The Forgotten Guide to Happiness: The unmissable debut, perfect for anyone who loved THE KEEPER OF LOST THINGS

Chapter Twenty-Three: Conflict (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four: Consequences (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five: Departures and Reunions (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six: Reliving the Dream (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Viewpoints (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Equanimity (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Regrouping (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty: The Lonely Hearts Literary Society (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One: External Conflict (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two: Plans (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Dream Realised (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Dark Night of the Soul (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five: Downturn (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Six: Resurrection (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Settings (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Destination (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Ideas for an Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty: Treasure (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-One: Trilogy (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

How I thought my story ended …

After months on the road in her camper van, she was coming to her journey’s end, to the place where it had begun. In the distance the city sparkled. Marco drove through the outskirts of north London and the leafy suburban streets, into Highgate Village with its Victorian and Georgian houses, and down Highgate West Hill where he bumped up the kerb and parked up next to a red-bricked mansion block with a green wooden gate flanked by dark hedges. The engine cooled and ticked.

‘This is it.’ Marco took the key out of the ignition and kissed her, his mouth warm on hers. ‘We’re home, Lauren,’ he said softly, watching her, his eyes dark with love.

The word took her breath away. She looked up at the building with its warm, lighted windows.

She thought back to the moment everything had changed. The moment he’d asked her to go back with him.

‘I hoped you might be ready to come home now,’ he’d said, squeezing her hand. ‘Come home with me.’

‘Home?’ For a moment she’d felt as if she was stepping on quicksand; that off-balance terror and the thrill of excitement.

‘Lauren, I love your independence. You’re the most self-contained woman I’ve ever met. You and me, we’re two of a kind, don’t you think? You can have all the freedom you need and I’ll be away some of the time anyway. It will be like it is now except I won’t have to rely on a tracker to find you.’

‘That’s crazy!’ she’d said. Put together all the time they’d known each other and it amounted to a few weeks at the most.

‘I know,’ he’d said cheerfully, taking it as a compliment.

And now, for the first time, they weren’t parting with promises to keep in touch, promises that faded as time passed. Home was togetherness and warmth and permanence and, after nine months of travelling, the word was like a forgotten dream and she was filled with sudden happiness.

Their adventure wasn’t over.

It was just about to begin.

CHAPTER ONE (#u07c610c3-1ee4-57b4-9b96-e7f702aedbc4)

The Sequel (#u07c610c3-1ee4-57b4-9b96-e7f702aedbc4)

Some days start off looking hopeful: it’s August, the sun is out, the birds are singing, people are smiling – this was one of those days. I was waiting with anticipation for my literary agent Kitty Golding to let me into her apartment block. She lives in the penthouse of a modern architectural block bordering Regent’s Park, which is five storeys high and glass-fronted, giving it the effect of a doll’s house. On the ground floor, the white sofa had its back to the window and I could see the top of a head of black, curly hair – could be a man or woman, girl, boy or dog. I was itching to reach in and rearrange the furniture.

The intercom clicked into life. ‘Come on up, Lana.’ The door clunked open, and I got into the lift which took me up to my agent’s floor.

Kitty was waiting for me, smiling faintly. Early forties, lean, glossy black hair, wearing a lime-and-heather-coloured boiled-wool dress.

She held the door open, and I smiled back at her and went into her office. The glass wall looked out at the sky and the rooftops above the busy street below. The other three walls were lined with books. Mine was easy to spot: Love Crazy, with LANA GREEN emblazoned along the spine.

I headed for a low tan and chrome chair, and for a disconcerting second I had the sensation of plummeting – the chair was lower than it looked. I tugged at my red skirt: I could see my fake-tanned knees in close-up.

Kitty took the chair opposite me, gripping the armrests and lowering herself in a sort of triceps dip. She picked up the typescript of my sequel, Heartbreak,from the glass table and flicked through a few pages, nodding thoughtfully.

‘Nice paper.’ She looked up. Her gaze met mine, and held.

The feeling of anticipation was similar to the early days of a relationship: expectation mingled with excitement. Kitty doesn’t show much emotion – she leaves that to editors – but I was waiting for my high-five moment.

Kitty tapped my novel. ‘As you know, I love your writing. You can write; there’s no doubt about that.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

Kitty hooked her pale fingers into the string of lime beads around her neck. She took a deep breath and let it out long and slow. ‘But we’ve got a problem.’

‘Oh?’ I hadn’t been expecting the but. ‘Is it too long?’

‘No – well, maybe a touch. It’s not that. The question is, Lana, what’s the hook?’

I did some quick-thinking. ‘The hook is that this is the sequel to Love Crazy,’ I said after a moment.