Passport to Happiness

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HarperImpulse

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019

Copyright © Carrie Stone 2019

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Carrie Stone asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008123109

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008123086

Version: 2018-12-14

Table of Contents

Cover

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

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Also by Carrie Stone

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

For Primrose, my very own passport to happiness

‘I don’t usually date women over the age of thirty. But I’m making an exception for you. You don’t look your age – so it’s OK. You can easily pass for twenty-eight.’ He grins at me with the confidence of someone who thinks they have paid an exceptionally gracious compliment and I can’t help but feel strangely flattered and irritated all at the same time. If it wasn’t for his overly white veneers keeping me fixated on his mouth and the golden nuggets of wisdom that might come out of it next, I’d have long ago made an exit. As it is, we’ve only just finished the starter course.

‘Are you always so flattering?’ There’s a heavy hint of sarcasm to my tone but he doesn’t appear to notice. He’s too busy swirling the wine in his glass and continuing with his running commentary on why younger women are more appealing. Ironic really, given that he’s thirty-eight years young himself, which, thanks to his hair implants and copious fillers, I’m not supposed to notice.

He’d seemed so normal in our email exchange, at least in the sense that he didn’t appear to have an overly inflated sense of self. Yet in person he insists on dropping his achievements into every other sentence. I briefly wonder if it’s a cultural thing – he’s German – but quickly dismiss that thought as he tells me, with a very straight face, that he would like to write his life story because men ‘world over’ would benefit from his knowledge of how to seduce and attract any woman they desire. Perhaps I’d be able to take that idea more seriously if he was doing a better job at winning me over. As it is, I see straight through him. He’s lonely, he’s hung up on his ex and he’s tired of his sales director role at a mid- range hotel group. Let’s face it, he’s hardly setting the world alight. But then, neither am I for that matter.

I never dreamed I’d find myself in this situation at thirty-three years of age. I used to joke about the cliché cat woman and now I’m beginning to feel like one – without the cat. I don’t love being single and carefree no matter how much I try to convince others, and myself, that I do. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t ‘need’ a man to feel complete – my life is busy enough. But being in a partnership is a bit like wearing a favourite bra; it’s uplifting, comfortable, it makes you feel secure and you’re somehow less vulnerable to life’s challenges when there’s that extra support.

I blame Jay. He’s gotten a lot of the blame these past three years, but it is his fault. We had it all, the great relationship, the holidays, the house. The ring on my finger that I thought would be there forever…

If it wasn’t for his ‘I need to focus on my career not tie myself down’ crisis, I wouldn’t be alone, perpetually broke and clinging to a job that doesn’t hold the glossy glow that it once did.

I’d always just assumed that by my early thirties we’d be happily settled, perhaps with a couple of children, and at least have ticked living abroad off my bucket list. Hell, I even thought I’d own a 4x4 by now.

But no, instead I wake up every day hoping for a miracle – some kind of catalyst or key to kick-start a much-needed domino effect. I refuse to believe that this is the life destiny has in mind for me. Not my one-bedroom flat that’s barely big enough to swing a hamster, nor the disastrous stream of unsuitable men I keep getting set up with and don’t even get me started on the grey roots, frown lines and thick, wiry hairs in inappropriate places that have decided to suddenly take residence on my being. Where did I go? Everly Carter with the crazy brunette curls and full lips.

This shell of a life I’m living isn’t fun, it isn’t fulfilling, and it isn’t me. I feel that I’m out of touch with that happy, adventurous woman that I was all the way through my twenties, excited by the prospect of what life might bring and dreaming of far-flung places I’d be visiting with Jay. I realise lately that I’m fed up. I’m tired, I’m lonely and I’m unhappy. There, I’ve said it. I’m unhappy.

‘Do the kids you teach ever annoy you?’ he asks suddenly, making me wonder how the conversation navigated itself from his rather detailed romantic conquests to my current teaching job at a comprehensive school.

‘Of course they do,’ I retort with a wry smile, thinking of my earlier biology lesson and the little shit of class 10C known as Terry Whittaker. There’s something very disconcerting about hearing a fourteen-year-old calling you a ‘MILF’. Especially when the connotation indicates that you’re old and a mother. Talk about rubbing it in.

‘They’re just kids though and so I don’t let it get to me.’ That’s not strictly true, because I do sometimes let it get to me – like the month-long period of crying in the school loos during lunch hour. And all because a pupil asked why I wasn’t married – the day after Jay, my fiancé of five years had told me he could no longer see a future with us. But I’m not about to let my date, Florian, know that.

‘Have you been to Switzerland?’ I ask quickly and randomly, changing the subject before the conversation gets too deep and I start to unravel into a pathetic mess over my ex. He looks at me oddly, as if I’ve asked something very meaningful and complex. ‘Seeing as you’re German’ I add rather lamely, as if by explanation.

‘Yes, when I was younger. I skied a lot.’ He looks thoughtful for a moment and I start to fantasise about visiting Zurich just as his face suddenly lights up and he launches into a running commentary of his Swiss escapades. I realise in that moment that this is what I’m missing. Fun. Excitement. Spontaneity. And mostly, adventure. A little spark begins to burn inside me, and I grin as a crazy idea forms in my mind.

He doesn’t even notice as I discreetly tap my mobile into life and open up a travel website. I’m nodding in all the right places, smiling when he smiles and laughing when he laughs. Ever the egoist – he’s too wrapped up in himself to see me scanning flights. It’s laughably easy to excuse myself as our main course arrives and he takes the opportunity to charm the attractive young waitress serving our food.

Before I know it, I find myself in the toilet with my clutch purse and mobile, impulsively booking flights to Switzerland for the coming week. It’s school half-term – it’s late spring and I have little to look forward to except lazy lie-ins and re-runs of television series I’ve already seen. Why didn’t I think of this sooner, I muse to myself, as I tap in my credit card details.

By the time I return to the table he’s already halfway through his main course and I internally seethe at the lack of consideration – although he has the good grace to stand as I approach. I’m torn between a hasty retreat or being polite and staying for the entirety of the meal despite knowing I have zero intention of seeing him again.

I notice his suggestive wink at a group of women on a nearby table and instantaneously decide to make an excuse to leave because quite honestly, I’ve been insulted enough for one night. I’m too long in the tooth to be wasting time on things that don’t make me happy. And I’ve been doing way too much of that in all areas of my life – as my current predicament suggests. Florian is not a happy pill. He’s a fuckwit and I’ve had enough of those lately to last me a lifetime.

I join him as he sits back down, and he gestures to his plate with his knife. ‘The steak is good, very tender.’ I watch as he stabs a piece of meat and chews noisily. ‘The potatoes are good too. Although, best you go easy.’ He grins and his eyes dart to my stomach and even though I know he’s joking, I don’t smile in return.

‘Listen Florian, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to make a move.’ I rustle in my bag for my purse and pull out a few notes. ‘I had a call from a friend and it sounded urgent. I’ll have to cut dinner short.’ I unobtrusively place some money on the table and he watches with a sour expression. We both know it’s a lie but seeing as he’s already pretty much finished his food, I’m fairly certain it’s not going to be a problem.

‘No wonder you’re single if you keep running out on dates,’ he retorts, cool and collected, sitting back in his chair and surveying me with narrowed eyes. ‘But I think it’s obvious you aren’t my type anyway.’

‘Yes, I gathered that.’ My smile is tight, and I refrain from responding that I’d rather eat my elbow than waste another minute with him.

With that thought, I acknowledge that this date is about to set the new tone of my life going forward. No more wasting time on the wrong options, waiting for lighting to strike – it’s time to make things happen. I may not have control over when my Mr Right appears, but I do have control of chasing my dreams and finding my happiness again.

I pick up my bag and push back my chair, noting this time that he doesn’t stand but instead reaches across and helps himself to the seared duck breast on my plate. No shame at all.

He barely looks up as I say goodbye, but just mumbles an inaudible response.

Feeling relieved that I’m not forced to spend the remainder of my Saturday evening suffering his company, I make my way out of the restaurant, smiling to myself. For the first time in a long time, I’m enlivened and fired up about something.

‘Time to go on an adventure, Everly,’ I whisper, walking out into the surprisingly cool evening air.

Because if not now, then when? It’s time for Everly Carter to make shit happen.

First stop, Zurich.

*

Why on earth, given all of the countries I could have chosen, did I choose Switzerland? It’s not that I’m regretting it, as I heave my far too heavy suitcase onto the baggage check in at Luton airport – I’m just wondering why I didn’t book say, Italy or Spain or even Portugal? Basically, anywhere cheaper and sunnier.

But it’s famous for its luscious chocolate, I tell myself reassuringly as I try not to think about the extortionate cost of my inner-city hotel room. Besides, Switzerland is every skiers dream!

Although therein lies the problem; I’ve never skied and I’m wondering if my end-of-holiday two-night trip to the nearest mountainous resort Laax, is going to be a total disaster. It was only after discovering that the mountain I’ll be skiing on is called Crap that I began to question the entire, insane, whimsical idea. What the hell was I thinking? The Mediterranean would have been so much easier. I haven’t even had time to plan what I’ll do for the first three days of my trip in Zurich.

If it wasn’t for Florian and his insults prompting me into booking a random flight, would I even be here? I catch myself sharply and take the Swiss guide book I bought yesterday from my handbag. I briefly flick through and observe a beautiful looking city in the north– words jump off the page at me; vivacious, chic boutiques, Italian speaking, lakeside… What’s to stop me day-tripping there? Absolutely nothing, I think to myself as I feel my pulse quickening.

It’s been so long since I did any solo travel, partly due to spending years in a relationship with stock trader Jay. The cheeky, charming, honey-haired banker that had once set my world on fire. We had so much fun in those years and holidays were a regular occurrence for him – he was always off with the lads but occasionally we’d have our own breaks, albeit mainly to places that Jay had chosen. Being flash with the cash was one of his downfalls, but then he had it to burn so the likes of Cannes, Dubai and Monaco became the places I grew to know. I can’t say I was overly enamoured with spending the majority of the time at swanky restaurants or champagne bars – I’d have preferred to explore a bit more of each country. Yet being in love with Jay was enough for me to forgive that side of things. He’d looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. I was his ‘Everly everything’ as he often said.

Except I wasn’t, was I? Because now he’s married to a woman called Sarah and they have a son called Jay Junior. Asshole.

The day he broke things off is still a blur of tears and heartache, even now. It had stung that he’d decided to offer me a sum of money to move out. It was his house after all, as he’d tactlessly put it. Never mind the fact I’d paid my share of the mortgage and bills for years, or that I’d lovingly decorated it to make it our home. The small upside was that the money served as a deposit to buy my own tiny flat and start afresh.

Laughably, I still have my ‘get over Jay’ list of destinations I had made to give me something to focus on after our split. But not a single one is ticked off…

Still, I guess that is what being single with a hefty mortgage, demanding work schedule and lacklustre lifestyle does for you – especially when you’ve been doing private tutoring throughout the holidays to help pay the bills. I’ve been working to live which wouldn’t be so bad if I still loved my job and life. But let’s be honest, I’d quite happily trade my lot right now for a more vivacious existence. I desperately need some kind of change. And I really want to feel like I’m contributing more to the world than I currently am. You know, making a profound difference in some way. Sure, I’m no Mother Teresa, but I can’t help feeling that I could be doing something more with my time and energy. But where do I start? It’s not exactly easy to go off on a carefree charitable venture when you’re already overworked and teetering on the breadline.

Sighing, I concentrate on my guidebook and get lost in option after option of Switzerland must-sees. By the time the tannoy announces that my flight is ready to board, I’ve made an action-packed list as long as my notebook on things I’d like to do. I figure that, as my impulsive decision to choose a last-minute holiday has already cost me an arm and a leg, there’s no point holding back on entertainment whilst there, even if it is going to be courtesy of Mastercard. Sometimes, it’s important to speculate to accumulate. Especially if I want to feel inspired by life again and find a new way forward.

Thanks to a bit of Googling, I manage to fire off a quick email booking myself lessons with a ski-instructor called Elena. She looks rather normal and friendly from her website profile and by the time I take my window seat on the plane, I’m already forgetting my earlier reservations. Something inside me is telling me that this trip to Switzerland is exactly what I need; a week away to sort out what I really want from life. I’ve been trying to control everything for so long, from work, to money, to men and yet nothing seems to be working in my favour. Maybe it’s time to throw caution to the wind, stop holding the reins and open myself up to letting go and inviting in the unexpected.

I rest myself happily into my unforgivingly hard budget airline seat and watch as the first droplets of rain begin to glide across the small window next to me. It’s a typical gloomy, wet and grey day in the South East and I can’t help but feel excited at the promise of slightly less depressing scenery where I’m bound for. Fine, I’ve never really been into mountains and snow … but it’s got to better than rain, right? And worst-case scenario, even if this trip doesn’t bring me answers to feel more fulfilled by life, I’ll still get to sample Sprüngli chocolate delights and authentic Gruyere cheese fondue. Yes, I tell myself with a certain smile. Switzerland is going to be the answer to my prayers.

It doesn’t even feel like minutes later when the aircraft engine fires into action and the small splashes of rain begin to speed away into watery trails as the plane picks up pace and prepares for take-off.

Zurich, here I come.

Chapter 2

Well, what can I say – I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s not at all how I’d imagined. I’ve even peeled off my jumper and replaced it with a shirt as there’s sunshine! Yes, actual sunshine and the kind of heat that I usually associate with hot countries – it’s hard to believe that I’ll be skiing in a few days just a couple of hours’ drive away. And the shops! Don’t get me started on shops – I’m back from a quick coffee trip on bahnhofstrasse and the main boulevard is every woman’s dream. Plus, who knew Switzerland would be so clean? I’m walking around my hotel room in a daze. Despite being a small hotel, my room is a lot more spacious than I was expecting and my mind flits to the waiter that smiled at me as I’d passed the hotel restaurant on the way to the reception desk. He had a bald head which usually wouldn’t be my thing, but it was in such stark constant to his piercing green eyes and thick, long dark eyelashes that I couldn’t help but stare. Frederick was the name I’d noted from his metal badge. And since my stomach is making gurgling noises from a lack of food and it being nearly lunchtime, I decide there’s no better way to plan out the rest of my afternoon than a quick pit stop with a light snack and hopefully Frederick for company.

Grabbing my bag and room key, I pause as I pass the open bathroom door with its stark white and glass decor, quickly checking the mirror to see how dishevelled my appearance is. It’s a pleasant surprise when I notice that my smoky blue eyes, which have seemed more of a dull, moody grey of late, are sparkling bright again – so much so that they look almost sky blue. My untamed, curly hair, that I’d somehow moulded into bouncy curls, sits perfectly parallel to my cleavage and my light, natural make-up appears untouched.

The fitted white top I’ve changed into hugs my curves in all the right places, accentuating a hint of my generous bust and small waist. My dark blue skinny jeans are beginning to feel marginally uncomfortable, yet they do a magical trick where they make my legs appear much longer than they really are – something that nearly every five-foot-two woman aspires for. So I decide not to bother changing them, especially since I’m wearing gold ballet flats – I need all the extra leg I can get. I notice that I have a very healthy tanned glow that, thanks to my naturally olive-coloured skin, even my jetlag and slightly dry facial complexion can’t detract from. The overall appearance isn’t the one I was expecting to be greeted with. I look rather passable if I say so myself and briefly wonder if there’s something to be said for the mountainous air and whether I could bottle it to aid in feeling gorgeous in the future – something that hasn’t happened very frequently of late.

Walking through the hotel corridor with its plush red and gold carpeting, the smell of freshly baked bread hits me. I pick up my pace, eager to get stuck into a schnitzel or whatever it is they eat here. By the time I’ve arrived at the almost deserted dining area, I’m beginning to wonder if this was the best of ideas. The huge windows looking out onto the main street on which the hotel is situated shows a buzzing crowd of passers-by and the bright afternoon sunshine reflects off the highly polished cutlery at my lonesome table. There are only three other diners sat at the far end and the strange Morris dancing type music is so low that I can clearly hear their conservation. Plus, there’s no sign of Frederick. I’m about to change tactic as, through the window, my eye catches a little boutique selling semi-precious stone jewellery, when a menu is placed in front of me, making me jump.

I look up in surprise and Frederick stares at me with a broad smile. I immediately notice the perfect bow of his dark upper lip. Despite his shorter stature, his muscular frame is evident from the fabric of his crisp black shirt straining itself across his pectorals and biceps and I can’t draw my eyes away from his smooth, shiny hair-free head. There’s a twinkle in his sparkling gaze and I sense he is aware of me observing him and enjoying the ordeal a little too much.

‘Welcome to the Montana Hotel. And sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ His heavily accented English sounds alluring and seductive and I feel my face flushing with heat. There’s something about him that has me riled up which is rather odd since he’s not my type at all. I’m usually a fan of the tall, blond, chopped hair variety but maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong. I meet his gaze and frown when I see a small smirk forming where his smile was only moments ago.

‘Thank you, but there’s no need to apologise, I was miles away – I didn’t hear you approaching. I just want to grab a light lunch before I head off out to explore.’ I’m feeling slightly flustered as he’s staring at me oddly.

‘Can I ask if you’ve stayed with us previously?’ The way he’s pursing his lips and squinting his eyes at me suddenly makes me wonder whether I’ve misjudged the situation. ‘You remind me of another guest we’ve had here before.’ He places one hand on his hip and bites his bottom lip thoughtfully in an overly exaggerated manner that is reminiscent of my very girly and closest friend, Tilly. ‘Are you Monsieur Eugene Marcel’s partner?’