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

‘You came back!’ I said, crawling out.

‘You’ve got another thirty minutes,’ she said.

I looked at the clock and she was right, but nothing in the world would have induced me to go back in there. I haven’t bothered looking for a muse since.

I threw my energy into cleaning the flat mostly for mercenary reasons – I needed the deposit money back. When Mark and I moved in, we’d photographed every flaw, every scuff on the skirting board, every chipped tile in the bathroom, because if there’s one thing landlords hate, it’s returning the deposit.

The creative power of boredom is something that the non-writer doesn’t appreciate. They see you sitting there with your feet on the desk, staring out of the window, and assume that you have knocked off for the day, and ask what’s for lunch. Obviously you’re not ready to make lunch because you’re writing. Then the person will point out that you’re not writing, you’re sitting there doing nothing. So you explain that the creative force is all going on up here, and you point to your head, and then they will tell you to take your creative force with them to the nearest McDonald’s because they’re starving.

After the argument, you find you’ve lost your train of thought completely.

Anyway, as well as cleaning I cancelled my phone contract and walked to Camden and bought a cheap pay-as-you-go phone. Over a McCoffee I texted my new number to Kitty, my parents and Carol Burrows and once I’d done that I walked back home and sat at my desk and tried to think of good characters for my book. Characters are more important than plot. When you finish a book that you’ve really enjoyed, you never miss the plot. Nobody ever says that they enjoy the plot trajectory and wish they could have more of it; no, it’s the characters that you long for. That feeling of closing the jacket knowing they’ve gone off without you and you’re left alone as they disappear into the distance; that’s the feeling that feeds a reader and forces her to find another book to get involved in.

I couldn’t think of any character to write about. I wondered if I had writer’s block. Herman Melville got it after writing Moby-Dick. Hemingway was terrified by it. F. Scott Fitzgerald suffered enormously with it. What if I was a one-book wonder like Margaret Mitchell, who, after writing Gone with the Wind, got run over in the street without having ever written a sequel?

The problem with writing is, the only way to be a writer is to write. This might seem obvious, but there are a lot of people who want to be writers without writing. They go on motivational courses and spend whole fortnights at writers’ retreats in Crete or in timber lodges in Dorset, having food delivered while they wait for inspiration to strike. They join the BBC Book Club and ask authors interesting questions and take notes and listen to the broadcast a few weeks later. They go on holiday for research purposes and generally have a really good time without writing enough words to make a short story. I should know; I was currently one of these people.

Slightly depressed, I spent that evening googling house shares. I could afford to live in Barcelona and Malaga (but imagine the commute). I could share a bathroom with two vegetarians and a salamander in Ealing. I could hot-bed with students in Bethnal Green if I didn’t mind going nocturnal and sleeping through the day.

And then I came across a website called the Caring Share.

The deal was, I could live with an old person for practically nothing and in return I would spend eight hours a week keeping them company and generally being helpful by doing ‘light household duties’, something I did anyway, for free. The website looked inviting – patterned china and cupcakes and old people with grateful white smiles. It was like moving in with Granny. I could offer advice on crossword clues.

I typed in my details. For references, I cited Kitty and Anthea, who could at least vouch for the fact I was honest and literate.

In anticipation, I advertised my possessions on Gumtree with the proviso ‘Must Collect’, and over the next two weeks I sold the lemon sofa and armchair, my IKEA desk and the small beech foldaway table with the four chairs that slotted into it.

It was like dismantling a dream, emptying that flat. Each night the place was hollower and less mine. The landlord brought people round to see it and the couples would stand by the window, arms around each other, taking in the view, and I wanted to kill them. And one day, scaffolding went up, and the safety netting bathed the flat in an alien green hue, like living in a pond.

The red and black Trek bike was still in the hall. I couldn’t bring myself to sell it, even though it was the most valuable thing I possessed. It was a symbol of success; and I wondered if I could save money by riding it.

I carried it downstairs. It was very light – it weighed practically nothing. This is, in cycling terms, a sign of quality, apparently.

The night was cold, the kind of cold you get opening a fridge door, and in the west the turquoise sky was streaked with dirty dark blue clouds. I tucked my scarf into my parka and wheeled the bike onto the Heath, the wheel ticking, the chain clanking against my leg.

I couldn’t sit on the seat because it was too high so I held onto a bollard for balance and pedalled a few yards, sitting on the crossbar. It really was a lovely bike. I dismounted in a controlled fall by a speed bump and wheeled it virtuously along the path which says ‘No Cycling’ and took it for a walk before I went back to the flat.

When Mark and I moved in together, I’d imagined life was going to get better and better and better; all summits and no valleys; I’d imagined us soaring relentlessly upwards, propelled by happiness, trailing fame and fortune.

I hadn’t imagined it coming to this, being here alone, clearing the place out by myself.

Love. What was it all about?

I thought about my dad and Jo-Ann’s unlikely alliance and whether love amounted to nothing more than finding someone you could watch Netflix with.

That’s what dating apps should be about – matching up couples and box sets. ‘I have The Wire and I’ll raise you Better Call Saul.’ ‘I have Happy Valley and Miranda. Sorry. It’s not going to work out.’

A few days later I was delighted to get a call from the Caring Share about a place in Knightsbridge with a widow named Mrs Leadbetter who had room in her apartment for someone mature. Was I mature? I reassured them about my maturity and general common sense and I agreed to go there that afternoon to meet Mrs Leadbetter in person.

Knightsbridge! Harvey Nicks and Harrods! I was instantly cheered by the news. I’ve always wanted to live in Knightsbridge – who wouldn’t? We could go walking in Hyde Park. And forget the baking, we could go out for afternoon tea.

Mrs Leadbetter’s flat was in a small sixties block at the back of Harrods, in an architectural style totally different from its neighbours.

I buzzed her bell and she told me to come up in the lift. It was a very small lift with no mirrors. Personally, I like a mirror in a lift. It’s the last chance to prepare before meeting someone, but as this one didn’t have one I had to hope for the best.

Mrs Leadbetter was waiting for me by her open door. She looked very old and withered, with thinning white hair over a candy-pink scalp, but her navy velour tracksuit and white trainers gave her a jaunty air of sportsmanship. She was scrutinising me with the same thoroughness.

‘You’re too young,’ she said.

‘I’m not that young,’ I reassured her. ‘It’s just good genes.’

She studied my face. ‘Are you over fifty-five?’

‘No.’ My genes are not that good.

‘I need someone over fifty-five to come with me to the Over Fifty-Five Club. I told the Caring Share I wanted someone mature.’

‘Oh … I thought they meant sensible.’

‘Come in anyway. You might as well have a cup of tea while you’re here. Have you come far?’

‘Parliament Hill Fields.’

‘I used to watch the Blitz from there,’ she said. ‘It was like Bonfire Night every night.’

I was right. She was very old.

Her sofa was draped with a cream mohair throw, and as I sat down the hairs magnetically attached themselves to my black trousers.

Mrs Leadbetter made the tea and sat next to me with the perky curiosity of the elderly. ‘Tell me something, why would a good-looking girl like you want to live with an old dear like me?’ she asked.

So I told her the whole tragic story from the beginning and felt depressed again.

She was sympathetic about my rejected book and my lost love and she offered some advice. ‘Find yourself a husband with a house and a good job.’

‘It’s not that easy these days to find someone to love you.’

She looked surprised. ‘Don’t worry about looking for someone to love you. Find someone to love,’ she said.

‘Yeah – I’ve tried that and it didn’t work,’ I told her.

As I said goodbye I felt disappointed that my room with her hadn’t worked out. I wanted to be settled; I wanted to go home again – wherever that was.

The following evening I went to see a bedsit in Mornington Crescent.

Mornington Crescent is that inconvenient stop between Camden Town and Euston on the Northern line, Charing Cross branch, and a road at the wrong end of Camden High Street. However, it had a charm of its own and, what’s more, a Burma Railway Memorial.

I got there at six. It was a wet night and the rain made golden haloes around the street lights.