The Pollyanna Plan Page 3

  But where has thinking realistically got you? a little voice peeped up from the back of her brain.

  Emma stared into Alice’s expectant face, her mind flipping over. Maybe trying a different approach wouldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t go as far as embracing mythical creatures, but she could try to be slightly more positive. It might not change anything in the long run, but perhaps it’d make rebuilding her life more bearable. She swallowed back her growing dread just thinking of the days ahead in her empty flat.

  ‘Okay.’ Emma nodded, and Alice’s face lit up. ‘I’ll give this Pollyanna Plan a try.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ Alice grinned. ‘See? It pays to be optimistic. If I’d thought you’d never agree, I wouldn’t have even mentioned it. Then you’d still be old misery guts.’

  ‘Misery guts?’ Emma echoed, taking another big slurp of her drink.

  ‘Well, not exactly misery guts, but you know,’ Alice said quickly. ‘Anyway, I really think seeing the good in everything will bring about a whole new you.’ She tried to heave the fishbowl into the air, then gave up and raised her straw. ‘Here’s to the Pollyanna Plan!’

  Squinting, Emma attempted to clink her straw with Alice’s, but her aim was off.

  ‘Cheers,’ she managed to get out. Lifting the straw to her lips, Emma thought that although she might be drunk, she definitely wasn’t delusional. She’d try this Pollyanna thing because, as Alice so kindly pointed out, she had nothing to lose. But Emma was certain when it came to real life, seeing the good in everything wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘Oh my God,’ Emma groaned as a shard of sunlight speared straight through her socket and into her throbbing head the next morning. Her tongue felt like a furry animal, and her eyeballs were gritty and sore.

  Swinging her legs around the bed, a wave of panic hit as she squinted against the bright light. Bright light? Christ, it was almost eleven! Why hadn’t the alarm gone off at five, as usual? Then yesterday’s events sank in. The alarm hadn’t rung because she no longer had a job. As of today, she was part of the great unwashed, the pitiful poor who made up 10 percent of British society—the unemployed.

  Emma pressed her fingers to her pounding temples as memories flooded in: Henry letting her go, leaving the office, then heading to the dive on Brick Lane and downing several fishbowls full of daiquiri, and…she groaned at the recollection of the Pollyanna Plan. What on earth had she agreed to?

  Well, thinking positively couldn’t be too hard. It was easier to bury your head in the sand than face reality, right? Judging from the fantastical numbers on the loan applications she’d dealt with every day, 90 percent of the population did just that.

  A wave of nausea swept over her, and for a brief moment Emma was afraid she’d be sick. One upside of a hangover, at least, was the ability to appreciate how good it was not to have a hangover. Ha! See? She was being positive already. This thing would be a cinch. Gulping down a glass of water, Emma wondered what to do today. Alice was working the Friday afternoon and evening shift, and there wasn’t anyone else she could call.

  This was why free time sucked! The less busy you were, the more time you had to think. Well, on the positive side and all—Emma rolled her eyes—it gave her a chance to get started on finding a job. The sooner she returned to her regular routine, the better.

  As she booted up the laptop, Emma forced herself to think that perhaps finding a new position wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe she could secure a more senior post with a greater workload (bonus!) and an even higher salary. Her CV would certainly reflect her expertise. Reflecting on the years of experience, certificates, and conferences she’d attended, Emma felt…numb. She’d worked hard and accomplished a lot. So why didn’t she feel proud? Or something?

  She was still in shock, Emma decided. Pride was highly overrated. It was enough to have a good, solid résumé.

  Her mobile jingled, and Emma lunged to grab it.

  ‘Hey, Pollyanna!’ Alice’s energetic voice rang through the receiver, making Emma wince as the hangover headache assaulted her brain. ‘Just about to start my shift. How’s the first day of the rest of your life?’

  Oh, God. ‘Fantastic,’ Emma responded, trying hard to make her voice neutral.

  ‘Good to hear it. And on that note’—Alice’s tone oozed with mischief—‘I’ve arranged something super fun for us tomorrow night. Something to really kick off your change of attitude with a bang and to mark a whole new chapter.’

  Emma’s heart sank. Alice’s idea of ‘super fun’ usually involved men, lots of alcohol, and an activity that would push Emma’s boundaries to places she’d never even thought of going.

  ‘Wait a second,’ Emma said. ‘It’s my celebration, right? I should choose what we do.’ She grinned victoriously. Made sense to her.

  ‘No, no, no, my friend.’ Emma pictured Alice wagging a crimson fingernail. ‘If I relied on you, we’d end up in a morgue or something, with you lecturing me on all the ways you could die.’

  Emma opened her mouth to protest that was slightly over the top, but Alice cut her off. ‘Okay, so maybe not now that you’re on board with the Plan, but still. You’ll need time to come around to the proper mindset, and I’m not taking any chances. Not to worry—it’s nothing huge. Just something to get you on the right track. Oops, gotta go. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay.’ Emma glanced at the computer screen where her CV was flashing, all set to fire off to potential employers as soon as she found some openings. No time like the present, she thought, clicking onto one of the UK’s biggest job websites. One hour later, though, Emma had combed through countless listings, heart sinking at the dearth of vacancies. The few advertisements for underwriters were better suited to someone with half her expertise and salary expectations. One post was even based in Azerbaijan. As if! Pollyanna would probably say it’d be culturally enlightening, or some mumbo jumbo like that.

  What if something didn’t come up? Emma paced back and forth across the lounge, fear filling every pore at the thought of eking out days on end here. Stop it, she told herself before the panic spun out of control. Letting emotions get the better of her was not the way to deal with this.

  Perhaps a little positivity would help? After all, easing the stress of rebuilding her life was why she’d signed onto this silly Pollyanna thing. Taking a deep breath, Emma told herself she’d only lost her job yesterday and, given time, the ideal position would appear. Her heartbeat slowed, and relief trickled in as her clear head returned. She’d check the listings again tonight. Right now, though, she needed something else to focus on.

  Frowning, Emma glanced around the bare flat. After spending just a few hours in this space, the white walls and stark furnishings were already starting to seem like a prison.

  Maybe she could take this time to finally do it up? That would fill the spare hours ahead, at least. Emma surveyed the walls. Perhaps a lovely cream to provide some ambiance? But as soon as the thought entered her head, she knew a lifeless shade wouldn’t cut it. No, she wanted something that would leap out and keep her company—a colour to add character to the flat.

  Unbidden, the shade of her childhood room came to mind. She remembered her excitement when her dad had stripped away the babyish pink wallpaper, then sat down with her and combed through the paint catalogue. Smiling, Emma recalled the feeling of potential and freedom—that anything was possible—that the space could be whatever she fancied. In the end, with approval from her father, she’d plumped for a sunny blue he’d customized by painting wispy traces of clouds. Lying on her bed, Emma had felt like she was flying. After the death of her father, she’d slathered the blue with a darker navy, as if by covering the shade she could cover the grief inside.

  Might be a bit much to paint every surface in the lounge sky blue, she thought now, but even just one wall would lift the starkness. And maybe she could find a m
atching wallpaper for the other walls, to warm it up? A quick trip to the nearby DIY centre in Kilburn would sort it out. Emma laughed, shaking her head. Alice would be so proud, crowing how external changes reflected what was happening inside.

  Emma froze for a moment. Was she getting too carried away with the Pollyanna Plan? She reminded herself not to buy into Alice’s crackpot psychology. Changing your flat didn’t change your life, no matter what the plethora of property shows insisted. Anyway, she’d been meaning to do this for years. She just hadn’t the time.

  Hurrying into her room to dress, Emma gazed into the closet and its cacophony of black and grey fabrics. What would Pollyanna say about her wardrobe? It was easy to match? Even a colour-blind person couldn’t go wrong, Emma thought as she tugged on her one pair of jeans and a soft, grey cashmere jumper. Slicking back her hair, Emma peered into the mirror as she jammed on mascara and slicked her lips with gloss. Despite the hangover, she didn’t look too bad. Sure, tiny wrinkles sprung from her eyes and creased her forehead, but…

  After thirty, the chances of developing a critical illness increase tenfold. The thought floated into her head, and Emma found it reassuring. She could have a little fun changing her flat, yet still be aware of reality. After shrugging on a thick jacket, she grabbed her keys and handbag, then closed the door behind her.

  Forty-five minutes later, Emma was lost in a maze of high aisles stuffed with every implement known to humankind. It was a weekday afternoon, but Home & Hearth buzzed with men on a mission and harried-looking women. Although it was early November, Christmas paraphernalia was out in full force, and Emma had to duck before an inflatable Santa bopped her in the head. Spotting the sign for the paint department, she threaded her way between three children batting each other with sticks of wood and headed over to where tins of paint sat in tidy rows. A laminated colour book was tethered to a shelf, and Emma opened it eagerly. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to transform the flat from a shell into a comfy, cosy refuge.

  But after flipping through page after page of blues, none of them matched the shade inside her head. Names like ‘Crushed Cornflower’, ‘Sky at Noon’, ‘Robin’s Refuge’ … all were gorgeous—just not what she wanted. Sighing, she was about to slam closed the book and head for home when a deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Can I help you with something? You’ve been staring at the sample book for quite some time.’

  Spinning around, Emma came face to face with the wide brown eyes of a man better suited to a soulful French film than a home improvement centre. About her age and a few inches taller, he was solid without being stocky, with little lines creasing tan skin. Dark, wavy hair curled around the tips of his ears, and his lips were full.

  Get a grip, Emma told herself, aware she was ogling the man in front of her. Anyone would think you’d been single for years, not days! The thought drifted in that although she’d been with George for ages, it’d been more like a partnership than a relationship. Straightening her spine, she forced herself to smile in a businesslike manner, trying not to notice the man’s broad chest as she focused on the name tag reading ‘Will’.

  ‘I’m searching for a particular shade of blue, but I can’t seem to find it here,’ she said, gesturing to the stack of sample books.

  Will lifted an eyebrow. ‘You’ve looked through all of them?’

  Emma nodded. ‘Yes. Nothing matches. I’m after a specific colour, something my father painted my room with when I was young.’ The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and her cheeks flushed as she realised how lame that sounded. A grown woman, looking for a colour from her childhood. Sad.

  But Will’s eyes crinkled up as he smiled encouragingly. ‘I like a challenge. Tell you what, you find the shade here you think is the closest. Then explain to me as best you can the exact colour you fancy—darker, lighter, bluer—and I’ll try to mix it up for you.’

  Emma tilted her head. If Will didn’t get it right, she didn’t want to be stuck with a useless pot of paint. Think positively, she reminded herself. These kinds of situations were low stakes enough to practise a little Pollyanna. Maybe he would hit it spot on, and she’d leave a happy customer. Maybe.

  Will held up his hands as if reading her thoughts. ‘If it doesn’t turn out to be the shade you’re looking for, there’s no charge to you.’

  Wow, the man was confident. ‘Okay, you’re on.’ Grinning, she flipped open the sample book again and pointed to ‘Sunny Skies’. ‘This one is the closest, but it needs to be more…’ Emma closed her eyes, picturing her father as he stood in the centre of her childhood room, gesturing proudly to the newly painted walls. To her horror, a rush of emotion overtook her, and her throat closed over. Coughing, she met Will’s warm gaze. ‘Um, it needs to be hazier. Almost like you can see wispy white clouds mixed in with the blue,’ she said, cringing at the uncharacteristically expressive explanation and the slight tremor in her voice.

  But Will was nodding as if he understood what she meant. ‘Okay. Let me get started.’ His forearm tightened as he cracked open a tin of paint and placed it in the mixing machine, pulling the levers with practised movements. Emma watched as a spurt of blue, then grey, then yellow poured into the white base, and Will’s brow furrowed in concentration.

  ‘Right,’ he said finally. ‘I think that should do it. Now it needs a good mix, and then we’ll take a look.’ He pressed another button on the machine, and the tin of paint swung back and forth like it was on a carnival ride.

  ‘You certainly seem to know what you’re doing,’ Emma said, as they awaited the mixture. She wondered how long he’d been working here—he blended paints like a pro.

  Will smiled. ‘I’ve always had a good eye for colour.’ The machine stopped, and the tin came to a standstill.

  ‘Right, let’s see what we’ve got.’ Emma held her breath as Will levered off the top of the paint. Logic told her the chances of him being able to match her vision were pretty much nil, but perhaps…her heart sunk as she eyed the thick gooey liquid. It was almost there—the right hue, definitely—but too dark to be what she’d held in her mind.

  Before Emma could say anything, Will stuck a stir stick into the colour and spread the paint on a test piece of wood. ‘Give it a minute to dry. It always looks darker when it’s wet.’

  Emma nodded, but she was pretty sure that, wet or dry, the shade wasn’t what she wanted. It had been a long shot, anyway—a shame Pollyanna couldn’t work her magic on paints. Trying to match a vision from her childhood was silly. She should have gone for something modern and funky. Crimson, or even a punchy lime green—

  ‘Well?’ Will gestured in the direction of the stick, and Emma’s mouth dropped open. Praise Pollyanna, that was it! The exact shade that had lived in her mind’s eye: the kind of sky that existed only on early summer mornings when translucent white clouds veiled the blue and sunrays were beginning to work their way through. She couldn’t wait to get that colour on her wall back home.

  Perhaps positive thinking works after all, Emma thought, before telling herself not to be ridiculous. It was Will who’d got the shade right, not her new attitude. Still, if she hadn’t let him try…

  Aware she was grinning like an idiot, Emma tried to lower the corners of her mouth. ‘It’s brilliant,’ she said, meeting Will’s big brown eyes. ‘Spot on.’

  Will smiled back. ‘Good. I’d hate to waste a tin of paint—not to mention letting you down.’ A faint hint of red coloured his tan cheeks, and he cleared his throat. ‘Well.’

  ‘Thank you again,’ Emma said, feeling herself blush again in response. They were acting like a couple of tongue-tied teens.

  ‘So, um, you can pay at the checkout.’ Will lifted the stir stick in the air, and a glob of blue goo dripped down onto his trouser leg. ‘Bollocks,’ he said, swiping at the spot and only succeeding in making it bigger.

  Emma tried to hide a grin behind her hand. God,
he’s cute, she thought, watching him frown in frustration. Definitely not her type—he worked in a home improvement centre, and statistics showed job compatibility was key for relationship longevity—but she couldn’t deny there was something appealing about Will’s confidence and the spark in his eye.

  ‘Right.’ Emma reached over and grabbed the metal hoop of the paint tin. ‘Ouf’—it was heavier than it looked. ‘Well, thanks again.’

  ‘My pleasure. Let me know if you ever need any other colours. I’m your man.’ His cheeks went even redder as the words left his mouth.

  ‘I wish,’ Emma muttered under her breath. She lifted a hand and slowly walked away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Will Ballard swore as he rubbed paint thinner into his trousers in a futile attempt to get rid of the blue splotch. Although he didn’t care about ruining his work uniform, he did care about looking like an absolute idiot in front of a woman who’d made things interesting for once.

  Usually, customers came in seeking shades of cream, beige, the ever-popular boring magnolia, or various exciting shades of grey. Once in a while, some eccentric or aging hippie would go off-road and request burnt orange or cherry red. Will couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked for such a specific shade, so specific it wasn’t even on the colour chart.

  But it wasn’t just that, he knew. There was something about those green eyes, the look on the woman’s face when she’d explained the colour.…Will shook his head. Come on, mate, he told himself. The last thing he needed was to get caught up in a romantic fantasy, especially when he knew how those scenarios ended. Cherie had driven the point home. One day, they’d been happily living together, planning their future. The next, she’d tearfully told him she couldn’t be with him any longer. There was nothing to say that another woman would behave differently, and Will wasn’t about to head down that road again.

  ‘Will? Call for you in the office. Line three.’ Jim Lowell, Will’s manager, stuck his head around the aisle. ‘Go on. I’ll cover for you here.’