human to want another’s warmth, isn’t it?

The forgiveness of darkness. Shapes seemed to swirl and blink, patches of light and dark hinged against each other. Sometimes lying in bed was like floating on the sea and, in this midnight hour, the basic furniture in her room – wardrobe, chair, mirror – wobbled like suggestions, rather than objects. She shut her eyes tight till it hurt; defiant, they sprang back open. She imagined Joe as an outline on the sofa, rather than a living body, and yet Archie – who she was meeting tomorrow – was a name without even an outline.

And so her mind raced towards the future and back to the past, all the while promising itself that life was changing for the better; one floor below, Joe smoked a joint in his boxers, hanging out of the window, at peace in the present.

Chapter 6: Liberation

Rose shivered on the saltmarsh. Stars filled the dark sky like a thousand silent starlings, and mastheads clinked in the harbour. She’d been on Mersea Island for four days but it felt like forever. There was something eerie here, like it was out of time.

As a child growing up in Westbourne Grove, before her Dad had walked out on them, he used to argue with her mum about living in the future. You’re never satisfied, he’d shout. Why make plans for next year? Why not enjoy your life, your job, your child right now? And he had fled back to Jamaica one rainy night, nearly twenty years ago, whilst she and Mum were sleeping.

But the way the world worked was not cause for mass despair. She strolled past yachts, dilapidated houseboats, and wooden-slatted houses, the spectre of Bradwell Power Station across the estuary. The sea was part of her soul, Rose realized: what was that song Dad used to sing about waves leaving traces of sadness on the sand?

The week’s events replayed in her head: Wednesday morning she had left Archie and taken the train to Colchester, where her old friend Sabine had driven her to the hospital.

‘It was a mistake, simple as that.’ They had sat in the car park outside for half an hour, discussing it. ‘A drunken one-night stand with Sean from work, nothing more.’

‘How can you be sure?’ Sabine’s clipped accent had sounded accusing.

‘Archie was on tour in Europe with Summer Holiday at the time. It’s not his. I can feel it. Trust me, Sabine.’

‘As long as you’re one hundred per cent−’

‘Sean was black, OK?’ 

The operation had been easy and surprisingly quick; she was out the same day, staying with Sabine, an artist, on her canvas-stuffed canal boat.

The wind gusted in off the water. She and Archie would survive, wouldn’t they? Surely nature, with its earthquakes and tsunamis, was counting on relationships like theirs – normal, humble couplings – to continue?

But she’d tell no-one – not even Archie – the truth. A sense of liberation came over her, as if she stood on the prow of a great ship.

 *

Marianne opened the door in her dressing gown, shaking her head, thinking back to a vague theory of dispensations: she had been enjoying herself in London these last two weeks, and now she was being punished.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Joe?’

She didn’t intend to be cross, in fact part of her was flattered that he’d even travelled all this way (having been so against London), but he couldn’t just turn up like this, disturbing her life. She was starting her new job in Highbury in the morning!

‘I’ve missed you.’ He grabbed her, wriggling, a bird with a worm, relieved that she was still – as his Dad had always joked – a ‘blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.’

Marianne wrestled herself free: actually, she thought, he was so despondent, and in such awful clothes (you really noticed it in London) that in one instant his stale armpits reminded her of everything she had left behind (pub carpets, chips on the pier, take-aways from the curry house). He was just so suburban−

‘Can I come in then or what?’

She nodded, with a sigh. ‘But only because it’s Sunday night. Tomorrow you leave. I have a new job.’

‘Thanks babe. Here,’ he dug into his holdall and pulled out a squashed box of chocolates. ‘I got you a present.’ He grinned. ‘I’m glad you’re still the same.’

A single bulb hung in the lounge. The light in the adjoining kitchenette purred, and there were hollows in the cushions where Marianne had been sitting. A laptop looked adrift on the wooden coffee table.

‘Working, are ya?’

‘Yes. My new job starts tomorrow so I need to get a good night’s sleep, Joe.’ She started to redden, but the room was dark. ‘Do you want tea?’

‘Come here.’ He threw his arms open.

She shook her head. ‘Not now. What were you thinking coming here?’

When the bag had stained the liquid brown, she handed him the mug.

‘But it’s not that easy,’ he was muttering, pacing the carpet, peering out through the gabled windows. ‘It’s a nice street, Marianne.’

‘You sound surprised.’

‘Well, when you say you’re moving to the East End, of course I’m concerned. You’ve only ever lived by the seaside. And now you’re here sharing a flat with God knows how many immigrants−’

‘How dare you!’ Her cheeks flamed. ‘You can find a hotel tonight if you like.’

‘So they’re not immigrants, I was only winding you up−’

‘It’s not about whether they’re immigrants or not immigrants – and for the record they’re not – it’s just the way you speak. It’s why I left–’ She ran to the bathroom and saw her flushed skin. Why did he make her so angry? She, who believed that happiness floated, that you are happy or not, the choice is yours, she hated the way he spoke and his tone and the language he used – and, more importantly, she hated how she behaved around him. The way her personality collapsed. Her voice even sounded different.

Yes, she decided, stepping slowly downstairs, mind as clear as sunlight on water, she would make up the sofa bed, and insist he leave tomorrow. Besides, how would she explain it to her flatmates?

In the living room he was in his boxers, clutching a ring in a box.

‘I love you Marianne,’ he said, dropping to one knee. ‘Will you marry me?’          

The crumbling turrets of her history were reforming – like one of his pathetic CGI movies – before her eyes.

Chapter 5: Negative Capability

Happiness is a thin goat. Leonard Mulberry thought this as he opened his eyes, wiggling fingers and toes. Everything was working. He lifted the duvet and inspected his body: sagging breasts, wispy hair, hibernating manhood, heavier waist. He farted and giggled. Swinging his legs slowly onto the floor, he rose to draw the curtains. Orange-grey-blue; nearly evening, but that was the joy of retirement. Life held steadily at a simmer.

He pushed up the window to the distant whir of the city. Didn’t people realize we only play with life? Those fools who think they’ll be happy when external factors are in place – a job, lovers, friends – they’ll go mad in the end. And she’d been like that – Marianne, the wide-eyed girl whose notebook he had found – she wanted too much from life. He could tell by the way she spoke. But he liked her, nonetheless.

He glanced in the mirror: sagging cheeks, still pock-marked forty years after the acne had eased; ears poorly shaped;  nose inflamed by years of alcohol. He yawned.

‘Christ!’ He nearly tripped over. There was a boy here. He raced to the bathroom for his robe, then downstairs, expecting the living room to be empty, all his things gone.

But Tom was sleeping on the rug by the fireplace. He had stripped to his underwear and folded his jeans and T-shirt onto the sofa. Such broad shoulders. Reassuringly muscular legs, too. Leonard smiled.

An eyelid flickered up. ‘What you staring at?’

 *

‘Ben, mate, come here.’           

Archie was ordering another round at Steeles, an unreconstructed gem of a pub where, on a boozy session, you might meet – in no particular order – dealers from the Maitland estates, a coterie of Irish alco-philosophers, the madam of a West Hampstead brothel, a bore insisting he was a Hollywood film producer, a puppy-faced indie band, or a slumming minor telly celebrity. ‘See the painting on the ceiling,’ a regular had remarked to Archie over his first pint ever here, ‘the bloke who did that killed himself when he finished it.’ And, Archie now mused, even his happiest nights here were somehow roofed over by life’s sadness.

‘That girl, the diary I found on the heath, she’s emailed me back.’ He babbled the words out. ‘Twenty-five. Just moved here. Living in Dalston.’

‘So what happens now? Can’t you just ask for her number,’ Ben was saying. ‘I mean, this all seems so old-fashioned. If it were two gay guys we would’ve split up by now−’

 ‘OK, OK.’ Archie’s arms stretched out like a swan flying. ‘I’ll ask her for her number. It’s romantic, though, isn’t it? United by a notebook. On a bench.’ He laughed. ‘Of course I probably won’t fancy her. But at least she’s a younger model than Rose. Who wasn’t getting any thinner by the way.’     

‘Get you.’

In the dark, the candle flickered back at their table, as if their time on earth were that brief and that dimly illuminated. ‘I’m glad you’re staying, Ben,’ said Archie. ‘It’s cheered me up.’

They hugged. Ben kissed him on the cheek.

‘Hey, not in here!’

‘You’re blushing!’

Archie swigged his pint, glancing up to see if anyone was watching. But of course they weren’t.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Ben, ‘you do that scruffy straight boy thing quite well, but you’re so not my type.’

 *

 The shaven-headed young man paused outside Kingsland Road station, considering the large-scale assault he was about to make on his happiness. But studies show, he repeated to himself, that people regret not doing things much more than the things they actually did.

Dalston was like nowhere he had ever imagined. People crammed along both sides of the pavement, every nationality under the sun. And the noise! Sirens, car horns, motorbikes, men in dreads sidling up to flog weed, women in denim shorts and thigh length boots shouting at a man in a doorway−    

But where did Marianne live? That was the problem. He wasn’t exactly invited. It was Sunday night, though, she had to be home. He crossed the thoroughfare – or rather, wormed his way between bumpers – and, according to his phone’s GPS (which he snatched glances at, concerned about being mugged) he took a left at the end of a long, wide street so dirty it was obviously some kind of market, where black men cornered kebab shops in loud conversations.

A spire rose beyond the dark trees. Yes that must be it, in fact she’d mentioned the church the one time they’d spoken, and actually, you know, the road looked respectable, even by lamplight. St Mark’s Rise – that was it!

His heart bumped. Be brave. Action over inaction. He loved her, after all, and his happiness depended on giving it one last try. He spotted the correct row of terraces, climbed the grand steps of number 12 slowly, and pressed the buzzer.

Marianne answered after the fourth time (he’d been forced to hold it down for a minute or so), and sounded tired.

‘It’s Joe,’ he said, as lightly as possible. ‘Can I come in?’

Chapter 4: Philanthropy

Should happiness be what we strive for, anyway? Rose Thomas looked up at the vaulted ceiling, and hymn numbers spaced out on pillars. Solo worshippers leant forward, chins raised, expressions identical. Candles burned on either side of the lectern, and behind, the vicar’s voice rose and fell in waves of determination. The air tasted earthy, she thought, and the soupy half-light made the trees beyond the windows a vivid green.

A child in a helmet sidled up to her on a scooter, as a woman leapt after it from the crèche. The child turned to give Rose a smile, a cruel reminder of what she had done four days earlier. And to think she had come to church to feel a sense of eternity; to hear words as comforting as the sound of the sea. She lowered her head.

At the end of the service, a list of the sick was read out by a woman with outsize glasses. Names without stories: what tragedy crouched behind them? Ethel, Margaret, Peter, Francesca, Nina, Rupert. Rose wanted hers added, too. Pray for Rose, please.

Peace Be With You. People stood up and were shaking each other’s hands, sharing this greeting under thick clouds of organ music. She joined them. No, she wouldn’t let anyone make her feel guilty. It was her body, after all. But no need to tell Archie. In fact, she planned to return to London tomorrow and apologize. He would do anything for her, she knew that. The vicar raised the silver goblet higher; just enough to catch a beam of sunlight.

 *

Midday. The buzzer sounded. To the uplifting strains of Summer Holiday, a band signed to his label Get Better Records, Archie vacuumed, tackled the washing-up, and stacked the fridge with bottled beer. He prepared his biggest smile.  You can bluff happiness, he knew that much.          

‘Benedict!’

They embraced, Ben’s lemony aftershave so insistent of their student days.

‘Nice place.’ He was the same as ever: dark cropped hair, honest face, bright eyes. 

‘Beer?’

‘Thanks.’ They walked through the living room.

‘And here are the grounds,’ announced Archie. They sat thigh to thigh on plastic chairs, the two of them filling the terrace, the day grey and humid. ‘So what’s been going on?’ he asked, stuffing a handful of crisps in his mouth. ‘Sorry, want some?’   

Ben helped himself. ‘Well, as you know I’ve been putting my hand up a cow’s bottom forty times a day for the last three years.’

 Archie pulled a face.

 ‘And you know what they say? It’s nice and warm in winter, and cool and shady in the summer.’ A hand reached for the crisps again.

 ‘Hope you’ve washed them.’ Archie swigged his beer. ‘So what happened with Daniel anyway?’

Ben shrugged. ‘I caught him with someone else, in the flat. It’s not funny−’ He slapped Archie on the knee, smiling. ‘He was doing my head in. Arguing the whole time. Sitting on his arse, using the recession as an excuse.’

Archie shook his head. ‘Sounds like you’re best off without. Rose ain’t coming back, either.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t understand it one bit.’ Sadness threatened to engulf him − ‘We’d even talked about having a kid.’

Ben pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and lit one. ‘Maybe she’s pregnant already.’

Archie shrugged. They were quiet for a moment, the smoke curling around the bump in their minds.

‘Two weeks in London!’ Ben stretched back, arms hitting the flimsy bamboo fence. ‘Two whole weeks without cows’ bottoms!’ He laughed.  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t put you out that long. Anyway, how’s the music business?’

Archie snorted. ‘Are you having a laugh?’ He stood up and nodded down the road. ‘There’s a great pub round the corner. You can buy me a pint.’

*

If you take away sadness from life then you’re removing a big and good thing, Marianne thought, hopping down the stairs two at a time to an empty kitchen. Her flatmates, Laverne and Henri, who she had found online, were not a couple but were always out together; filling the kettle she imagined their laughter in the bars along Kingsland Road. Still, if other people are happy, I’m happy.

She sighed. It had been nearly twenty four hours since she’d emailed this Archie Bryant – ‘You wrote in my notebook, remember? If you’re a real person, drop me a line. Wouldn’t that be fun?’ – and there was, as yet, no response. Now she had to face the hours, the long hours of waiting; punishment for her bad habit of expectancy. Anyway, she reasoned, it was the weekend, people were busy. And she should really revise her notes on Lean Green Cars, the eco taxi company in Highbury where she was starting tomorrow. If only Dalston market was open on a Sunday, to distract her with its pigs’ trotters, spices, mint leaves, booming reggae music, and fish lined up like ties of different colours – pink, silver, golden, grey, white.

Spoon clinking in mug, hand on her hair, she had a brainwave. She would help people. A pensioner across the road. A blind man stepping off the train. Philanthropy, she said aloud, enjoying its sound. Could it be the start of a blog?

 Serendipitously, the email clocked in shortly afterwards.

‘Hey Marianne, it’s Archie – I didn’t think you were real either. But who are you?’

Too short!  And quite strange. Who was she? How could she answer that?