The Happiness Blueprint
Ally Zetterberg
On Sale Date: April 2, 2024
9780778369714
Trade Paperback
$18.99 USD
368 pages
ABOUT THE BOOK
Klara
and Alex are having trouble connecting, but at least their calendars are in
sync.
Klara—who’s always thought of herself as a little different, a sneaker in a
world full of kitten heels and polished boots—is feeling a disconnect these
days. She has type 1 diabetes, currently works in a dead-end job, and is in
desperate need of a change. When her dad falls ill, Klara begrudgingly agrees
to help run his small construction company while he recovers, even though it
means moving back home and pushing the boundaries of her comfort zone to the
extreme.
Alex has been a shell of himself since his brother died in an accident. He’s
unemployed, has bills piling up, and is distant from friends and family. His
therapist is encouraging him to keep things manageable by setting up a
calendar, checking off tasks each day, and looking for work to help get him
back on his feet. When an ad pops up for a carpenter position at a small
construction company, he jumps at the chance to take a step forward.
Klara's and Alex’s stories unfold through a series of miscommunications in this
clever and witty novel from debut author Ally Zetterberg that’s about finding
acceptance and even love in unexpected places.
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Sneak Peek Excerpt:
KLARA
Google: How do I run a construction company?
Sibling
pairs are a bit like shoes from a lost and found. You put your hand in and can
only hope to get two that match, knowing that two shoes are still better than
one—at least you don’t have to walk around with one foot bare. In my parents’
case they won themselves a dust-covered Converse, perfectly functional and
sturdy, and matched it with a glossy kitten heel that likes to look down at the
flat sneaker.
I, the sneaker, speak.
“I have commitments, too!” I say, trying my best to
sound as important as my sister, pretty sure I’m failing. I’ve said this exact
sentence several times in the past twenty minutes, trying hard to be the winner
of the Zoom tug-of-war, the holder of prime position and the central big square
overshadowing the small ones. The current leader board has my sister, Saga, at
the top followed by our mum as a close second.
“I have plans,” I say again,
for a brief moment flitting onto the screen. Well, it is true. At least
if Tuesday drinks and defrosting the freezer count. I can feel my blood
pressure—actually, it’s more likely my blood sugar—rising. Stay
focused, Klara.
“It’s a
family emergency,” Mum chips in yet again. Thanks for stating the obvious. As
if we didn’t know that already.
I decide
to revert to the technique when you go back to the beginning of the
conversation, repeating it all, hoping you have magically missed the solution
and that it will make itself known—loud and clear—the second time round.
“How long
would his treatment be, again?” I ask, even though I know full well the
details, having joined the oncology team at Dad’s appointment via FaceTime
earlier that day. Three months. Dad is lucky. Just one surgery and then a
course of innovative localized radiation to beat what is considered stage 1 of
prostate cancer. He caught it early and will most likely be okay. I’m not too
worried about Dad. Cancer is a poignant, scary word, but 1 is
a harmless number, thin and unassuming. At the end of the call, we were asked
if we had any questions, and I would have had plenty, but now I had a 1 and
didn’t need any other explanation. I haven’t even googled it.
Saga doesn’t bother to repeat why she can’t do the
job, which surprises me. She usually misses no chance to talk about her
important academic career at a highly esteemed international university and
just generally, you know, her full and perfect life. Got to have that
work–life balance, Klara!
Right now, I’d settle for just having a life. Never
mind a balanced one.
“I’m really sorry I can’t be there to support Dad
myself. There’s just so much going on.” My sister’s face is filling the Zoom
square to the point where it has no background. Now if that’s not a telling
picture of Saga, Queen of Filling Up Every Room She Enters. Me, me, me.
“It’s only a few months. Think
of it as a long holiday—you will even get paid! Really, it’s an opportunity.” I
ponder this. Sweden is in no way my preferred holiday location. But a salary
from my dad’s company would be an increase compared to what I currently earn.
Nothing.
“Say I
agree, I’m not saying I do, but if, how would I even do it? You need qualifications
and skills to do that type of job,” I say.
At first, we had been so relieved to learn Dad’s
good prognosis that we had forgotten everything else. Then Saga had pointed
out the company. This tiny little inconvenience in rural Sweden with three
employees that somehow needed to stay afloat while Dad was focusing on his
health.
“Darling, you already work in property!” Mum says,
before turning to loudly sip a lurid green smoothie. I can’t help but think
that if this had happened five years ago, before The Divorce, we wouldn’t be
having this discussion as she would still be there. Not in a Marbella condo
with a widower named Inge who she met at her church choir. I push the thought
away. It’s not Mum’s fault. If Dad doesn’t resent her, then neither should I.
“I work for a website that sells them. I don’t
demolish, construct, or tile their bathrooms!” I mean, what does Dad even do?
Definitely not something I have expertise in. Which is technical-support
chatting (“No, you can’t place the properties in your online basket, Susan.
You must call the listed agent for a viewing.”). Mostly I do nothing that
remotely touches on property. Think of me as a helpful bot.
“Please, Klara. Someone has to do it. We need your
answer soon,” Saga says. Oh no, not that line. Translation: you’ve got to do
it, you are the little one, and I may have some shared responsibility, but in
the end it’s on you, little sister. Like when we were kids and messed up the
living room building a fort or a shop and the time came for tidying up. Someone
has to do it, Klara. If my sister ever happened to commit murder, I bet you
it would be my job to dispose of the body, due solely to my genetic link to her
and our birth order.
“Let me see if I can make some arrangements,” I
mutter.
“I didn’t want to say this,
but… I thought you were on a break from work right now?” I can hear my
sister’s smug smile even though her blurry screen prevents me from actually seeing it.
She is well aware that people have breaks from relationships—not jobs. If it’s
the latter, then it’s simply called unemployment. Or disciplinary suspension. Let’s not get into that, shall we.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to connect with old friends?”
Mum attempts.
What friends? I think. The ones I had a decade ago
have inevitably moved on and away. If I were an old lady, we would now have
the sort of relationship that is marked only by the exchange of Christmas
cards. Except I’m not, so there aren’t even the holiday greetings. If I were
braver and funnier, even a faint shadow of my sister, I would have seen this
coming and averted it by recruiting new friends. But this would have required
actually socializing, going places with a frequency I’m not adapted to (I need
rest days from socializing the way others do from the gym) and the ability to
keep a conversation going without the help of alcohol.
I currently have a grand total of one friend: Alice,
who is my housemate and who says hilarious things like “Yay, I got booked for a
hand job!” (She has a side gig as a hand-and-foot model.) Mum and Saga both
know this.
“Listen, I know it’s not what you want, although I’m
not entirely sure what you actually do want. But quite frankly, it’s
time that you pulled your weight.”
I look down at my waist before I realize that she is
not talking about my BMI.
Then my nephew Harry—Saga’s primary excuse for dodging
the Sweden bullet—starts howling like a wolf in the background, hitting a key
only a toddler can master. The noise! Quickly, I make up my mind. “Okay,
then.” The Harry siren goes off again.
“Right, that’s my cue to leave
the call!” my sister shouts in a key only a mum can master. I swear parents
teach their children to become a distraction at exactly the right time. It’s
not fair that they all have an excuse to leave a boring Zoom call while
the rest of us have to stay put and listen to the end.
“Fine. But
you help out with what you can from over there. That’s the deal.” I insist on calling my sister’s
new homeland by anything but its proper name. I’m well aware that it is childish
behavior coming from an adult, however much she misses her sibling.
“Of course. Bye, then. Lifesaver!” Saga leaves the
call.
The doctors will be saving Dad’s life, not me, I want to argue. But then I think of the
convention to liken unpleasantness with death and consider the fact that it is
perhaps Saga I have saved from Sweden.
“Mum?” No reply. She must have hit a button or lost
connection. Her screen is empty. I’m left staring at just myself in the Zoom
square, a sad sight of disheveled dark locks and eyebrows in a discontented
frown. Finally occupying the prime position.
I toy with the idea of calling them both back up and
demanding their attention. You and I need a word, I would say with authority.
Well, literally just one word. No. But I do just that: think it,
and nothing more.
“Scheibe,” I say to screen me. One of the few
words I’ve picked up from my sister and kept handy in my vocabulary.
Unfortunately, I feel like I’ve had to use it almost daily during my twenty-six
years in this world.
I guess I’m
heading home to run my dad’s company. Great.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ally Zetterberg is a British-Swedish writer. She spent ten years working internationally as a fashion model before becoming a full-time mum. Being neurodivergent herself and the mother of a child with Type 1 Diabetes, she is passionate about writing relatable characters and representing those living with medical conditions in commercial fiction. She speaks four languages and spends her days doing her best not to muddle them up.
SOCIAL LINKS
Author website: https://www.allyzetterberg.com/
Twitter: @allyzetterbergauthor
Instagram: @allyzetterbergauthor
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