Happy Endings (29 page)

I sat at a table by myself and watched the world go by. Men in suits came and sat, talking loudly about their days, while tourists popped in for a quick pint before continuing on their way. Everyone, it seemed, had somewhere to go except me. I wasn’t a tourist or a worker. I was an inbetweener and suddenly I wanted to escape. I needed to get away and that was when I thought of Pete.

Pete Wilson was one of my housemates at university and from the moment I met him, I was in awe. He wasn’t extraordinary, he wasn’t the most handsome, the most intelligent or even the funniest person I knew at university, but he was the only one who knew with an absolute certainty what sort of life they wanted. While everyone else was still shaping and forming themselves into the doughy balls of their twenties, he was fully formed and incredibly happy at nineteen. Pete moved into our house in the second year and I spent two years with him learning what it meant to be truly happy.

I’d spent the last ten years trying to work out his secret and replicate his confidence, but it couldn’t be done because that sort of happiness can only be achieved when you know what it is you want. It was something that had taken me far too long to realise. No matter how much money I had, no matter how successful I was, I still wouldn’t have what he had – contentment. The only way I could have that was to find my passion and maybe the only person who could help me was Pete.

I found his number in my phone and dialled.

‘Ed bloody Hornsby,’ said Pete. ‘How are you?’

‘I’ve been better. I need to come and see you.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘It’s a long story. What are you doing tonight?’

‘Not much, but you do realise I live in Nottingham. It’s a bit far for a quick pint.’

‘I’ll be there by five. Can you pick me up from the station?’

‘No problem. I’ll see you then.’

I went home, threw some clothes in a duffel bag and left.

Pete was standing on the platform waiting for me. I hadn’t seen him in over a year, when he’d been in London for work and we’d had a few pints. As I got off the train and onto the platform, I realised that apart from the occasional trip to see my parents, this was the first time I’d left London in six months. Pete was packing a few extra married pounds these days and sporting a goatee beard.

‘Ed Hornsby, you old dog,’ said Pete, greeting me with a firm handshake.

‘Pete Wilson, looking very well,’ I said, patting him on his belly.

‘Downside of having a wife who can cook.’

‘Home cooking a downside? I can’t remember the last time I had a decent home-cooked meal.’

‘Kate doesn’t feed you?’

‘Not since she left for her trip, and even before that I worked such long hours, I usually just grabbed something on the go. The life of working in the City. Not anymore though.’

‘You left your job? I thought you were a lifer.’

‘It’s a long story, but I left, was pushed. Either way I’m done with it.’

‘And that’s why you’re here?’

‘Partly.’

‘Sounds like you could use a pint.’

‘I’d absolutely love one.’

‘We have to pop back to the house first and see Nat. I told her you were staying. She made up the spare room and is making something for dinner. Lasagne, I think.’

‘Thanks mate, really.’

‘It’s nothing.’

Pete and Natalie lived in a three-bedroom semi-detached in a quiet little village just outside of Nottingham. It was beautiful. There was even a little village green and a quaint, picturesque old country church next to it. Their house was huge in comparison to our place in Wandsworth, and probably only a quarter of the price. The inside was open-plan with a living room opening into a larger dining area and modern kitchen. There were lots of photos on the walls of family and friends and the year Pete and Natalie went travelling. It had a real family feel to it and felt lived in. It was the picture of happiness. 

I hadn’t seen Natalie since their wedding three years before, but she hadn’t changed and greeted me with a huge hug. She always reminded me of a farmer’s wife: big, busty and full of life. She was lovely and suited Pete perfectly.

‘It’s so nice to see you. We really don’t see enough of you and Kate.’

‘I’m sorry, it’s so hard with work and life and . . .’

‘Save the excuses,’ she said, cutting in. ‘And get your laughing gear around this.’ She passed me a pint of beer with a warm smile. She was from Yorkshire and had a wonderfully broad accent.

Looking around, Pete had exactly what he’d always wanted and it started me thinking about my own life. I’d tried to overcompensate for my childhood. I thought I needed so much because I came from so little, but I was wrong. Pete and Natalie didn’t have as much financially, but they spent time together, enjoyed life and seemed content. I wanted that with Kate. I thought I needed the magazine house, the coffee table life and the picture-perfect wife, but the reality was that it didn’t really exist. Pete and Natalie’s house was messy, uncoordinated and they had fishing trophies over the fireplace. In contrast, Kate and I had created a beautiful space full of whimsical, trendy and modern design, but it had no humanity because we were never in it. It wasn’t really us, but more a reflection of who we thought we should be. Maybe it was a part of the reason why Kate left, because I hadn’t given her a good enough reason to stay.

We had an amazing meal of lasagne, garlic bread and salad, while I explained about Kate going away and like everyone else in the world they couldn’t understand why I hadn’t gone too.

‘Oh my God, Ed, it’s the best thing ever, why didn’t you go?’ said Natalie.

‘Because I was afraid. Afraid of losing my job, which I’ve lost anyway, but you’re right, I should’ve gone.’

‘It’s not too late,’ said Natalie.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Go meet her, surprise her.’

‘I can’t,’ I said, more in hope than with any real conviction. ‘I thought about it, but decided to stay here and get things sorted out for when she gets back. I need to figure me out.’

‘If it were me, I’d be on that plane faster than a cat up a drainpipe.’

‘And what about me?’ said Pete with a wry grin. ‘You’d leave me to fend for myself?’

‘I’d never leave you,’ said Natalie, leaning across and kissing him.

They were still so in love and in some ways reminded me of what my parents had. It was solid, real and sort of old-fashioned, but it worked. Maybe it was the only way it ever really worked.

‘Behave,’ said Natalie with a smile.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll have him back by midnight,’ I said, zipping up my jacket to keep out the cold. The early promise of sunshine had been replaced with a bitter cold.

‘You’ll be lucky. The Swann’s usually closed by eleven, sometimes ten-thirty,’ said Pete.

‘You’re joking.’

‘You’re not in London now, mate. It’s a Tuesday night; we’ll probably be the only ones in there.’

Pete wasn’t wrong. The Swann was dead. It was a traditional, old-fashioned country pub – my dad would have loved it, the old red carpet, walls full of photos of the countryside and farmer knick-knacks. The barmaid, a buxom lady in her late fifties, was reading a magazine and there was one other customer, a wizened old man and his dog, who was asleep on the floor next to him. Pete got in a couple of pints and we sat down at an old wooden table next to a roaring fire.

‘What’s going on?’ said Pete straight away, not even waiting for me to open the packet of prawn cocktail crisps that sat between us.

‘I’m lost mate and I was sort of hoping you could help me.’

‘I’m all ears,’ said Pete and I told him everything.

‘I want to know how you knew what you wanted. From the day I met you, you always had everything sorted out. You always knew what you wanted and it amazed me, still does.’

Pete looked at me for a moment. I don’t think he knew what to say.

‘The answer is, I don’t know. It wasn’t like I woke up one day at fourteen and said, I’m going to be an environmental scientist.’

‘But you did though, didn’t you? Admit it.’

‘Maybe I wasn’t fourteen exactly,’ he said with a smile. ‘Perhaps fifteen, but the point is I don’t know why I knew, I just did. All I will say is that you always seemed to be rushing towards something. You could never really relax. It was always about work, about getting ahead. I don’t know, mate. It’s hard to put my finger on. I always knew I wanted a certain lifestyle. A bit more relaxed, chilled out and I wanted a job that involved the environment and that inspired me.’

‘But I don’t know what kind of life I want. Being here right now, I want what you have, but when I get back to London, I’ll probably want that too.’

‘You just need to figure out what’s important to you. Do you want money? Do you want more time to spend with Kate? Do you want to live in London or somewhere else? The important thing, the thing you really need to think about, is what makes you happy, because that’s all that really matters.’

Pete and I had a few more beers and we talked about everything. The good old days, the future and his and Natalie’s current attempts to have a baby, which had so far been fruitless. However, all I could think about was his last question. What made me happy? It was a question I’d been asking myself my whole life and I’d never found a satisfactory answer. I thought I was happy in banking, but looking back, was I? I hated the hours and the continual pressure. I loved the money and I loved that I was good at it, but did it make me happy? Ultimately it didn’t and so I was left with a gaping chasm that I needed to fill with something.

As I lay in their spare room that night, thinking over my life, I did decide something. I decided I was going to be happy. It sounded trivial and feckless because I still didn’t know what it was I wanted, but I think it would come with time. What was important was I finally realised my happiness wasn’t tied to my career so much as the other way around. My career should come from my happiness. I closed my eyes and thought of Kate, the one thing I knew made me happy, before I fell into a deep and happy sleep.

Jack

I couldn’t help but feel guilty as I sat on the tube and headed towards Holborn for my meeting with Morris Gladstone. I’d left Emma at home by herself and I knew she needed me. I felt bad because I should have been thinking about her and the baby, but I wasn’t. I was thinking about becoming a writer with an agent. I felt like an awful human being, but I’d waited so long for this opportunity and it could change our lives.

I felt a surge of optimism as I stood in front of the Morris Gladstone Literary Agency. It was a lovely old whitewashed building with an immense wooden door that looked very grandiose. I was already feeling a bit nervous about the whole experience and the large door didn’t really help. I was terrified Morris Gladstone was going to quiz me about what I read and current authors I wouldn’t have heard of and I was going to be tossed out as a pretender, an unknowledgeable, talentless fraud.

I pushed on the door and it actually opened with considerable ease. I walked into a stunningly bright and modern reception area that was completely unexpected after the traditional exterior. It was incredibly white with lots of natural light and wood and there were vases of beautiful flowers that added splashes of colour. There was a woman on reception who gave me a smile as I walked in.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I have a four o’clock with Morris Gladstone,’ I said uncertainly.

I was convinced there had been some kind of mix up, the assistant was probably new at her job and had me confused with someone else.

‘Jack Chapman, pleased to meet you. I’m Sylvia. Let me take that manuscript from you. Can I get you a coffee or tea?’

‘Coffee please,’ I said, handing her the full manuscript they’d requested I bring along, the three hundred pages of loosely tied-together ramblings that held my future.

‘Please take a seat,’ she said and then sauntered off to get my coffee.

I sat down on a remarkably soft chocolate-brown leather sofa and looked around. The walls were adorned with framed book covers, which did very little to ease my already frayed nerves. I just wanted to write novels. I didn’t belong among the covers I saw staring back at me; books that had been written by proper published authors. A part of me wanted to get up and run away as fast as I could, but I knew I couldn’t. I needed to remain calm and composed and try to think positively. The trouble was that because I’d worked at a shitty coffee shop for years and had faced rejection after rejection, I’d started to doubt my ability. The old me who knew exactly what he wanted and where he belonged had long since left the building.

‘Here you go,’ said Sylvia, handing me a cup of coffee and then a small tray of milk and sugar. ‘He shouldn’t be much longer.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and added milk and a couple of sugars to my coffee. There was also a small biscuit on the tray, which I took and ate quickly. My stomach was an acid bath of sickness.

‘I loved it,’ said Sylvia from her desk.

‘Sorry?’

‘The chapters you wrote, I loved them. We get a lot of manuscripts through here and I get to read a few. I read yours over the weekend and it blew me away. So funny and simply gorgeous.’