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JAIMIE ADMANS is a 32-year-old English-sounding Welsh girl with an awkward-to-spell name. She lives in South Wales and enjoys writing, gardening, watching horror movies and drinking tea, although she’s seriously considering marrying her coffee machine. She loves autumn and winter, and singing songs from musicals despite the fact she’s got the voice of a dying hyena. She hates spiders, hot weather and cheese and onion crisps. She spends far too much time on Twitter and owns too many pairs of boots. She will never have time to read all the books she wants to read.
Jaimie loves to hear from readers. You can visit her website at www.jaimieadmans.com or connect on Twitter @be_the_spark.
Also by Jaimie Admans
The Château of Happily-Ever-Afters
The Little Wedding Island
It’s a Wonderful Night
JAIMIE ADMANS
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Jaimie Admans 2018
Jaimie Admans asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008296896
Version: 2018-09-12
Table of Contents
Cover
About the author
Also by Jaimie Admans
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Acknowledgements
Extract
Dear Reader,
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
For everyone.
You are good enough.
No matter how impossible things seem, you truly have a wonderful life, and the world will always be better with you in it.
Chapter 1
I’m in the cupboard under the stairs trying to wrangle a naked mannequin up the narrow steps to the back room when I hear the phone ringing. I groan. It’s only going to be a telemarketer, isn’t it? It’s eleven o’clock on a November night and I’m working overtime because, as the manager of the One Light charity shop, it’s my responsibility to get the Christmas window display finished before morning. I don’t have time for discussing ‘an accident I’ve had recently that wasn’t my fault’, mis-sold PPI, or my solar panel needs. Don’t they even stick to normal working hours now?
I’ll ignore it. I take a defiant bite of the fun-size Crunchie I’ve just found a bag of in the cupboard under the stairs. Who put chocolate down here? Maybe the volunteers were trying to hide it from me? It’s obviously leftover from Halloween and that was over a month ago. There’s not usually chocolate hanging around that long if I know it’s there. A day would be pushing it. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad hiding place after all.
The ring is insistent and I have a conscience about ignoring a ringing phone. It could be an emergency. It could be my dad saying he’s fallen and can’t get up, or paramedics who have been called out because he’s had another heart scare.
I look at the mannequin’s blank face. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter to it as I try to prop it against the wall, shove the last half of the Crunchie into my mouth and rush through the back room and out onto the shop floor, leaving behind a series of thuds as the mannequin slides back down the steps I’ve just dragged it up.
I’ve forgotten to hit the light switch so the shop floor is in darkness and I trip over a clothing rail and nearly go flying.
‘Hello?’ I say with my mouth full as I grab the handset from behind the counter. It’s far from the polite ‘One Light charity shop, how can I help you?’ that we’re supposed to answer the phone with, but I fully expect the caller to have rung off by now anyway.
‘Do you think it will hurt?’
‘What?’ I say with all the eloquence of an inebriated badger, hopping about with the phone in one hand, the other clutching the toe that collided with the clothing rail.
‘If I jump off this bridge?’
I choke on the Crunchie.
‘Are you okay?’ the man’s voice on the other end of the line asks.
‘Yes, thanks.’ I clear my throat a few times, trying to dislodge rogue bits of honeycomb. Only I could greet a suicidal man by choking at him. ‘Shouldn’t it be me asking you that?’
He lets out a laugh that sounds wet and thick, like he’s been crying. ‘I’m not the one choking to death. Do you need a glass of water or something?’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I say, wondering if swallowing actual sandpaper might’ve been more comfortable. ‘I’m so sorry, I’d just shoved an entire fun-size Crunchie into my mouth and then tried to speak. If that isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.’
I don’t know why I said that. A recipe for disaster is not me choking on a chocolate bar – it’s a guy about to throw himself off a bridge who doesn’t realize he’s phoned the charity shop for a suicide prevention helpline rather than the suicide prevention helpline itself.
My heart is suddenly pounding and a cold sweat has prickled my forehead. I don’t know what to do. I’ve always been petrified this would happen but never really thought it would. I’ve always thought that the two numbers are printed worryingly close together on our leaflets. Head Office told me I was worrying too much, but I’ve often wondered how easy it would be for someone to get our number muddled up with the helpline number and phone here by mistake. And it seems like the answer has just rung.
What am I going to do? I can’t take this call. I don’t know how to talk someone down off a bridge.
‘Oh, I love Crunchies. Don’t tell me you still have fun-size ones leftover from Halloween?’
‘I think they were hidden from me. I’ve only just found them.’ I’m rambling about nonsense but I don’t know what else to say. I know people think chocolate is the answer to most things, but I doubt it’s likely to help in this situation, and as much as I’d like to keep talking about Cadbury’s honeycomb treat, I can’t keep avoiding his first question.
I go to speak but he gets there first. ‘Can we just keep talking about chocolate? This is the most normal conversation I’ve had for days.’
I let out a nervous laugh. ‘We can talk about anything you want. Chocolate’s always a good topic.’
‘Where’s your hiding place? I never manage to hide mine successfully; I always remember where it is and scoff the lot. I bought boxes of Milk Tray for the family when they were on offer a couple of weeks ago, and let’s just say I’ve now got to go and buy more before Christmas. You can guess what happened to them, right?’
Another nervous laugh. ‘Well, this time, my staff bought them in case any trick or treaters came round before closing time, but none did, so they must’ve hidden them in the cupboard under the stairs of all places. I was just wrestling a naked mannequin out when I found them. Safe to say there aren’t many left now. And I feel a bit sick. Those two points are probably related.’
‘Well, if they’ve been there for a month, you’re only testing them for quality, right?’
I giggle again. How can someone about to throw himself off a bridge make me laugh? ‘Yes. Testing them vigorously.’
He laughs too and the laugh seems to go on for much longer than for anything that was actually funny. ‘God, I haven’t laughed in so long,’ he says eventually, sounding out of breath. ‘So what are you doing naked wrestling mannequins under the stairs at this time of night? Aren’t you in a call centre?’
‘Um…’
‘Oh God, please don’t tell me I phoned the wrong number.’ He must be able to hear my hesitation because he suddenly sounds distraught and I hear paper rustling down the line. ‘I have, haven’t I? There are two numbers on here and the leaflet’s all wet and the ink’s blurred. God, I’m such an idiot.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re not. Trust me, it’s our fault; I’ve been trying to get those leaflets redesigned for years,’ I say, feeling panic claw at my chest. What if he’s going to hang up and go through with the jump because of a silly mistake?
‘I’m so sorry.’ He makes a noise of frustration. ‘I’m so, so sorry to have disturbed you. Please forget this ever happened. I’ll leave you to your naked mannequin wrestling.’
He says the words in such a rush that I can’t interrupt him quickly enough. ‘Please don’t go,’ I say, my voice going high at the fear of what he might do. I need to give him the number of the real helpline. There are business cards on the counter right in front of me. It would be easy enough to read out the number and tell him to phone there instead, where there are people who do this all the time and have a lot of training in dealing with these situations. But what if he doesn’t phone them? What if he feels stupid for phoning the wrong place? What if he decides to jump rather than make another phone call?
I can’t tell a suicidal man to hang up and try again, can I?
‘Please stay and talk a minute,’ I say cautiously. Surely the best thing I can do is talk to him? There are testimonials on the One Light website that say the most important thing in deciding not to go through with a suicide attempt was having someone to talk to, and the charity have run campaigns about how important making small talk with a stranger can be. ‘I don’t have enough people to talk about chocolate with. And I feel like I shouldn’t let you go without clarifying that it’s the mannequins who are naked, not me. It’s way too cold for that.’
He lets out a guffaw. ‘Ah, so if I’d phoned on a summer night, it would have been a different story, huh?’
I laugh too. ‘What did I expect from a conversation that’s revolved entirely around chocolate, naked mannequins, and wrestling?’
‘I think I’d be letting the male species as a whole down if I didn’t derive something dirty from a conversation like that.’
‘I think we’ve both done our duty with weird conversations so far tonight,’ I say. I need to end this and get him on the phone to an actual counsellor who can help him talk things through, but I don’t know how to broach the subject. I can’t just say, ‘Right, here’s the number, off you go’. It’s too abrupt, it could make him feel rejected, and it could make him more likely to jump.
‘Where are you?’ I ask instead. Maybe getting back onto the subject is a good start.
‘The suspension bridge over the Barrow river. It’s on the outskirts of Oakbarrow town.’
He’s local. I know exactly where he is. Turn right at the end of the high street and go past the churchyard, it’s a ten-minute walk away. The old steel bridge on the road that leads out of Oakbarrow. I was up there two days ago putting One Light leaflets out. I leave a few of them weighed down with a stone in the corner of the pavement, next to the safety barrier that was replaced after an accident a few years ago. The replacement part is just a bit lower than the rest of the barrier; the part where anyone thinking of jumping would be most likely to climb over.
‘What are you doing up there at this time of night?’
‘I don’t know. God, I don’t know. It seemed so clear when I walked up here, but I got to the edge and looked down, and I couldn’t see the water, just blackness in the dark, and I went dizzy so I sat down on the pavement, and I just… I don’t know. Sorry, I’m rambling.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, thinking his voice sounds familiar. He’s got an English accent but he puts a little emphasis on his ‘r’s. It’s typical for this part of Gloucestershire. That must be why I think I recognize it.
‘I walked across the bridge yesterday and saw a stack of your leaflets. The thought of … you know … jumping … has been in my head for a while and I grabbed one and stuffed it in my pocket. As I stood there and looked over the edge tonight, I put my hands in my pockets and my fingers brushed it, and it was like I didn’t even remember putting it there.’
That must’ve been one of the leaflets I put out the day before. It makes me feel weirdly connected to him. This man has reached out in his darkest moment because of something I did. I have a responsibility to help him.
‘I sat on the pavement and unfolded it and thought about my dad – he died on this river – and I just felt … compelled to ring you. He’d be so disappointed if he could see me now. He thought life was the most precious thing any of us have.’
‘You didn’t jump. That’s the most important part. Life is precious and you chose to sit down and call me instead of throwing it away. That’s the first step to making things better.’
‘I didn’t choose to sit down, I thought I was going to pass out.’
‘That’s okay too. The only thing that matters is that you’re here and talking. It’s got to be better than the alternative,’ I say carefully, trying to sound as neutral as possible.
‘I shouldn’t be talking about this to you though, should I? I phoned the wrong number. I wouldn’t mind betting this is definitely not part of your job description …’
‘It’s okay, it’s absolutely fine.’ I’m glad he can’t see the expression on my face because it definitely doesn’t match the lighthearted tone in my voice. ‘It’s just the people on the helpline are properly trained counsellors, and I’m not. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make this worse,’ I say, deciding honesty is the best policy.
‘Please don’t hang up,’ he says after a long moment of silence. He sounds so cautious, almost afraid, and kind of hopeful, that there’s no way I could refuse. ‘I know I shouldn’t be asking you to talk to me but I don’t know what to do, and you’re reminding me of normal people and normal conversations and feeling normal and you’ve already made me laugh and it’s been so long since I …’ His voice goes choked up again and I can hear him sniffle.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say quickly, trying to reassure him. My hand tightens around the plastic of the handset. In my head, I’m wondering if I could somehow get in touch with the helpline while he’s still on the line and try to transfer the call without hanging up on him, but I can’t think of a way to do it. The phone in the shop that I’m talking on is an old corded one that’s attached to the wall behind the counter so no one can accidentally sell it – been there, done that – and my mobile is in my locker upstairs. I’d have to leave him for a few precious minutes to dash up there and get it. It would be too obvious what I was doing. What if he felt like I was just shafting him off onto the next person because I didn’t care? If he feels like I can’t get rid of him quick enough, it might make this situation worse. Even if I could get my phone and text the helpline and ask them what to say, I’d still have to leave him hanging here in silence while I got right the way across the shop floor, through the back room, up the stairs and into my locker and all the way back again, and who knows what he might do in that time? He phoned because he needs someone to talk to now. I can’t just leave him.
I wind the cord of the phone around my fingers and sink down into a sitting position. I thunk my head back against the wall behind the counter and listen to the rain pounding on the shop roof. Even Bernard, the homeless man who lives in the churchyard, will have found shelter tonight. ‘Aren’t you soaked?’
I hear movement and can imagine him lifting an arm and looking at it. ‘I am, actually. I hadn’t even noticed.’
I don’t know what it’s like to be in that situation, to feel so bad, so desperate, that there’s no way out, but I imagine a little fall of rain is the last thing he’s worrying about. I hate the idea of someone sitting on the pavement outside in this weather though. He must be drenched and freezing. I could go up there, take him a warm blanket and a hot cup of tea, but that too would mean leaving the phone, and it would eradicate our anonymity.
Privacy and anonymity are the foundations of the charity. The helpline exists so people in a crisis can open up to an unbiased stranger. Callers are routed through a server that hides the number from the person on the other end. Helpline staff are not allowed to ask the caller’s name if they don’t share it, and not allowed to give their own name unless asked. He knows I’m not proper helpline staff, but I still work for One Light. Those rules must still apply to me, even if this is a situation that’s never happened before.
‘Talk to me,’ I say gently, terrified that I’m saying the wrong thing. ‘Why were you thinking of jumping?’
‘We’ll be here all night if I start listing the reasons.’
‘That’s okay. We can be here all night. There’s no time limit. What’s going on?’
‘Everything. I’m a failure at life. My business is going under and I’ve done everything I can to try to save it, and I don’t know what else to do. It was supposed to be a way of honouring my father, but it’s taken every bit of money I had, and it’s dead. I have no customers. My mum is seventy-seven years old and on her feet at seven o’clock every day to help me out because I can’t afford to pay any staff. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs and I got my business rates bill this morning, and I can’t afford to pay even a fraction of it. And just to ice the cake, the rates are going up in January and there’s no way I can pay them.’
Because of the anonymity rules, I can’t ask him outright where he works, but if he’s in Oakbarrow then chances are it’s somewhere nearby. It might even be on this high street.
I sit up on my knees and look over the counter at the darkened road outside. Even the streetlamps have flickered their final death and no one’s bothered to mend them. Oakbarrow High Street used to be a hive of activity, especially at this time of year, but now it’s deader than the burnt-out bulbs in the streetlights. The truth is that I know how quiet things are. I know how difficult it is to get people through the door. Every day, I expect a phone call from Head Office saying they’ve decided to shut our branch down.
‘Well, it’s nearly Christmas,’ I say. ‘People are out shopping in the big towns at this time of year. Maybe things will pick up in January?’
‘There’s a new retail park on the roundabout outside of town. It’s easy to get to, there’s plenty of free parking, and it’s got every kind of shop you could imagine. No one needs to come to high streets anymore, no matter the time of year.’
‘Yeah, but the retail park is a bit … soulless, isn’t it? These business parks are all the same – if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I’d rather go to a little high street full of independent shops that actually mean something to the people who own them. That comes across to shoppers, you know?’
‘Well, you must be one of about ten people left in the country who think that way.’
I suddenly feel incredibly sad because he’s so right about the high street. I’ve lived in Oakbarrow all my life. This high street used to be the centre of the universe, especially at this time of year. I remember going Christmas shopping with my mum when I was little and being amazed by it; the sights, the sounds, the smells. The giant tree they put up in front of the churchyard, always at least ten-foot high, lush green branches weighed down with twinkling lights and ornaments that local school children had made. It was magical back then. Shopkeepers would stay open late, decorations of reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh ran across the road above our heads, snowflakes twinkled on hangers outside every shop, lampposts were wrapped with tinsel and bows and had bright bulbs that still worked.
I look out the window again. The shop across the road is empty, its windows painted white from inside, the shop next to that has a ‘for sale’ sign nailed to its front though the ‘s’ has worn off, and the one on the opposite side has had ‘closing down sale’ notices in its bare windows for the past three years.
Just about the only shops still in business are the charity shop and the bank next door, a coffee shop, a tanning shop, a lingerie shop, and a television repair shop at the upper end of the high street. Even the only pub, that used to be the heart of all village gatherings, has closed in recent years. It used to be called The Blue Drum but some clever vandal has removed the middle five letters, so now it’s just The B um. I hear a lot of regular customers talking about wishing The Bum was still open so they could go up it.
It feels like every one of us is only here to await the death knell. Even the mini supermarket that put the independent greengrocer out of business and contributed to the market closure has shut up shop and run for the hills. Or, more specifically, run for the retail park to be with all the other convenient and cheap shops that make high streets everywhere irrelevant.
‘I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better, but there’s no denying what a state high streets everywhere are in.’
‘At least you’re honest. Somehow, even hearing that makes me feel better.’
Well, I want to make him feel better but I’m not sure commiserating over the state of things was quite what I had in mind. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Cold. Wet.’ I can hear his teeth chattering. ‘Stupid for being up here. Stupid for thinking this was the answer. Pathetic for crying down the phone to a stranger.’
‘Hey, that’s not pathetic.’ I wonder if we are strangers. If he works around here, I might know him in passing. I’ve had this job for four years now; you get to know people who work nearby, and his voice does sound familiar. ‘When you need help, the bravest thing you can do is reach out and ask for it.’
‘Or phone a stranger and talk about naked mannequin wrestling.’