Happy Endings
Authors: Jon Rance
Happy Endings
Jon Rance
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Jon Rance 2013
The right of Jon Rance to be identified as the Author of the Work
has been asserted by him 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.
eBook ISBN 978 1 444 77752 9
Book ISBN 978 1 444 77751 2
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
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To Mum and Dad, for everything
Happiness is the meaning and the purpose of life, the whole aim and end of human existence.
Aristotle
Contents
Kate
‘It’s about doing something you love,’ said Jack. ‘Every single day waking up and doing the one thing you know makes you happy.’
‘Are you talking about Emma?’ said Ed with a pithy smirk.
‘Of course,’ Jack said with a smile. ‘Nothing makes me happier than knowing I get to wake up next to the thing I also get to do.’
‘I’m right here,’ said Emma with mock indignation.
‘That’s a compliment,’ said Jack.
Emma smiled, leaned across and gave him a kiss.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘It makes me happy too. Sexy and convenient. I’m living the dream.’
We were at the pub around the corner from our little one-bedroom flat just off Balham High Road. The flat Ed and I had been in since university ended and we were thrust completely unprepared into the real world.
It was our weekly Sunday session, something that had just sort of happened. It began after Emma started dating Jack and now it was a part of our lives; intertwined to such a degree than none of us could imagine a Sunday without it. When we were kids it was the Sunday roast, but now, in our mid-twenties and all based in London, it was the pub. Lunch, newspapers and drinks, talking about everything and nothing.
‘And what makes you happy?’ said Emma, looking at Ed. ‘Apart from Kate, obviously.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied with a courteous smile.
Ed sat and looked at us for a moment. This wasn’t an easy question for him. Emma wasn’t being that serious and she probably didn’t care that much about the answer, but she didn’t know Ed like I did. I knew it bothered him. Such a strange thing, to imagine that happiness could bother someone. Annoy them, actually. But when you’re under as much pressure at work as Ed, happiness is the very last thing you can spend time thinking about. ‘I’ll let you know when I figure it out,’ said Ed.
I reached down and squeezed his leg and he turned and gave me a smile. Just then Ed’s phone beeped, as it did most weekends, and he looked down, read a quick email and then excused himself.
‘Sorry, work,’ said Ed, as though we didn’t already know. It was Sunday and, while the rest of the office world was taking its two-day hiatus, Ed’s maniac boss was still online and making sure Ed was too. Ed scurried outside.
‘And what about you, Kate, what makes you happy?’ said Jack.
Jack always started these sorts of conversations. He was a writer and always wanted to go deeper. Ed would talk about the price of stocks, football and work until the cows came home. Emma loved gossiping about which famous person she’d seen recently, what acting roles she was going for next and the latest on any reality show. I would talk about anything except work, but Jack always seemed to go back to the big questions. The meaning-of-life conversations you have when you’re seventeen and stoned for the first time with your best friend.
‘What makes me happy?’ I mused. I took a sip of my white wine and fingered my packet of Marlboro Lights. What did make me happy? It wasn’t a simple question. ‘This makes me happy,’ I said. ‘Sitting here on a Sunday with my best friends, feeling like this, drinking, talking, eating and not wanting it to end.’
‘Me too,’ said Emma. ‘I look forward to Sunday more than any other day. I dread Mondays.’
‘Why do you dread Mondays?’ said Ed, joining us again. ‘It isn’t like you have to go to work.’
‘Oh very droll,’ said Emma. ‘That’s exactly why I dread Mondays, actually, Ed: because it reminds me I don’t have a job.’
‘Yes you do,’ said Jack, always the first one to support Emma and her dreams of being an actress. I suppose with him trying to be a writer, they shared the same pain. ‘It’s just that your job isn’t nine-to-five, and you’re constantly auditioning to get rehired.’
‘And you’d be absolutely useless in a proper job,’ I said, smiling.
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Emma.
‘You’re welcome. Now, whose round is it?’ I said and we all looked at Ed.
‘Just because I earn the most it’s suddenly my round. Didn’t I get the last one?’
‘Stop being such a stingy git and get the drinks in,’ I said and then leaned across and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Love you,’ I said with a smile.
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Jack.
The boys went off to the bar, via the fruit machine, leaving Emma and I alone for the first time that day. Emma and Kate. Kate and Emma. Best friends since, well, forever. She looked at me with her gorgeous eyes and I knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth.
‘Have you spoken to him about it?’ she said.
‘Not yet.’
‘Oh, Kate, when are you going to do it?’
‘I don’t know. He’s talking about buying a house, putting down roots, getting a promotion at work. I don’t think he’s going to be into it and we’re still young. Plenty of time . . .’
‘But, Kate, you’ve talked about going travelling since we were teenagers. Remember that week in Newquay? That night we sat on the beach looking up at the stars drinking Bacardi Breezers and smoking weed.’
‘The badly rolled joint that fell to pieces just after you lit it, you mean?’
‘And we had to ask those boys if they could help us skin up, but then you were so drunk you were sick all over that one boy’s feet.’
‘The one with the flip-flops!’
‘Yeah, that one,’ she said and we both laughed.
‘That was the night I told you I was going to be an actress and the night you told me all about going travelling. You made it sound like something you
had
to do.’
‘I do. It’s just . . . Now isn’t the right time.’
‘And when’s the right time going to be?’
‘I don’t know.’
A part of me knew she was right, but I couldn’t let myself agree with her. I loved Ed so much and my job was still just about the right side of bearable. I was only twenty-five, part of the London hip-erati; there was plenty of time left to travel. Plus, in a couple of years we’d have more money and we could do it properly.
‘I just want you to do what we dreamed about back then.’
‘I will, Em, and you will too. I know your big break is just around the corner.’
Emma smiled at me as the boys sat back down again. Ed put our drinks down, while Jack tossed two packets of crisps in the middle of the table. It was a beautiful day outside and the pub was packed with people just like us.
‘Jack’s got another one,’ said Ed, before his phone buzzed again.
‘Go on,’ said Emma.
Jack sat down next to her and Ed wandered off outside, phone to his ear.
‘Where will you celebrate your thirtieth birthday?’
‘That one’s easy,’ said Emma. ‘With you lot, in the pub.’
‘Kate?’ said Jack, looking at me expectantly. ‘What about you?’
I didn’t know what to say. Four years was a long time.
‘Who knows, right? You could be a successful writer. Emma could be a world-famous actress. Ed and I could be . . .’ I stopped, not quite sure what to say next.
‘Anything you want,’ said Emma, finishing my sentence for me.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Anything we want.’
Four Years Later
January
Kate
‘Love you,’ said Ed, holding my hands gently in his.
‘Love you too,’ I said. A wash of salty tears, which I’d been trying my best to keep in check until I was at least on the plane, suddenly leaked out and slid down my face. I pitied the unlucky person who had to sit next to me, a blubbery backpacker bound for Bangkok, for twelve hours. ‘I should probably get a move on. My flight leaves in forty minutes and I still have to go through security.’
