The Pollyanna Plan Read online

  ‘Thanks, Jim.’ Will nodded in the older man’s direction, then trudged towards the dingy office at the back of the large box store. Only his dad called here, usually to badger him about returning to his former job at the family paint company. A spurt of anger went through Will. When would he accept that this was Will’s reality now?

  Will lifted the grimy receiver. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Son.’ His father’s gruff tone rang down the line. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you at home, but you haven’t returned my messages.’

  Will sighed. Maybe if the messages were more to do with the typical father–son relationship and less about business, he’d want to call back.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m at work right now. Can I ring when my shift is over?’

  ‘Actually, if you’re feeling up to it, I was hoping you could come by the factory today. You haven’t been here for ages, and it would be good to see you.’ His father’s voice was accusatory, and Will gripped the phone. No sooner would he visit the factory in Neasden than his dad would propel him into the sparse office, shoving paperwork his way and applying pressure to fulfil familial responsibilities. Not a chance. ‘I can send a car to pick you up now,’ his dad continued. ‘Or over at the boat, if you want a bit of a rest first.’ His father uttered ‘boat’ like he’d tasted something very bitter.

  Will rubbed his forehead, suddenly conscious of how tired he was of all this. He’d thought shunning the position of company vice president—in readiness to become CEO once his father retired—would make it obvious that from now on Will was living life on his own terms. Instead, his dad had only pressed more, saying that focusing on work was exactly what Will needed and he shouldn’t let ‘a flighty girl he was better off without’ dictate the future.

  Will had wanted to retort it was hardly Cherie dictating the course of his future, but he’d bitten his tongue. Over the years, he’d learned there was no point arguing with his domineering father unless it was really necessary.

  ‘No, Dad,’ Will said now, conscious he was clutching the phone so strongly that his hand was shaking. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. ‘I’ll be working the rest of the day. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.’ And before his father could respond, Will hung up.

  He stared at the receiver for a second, trying to get his thoughts in order. How could he make it clearer he didn’t ever want to be CEO of Ballard Paints? That given his diagnosis of multiple sclerosis earlier this year, it was best if he wasn’t, anyway? According to the doctor, sooner or later, his condition would flare, and he’d deteriorate over time. Will wasn’t going to spend the rest of his able life shoved behind a desk analysing sales reports. He’d already given up his dream of art school to waste years doing just that.

  When Cherie had left and the reality of the diagnosis finally sunk in, Will had decided part-time work at Home & Hearth was perfect. It was miles from his father’s company where everyone knew him as the boss’s son with ‘that terrible illness’, fixing him with sympathetic glances and asking in a loaded voice how he felt. Here, he was another anonymous shop floor employee, a role he enjoyed. The job wasn’t too tiring, and Will loved helping customers transform their living spaces. Now, if he could only find the motivation to concentrate on his artwork again…

  Sighing, Will mustered up the energy to head onto the shop floor. Two more hours, and he could be back on the boat. His spirits lifted as he pictured the dilapidated, narrow boat he’d renovated bit by bit. Inside, there was barely enough room to stand, but the isolation of the enclosed space and the gentle rocking of Regent’s Canal, where the boat was moored, soothed his soul.

  If only his father would believe Will was through with the family business, his new life would be set. Judging by that phone call, though, there was still a long way to go.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next morning, Emma stared at the stark white walls of her flat, excitement churning inside. No more would this place resemble a hospital! She couldn’t wait to get a bit of colour in here. Goodness knows, she needed something to lift her spirits after failing to find any new job postings last night, despite spending hours scouring the Internet.

  Right—first things first. She’d throw on grubby clothes, put down drop cloths, tape the floorboards.…Ah, what the hell, she thought, impatiently levering open the paint tin. She’d bought an industrial-sized vat of paint thinner; she was already wearing her one and only semi-grubby outfit; and she’d paint as carefully as possible. Living dangerously! Alice would be so proud.

  Emma smiled as the blue colour met her eyes, and memories of Will’s serious expression as he mixed the paint flashed through her mind. He really was handsome—not normally her type—but there’d been something about him…

  Enough swooning. Time to get started! After switching on the radio to banish the heavy silence, the tinny sounds of a female opera singer shrieking like a stuck pig filled the air. Emma pulled a face. The last time George had been in her flat—a couple of months ago now—he’d reprogrammed all her stations, saying listening to classical music would put her in the right frame of mind to compute accurately and quickly, increasing productivity by at least 10 percent. In favour of anything to help her work faster, Emma had appreciated his efforts.

  But now, listening to the obscure music favoured by BBC Radio 3 was giving her a headache. To paint faster, she needed something upbeat, something peppy. She bit her lip. When had she last attempted upbeat and peppy? Rifling through the neatly ordered CDs, Emma uncovered an album by the Spice Girls she couldn’t even remember buying. That’d do. Dusting off the case, she shoved it in the CD player, hit ‘Play’, and picked up a brush, removing the plastic casing and dipping its bristles in the oily liquid.

  ‘If you wanna be my lover,’ Emma sang loudly, her screechy voice echoing around the room. ‘I’d fit right in with that opera singer,’ she snorted, smearing the first swathe of paint across the wall. Wow! Already the place looked better.

  Sixty minutes later, voice hoarse from singing and head pounding from the paint’s chemical fumes, Emma stood back and surveyed her handiwork. The once pristine white wall glistened in sky blue, adding colour and depth to the lounge. As she stared at the shade, oddly, she felt closer to her father, like some part of him had returned to her.

  Don’t be dumb, Emma scolded herself. After all, it was just a colour. Those fumes were getting to her! Setting the brush on top of the paint lid, she crossed the room and heaved open the window. Fresh autumn air scented with crisp leaves drifted in, and Emma took a deep breath as she gazed out at the giant trees. At first, their proximity to the terrace had been a concern—roots could cause structural damage to a building’s foundations, and even though insurance would cover any repairs, it was a risk she didn’t need. Now, though, she was kind of glad they were there.

  Her mobile phone jingled through the upbeat music, and Emma grinned as she glanced at the screen. Ah, it was Alice, probably calling to fill her in on tonight. Humming along to the tune, Emma shimmied over to the CD player, turned down the volume, and pressed ‘Answer’.

  ‘Hey! You’ll never guess what I’m doing,’ she sang out before even saying hello.

  ‘Er…dancing naked to the Bee Gees?’

  Trust Alice to come up with something so silly. No matter how much Pollyanna Emma swallowed, she’d never in a million years do that. ‘No, that’s more your speed. Actually, I’m painting.’

  ‘Reeeeeaalllly?’ Alice dragged out the word. ‘Fantastic! You know, I’m so glad you’re taking the Pollyanna Plan to heart. If you change your external environment, you change your internal environment.’

  Emma rolled her eyes. Exactly what she’d predicted Alice would say. Although—she glanced at the blue wall—she did feel more uplifted and vibrant somehow. Oh, God. She was becoming a crackpot.

  ‘Right, so guess what we’re doing this evening. Saturday night, h
ere we come!’ Alice’s excited tone rang through the handset.

  ‘Er…’ Emma tilted her head as she tried to think exactly what her friend had in mind. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Karaoke dating!’

  Emma’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’ She must have heard Alice wrong. Honestly, was there anything more gruesome? Sure, she’d been belting it out earlier, but that was in the privacy of her own home. To sing (and ‘sing’ was putting it optimistically) in front of baying men dragged up from London’s gutters in hopes of finding a woman desperate enough to take them on? No way.

  ‘It’s a new thing. Sophie went last week, and she pulled, no problem.’ Alice’s voice was bursting with enthusiasm.

  ‘And did she ever see the guy again?’ Emma couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  ‘Well…no. But she said he was really good in bed!’

  ‘Great,’ Emma responded wryly. ‘Alice, look. Have you ever heard me sing? I scare away the crows! There’s no way I’d pull—let alone find a man who’d even consider being within earshot—after karaoking. And don’t you remember, I’ve just broken up with George?’ She neglected to mention George’s absence in her life had barely made a dent. Even her initial anger at his betrayal had subsided. ‘Anyway, I’m not in the market for anyone right now.’ An image of Will from the DIY centre flashed through her head, and her brow furrowed. Where had that come from?

  ‘Whatever happened to an open mind?’ Alice asked. ‘This could be the night you meet your future husband. Anyway, it’s just karaoke. It’s not like I’ve asked you to skydive or something.’

  Actually, Emma thought, karaoking in public was as bad as skydiving. She’d almost prefer to jump from a plane.

  ‘What else are you going to do tonight?’ her friend continued. ‘Come on, Ems. I’ve already bought the tickets. You can’t let forty pounds go to waste.’

  ‘Forty pounds? You paid forty pounds for karaoke dating?’ Talk about highway robbery. ‘Thank you,’ Emma added quickly, knowing that most weeks Alice just scraped by. As pricey as forty pounds sounded to Emma, to Alice it was ten times that. ‘Okay. But I’m telling you right now, I’m not singing.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ Alice caved a little too quickly for Emma’s liking, meaning she probably planned on using all her persuasive powers to coerce Emma onstage. ‘Come over to mine around six. We can have a glass of wine to warm up, then head to the club together. It’ll be fun!’ The phone went dead.

  Emma stood and stretched, plucking the paint-smeared T-shirt from her skin. A streak of blue covered her cheek, and one edge of her hair was frosted with colour, as if she’d been to Boy George’s hairdresser. Not only that, but speckles of paint freckles covered her face and arms, like she’d been tanning under a blue sun. Shame she couldn’t go out without having a shower—she’d frighten off all the men before even opening her mouth.

  Okay. Emma breathed in deeply. Time to channel a little Pollyanna, even though whoever had invented karaoke dating needed their head examined. If she didn’t have to sing, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. She’d stick by Alice, chat to a few of the other people who’d been dragged there by delusional friends.…

  But as for fun? It’d been so long since Emma had been out on the town, she probably wouldn’t know fun if it came up and boogied in front of her.

  Two hours later, Emma rang the buzzer for Alice’s flat. Soft drizzle was falling from the sky, coating everything—including her freshly straightened hair—in dampness. Even bloody Pollyanna wouldn’t be able to strike a positive chord about the ruinous effect of drizzle on hair, Emma grumbled to herself, before thinking that Pollyanna would probably chirrup something about nourishing the greenery. But this was Central London, and plants thrived more on pollution than water.

  ‘Come on up.’ Alice’s voice sounded through the intercom, and the heavy door clicked open. Inside, the building smelled of mildew, and dingy wallpaper peeled from the walls.

  When would Alice finally give up on acting and get a real job? Emma had tried to make her friend see the light more times than she could remember. But Alice just said she loved acting, it made her happy, and it was worth the sacrifices. Imagine feeling so passionate about something it negated common sense. Right now, even with her current tilt towards positivity, Emma couldn’t begin to understand.

  Here we go. Pollyanna time! Pasting on a bright smile, Emma bounced up the rickety stairs all the way to the fifth floor, her chest heaving. God! Maybe she should use her free time to exercise.

  ‘Hey!’ Alice swung open the door, blonde hair spilling from an artful ponytail pulled high on her head. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘Those stairs are killers.’ Emma shrugged off her wet coat. ‘But they’re great for a daily work out!’ she added quickly, remembering she wanted to show Alice she was making an effort.

  Alice gestured towards a row of women guzzling wine as they squeezed in together on the lone sofa. ‘You remember Debs, Kate and Sophie. Everyone, this is my new friend, Pollyanna.’

  Emma couldn’t help smiling at Alice’s theatrics. ‘Hi, all.’

  ‘Hey, Polly, have we met you before?’ One of the flatmates—Sophie, perhaps?—slurred, squinting to focus. ‘Or maybe you just look like that other one, the one from university, I think it was. God, now she had a poker up her arse, that’s for sure. Never smiled—’

  ‘Have another drink!’ Alice yelped, pouring the dregs of the bottle into Sophie’s glass.

  Sophie smacked her wine-stained lips. ‘Thanks, love. Yeah, that one was a real Debbie Downer. I say more Polly, less Debbie!’ She raised her glass in the air, sloshing liquid onto the stained floor.

  ‘We should be going.’ Alice grabbed her coat, propelling Emma towards the door. ‘Have a good night, you guys.’

  Sophie lurched unsteadily to her feet. ‘G’night.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Alice said as they thudded down the stairs. ‘Soph’s obviously had a bit too much to drink.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Emma mumbled, Sophie’s words cycling around her mind. She wasn’t really Debbie Downer, was she? Being realistic about things didn’t automatically mean being depressing…or so she’d thought.

  Emma shook her head, a strange feeling gripping her stomach. Okay, so she’d never been in the running for Miss Congeniality, but to actually repel people? ‘Sophie’s right, though, isn’t she? That’s how most people see me. Poker jammed up my arse and all.’

  ‘I don’t!’ Alice said. ‘I know the real you underneath all that, er, logic. You’re loyal, caring and kind. That’s why I’m so glad you’re giving this new attitude a chance. I want everyone to look at you like I do.’

  So others did see her as stiff and depressing—Alice hadn’t exactly refuted that. Funny, Emma had thought she didn’t have many friends by choice, but now she was beginning to realise perhaps it hadn’t been her choice, after all. Well, maybe tonight she could cut loose a little. Surely the sky wouldn’t fall if she had a good time—if such a thing was possible whilst karaoking.

  There was only one way to find out.

  As he stepped onto the boat early that evening, Will waited for the usual sense of relaxation to sweep over him. His head buzzed after a busy Saturday at Home & Hearth, but even though his muscles ached with fatigue, he felt keyed up and restless.

  Sighing, he sank down on the sofa shoved against one side of the long, narrow boat. The vessel rocked gently beneath him, and through the half-open window Will could hear distant voices and the patter of feet on the towpath. The smell of the river—wet and musty—combined with the scent of decaying leaves, met his nostrils, and he breathed in deeply. This floating structure felt more like home than his former large, luxurious Docklands flat ever had. Tonight, though, the usual sense of calm deserted him.

  On a normal Saturday night in the old days, he’d change into his going-out uniform of jeans and T-shirt and then head for a drink wit
h Cherie’s friends from her PR firm, or watch a match down the pub with blokes from the factory. Now, he’d rather guzzle turpentine than face their pitying expressions.

  It hadn’t been hard to put people off. Since news of his diagnosis spread, acquaintances were hesitant to invite him anywhere in case he collapsed on them or something, and—after the initial commiserations over his shitty luck—they’d drifted away. It was easier to let them go than constantly reassure them he was fine.

  Will was about to crack the top off a Stella when his mobile rang. For a second, he contemplated not answering. But the last time he’d done that, his mother had driven all the way across Essex and down to the boat, certain he’d collapsed on the floor. Ever since he’d been diagnosed, his mum was convinced today was the day he’d take a turn for the worse.

  ‘Hello?’ he answered curtly, hoping whoever was on the other end would take the hint and not prolong the conversation.

  ‘Mate! It’s Chaz. Sorry for the late reminder, but we’re all heading out tonight for Ryan’s stag do. I’m ringing round now to make sure everyone comes. It’d be great to see you and get the whole group back together again.’

  Will’s brow furrowed. In the depths of his memory, he recalled a Facebook message saying Ryan, an old university chum, was getting married, and they were having a final blowout. At the time, Will had deleted the note, thinking the last thing he was up for was a rowdy group of mates out on the piss. But now…these blokes were one of the last links left to Will’s old life, where no one knew about his illness and wouldn’t treat him with kid gloves.

  Suddenly, Will longed for a small slice of normality, even if it was only for one night. Despite the fact that he was bone tired and should stay in and rest, he found himself agreeing to meet the gang at a bar in Soho in just over an hour.

  After hopping into the miniscule shower, Will shaved, then splashed on cologne. Inhaling the familiar scent, memories of Cherie floated into his mind. She’d given him the bottle on their second anniversary, when the future had seemed bright and she’d been proud to call him her boyfriend.