One Good Thing Read online

  ALEXANDRA POTTER

  one

  good

  thing

  Contents

  Prologue

  The Seven Stages

  STAGE 1: WTF

  Yorkshire

  London

  Lost and Found

  Stanley

  A Charitable Act

  Valentine

  Online Dating

  Maya

  Rescue Me

  STAGE 2: Keep Calm (and go for a walk)

  Faith

  Valentine

  First Steps

  A Moment of Truth

  Anger and Letting It Go

  The Boy

  The Teenager

  Only a Number

  Back to the Future

  Not a Date

  The Old Man

  STAGE 3: Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda

  The Bombsite

  Two Weeks’ Notice

  The Snowman

  Heathcliff

  Valentine

  Father and Son

  The Castle

  Courage

  STAGE 4: Hang in There

  Sleeping Arrangements

  Stanley

  Peeling Back the Layers

  Regret

  The Village Idiots

  The Morning After

  Maya

  Things Left Unsaid

  Hiding in Plain Sight

  STAGE 5: The Curveball

  So Lucky

  A Helping Hand

  Valentine

  ‘See You Later, Alligator’

  Running on Empty

  Stanley

  A Big Birthday

  The Surprise

  Eighteen months ago

  Brave Face

  STAGE 6: Love Your Mistakes

  The Dales Country Show

  The Teabag

  A Confession

  Valentine

  WhatsApp with Maya

  Snagging

  A Different Kind of Doorstep Challenge

  Stanley

  Table for Two

  Maya

  Sticky Toffee Pudding

  PC Neesha Sharma

  Harry the Hero

  STAGE 7: The Best is Yet to Come

  A Celebration of Life

  Turning the Page

  Valentine

  WhatsApp with Naomi

  Forgiveness

  The Grand Opening

  The Last Dance

  Stanley

  Valentine

  The Rest of Your Life

  An Epilogue of Sorts

  Acknowledgements

  HAVE YOU READ THE FUNNIEST ‘WTF AM I DOING’ NOVEL OF THE YEAR?

  Dedicated to Elton.

  And all the wonderful animals

  who change our lives for the better.

  Prologue

  Hey you,

  Remember when we were kids and used to write thank-you letters? It was usually for Christmas or birthdays and we’d do our best handwriting. Well, this email is my thank-you letter to you.

  When everything fell apart, I couldn’t see a future. Leaving my old life to try to start a new one was terrifying. You know how scared I always was of taking risks. I was never as brave as you. What did you always say? That life happens at the edge of your comfort zone.

  Well, in the end I took your advice. Because you know what’s more terrifying? The thought of never feeling happy again. There are people with broken hearts all around us, yet I still felt so alone.

  But by coming here I’ve learned that it’s only by losing what you love that you find what matters most. And I’ve discovered a secret. All you need is one good thing to turn your life around and make it worth living again. Like a smile from a stranger, a hug from a friend or some small, random act of kindness. Or an old, scruffy dog with no name.

  Just one good thing can change the course of everything. It has the power to heal your heart, inspire courage and joy and create true friendships that can bring a whole community together. It can even save someone’s life.

  So anyway, thanks for the advice. I know it’s not Christmas or my birthday, but when I needed it most, your words gave me the greatest gift of all: hope.

  x

  The Seven Stages

  The seven stages of grief are widely used to explain the complicated process we go through when we experience any major loss. They are based on the famous theory by psychiatrist Elizabeth Kübler-Ross. Loss can be caused by many different situations: the death of a loved one, the end of a relationship or any big life change. Divorce, especially, represents the death of a marriage and all the hopes and dreams that went into it, and this needs a grieving process for healing.

  After the initial shock and disbelief, you will begin a journey that will take you through a series of complex emotions, until finally you will begin the upward turn towards acceptance, hope and even joy. In reality, however, grief is not linear; feelings are messy and difficult, so only use the seven stages as a general guide. Loss is universal, but it is also very personal and everyone’s journey is their own.

  STAGE 1

  WTF

  Yorkshire

  ‘So what do you think?

  Having finished looking around downstairs, the estate agent pushes open a stripped-pine door and shows me into the master bedroom.

  It’s an innocent enough question, but probably not the wisest one to ask a recently divorced woman. One who has made the impulsive decision to leave London and all her friends, resign from the teaching job she’s held for the last ten years and move several hundred miles away to the Yorkshire Dales, where she knows no one.

  I think lots of things. Mostly that I’m still in shock. That I can’t believe my marriage is over. That I haven’t slept properly in months. That I’m clearly having a midlife crisis. That yesterday I looked for my keys everywhere and found them in the fridge. That I’ve gained five pounds – oh, who am I kidding? More like fifteen. That I feel lost and bewildered. That I lie awake in the darkness thinking this is all a bad dream. That it’s all my fault.

  That I love him.

  That I hate him.

  That secretly I wish I was the kind of woman who did crazy, angry, revengeful things to her cheating ex with frozen prawns and spray paint, instead of being the kind of woman who ran the iron over his shirts, folded them neatly into bin bags and left them in the garage, for when he came to pick up the rest of his things.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ I say politely, looking around the dimly lit room, with its old-fashioned flowery wallpaper and faded brown carpet, darker in parts where the furniture used to be.

  I think I’ve gone completely bonkers and this is all a terrible mistake.

  A strong fusty smell reaches my nostrils and I feel painfully homesick.

  Only I no longer have a home to feel sick for. It’s been sold, subject to contract, as part of the divorce. The new owners, a couple with two young children, are due to move in in the New Year. My ex-husband has moved out of our home and in with his new girlfriend. His son, Will, my beloved stepson, who would spend weekends and holidays with us, has finished university and gone travelling. It’s just me and an empty house full of memories.

  Which is why, a few weeks before Christmas, while the rest of the world is shopping for gifts and decorations, I’m shopping for a new place to call home.

  ‘I know on your search criteria you said you’re looking for a flat, preferably something that doesn’t need any work doing, but I thought I’d throw in a bit of a wild card for the final property.’

  It’s late afternoon and this is my last viewing before I travel back to London. It’s been a long day. I caught the express train from King’s Cross station at first light, changing at Leeds onto the local railway line
, which took me on a slow but breathtaking journey through a dramatic landscape, before finally pulling into the small windswept station on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales.

  There I was met by Mr Hardcastle, an estate agent who, until today, I’ve only corresponded with by email, after he replied to my enquiry about properties for sale in the area. Ruddy-faced and larger than life in his waxed jacket with corduroy collar, he’s nothing like his slick-suited counterparts in London. Cheerfully squeezing the life out of my fingers as he shook my hand, he ushered me into the passenger seat of his old Rav4 and drove me deep into the Dales, past fields full of cows and sheep, showing me everything on the market while providing a chirpy commentary on the weather, in an accent that is pure Pennines.

  ‘They’ve given rain . . . By, it’s a bit nippy . . . You’re lucky, yesterday it was fair tipping it down . . . There’s talk of snow on the tops . . . Looks like it’s clearing, I can see a patch of blue . . . With any luck, weekend should be grand after all . . .’

  Considering it’s the beginning of December, his optimism in the weather is remarkable. As is his ability to see anything positive in this three-hundred-year-old stone cottage, originally built for farmworkers in the small but beautifully picturesque village of Nettlewick. With its dark, poky rooms, rotten windows and nicotine-stained walls, it’s old and tired and in desperate need of a makeover.

  I know the feeling.

  ‘It’s got a certain charm, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d call damp charming.’ I point to some scary-looking mushroom growing out of the wall. ‘Or woodworm.’ I peer more closely at the suspicious-looking pin-prick holes in one of the large beams running across the ceiling.

  ‘The vendor’s very open to offers,’ he continues brightly, rocking on his heels. ‘And there’s a lovely westerly view from the back garden. There are a few houses, but mostly you can see straight across the Dales.’

  ‘What’s the view from the front?’ Walking across to the sash window, I pull back the greying, stained net curtain. ‘Oh – a graveyard.’

  ‘At least it’ll be dead quiet.’ He chuckles at his own joke.

  And now I’m thinking dead people. I’m thinking Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video.

  ‘Apparently he inherited it from his great-aunt, but he lives abroad and has no use for it.’

  It’s dark outside, and my reflection stares back at me in the windowpane. I look tired. Old. Pale as a ghost.

  No use for it.

  That’s how my husband must have felt about our marriage when he walked out. The thought drops like a weight on my chest. With my back still turned, I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching the tear ducts with my thumb and forefinger. I mustn’t cry. Not here.

  ‘Well, like I said, it was a bit of a wild card.’

  As he flicks off the bare bulb overhead, I open my eyes and linger for a moment by the window. My reflection has disappeared and my gaze extends over the high stone wall and through the skeleton branches of the trees, into the graveyard’s dark recesses. It’s only four o’clock, but it’s already pitch-black.

  ‘So, going back to the new mill conversion we first looked at in town.’

  I can hear the clicking of switches behind, in an attempt to find the one to illuminate the staircase. Maybe I should call this whole move off. Admit I’ve made a mistake and acted too rashly. Rent something in London and beg for my job back. After all, this is so unlike me. I don’t do impulsive. I’m sensible. Cautious. ‘Risk-averse’, according to my pension-fund provider.

  Plus all the self-help books advise against making any major decisions for at least a year after a divorce, and I have a whole stack of them on my bedside table.

  ‘The one with the roof terrace that you liked, ten miles from here. There’s been a lot of interest in that one, what with it being in a bustling market town near the big shops, station and amenities . . .’

  In the background, the estate agent is giving me his sales pitch.

  ‘So if you’re serious I’d advise acting quickly.’

  Still staring out of the window, I catch sight of something. A flash of pink. White spots. I peer more closely. It’s started to rain and drops are hitting the window, forming rivulets down the glass. It’s an umbrella. A bright-pink polka-dot umbrella. I follow it as it moves across the graveyard, its owner hidden underneath. Something about it makes me smile. It looks so incongruous, this spotty flash of colour bobbing cheerfully along in the wintry bleakness, weaving in and out of the graves. Like a beacon of light in the darkness.

  ‘I’d like to make an offer.’

  Turning away from the window, I look across at the estate agent, who is waiting for me at the top of the stairs, studying the screen of his smartphone. He looks up, his expression like one of my pupils caught misbehaving.

  ‘Christmas shopping,’ he explains sheepishly. ‘Perfume. For the wife. I get her the same thing every year.’ He puts his phone away quickly. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I want to make an offer.’

  ‘Oh! Excellent! A very wise decision. Our warehouse conversions are always very popular with professionals such as yourself—’

  ‘No, I want to buy this house.’

  ‘This house?’ he repeats, as if he can’t quite believe that his sales pitch actually worked.

  His incredulity only makes me more determined. There’s something about this house – the way it’s been neglected and unloved – that’s stirred something inside me. It needs someone to love it back to life. I begin descending the steep, narrow staircase.

  ‘I’ll offer close to the asking price, as long it’s taken off the market and we can exchange by the New Year.’

  ‘Right. Yes. Absolutely . . . I’ll get straight on to the vendor in Singapore.’ His footsteps follow hurriedly behind me. ‘Rest assured, Ms Brooks, at Hardcastle and Son your problems are our solutions,’

  ‘Oh, and Mr Hardcastle.’

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I turn to see him banging his head on the low beam and wincing.

  ‘Buy your wife something different this Christmas. Take it from me, she’s sick of that bloody perfume.’

  London

  Six weeks later

  ‘Is that everything?’

  The removal men take the last of the packing boxes from the hallway.

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  Moving Day has finally arrived. After weeks of being surrounded by masking tape and bubble wrap, the house is finally emptied of its contents.

  Standing on the doorstep, about to lock up, doubt flickers within me.

  ‘Actually, hang on,’ I call out as the removal men disappear down the front path, ‘let me do a final check.’

  I do a quick walk-through of the empty rooms. I’ve left behind all the curtains, but my footsteps still echo on the wooden floors and my mind flicks back to when we first moved in a decade ago, as newly-weds. Only then the rooms were unfamiliar and exciting, and I dashed around them bursting with energy and enthusiasm, my head full of colour schemes and a million ideas—

  I stop myself.

  I might have packed away all my belongings, but my memories are still imprinted into these walls. Still, now is not the time to be taking an emotional trip down memory lane. Spotting a small-framed photograph on the empty bookshelves in the living room, I snatch it up, feeling vindicated.

  The photograph is one of those square ones with the white border that was taken in the seventies. It’s of me and my big sister Josie, though she wasn’t so big then. Neither of us was. We’re wearing matching denim dungarees and sitting on the wall in front of my grandparents’ house in Yorkshire, grinning into the camera and eating ice-lollies shaped like rockets. We lost our mum when we were still very young and would spend all our school holidays there. Brought up by a single dad, who threw himself into his work in an attempt to cope, our house always felt sad and empty, but their home in Nettlewick was a warm and welcoming escape. Which is why I’ve chosen the
village to start over again. I want to be surrounded by happy memories. To wake up in a place where, whatever happened, it has always felt like my one true safe harbour.

  Slipping the photo in my handbag, I quickly finish checking over the rest of the house, then lock the front door behind me and post the keys through the letter box. The estate agent has a set, so I’ll leave these ones for the new owners. As I hear them land on the doormat, I remember I haven’t taken off the key ring – a silly souvenir from a weekend spent in Italy a few years ago for my birthday.

  My mind goes somewhere, but I force it back again. Who wants some stupid Leaning Tower of Pisa key ring anyway? It didn’t even lean the right way.

  The removal van is parked up outside with its hazard lights on. The house is on a busy main road and, like the homes of most people living in London, it doesn’t have a driveway, so the van has wedged itself on the street corner, next to the pile of discarded Christmas trees. It’s the third week of January, but the council is slow to recycle them and they lie there in a sorry-looking pile, devoid of their needles and decorations. Life can be brutal, even for Christmas trees.

  ‘Olivia.’

  As I watch the removal men loading the last of my possessions into the back, I hear a voice over my shoulder.

  ‘Oh, hi, Madeleine.’

  Forcing a bright smile, I turn to see my neighbour on the corner appearing from her garden gate. Madeleine likes to know everyone’s business – she is the Neighbourhood Watch – and ever since my ex-husband moved out, she’s been stationed behind her plantation shutters, like a sentry on lookout. Luckily, through a mixture of stealth and having to rush off early to work, I’ve managed to avoid being trapped in conversation with her.

  Until now.

  ‘I’ve been hoping to catch you for ages. Roger and I wanted to tell you how sad we were to hear about you and David . . .’ She wraps her waterfall cardigan around her and folds her arms against the cold. She’s obviously just shot out from behind her shutters, as she’s still wearing her Peruvian sock-slippers. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know . . .’ I trail off lamely.

  But of course, no, Madeleine doesn’t know. She has no idea. Married for forty years to Roger, a retired accountant, Madeleine has a life of strict routine. Of local church meetings and Ocado deliveries, and weekends washing Roger’s shirts, which she pegs out on the line with such regularity, I’m certain she must use a tape measure.