Time to Shine: But Once ~ A Cosy Romance Series, #1

Prologue

"I t is becoming increasingly recognised that, when one opens one’s mind to possibilities, learns to trust and to take responsibility for one’s actions, the Universe will provide.’ Lady Helen Beecher is in full flow, and the audience is captivated.

‘For those awake to this truth,’ she continues, ‘their lives are forever changed for the better. But the world is still full of greed and insecurity. Organisations rely on need for their products and services. Fear and selfishness keep minds closed off to the wonders and possibilities open to them, open to all of us. Suppose for a moment we could turn that on its head...’

I watch and listen from my seat near the back of the conference room. Lady Beecher is the third speaker I have heard today, but she is so passionate about her beliefs, so confident and comfortable in her words that I cannot fail to be swept away, along with the rest of the delegates on this stifling hot July afternoon.

Today is part of a Wellbeing Day that the bank I work for has put on, though I’m not sure that force feeding its staff with lectures on looking after yourself is the best way to go about it. I would prefer they changed some of their practices on a day-to-day basis so that there was less stress and a culture of being able to speak up about issues as and when they arise.

The venue is lovely though. The sprawling old country manor in which our conference is being held, is set in an idyllic location surrounded by woodland and offers wonderful views of the grounds, though it could certainly do with some air conditioning. I’m melting, and post lunch malaise is doing its hardest to set in.

‘...If we as individuals all adopt a selfless and trusting attitude, change will happen. The question then becomes, not how we bring about the changes that will save us, but how we can bring them about in time? Start small, make a difference, lead by example, but don’t wait.’

A rousing round of applause hailed from the audience. Not as enthusiastic as I had expected, probably due to the post lunch slot, but enough to make Lady Beecher feel that she had reached at least some of the influential people she was addressing. Me? No. I’m not one of those influential people, I’m just a humble receptionist sitting quietly as far back in the room as I can. Lady Beecher is taking questions now. I don’t have any, and I wouldn’t speak up even if I did.

It might be nice though, a world where we are all valued, and we all support each other. She may well be on to something.

I HAVE DEPRESSION. There, I’ve said it. It has been my constant companion for some thirteen years now, since... well, let’s not go there for the moment. I don’t believe depression is as simple as having just one cause, it has many contributory factors.

The medication keeps me functioning, and I’ve had my share of counselling over the years. To the outside world, until recently at least, I believe I have been seen as a positive, happy sort of person; the person everyone goes to with their problems, because I always have a smile and a comforting word. I give the appearance of holding down a responsible job, with a healthy work life balance; a respectable woman who has everything under control. Underneath the make-up and the smiles though, I feel... wretched.

The thing is, I have already had my mind opened to the possibilities that the Universe has to offer. I have experienced first-hand the amazing coincidences that came my way to show me the path I should be walking in this life. And for a while, many years ago, I followed that path, and I was content, happy even.  But then I met someone. I sought out security, or what I thought would be security. I took a mainstream responsible job, got married and toed the line. And there were just not enough hours in the day to hold down a job, keep house and follow that path of trusting in the Universe, though it never stopped calling.

And that’s what I think depression is. I think it’s knowing deep down who you really are, what you were born to do, and knowing that you are not being true to yourself. I know the person I’m meant to be. I know what I am meant to be doing, but life got in the way, and I let it go.

What I don’t know, is that all of that is about to change.

Chapter One

An Unusual Prescription

‘M iss Pallas... Kendra , I can see that your previous doctor’s surgery has been steadily increasing your medication over the past decade or so, and whilst there is still the possibility of increasing further, I wonder if that is actually the answer for you.’

He was not my usual doctor. A locum. He had a kind face but looked to be quite a bit younger than me. How is it possible that he could have completed all those years of medical study and still look like he had just left college?

‘All I can tell you, doctor, is that the tablets don’t seem to be working anymore and it is making it difficult for me to work. I haven’t had the job very long, and if I can’t work, that’s going to make the depression worse, so increasing the tablets would seem to be the logical step.’

‘I disagree,’ he said, tapping the end of his pen on the table as if to add emphasis to his words. Tap, tap, rest, tap, tap. I’m going to suggest that we try another approach.’

We? I think. It’s not his life that is falling apart. Hardly time to experiment.

‘What did you have in mind, Doctor?’ I say as politely as I can manage whilst I feel my teeth clench like a vice.

He opens a drawer in his desk and rummages around for a moment, then hands me a business card. It reads Time to Shine, Founder and Time Broker, Professor William T Brett.

‘I’m prescribing you involvement in this community project, Kendra. I believe that what will help you more than the medication is the opportunity to become more involved in the community around you’.

I realise my jaw has dropped and he must have seen the look of disbelief on my face, because he quickly follows up with ‘Time to Shine has helped many of our patients with similar issues to yours, and I want you to at least give it a try.’

I’m about to protest, but he leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. I can see that he is not going to budge on this.

‘Contact Professor Brett on that number today,’ he continues, ‘and he will explain everything. I also want you to start writing a journal; keep a note of your thoughts, whatever they might be. I don’t need to see it, nobody does, but it’s important that you to do it. I’ll see you again in a month and if you still feel you need the medication increased, we can review it then.’

Gobsmacked, I gather up my bag from the floor, absentmindedly muttering a thank you to him, and walk out of his consultation room staring at the small piece of card in my hand that is supposed to make me feel better.

IT ISN’T THE FIRST time I’ve been asked to write down my thoughts, I had therapy sessions at the shelter, but I’ve never done anything as formal as a journal before. I kind of like the idea though, and although I know I should be getting back to my little cubby hole at the bank, I pop into W H Smith on the way back and take my time browsing the beautifully covered journals and notebooks to find the one that will be my companion for the coming weeks.

The remainder of the morning goes by as usual. My arrival at the Norchester Anglia bank is acknowledged with frowns and disapproving shakes of the head from four out of the five of my colleagues in administration. I am late. It doesn’t matter that my manager, Julia, is aware I had been to a medical appointment, it only seems to matter that I was not there from the off this morning, and I might not have to do quite as much work as they do today.

Only Julia has a friendly smile and silently mouths ‘how did it go?’ as I walk past her to take my seat at the clinically clear computer desk that feels more like a prison sentence every day. I nod to her and sign ‘OK’, though I don’t know why because that is not how it feels at all. It’s just easier to let people think that everything is fine, I guess.

The hours until one o’clock drag on, lost in my siloed world inside my noise reducing headphones, staring at my computer screen. My usual trance like state which serves to get me through the day, feels a little different. Something is tapping away in the back of my mind. Tap, tap, rest, tap tap. I shake my head to clear the distraction, but it is persistent and steals my attention from the computer screen. I reach into my trouser pocket where a little white card is digging into my thigh, and, after glancing around the room to see if anyone is watching, I pull the card out and stare at it. I wonder what it will lead to? For the briefest of moments I am overtaken by a feeling of freedom.

Chapter Two

Mind Games

Icall the number during my lunchbreak. Professor William T Brett sounds as pompous as his title suggests. I’m sure that’s an unfair generalisation, but teachers, professors, doctors, any authority figure really, have always brought out the worst in me. It’s as if just by being who they are, they are managing to say, ‘ you’re not good enough, you’re a fraud, stop trying to fool everybody’. He hasn’t answered, of course, he’s obviously far too important. It’s just his voicemail that’s enough to make me feel inadequate, but I leave a garbled message anyway then set off to buy myself some lunch.

My phone rings when I’m in the mini market. I pull it out of my roll-sleeve blazer pocket and just stare at the number on the screen, recognising it as the one I had recently dialled. I decide not to answer. Let him leave a message for me, then he won’t find out how much better he is than I am. I select my pre-packed tuna mayo sandwich and splash out on a Meal Deal adding a Snickers bar and a bottle of sparkling water. I will wait until I am eating the chocolate to listen to his message.

I really can’t face going back to the staff room just yet, so as the sun is shining, and the grass will be dry, I decide to take my lunch up to Craft Park. It’s the area of the city that always manages to lift my mood and I trek the short distance toward Little Brook Lane, then follow the tiny street of old-fashioned shops until I emerge in the park. It is busy with families picnicking and workers having the same idea as me, lapping up the very special energy of this place whilst consuming a variety of lunches. The atmosphere is wonderful.

The park has no seats, just a grand old oak tree in the very centre of the circular lawn, and a cobblestone path with quaint Tudor and Victorian shops marking out the circumference. It is always popular, and the shops here are some of the most successful in the city.

I find a clear area and lay my jacket down on the grass before kicking off my shoes and sitting down. As I eat my sandwich, I cast my eyes around the little shops which include a hair and beauty salon, a vegan restaurant, and a designer bag shop. I make a mental note to pop in there at some time in the future. The most impressive building though, without doubt, is the New Age store which sits at the highest point of the park, to the north, and is at least twice the size of the others.  Everything in this area of Casslewich is a little quirky; magical you might say. I guess that’s why the locals refer to it as The Pentacle, rather than Craft Park.

I check my phone: one forty. I’ve just about got enough time to finish my lunch. I unwrap my Snickers bar and, heaving a heavy sigh, check my phone for messages. I suppose now is as good a time as any to see what this Professor has to say.

Chapter Three

The Meeting

‘C alling to order,’ says the tall thin man, with glasses and rolled up shirt sleeves. He hammers gently on the trestle table which is set up in front of the raised theatrical stage of the Thistle Way Community Centre.

I have lived in Casslewich for nearly three years now, but this is the first time that I have been in this building, or