Chapter 3
‘Ask the universe for someone to talk to, and it sends you a mouse,’ said Alyssa, through nervously clenched teeth.
At that point, she would usually have leapt up onto the bed for safety or yelled for the mouse police, if they were even a thing.
Though with the day she was having, being accosted by a real-life Pikachu felt like the least of her problems. So she sat perfectly still on the Eighties flowery bed, racking her brains for a plan.
Before she could make a list of people she definitely wouldn’t call, the creature moved towards her, scritch-scratching across the bare floorboards with a boldness she had to admire.
She remembered the brutal-looking traps in the cupboard, and not for the first time, wondered where on earth she’d landed. She wasn’t one to get sentimental, but the tiny thing was defenceless. Did it just make a little ‘hello’ squeak?
‘Hi there,’ she heard herself saying.
Trying to make friends with a rodent. It was a rock-bottom kind of day.
The small thing sat on its furry behind, cleaning its nose with its petite pink paws. It was reddish brown, in a shade her hairdresser might have called a rosewood balayage, and it didn’t look like it was the ringleader of a small mouse army – though she didn’t know much.
‘Look, you can’t live here. It’s probably not hygienic – for you or me.’ She pointed to the bedroom door. ‘If you leave now, we’ll say no more about it. Agreed?’
But the mouse just stared at her. She sighed and reached for her bag. ‘I’m trusting you. Do not tell people I keep strawberry muffins in my second-hand Birkin. Or that I speak to mice.’
Alyssa took a deep breath and stood, careful to keep her distance from the uninvited guest. She backed towards the bedroom door, dropping a careful trail of muffin crumbs and trying not to lament her last sugary snack.
‘People think I live on tofu and quinoa. Though tofu tastes like SpongeBob’s armpits. Have you tried it?’ The mouse cocked its head. ‘Well, don’t.’
A love coach was essentially a life coach who had specialised.
She’d long since decided it didn’t look inspirational or disciplined if she couldn’t even coach herself to keep her hands off the cake cupboard.
The healthy-lifestyle persona was something she’d taken on when she’d reinvented herself as Alyssa Heart.
It had made her and her brand popular. Liked.
Everyone deserved to feel that way, didn’t they?
She continued the trail towards the flat’s entrance, and at last, the mouse followed, taking the odd nibble and filling its cheeks. Alyssa opened the front door, placed the rest of the muffin down, and pointed.
‘Yum yum. Now off you go. Have a lovely life.’
With a few sniffs of the air, the mouse took the hint and scurried into the hallway. She locked the door behind it. She’d done Pikachu a favour. Who said she didn’t have a heart?
Alyssa tried to ignore the strange worry about whether her unexpected roommate would be all right.
She was not so lonesome that she needed to start befriending small creatures, like something out of a Disney movie.
She was a brave, independent woman who could deal with life’s crap.
So she strode back to the Eighties bedspread, sank down, and grabbed her phone.
Arnaud had called her phone usage an obsession.
‘Be present in the moment’, he’d warned, like something from her own Instagram grid.
That was all very well if your present moment didn’t involve a high risk of bedbugs.
She preferred to think of her social media as a comfort.
A place where she could be accepted with hundreds of likes and hearts, even if the online persona she’d created wasn’t exactly her.
She knew it was superficial. But strangers had embraced her when so-called loved ones hadn’t.
And if she was going to find work to scrape her way out of here, she had to get back to her social media. That was where her potential love coaching clients would be, if she could just sprinkle a few virtual muffin crumbs to encourage them.
She clicked onto her ‘New Year, New Me’ post, her insides filling with relief to see people were liking and chatting to her. Her eyes scanned the comments.
@tinatinyharris – You’re smashing it! You always do. Happy New Year, you gorgeous thing. X
There, that was nice – even if she was excelling at precisely nothing right then. People thought she was, and that was a start.
@lovedupbuttercup – Thanks to you I feel like a New Me every day! I’m so in love. Joshi and I spent New Year in Paris, overlooking La Tour Eiffel. Fireworks! You’re incredible. My heart feels ALIIIIIIVE!!!!!! Xxxxxxxxxxxx
Alyssa felt an impulse to roll her eyes.
She’d coached lovedupbuttercup two years ago.
She was a sweet thing, but she was convinced Alyssa had helped her to fall in love with her husband Josh all over again, after his affair with their nanny.
Alyssa was pleased she’d been of use, but how could love possibly exist when your dearly beloved couldn’t keep his todger in his trousers?
Alyssa had simply used self-belief and strategy to pull them back together. It wasn’t magic.
She sensed a churn in her gut, which was probably just hunger.
When she’d been cheated on by what some might call her childhood sweetheart, she’d been just nineteen.
It irked her that she still thought of him, with his messy deep-brown hair with flecks of auburn and eyes the colour of twilight.
That had been the only time she’d dared to believe something deeper could exist – and look how dreadfully it had ended.
Still hunting for potential clients, she spotted a comment from @garypratt that made her jaw tense.
Gary was the only person whose coaching contract she’d had to terminate, nearly five years ago, because he’d ‘fallen in love with her’.
She made a point of not telling her clients love was a fantasy, as that was bad for business. But really.
@garypratt – Anytime you decide your ‘new me’ involves ME, I’m right here for ya. Just saying. Looking good, Alyssa. Twit twoo. ;-)
What was with the owl noises? She gave his comment a heart to be polite. He wasn’t always trollish.
After pinging out a few messages and a positive post that she hoped might lead to at least a sniff of work enquiries, she started to scroll the interesting news articles her phone’s algorithm had suggested.
Sharing useful things with her followers kept her looking relevant and professional – even when she didn’t feel it.
She pulled a face at a story about a woman who’d smuggled a boa constrictor in her leggings.
How did these algorithms decide what a person liked to see?
She understood there was code involved, like little tech goblins spying on your online behaviour and feeding you more of what you liked, with the aim of getting you hooked. It was sort of creepy.
Then her gaze landed on the word Hartglove.
Her chest tightened. The algorithm was way off course, because she did not want to see that.
It was the name of the Cotswold town where she’d been born.
The place she’d escaped from as soon as she could, with what she’d stupidly thought was a broken heart, but now knew better.
That stifling town that held memories of gawping locals, an embarrassing night in a turtle costume, and a pair of twilight blue eyes …
She stood quickly, hoping to break free from the spell but failing. She was still gripping her phone, and the algorithm goblins were winning. As much as she didn’t want to click onto the article, she couldn’t not look.
No Love in Hartglove was its title. ‘Well, they’ve got that right.
’ Her mind brought up an image of her parents, who were still there – and apparently still together – even after the shocking revelations about their relationship that had left her sure love was a lie.
A horrible memory slid into her mind, and she promptly shook it away.
That ugly scene was another good reason she’d packed her bags and run.
‘The title should be: No Love Anywhere.’
Though now she’d opened the article, she may as well read it, in the interests of her occupation.
It sounded like they could do with a love coach in town.
She shuddered. Well, it wouldn’t be her.
Not even if hell froze over and turned into a particularly lovely ice hotel.
Her eyes scanned, picking out the juicy bits.
Statistics show the quaint Cotswold town has the fewest number of couples in the country …
Quaint or out of the Dark Ages?
Hartglove was presented with the Most Loveless Town of the Year award …
Had there been a ceremony? That must have been awkward.
Residents were shocked. The tongue-in-cheek award comes only a year after Hartglove was voted Least Cheerful Town Around.
One occupant grumbled it was rotten for people’s spirits, not to mention tourism.
Another resident vowed they’d make a comeback.
There are even rumours that a surprising plan is underway. We’ll keep you posted.
‘Please don’t.’ She pressed to close the article, a strange shiver running through her. She must shut the flat’s windows.
Alyssa only half wondered if the grumbling occupant might be someone she knew, like Mrs Halfpenny from the convenience shop, who’d always had her nose in everyone’s business, between dishing out fizzy sweets and making pyramids out of toilet rolls. Or perhaps most people were long gone.
And she only vaguely let her thoughts wander to what on earth their ‘surprising plan’ could be. Because nothing that happened in Hartglove was any of her business – and she would make sure it stayed that way.