Wake Up Happy Every Day Read Online Free Page B

the workers while at the same time fending off nonsensical questions from the bean-counters in head office in London who know nothing about the realities of working in a place like India. Doing all that and then three evenings a week he goes and sits at the feet of the kite guru and learns about flight patterns, about paper, about design, about the discipline you need if you really want to castrate, fuck, kill.
    Daniel says that he’s sure it helped him in business. Polly says that she can believe that. And then she smiles and says that she doesn’t really want to castrate, fuck, kill if it’s all right with him.
    And Daniel says neither does he any more, that he’s a bit embarrassed by the man he used to be. And then he asks what Polly does want and she can’t believe her own reply. Her own reply is the absolute God’s honest truth and it’s a thing she’s never told anyone before.
    ‘A baby. I want a baby.’ And she puts a hand over her mouth. And Daniel looks at her calmly and says, ‘Well, that doesn’t sound impossible. Easier than making a kite that flies anyway.’

Five
    NICKY
    The next bit – the beginning proper – is all much, much easier than we expect, but then beginnings are, aren’t they? In love, in work, in life: beginnings are always the easy bit. It’s endings that are hard.
    I’ve told myself, promised myself, that if there are any problems at all, then we’ll get out immediately. And Sarah agrees. Yeah, she says, no unnecessary risks. We can always bail.
    At 8 a.m. that morning – five hours after I’ve found him – I phone 911, tell them my guest over from England has collapsed in my bathroom and that he isn’t breathing. It’s no problem to sound panicky. The minute I give his name – my name – I feel asthmatic with terror. But it’s done now. No way back. The operator is steely as she tells me that she really needs me to stay calm right now. I take a breath. Try to concentrate on her questions.
    No, I’m not sure when exactly, some time ago. Last thing I remember is him getting up to go to the bathroom. I’d fallen asleep in my chair. We’d been having a catch-up, see. Drink, smoke, what have you. We’re old friends and it’s my birthday. Fifty. A proper milestone. So yes, he’s been drinking. Wine, beer, whisky. Proper whisky. Glenmorangie. A nice single malt. No drugs. At least I don’t think so. He’d just gone to the bathroom which is where I’ve found him. Just now. Not the one in his bedroom, but in the guest bathroom. Yes, the bathroom. The Bath Room. I’m pretty sure he’s, you know, gone – but please hurry. His wife’s here.
    And the voice stays cool. Unsympathetic I think. Stern. She’s saying that she understands that I’m feeling a little shaken up right now, but it’s important that I stay focused. Sir.
    Do I imagine that or is it real? A tiny disrespectful pause before she says Sir?
    But I don’t have time to dwell on it, because she’s talking again. Where is he now, sir? And I have to take another breath, count to five just so I don’t scream out that I’ve told her already. He’s in the frigging bathroom. Bent over. On the floor. Like he’s praying. Or about to get shafted. One of the two.
    She tells me to go to him and check his pulse again, explains how to do CPR, the kiss of life, all that stuff. I say, yeah I’ll do it, but actually I go to join Sarah at the window again. And together we take a long look at the city stretching and yawning. I take advantage of the brief silence the operator allows to concentrate on the vapour trail of a passing jet. Sarah squeezes my hand. It’s still bloody early, the heat in the city not fierce as yet, but I’m sweating. Shaking. I sit down as the voice makes me go through everything again. Where is he now, sir? The bathroom the bathroom the bathroom. The can, the john, the restroom, the loo, the lavatory, the fucking bog. Christ, how many more times? Stay with me, sir. Stay calm.
    Why is she