The Happiness Show (7 page)

 

Tom had woken early and stood in his towel, freezing his bollocks off for a good five minutes, waiting for the central heating to kick in and wondering what to wear. A suit, he finally thought. That's what he always wore to work and he didn't want to raise suspicions. Not that there was anything to be suspicious about. They were both married, de facto, whatever, right? So a suit. Definitely. But maybe she'd think that was too stuffy, being a comedian and all. And in an instant he was back in their first weeks together in London, getting dressed for a job interview while she lounged naked in bed.

‘I bet you think I look like a prat,' said Tom, feeling her eyes on him as he tried to remember how to tie a Windsor knot.

‘Actually, I have a bit of a thing for prats. And men in suits.'

She looked so real and so beautiful, propped up on one elbow and drinking a cup of coffee. They were staying in Mad Will's room in a share house in Brixton. The walls were covered in a faded old French wallpaper, a 1920s design in green, purple and crimson. It looked like a jaded bordello and Lizzie had taken to calling the room ‘the brothel.' Sometimes she'd stand at the door in her dressing gown and say, ‘Fifty quid for straight. No kissing. Anything else is extra.'

She had hung a sarong on the window for privacy and now it flapped in the gentle morning breeze, floating up to reveal a perfect blue sky. She looked out the window and Tom grabbed the Leica, which he'd picked up from the repair shop the day before.

‘Lizzie?'

She turned around smiling and he snapped. He'd captured her. ‘Bloody hell, Tom, don't you have enough photos of me?'

‘Hey, don't be so up yourself. I'm just testing out the camera. Anyway, slight non-sequitur, but fancy a shag?'

‘Didn't we fancy a shag an hour ago?'

‘Did we?' said Tom as he took off the trousers he'd just put on and Lizzie drew him in. When they finished he stayed inside her and kissed her gently on the mouth. Her eyes were closed and she kept on coming. Eventually she stopped and opened her eyes.

‘I don't know what's going to happen next.'

‘I do,' said Tom as he pulled his pants on. ‘I'm going to have a job interview with some posh tosser who owns a law firm.'

‘Aren't you going to have a wash?'

‘No, I want to smell you on me all day.'

And he did.

 

*

 

Tom wanted to look polished for Lizzie. Not to get her into bed. He just didn't want her to think he was old and worn down. He put on the Ted Baker suit, a pale-green Hugo Boss shirt and a silk tie Felicity had given him for his birthday.

Felicity and Celia were both still asleep. He kissed his wife on the head and she mumbled, ‘What time is it?'

‘6.50.'

‘Why are you leaving so early?'

‘Can't sleep. I want to go in and deal with the mess at work.'

‘Okay, darling. Have a lovely day. Don't forget Celia's Christmas concert tonight.'

Tom didn't hear. He was out the door and miles away. When he was four houses down the street he stopped abruptly, turned around and walked back through his front gate. He went into the darkroom, picked up his Leica and wrapped it gently in a blue batik scarf that was lying on the couch. Then he tucked it into his soft leather satchel and left.

 

At lunchtime he wandered along Audley Street to James & Victor's, his regular barber's. It was a dodgy old shop, dark and wood-panelled with an old barber's pole out the front, the kind you only see in the movies. It offered old copies of
Fox and Hound
,
Ralph
and, if you dug down far enough,
Penthouse
. You waited your turn and got some bad music, a bawdy joke and a bloody good haircut for a tenner.

‘Hello, guv'nor. The usual, is it?'

‘Yes, thanks, Vic. And a shave too, come to think of it.'

‘Special occasion, is it?'

‘Sort of.'

‘Right you are, then. How many blondes does it take to change a light globe?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Fifty-one. One to hold the light globe and the rest to turn the room around.'

As Vic got to work, Tom racked his brain for what to do with Lizzie. He couldn't help it. He hadn't stopped thinking about her for a second. What did he normally fill his mind with? He couldn't remember. Cameras? Cars? Work?

It wasn't about fucking. Sure, she turned him on, but it was more than that. She had this part of him that he thought he'd lost. A part from back before the mortgage, the car payments, the life insurance, the disability insurance, the income-protection insurance, the school fees, the tax audit, Harry and the El Husseins and all the rest. Back when all he needed was a pair of jeans, his backpack and his Leica. And Lizzie. How had life crept up on him like this?

As he wandered back to work, a bus rolled past. When he read the advertisement on the back, he knew exactly where he'd take her. Not too sleazy. They wouldn't bump into anyone he knew. And they could be alone. As soon as he was back in the office, Tom picked up the phone. ‘Great. 4 p.m. Yes, just the two of us. No, I don't think we want the cupid package. Can I pay by credit card? Wonderful. See you then.'

Lizzie's gonna love this, Tom thought. He pressed the buzzer and asked Bronwyn to send in his one o'clock client, a mean little man who wanted to screw his wife for everything he could.

 

‘Hi,' said Lizzie as she approached the table.

Tom stood up and kissed her on the cheek. She offered her other cheek and he kissed that too. Then she hugged him – a good to see you hug, not a fancy a shag hug.

‘What would you like?'

‘A vodka, lime and soda, thanks.'

‘Great.'

Tom went to the bar and returned with two glasses. He put them down next to Lizzie's packet of cigarettes.

‘You still smoke?'

‘Only when I travel. I bought them at Singapore airport.'

‘Ah, Changi. Bottoms up,' said Tom, picking up his glass. ‘Here's to inappropriately named airports.'

‘I think I'll have to skol. I don't know what comes next,' said Lizzie.

He looked confused for a moment, and then he remembered their drinking game. A smile spread across his face.

‘
Thinking back now—
'

‘
I suppose you were just stating your views.
'

‘
What was it all for
?'

‘
For the weather and the battle of Agincourt—'

‘
And the times that we all thought would last—
'

‘
Like a train they have gone by so fast—
'

‘
And though we stood together at the edge of the platform—'

‘
We were not moved by them.
'

‘
With my own hands—
'

‘
When I make love to your memory—
'

‘
It's not the same.
'

‘
I miss the thunder, I miss the rain.
'

‘Stuff this, I need a drink.' Tom skolled. ‘What was that one called?'

‘“St Swithin's Day.”'

‘Ah, that's right. You know that's the name of Keith and Becky's place?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's an old church, St Swithin's. She transformed it into a temple of modern architecture.'

‘Another one?' asked Lizzie, picking up her bag and nodding towards the bar.

‘No. Look, let's go for a walk.'

‘Sure, sounds great.'

They rugged up and floated through the streets together. It was very cold but the sky was blue and the air was crisp. Lizzie had to stop herself from hooking her arm through Tom's. He looked so noble and handsome and she felt so light. They walked across Waterloo Bridge and when they stopped, Lizzie didn't realise they were at the London Eye.

‘Stay here for a sec, Lizzie.'

A shiver went up her spine when he said her name.

‘Are you serious? Did you know I've got a thing for Ferris wheels?'

He pretended he didn't remember, but he did. Tom walked over to the ticket booth, handed over his credit card and came back with a man in uniform.

‘This way please, madam.'

As they followed the man, Lizzie mouthed the word ‘madam' and rolled her eyes. Tom watched her mouth and felt himself get hard. He hadn't felt like this since he was a teenager. What was she doing to him? She must be some kind of witch. He didn't care what happened next; it was out of his hands. She was like a drug. He'd do whatever it took for another fix, and he'd wear the consequences.

The man showed them to a glass capsule and ushered them inside.

‘You'll take off in about three minutes. Enjoy.' And he closed the door.

‘It's just us?'

‘Just us.'

‘Did you book this?'

‘I always do this with visitors from abroad.'

‘Really? You're that loaded?'

‘It's not that expensive.'

‘Ah, so that's how you look when you lie.'

The late-afternoon light picked up the sparkle in her eye and the red in her hair and she looked fucking gorgeous. Then she turned her back to him to gaze out the window onto the Thames. ‘You know, all over Europe at these tourist attractions, Americans say, “Wow, this is super.” The English say, “My, this is astonishing.” Do you know what the Australians say?'

‘No.'

‘“Farkin' amazing.”'

He remembered the Leica and pulled it out of his satchel, unwrapping it from the scarf. He focused on her and felt the resistance of the shutter button against his finger.

‘Lizzie?'

She turned around smiling and he snapped. He captured her. He moved the camera away from his face.

‘Is that the same old camera of yours?' She was walking towards him. And Tom moved towards her, reached out one finger and gently pushed a stray hair away from her eye.

Lizzie gulped.

Tom's mobile went off. The ID said ‘Felicity.'

Shit, he thought. And then: The Christmas concert. He'd planned to sneak in the back and pretend he'd been there the whole time. But he knew that if he didn't answer now, she'd just keep calling. ‘I've got to take this.'

He stepped out of the capsule.

‘Hello.' And then his voice changed. ‘What? FUCK. Where? I'll be right there.'

Lizzie could tell it was serious. Tom was white. She reached her arm out to him and he held it, her bracelet catching a thread on his jacket.

‘Celia's in intensive care. Lizzie, I've got to go. She's been in a car accident with Felicity.'

And with that he was off.

Lizzie stood dumbstruck, alone in the capsule. The attendant walked past and stuck his head in the door. ‘Where's your friend?'

‘He had to go. Family emergency.'

‘Lucky you, on your own.'

And with that the attendant closed the door and Lizzie took off, floating above the Thames, Big Ben, Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace, Covent Garden, Thistle Charing Cross, Becky, Keith, Marks and Sparks, Celia, Felicity and Tom. As she got to the top of the Eye, tears poured down her face and hit the floor. She looked out across everything and thought to herself, I have no idea what's going to happen next.

And then, for the first time in her life, four days before Christmas, Lizzie saw snow.

 

Tom was almost hit by an ambulance as he bolted towards the sign that said ‘EMERGENCY.' He ran through the plastic doors of St Hilary's and spluttered to the nurse behind the triage desk, ‘Celia Shorebrook?'

‘Are you a relative? S H O R E …'

‘Yes, I'm her father. My wife's been in a car accident. She just phoned …'

‘Yes, Mr Shorebrook.' Her tone was more urgent now. ‘Follow me.' She gestured to another clerk to take over the desk.

Tom's eyes were wide with fear as he followed the nurse through the corridors. As he walked through the doors to intensive care, all he could see were three old men attached to machines and a fourth bed surrounded by a large clutch of people. It was all a blur until he recognised the top of Felicity's head. She turned around as he walked in and her face was a mask of pain. ‘Tom,' she squeezed out. As he approached the bed, the crowd of people parted.

Celia was barely recognisable. Her head was partly shaved and what was left of her hair was matted with blood. Her face was swollen so badly that her eyes had disappeared, and the left side of her face was stitched and painted with antiseptic the colour of a smoker's fingers.

Tom lurched and moaned, ‘Oh God, my baby.' To nobody in particular he cried, ‘What happened? Is she going to be alright?'

A woman in her forties in a white coat stepped forward. ‘Mr Shorebrook, I'm Dr Johansson and I'm the paediatric neurosurgeon here. I'm afraid your daughter sustained quite a blow. Her cerebral artery has been crushed, which is causing pressure around the brain. We need to operate as soon as possible to alleviate the pressure. Your daughter is in a critical condition and although this surgery comes with risks, I feel the risk of doing nothing is far greater.'

Tom looked at Felicity, who stared blankly back.

‘Whatever you think is best, doctor,' Felicity said finally. Tom put his arm around her and she shook with sobs.

Tom held Celia's left hand as the staff prepared her for theatre and Felicity held the other. Doctors and nurses buzzed about asking questions.

‘Any allergies?'

‘No.'

‘Does your daughter suffer from diabetes, asthma or epilepsy?'

‘No.'

‘Do you know her blood group?'

‘I think it's O positive,' said Felicity, not taking her eyes off Celia for a second.

‘Religion?'

‘No,' said Tom.

‘Church of England,' said Felicity at the same moment.

An orderly walked over and took the brake off the trolley.

‘She's ready,' said a nurse.

Tom and Felicity walked briskly with the trolley until they reached two heavy swinging doors and somebody said, ‘You'll have to say goodbye here.'

Tom leaned in and kissed his beautiful daughter on her swollen, battered face. Felicity collapsed against the wall, her hand over her mouth as if stifling a scream.

Celia disappeared through the doors and Felicity and Tom stood watching them swing to a standstill. Then there was a voice behind them and a hand on their shoulders and somebody moving between them.

‘She'll be right. She's in a safe place. Let me make you a cuppa.' It was an Australian nurse. Her nametag said ‘Helen'
and next to her name was a fairy sticker. She led them to a couch and Felicity explained what had happened in fits and spluttering starts. They'd been on their way to the Christmas concert when a four-wheel-drive came sailing through a red light and rammed straight into their car.

As soon as Tom heard the word four-wheel-drive, he hit the roof. He hated the things. He was constantly bemoaning their propensity to roll and, above all, their bull bars, which made them lethal in a collision. Not for the wankers driving them but for the innocent fuckers they rammed into.

Now he leapt up and looked around, as if ready to confront the driver. ‘A four-wheel-drive? A fucking death trap? Through a fucking red?'

‘The driver was having a heart attack.'

‘Good,' said Tom.

‘He passed away, Tom.'

‘Oh,' said Tom.

He sat down next to Felicity and put his arm around her. ‘It's all my fault. It's all my fault.'

And then he realised he'd left his satchel in the cab.

 

*

 

‘So our vision was to explore the pursuit of happiness in different cultures, using already published research as a starting point.'

‘Sounds great, Lizzie,' said Keith, leaning back in his chair. ‘What kind of research?'

‘There's been a lot of work done on happiness and it's all in the proposal, but studies have found unequivocally that several things diminish feelings of happiness across the board. All ages, all cultures.'

‘Such as?'

‘Watching television and reading newspapers.'

‘So are you blaming the media for the world's collective malaise?'

‘Personally I blame the government. But it's becoming very common for therapists to tell depressed patients to turn off the telly, cancel the newspapers and flush their iPads.'

‘Hang on, Lizzie, if you tell our viewers that, we'll all be unemployed,' said Keith. Adrian, the BBC's head of light entertainment, chuckled and Lizzie carried on.

‘But on the up-side, they've discovered that there's one thing that improves happiness 100 per cent of the time, and that's meditation.'

‘Haven't they heard of alcohol?' asked Keith.

‘Or sex?' said Adrian.

‘Or chocolate or shoe shopping? Obviously not. There was another study, where researchers interviewed academics whose jobs were up for review and asked them how they thought they'd feel if they were tenured and how they'd feel if they got the chop. When they revisited them six months later, the people who got tenure were not as happy as they'd predicted and the people who got the dick weren't as sad as they'd expected to be.'

‘Because they'd killed themselves,' added Keith.

‘There was a similar study done in Canada of couples who were having marriage counselling. After two years, the couples who split up and the ones who stayed together had the same levels of happiness.'

‘How'd they work that out?' said Keith as he twisted an Oreo apart and licked the insides out.

‘Various ways. But primarily with a model known as—' A mobile phone went off. It was Keith's.

‘Sorry, everyone. Hello?' Keith walked away from the table. ‘No, it's fine. How is she? Well, that's good. What a relief. How are Tom and Felicity?'

Lizzie had nearly forgotten in all the commotion that Keith was Celia's uncle. The mere mention of Tom's name made her heart jump and her face flush. As Keith came back to the table, she began to fiddle with her notes.

‘Is everything okay?' she asked casually.

‘My wife's niece has been in a car accident. Oh, that's right, Lizzie, I forgot you knew Tom. Shit, yeah – well, the kid's been at death's door. A four-wheel-drive slammed into the side of the car and she had to have brain surgery twice over the weekend. Everyone's beside themselves. But she's off life support now and seems to be getting better.'

‘That's terrible. Is Felicity okay?' asked Lizzie.

‘Oh, she's fine, a broken wrist, that's all. Do you know Felicity, too?'

‘No, only Tom mentioned her, you know. At your party on Sunday. He couldn't stop talking about her. Obviously crazy about her.'

‘Oh yeah, couple most likely to make it to their sixtieth wedding anniversary if you ask me.'

Lizzie felt a lump in her throat. Keith handed her a mug of lukewarm white coffee and she absent-mindedly took a mouthful.

‘What is it with you Poms?
'
she coughed, trying to change the subject. ‘You immediately assume that everyone takes milk in their coffee.'

‘Hey!' said Adrian, his nose out of joint at mention of a party. ‘Thanks for the invite, Keith.'

‘Sorry, mate. It was mostly family. First time since we've had the twins that we've had anyone over. I tell you what, those happy pills are bloody great.'

‘Happy pills?' Lizzie enquired.

‘Anti-depressants. Becky had post-natal depression after the twins were born. Bizarre. All she ever wanted was to have kids. Two little boys was her dream. Gets what she wants and then falls in a heap. Anyway, Felicity sorted her out. Right on the money, that woman. Two weeks later, some happy pills and a good therapist and Becky's a new woman.'

‘I heard those anti-depressants are really bad for your libido.'

‘I'll tell you what's bad for your sex life. Twins, mate, twins. So, Lizzie, back to business. This thing'll be funny, right?'

‘Definitely. Funny, warm, interesting, compelling, you name it. You know, light and shade, light and shade.'

‘Do we have a working title?'

‘Well, my one-woman show was called
If You're Happy and You Know It, You're Not
,
but for TV I was thinking
The Happiness Show.
'

‘
Sounds great. Well, I'm sold. How about you, Adrian?'

‘I'm happy if you're happy, mate.'

‘Welcome to the BBC, Lizzie,' said Keith, holding out his hand. ‘I hope you'll be very happy here.'

‘I'm sure I will be.'

They shook hands and Keith looked at his watch. It was almost six. ‘Fancy a pint, then?'

‘Yeah, just the one,' said Lizzie. ‘I've got a plane to catch.'

 

*

 

As soon as Lizzie landed in Melbourne, she could feel the heat radiating from the tarmac. As she skulked through customs, she looked at the faces of the custom officers. This is what they mean by
a
face like a slapped arse
, she thought. The women in particular looked so pinched and crabby. That's what happens to a woman if she isn't loved, Lizzie decided as she stepped out into the arrivals hall.

Everyone looked so badly dressed. She always thought this when she returned to Australia. To be fair, it was stinking hot and people always look badly dressed in the heat. But a cool change was coming. You could tell by the smell and the weight of the air. It was heavy and steamy and wrapped around her like a damp blanket.

She looked around for Jim. They hadn't spoken since Tuesday, after her meeting with Keith and Adrian. That seemed like hundreds of years ago now – yet it felt like she'd only been away an hour.

She stood with her backpack on a trolley and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was 7.45 p.m. and still daylight outside, but dark grey clouds were rumbling in. As she dug into her handbag, looking for her mobile phone, a familiar voice called from behind her. ‘Got any spare change?'

It was Jules. Splendid, glorious, perfect Jules. They hugged.

‘Your useless husband and kids are down with a bit of chuck and duck disease.'

‘Oh, God, just what I need. Jetlag, Christmas and gastro. If only I had a hangover, I'd have the quaddie. What is it about this time of year and gastro?'

‘Well, my friend,' said Jules, as she swung Lizzie's backpack into the boot, ‘it may surprise you that I am not a microbiologist, but it has to do with the fluctuating temperatures. They cook up the bugs. All those taramosalata dips going dodgy in the sun don't help, either.'

They took off in Jules's new car, a metallic lime-green Citroën C3, and Lizzie felt as if she were in a rocket. The blast of cold air was a relief; she'd only been out of the air-conditioned terminal for five minutes, but she wasn't in the mood for discomfort. ‘Jim called me this morning and told me the three of them were diseased, so I went over after work to give him a hand.'

‘Did Cam mind?'

‘Nah, he's at his work Christmas thing. No partners. Seeing as I've sent all my Christmas cards, wrapped the presents and vowed never to drink cheap champagne again, I've got nothing better to do than clean up your kids' shit and vomit.'

Cameron was Jules's husband. He was a weird guy. At first Lizzie had thought he was nice but a bit boring. Then she'd decided he was both boring and not very nice. And now she didn't think much about him at all.

But Jules loved him. Fiercely. And so Lizzie figured he couldn't be all bad, because Jules loved Lizzie fiercely, too. He was a Melbourne Grammar boy, a financial planner, a member of the Lions Club and a shit-hot squash player. Lizzie had always suspected he didn't approve of her, not because she was from the wrong side of the tracks but because she wasn't apologetic about it. Cameron's position at the top of the food chain was only safe if people like Lizzie knew their place.

Lizzie and Jules talked shit the whole way home. Lizzie prayed Jules wouldn't ask if she'd seen Tom. She did want to talk about him – but not just yet. She wanted him to herself for a little longer. She also knew that Jules was a walking reality pill and would have no qualms about saying what she thought. And Lizzie knew it wasn't right, even though nothing had happened. Well, something
had
happened – she just wasn't quite sure what. She hadn't started something, she just hadn't finished something. They'd picked up where they left off, and then left off again.

Jules was the only person in Australia who knew about Tom. Six months after Lizzie fled to Japan, Jules quit her job with a prestigious law firm and headed off on an adventure of her own. When Lizzie and Tom disembarked the Trans-Siberian in Moscow, they braced themselves for a tearful goodbye. He was off home to London, while Lizzie had promised Jules they'd meet up wherever Jules's travels had taken her. But when Lizzie phoned Jules's mum to find out where she should be heading, she found with delight that Jules was in London, pulling beers in a pub called the Hog's Breath and living in the dormitory upstairs.

When Lizzie arrived at the pub late one afternoon, covered in a fine layer of sweat and still smelling of the plane's refresher towels, Jules was standing on the pool table flashing a brown eye. What Lizzie had always thought of as an Australian custom – dropping your daks if you didn't manage to pot one ball in the entire game – was obviously an internationally ratified treaty. Lizzie wasn't surprised to see Jules baring her arse: she couldn't play pool to save herself. But she played all the time anyway. She reckoned she was better looking under the fringed pendant lights.