Something Like Happy Read online

  “It’s simple, really. You’re just meant to do one thing every day that makes you happy. Could be little things. Could be big. In fact, we’re doing one right now…”

  Annie Hebden is stuck. Stuck in her boring job, with her irritating roommate, in a life no thirty-five-year-old would want. But deep down, Annie is still mourning the terrible loss that tore a hole through the perfect existence she’d once taken for granted—and hiding away is safer than remembering what used to be. Until she meets the eccentric Polly Leonard.

  Bright, bubbly, intrusive Polly is everything Annie doesn’t want in a friend. But Polly is determined to finally wake Annie up to life. Because if recent events have taught Polly anything, it’s that your time is too short to waste a single day—which is why she wants Annie to join her on a mission…

  One hundred days. One hundred new ways to be happy. Annie’s convinced it’s impossible, but so is saying no to Polly. And on a journey that will force her to open herself to new experiences—and perhaps even new love with the unlikeliest of men—Annie will slowly begin to realize that maybe, just maybe, there’s still joy to be found in the world. But then it becomes clear that Polly’s about to need her new friend more than ever…and Annie will have to decide once and for all whether letting others in is a risk worth taking.

  With wry wit and boundless heart, Eva Woods delivers an unforgettable tale of celebrating triumphs great and small, seizing the day and always remembering to live in the moment.

  SOMETHING

  LIKE HAPPY

  Eva Woods

  To Scott (SP), with all my love

  Contents

  Prologue

  DAY 1

  DAY 2

  DAY 3

  DAY 4

  DAY 5

  DAY 6

  DAY 7

  DAY 8

  DAY 9

  DAY 10

  DAY 11

  DAY 12

  DAY 13

  DAY 14

  DAY 15

  DAY 16

  DAY 17

  DAY 18

  DAY 19

  DAY 20

  DAY 21

  DAY 22

  DAY 23

  DAY 24

  DAY 25

  DAY 26

  DAY 27

  DAY 28

  DAY 29

  DAY 30

  DAY 31

  DAY 32

  DAY 33

  DAY 34

  DAY 35

  DAY 36

  DAY 37

  DAY 38

  DAY 39

  DAY 40

  DAY 41

  DAY 42

  DAY 43

  DAY 44

  DAY 45

  DAY 46

  DAY 47

  DAY 48

  DAY 49

  DAY 50

  DAY 51

  DAY 52

  DAY 53

  DAY 54

  DAY 55

  DAY 56

  DAY 57

  DAY 58

  DAY 59

  DAY 60

  DAY 61

  DAY 62

  DAY 63

  DAY 64

  DAY 65

  DAY 66

  DAY 67

  DAY 68

  DAY 69

  DAYs 70 to 80

  DAY 81

  DAY 82

  DAY 83

  DAY 84

  DAY 85

  DAY 86

  DAY 87

  DAY 88

  DAY 89

  DAY 90

  DAY 91

  DAY 92

  DAY 93

  DAY 94

  DAY 95

  DAY 96

  DAY 97

  DAY 98

  DAY 99

  DAY 100

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  You can’t always pinpoint the precise moment that your life goes wrong. Most of the time it creeps up on you, year by year, moment by moment, until one day you look around and realize you’re so far from who you used to be you don’t even feel like the same person. It’s usually a gradual collapse, sneaking; a stone there, a pebble here. A slow erosion of who you are, bit by bit, piece by piece.

  But other times you can say exactly when it was your life fell apart. When all your carefully placed cards tumbled down, and your house collapsed, and you knew in that moment nothing was ever going to be the same again. In that moment, you weren’t sure if you would even survive, or be pulled under forever. But you did. Somehow.

  DAY 1

  Make a new friend

  “Excuse me?”

  No answer. The receptionist carried on clacking the computer keys. Annie tried again. “Excuse me.” That was a level-two “excuse me”—above the one she’d give to tourists blocking the escalator and below the one reserved for someone with their bag on a train seat. Nothing. “Sorry,” she said, taking it to level three (stealing your parking spot, bashing you with an umbrella, etc.). “Could you help me, please? I’ve been standing here for five minutes.”

  The woman kept typing. “What?”

  “I need to change the address on a patient file. I’ve already been sent to four different departments.”

  The receptionist extended one hand, without looking up. Annie gave her the form. “This you?”

  “Well, no.” Obviously.

  “The patient has to change it for themselves.”

  “Um, well, they can’t actually.” Which would be clear if anyone in the hospital ever bothered to read the files.

  The form dropped onto the counter. “Can’t let another person change it. Data protection, see.”

  “But...” Annie felt, suddenly and horribly, like she might cry. “I need to change it so letters come to my address! She can’t read them herself anymore! That’s why I’m here. Please! I—I just need it changed. I don’t understand how this can possibly be so difficult.”

  “Sorry.” The receptionist sniffed, picked something off one of her nails.

  Annie snatched the paper up. “Look, I’ve been in this hospital for ten hours now. I’ve been sent around from office to office. Patient Records. Neurology. Outpatients. Reception. Back to Neurology. And no one seems to have the slightest idea how to do this very simple task! I haven’t eaten. I haven’t showered. And I can’t go home unless you just open up your computer and type in a few lines. That’s all you have to do.”

  The receptionist still wasn’t even looking at her. Clack, clack, clack. Annie felt it swell up in her—the anger, the pain, the frustration. “Will you listen to me?” She reached over and wrenched the computer around.

  The woman’s eyebrows disappeared into her bouffant hair. “Madam, I’m going to have to call security if you don’t—”

  “I just want you to look at me when I’m speaking. I just need you to help me. Please.” And then it was too late and she was definitely crying, her mouth suddenly filling with bitter salt. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just—I really need to change the address.”

  “Listen, madam...” The receptionist was swelling, her mouth opening, no doubt to tell Annie where to go. Then something odd happened. Instead, her face creased into a smile. “Hiya, P.”

  “He-ey, everything okay here?”

  Annie turned to see who was interrupting. In the doorway of the dingy hospit
al office was a tall woman in all shades of the rainbow. Red shoes. Purple tights. A yellow dress, the color of Sicilian lemons. A green beanie hat. Her amber jewelry glowed orange, and her eyes were a vivid blue. That array of color shouldn’t have worked, but somehow it did. She leaned toward Annie, touching her arm; Annie flinched. “So sorry, I don’t mean to jump in front of you. Just need to very, very quickly make an appointment.”

  The receptionist was back clacking, this time with a jaunty beat. “Next week do ya?”

  “Thanks, you’re a star. Sorry, I’ve totally queue-jumped!” The rainbow beamed at Annie again. “Is this lovely lady all sorted, Denise?”

  No one had called Annie a lovely lady for a long time. She blinked the tears from her eyes, trying to sound firm. “Well, no, because apparently it’s too hard to just change a patient record. I’ve been to four different offices now.”

  “Oh, Denise can do that for you. She has all the secrets of this hospital at her fabulous fingertips.” The woman mimed typing. There was a large bruise on the back of one hand, partly covered by taped-on cotton wool.

  Denise was actually nodding, grudgingly. “All right, then. Give it here.”

  Annie passed the form over. “Can you send care of me, please? Annie Hebden.” Denise typed, and within ten seconds, the thing Annie had waited for all day was done. “Um, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, madam,” said Denise, and Annie could feel her judgment. She’d been rude. She knew she’d been rude. It was just so frustrating, so difficult.

  “Brill. Bye, missus.” The rainbow woman waved at Denise, then grabbed Annie’s arm again. “Listen. I’m sorry you’re having a bad day.”

  “I—what?”

  “You seem like you’re having a really bad day.”

  Annie was temporarily speechless. “I’m in the bloody hospital. Do you think anyone here’s having a good day?”

  The woman looked around at the waiting room behind them—half the people on crutches, some with shaved heads and pale faces, a shrunken woman hunched in a wheelchair in a hospital gown, bored kids upending the contents of their mums’ bags while the mums mindlessly stabbed at phones. “No reason why not.”

  Annie stepped back, angry. “Listen, thank you for your help—though I shouldn’t have needed it, this hospital is a disgrace—but you’ve no idea why I’m in here.”

  “True.”

  “So, I’m going now.”

  The woman said, “Do you like cake?”

  “What? Of course I—what?”

  “Wait a sec.” She dashed away. Annie looked at Denise, who’d gone back to her blank-eyed keyboard stare. She counted to ten—annoyed at herself for even doing that—then shook her head and went out down the corridor, with its palette of despair blue and bile green. Sounds of wheeling beds, flapping doors, distant crying. An old man lay on a trolley, tiny and gray. Thank God she was finally done. She needed to go home, lose herself in the TV, hide under the duvet—

  “Wait! Annie Hebden!”

  Annie turned. The annoying woman was running down the corridor—well, more sort of shuffling, out of breath. She held a cupcake aloft, iced with wavy chocolate frosting. “For you,” she panted, thrusting it into Annie’s hand. Each of her nails was painted a different color.

  Annie was speechless for the second time in five minutes. “Why?”

  “Because. Cupcakes make everything a little better. Except for type 2 diabetes, I guess.”

  “Uh...” Annie looked at the cake in her hand. Slightly squished. “Thank you?”

  “That’s okay.” The woman licked some rogue frosting off her hand. “Ick, I hope I don’t get MRSA. Not that it would make much difference. I’m Polly, by the way. And you’re Annie.”

  “Er. Yeah.”

  “Have a good day, Annie Hebden. Or at least a slightly better one. Remember—if you want the rainbow, you have to put up with the rain.” And she waved, and skipped—was it the first time anyone had ever skipped down the Corridor of Doom?—out of sight.

  * * *

  Annie waited for the bus in the rain, that gray soupy rain that Lewisham seemed to specialize in. She thought what a stupid thing it was the woman had said. Rain didn’t always lead to rainbows. Usually it just led to soaked socks and your hair in rattails. But at least she had somewhere to go. A homeless man sat beneath the bus shelter, water dripping off his head and forming a puddle around his dirty trousers. Annie felt wretched for him, but what could she do? She couldn’t help him. She couldn’t even help herself.

  When the bus came it was rammed, and she stood squeezed up between a buggy and a mound of shopping bags, buffeted by every turn. An elderly lady got on, wobbling up the steps with her shopping trolley. As she shuffled down the bus, nobody looked up from their phones to offer her a seat. Annie finally snapped. What was wrong with people? Was there not a shred of decency left in this city? “For God’s sake!” she barked. “Could someone let this lady sit down, please?” A young man with huge headphones slouched out of his seat, embarrassed.

  “No need to take the Lord’s name in vain,” said the old lady, tutting disapprovingly at Annie as she sat down.

  Annie stared at her feet, which had left grimy marks on the wet floor of the bus, until she got to her stop.

  How had her life come to this? she wondered. Losing it in public over a change of address? Weeping in front of strangers? Once it would have been her raising her eyebrows as someone else had a meltdown. Offering tissues, and a soothing pat on the arm. She didn’t understand what had happened to that person. The one she used to be.

  Sometimes it felt to Annie like her life had changed in the blink of an eye. Eyes shut—she was back in the bedroom of her lovely house on that last sunny morning, and everything was good. She was filled with excitement, and hope, and slightly exhausted joy. Perfect. Eyes open—she was here, trudging back to her horrible flat, catching the bus in the rain, lying awake full of dread and misery. One blink, perfect. Two blinks, ruined. But no matter how many times she closed her eyes, it never went back to how it used to be.

  DAY 2

  Smile at strangers

  The doorbell was ringing. Annie woke up with a jerk, her heart shock-started. What was it? The police again, the ambulance...but no, the worst had already happened. She sat up, registering that she’d fallen asleep on the sofa again, in the clothes she’d worn to the hospital. She couldn’t even remember what she’d been watching on TV. Tattoo Fixers, maybe? She liked that. It was always comforting to see there were people who’d made worse decisions than she had.

  Riiiinnnngg. She moved aside the blanket Costas must have laid over her. As she stood up, crumbs and tissues and a remote control fell out of her clothes. It was as if she’d come home drunk, but drunk on misery, on grief, on anger.

  Riiiiinnnnnng! “All right!” Jesus. What time was it, anyway? The TV clock read 9:23 a.m. She had to hurry or she’d miss visiting hours. Costas would have left ages ago to do the breakfast shift, in and out without her even seeing him. A feeling of shame rolled over her —the Annie of two years ago would never have slept in her clothes.

  “Annie Hebden! Are you in there?”

  Annie winced. Through the door chain she could see a blur of jewel green—it was the strange woman from the hospital. Polly something.

  “Er, yes?”

  “I’ve got your hospital letter.” A hand appeared in the gap, this time with silver nails, and waved an envelope under Annie’s nose. It had her name on it, but a different address. One in a nicer part of town. “You probably got mine,” said the woman cheerfully.

  Annie looked at the pile of letters on the mat. Bills. A subscription to Gardening Monthly, which she really should have canceled by now. And a bright white envelope addressed to Polly Leonard. “How did that happen?”

  “I guess Denise got mixed u
p when you changed the address. I called her to switch them around, no harm done.”

  Was the hospital supposed to give out her address? “So you came all the way here, just to give me this?” It would have taken more than half an hour from Polly’s home in Greenwich to Annie’s in Lewisham, especially at rush hour.

  “Sure. I’ve never been to this part of town before, so I thought why not?”

  There were a million reasons why not. The area’s soaring crime rates. The monstrosity of its seventies shopping center. The fact they’d been digging up the heart of it for years now, creating a traffic-clogged hellhole full of thundering drills and melted tarmac.

  “Well. Thanks for bringing it.” She stuck Polly’s letter out the gap. “Bye, then.”

  Polly didn’t budge. “Are you going to the hospital today?”

  Every instinct told Annie to lie, but for some reason she didn’t. “Oh, yeah. I will be, but—”

  “Appointment?”

  “Not exactly.” She didn’t feel up to explaining.

  “I’m going in, too. I thought we could travel together.”

  Annie had been known to stay in the office for an extra twenty minutes some days, just to be sure her colleagues were gone so she wouldn’t have to catch the bus with them. “I’m not dressed,” she said.

  “That’s okay. I can wait.”

  “But...but...” Annie’s stupid brain couldn’t think of a single reason not to let this annoying, overly colorful stranger into her home. “I guess...okay, then.”

  * * *

  “So this is your place.” Polly stood in Annie’s drab living room like a Christmas tree. Today, she wore what looked like an ankle-length cocktail dress in crème de menthe satin, and underneath it, biker boots. A fake fur jacket and a knitted hat completed the look. The hem of the dress was damp and dirty, as if she’d just walked through Lewisham in the rain. She looked like a model on an urban fashion shoot.

  “I’m not allowed to decorate. Landlord won’t let me.” The tenth-floor flat still had its depressing laminate floorboards and seventies knobbly walls. It smelled of damp and other people’s cooking. “Um, I need to shower. Do you want—you want tea or anything?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll just stay here and read or something.” She looked around at the shabby room, the laundry on the rack—Annie’s overwashed pants and leggings—which had dried all crispy. Polly picked something up from the dusty coffee table. “How to Obtain Power of Attorney. This looks interesting.” Was that sarcasm? A slim pamphlet with a sad stock photo of someone holding an old person’s hand. When really getting power of attorney was more like grabbing that old person’s hand and tying it to their side before they could hurt themselves. Or someone else.