Welcome to My World
‘Excellent,’ said Viv, rubbing her hands together like a silver-tressed, Laura Ashley-attired, fifty-something Bond villain. All that was missing was the large white Persian cat . . . ‘Then our plan is officially in action.’
‘Well, yes, if they accept him, that is,’ Harri warned.
‘Of course they’ll accept him! He’s gorgeous – way out of their usual league. I mean, you should see some of the sorry excuses for manhood they dredge up most months!’
‘Let’s just wait and see if they put our sorry excuse for manhood in their column, eh?’
Alex was back to his usual chirpy self when Harri arrived at Wātea that afternoon – an amazing feat considering it was ‘Mad Mothers’ Wednesday’, when the local young mums’ group descended on the café. Harri picked her way carefully through the minefield of baby buggies to the counter, where Alex was filling measuring jugs with warm water and carefully balancing feeding bottles inside.
‘Do me a favour, pass these to the table behind you, would you? Lady with the screaming baby.’
This description didn’t exactly narrow it down, as almost every woman at the large table appeared to be wrestling a noisy bundle of animosity. In desperation, Harri held the measuring jugs aloft one by one.
‘Purple stripe?’
‘Over here.’
‘Tommee Tippee?’
‘That’s mine, thanks.’
‘Mothercare?’
‘Which one?’
‘Er – pink bunny and yellow teddy bear.’
‘Bunny’s mine and teddy over there.’
Alex looked appreciative when she turned back to him. ‘You’re a natural, mate. Are you sure you don’t want to change your career and work for me?’
‘What, and leave my exciting jet-set lifestyle at SLIT? No chance!’
Alex returned to the espresso machine, grabbed a coffee arm and banged out the spent grounds. Filling it afresh from the coffee dispenser and tamping it down, he reattached the arm and set a mug underneath to catch the thick brown liquid as it dripped lazily from the machine. No matter how many times Harri watched him do this it never failed to fascinate her. There’s something incredibly powerful about watching someone work, Harri always found: Stella swiftly typing a letter without looking at the keyboard once; Viv cooking; Auntie Rosemary assembling a bouquet of flowers in one hand as she floated around her shop; even her completely barmy Grandpa Jim building some Heath-Robinsonish contraption in the small workshop at the bottom of his garden in Devon.
Alex poured milk into the long-handled steel milkpan and turned a handle on the machine to release steam into its base. It was such an evocative sound – bubbly, crunchy and metallic all at once. Once frothed, he let the pan stand for a while, before bumping the base smartly on the wooden worktop and pouring its contents into the mug, holding the froth back with a spoon and then scooping out snowy blobs onto the top of the cappuccino.
‘There you go. I think you’ve earned that today,’ he smiled, dusting the top with chocolate powder as he pushed the mug towards her.
‘Thanks. So how’s Mad Mothers’ Wednesday going?’
‘Mad. I swear there’s more of them in here each week. I think they’re cloning themselves. Honestly, it looked like a scene from Ben Hur: The Early Years in here earlier – all those chariots parked up everywhere. Some of the old dears couldn’t even get in through the door. I’ve been a bit sharp with them, to be honest.’
‘Ah. Not much chance of you scoring a date with a single mum anytime soon then?’
‘Yeah. I think I might’ve burned my bridges on that one.’
Harri feigned disappointment. ‘Oh, well, Plan B it is then.’ Amusement lit Alex’s eyes. ‘Excellent, maestro. So, what’s the plan then?’
Harri looked around her like a shady informant in a thirties gangster flick, leaned closer to Alex and tapped her nose. ‘Can’t reveal my sources yet. Suffice to say that your name has been circulated in the right – er – circles. We should know more very soon. Until then, there are things only I know that you can’t know until it’s the right time for you to know, understand?’
Alex held his hands up. ‘Crystal clear. Are you sure you’re capable of the mission, though?’
‘You doubt a woman of my obvious covert skills?’ Harri feigned astonishment. ‘I am a woman of infinite capabilities, I’ll have you know. I am a woman on a mission.’
‘With an unusual flair for dairy-related nasal adornment.’ Alex reached out to wipe a large glob of milk froth from Harri’s nose as they both descended into helpless giggles.
‘He is going to kill you when he finds out,’ Stella frowned, picking up a strange garment, allegedly masquerading as a T-shirt. ‘Which way is this supposed to go?’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Harri. ‘I think that’s the arm-hole.’
‘Oh, right,’ replied Stella absent-mindedly, adding the unusual creation to the pile of clothes slung over her arm as the next offering captured her attention.
It was Saturday morning and, with Rob away again, Harri had found Stella’s invitation to accompany her to the large out of town shopping centre appealing. And it had been fun, until Stella appeared to get stuck in TKMaxx. Harri loved shopping, but compared with her best friend, she was a mere amateur. When Stella was on a retail mission, nothing short of an act of God could move her from her path. Two hours after they first entered the store – and no closer to making a purchase – Stella and Harri made a slow advance along the narrow gap between the seemingly endless rails of clothes.
‘You won’t be able to take all those in with you, you know.’
‘I’ll leave some with the girl and keep swapping them,’ Stella breezed, adding another two garments to the pile on her arm, ‘and besides, you’re coming in with me so you can bring some in.’
And so Harri dutifully followed her best friend into the cramped changing room cubicle, oohing and aahhing in all the right places in the hope that it might encourage a decision. While she waited, she consoled herself with the thought of the large caramel macchiato waiting for her when they were finally released from the store’s clutches. Only thirty-nine garments to go and then it’s all mine . . .
‘Are you listening?’ Stella barked, as the glorious daydream dissolved like a sugar lump in hot espresso, snapping Harri back to reality. ‘I said, what do you think?’
It was the third pair of jeans Stella had eased her perfect figure into and Harri honestly couldn’t tell the difference. ‘How much are those again?’
Stella let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I told you, fifty-two pounds. I knew you weren’t listening.’
‘Sorry, hon. They’re nice, but I like the first pair the most.’
‘Really? You don’t think they make my bum look big?’
‘You don’t have a bum, Stella.’
‘Yes, I do. That’s why it’s a no-carb week this week.’
‘You’re crazy. You look great, hon. And those jeans – any of them – make you look great. But do you really need any more jeans? You’ve got about fifteen pairs at home.’
‘That’s a complete exaggeration, Harri! It’s only nine, and anyway these are Fornarina.’
It was going to be a long day, Harri groaned inwardly, as Stella rotated slowly, scrutinising every inch of her reflection from every conceivable angle. Harri closed her eyes and imagined herself alighting from a packed vaporetto water taxi into the buzzing throng of a Venetian quayside, then wandering through the streets, finding a pavement café and slowly sipping rich espresso as colourful waves of people washed past her . . .
‘So when do you think you’ll hear from Juste Moi?’
Daydream shattered, Harri shuddered. ‘I don’t know. Probably a few months or something. If they accept him, that is.’
‘Of course they’ll accept him,’ Stella insisted, echoing Viv’s words from earlier in the week. ‘He is a gorgeous man. Irritating as hell, but gorgeous. You wait and see.’
Harri didn’t have to wait long.
Chapter Five
The Point of No Return
The buzz from the fluorescent strip light above the cubicle seems to be getting louder as the rain on the skylight intensifies. The only other sound is the thumping of Harri’s heart, loud in her ears. It’s slowed a little since her flight into the ladies’, wow, thirty minutes ago. She wonders if the survivors of the Stone Yardley Armageddon are still in the hall; or maybe Viv has moved the remnant on, like a brisk police officer shooing onlookers away from a crime scene – OK, people, step away now, nothing to see here . . .
One thing’s for certain: Alex won’t be there. Not after that look. Harri feels a stab of icy pain at the memory. He hates me. I’ve lost my best friend. In all the time she’s known him, she’s never seen him so hurt, so angry. And every last atom of it directed straight at her. No, Alex will be long gone by now. If only she’d listened to her conscience when the letter arrived from Juste Moi . . .
Dear Ms Langton,
Many thanks for your nomination for our ‘Free to a Good Home’ feature.
Everyone here at Juste Moi loved your letter – your friend Alex is exactly the kind of candidate we want to feature in the magazine.
If you could provide us with a few more details on the form enclosed, we’ll set the wheels in motion to find the lady of his dreams!
Looking forward to hearing from you soon,
Chloë Sahou
Features Writer
‘What’s that?’ asked Tom, peering over Harri’s shoulder as she read the letter. It was lunchtime and Harri had finally plucked up courage to open the envelope with the Juste Moi frank that Freddie Mills, the friendly postman, had handed to her that morning.
‘Looks like an exciting one,’ Freddie had remarked, tapping the top of the envelope with a nicotine-hued forefinger. ‘London postmark, that. One of them fancy magazines, I reckon – they’re all there, you know. Any publication worth its salt is based in London.’
To Freddie Mills, a year and a half from retirement and the undisputed pub quiz champion at the Star and Highwayman – the small cosy pub at the far end of Stone Yardley – anything hailing from England’s great capital was worthy of note and due reverence. In all his sixty-three years, Freddie had only ever made the journey to London once: an away match of the Stone Yardley Darts Club on which his brother had managed to blag him a seat.
A non-player, Freddie managed to convince Big Bruce McKendrick, much-feared team coach and owner of Long and Winding Road Motorcycles, of his suitability with a near-textbook explanation of the finer points of the game. The team enjoyed an afternoon’s sightseeing and arrived at the match venue in Fulham, only to lose magnificently – but at least Freddie was able to revel in the delights of the city he had dreamed about since childhood.
Unusually for a Wednesday at Sun Lovers International Travel, business had been brisk. Tom, Harri and new girl, Nusrin, barely had time to pause for breath between each new customer, exchanging incredulous glances as they passed one another carrying brochures or escorting customers to their desks. The reason for this unexpected influx of custom remained a mystery until the late entrance of SLIT’s owner, George Duffield, just before midday.
‘Ah, the unmistakable power of advertising,’ he boomed, his thick Wolverhampton accent bouncing off the shabby travel-poster-covered walls. ‘It’s amazing what a little bit of local advertising can do for a reputable business like SLIT, you know. Best twenty-five quid I’ve spent this year.’
His mystified staff rewarded his enthusiasm with a selection of blank expressions.
‘You paid people to come into the shop?’ Tom ventured. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas. A successful local business like SLIT doesn’t need to resort to bribery – and I resent the very implication, actually. No, I placed two hundred and fifty offer leaflets in the Edgevale Gazette yesterday. Twenty per cent off any booking made this week.’
‘You put leaflets in the free paper?’ Nusrin asked.
‘The very same,’ George grinned, his shiny, red head blushing with pleasure. ‘Genius, eh?’
‘I didn’t think anyone read the Gazette,’ Harri said. ‘Mine goes straight into the recycling box.’
‘Well, apparently there are people in Stone Yardley who don’t follow your woeful example, Harriet,’ retorted George, sailing into his office. ‘I think the hustle and bustle of this travel agency speaks for itself, don’t you?’
As he shut the door, Tom chuckled. ‘Shame nobody actually booked anything today then, isn’t it?’
‘Apart from the Wilkinsons booking their annual coach trip to Rhyl,’ Nusrin replied.
‘But we’ve done a brisk trade in brochures,’ Harri smiled.
Half an hour later, the impressive flow of browsing customers had all but vanished, allowing Harri, Tom and Nusrin to grab a well-earned lunch break. Nusrin had seized the opportunity to vacate the premises, ever-present mobile in hand and packet of cigarettes hastily shoved in her coat pocket, leaving Tom and Harri to eat their lunch in relative peace. And for Harri finally to read the letter. Trying to read its contents, Tom nodded knowingly. ‘Top secret communications, eh?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, folding the letter defensively to hide its contents from her prying colleague.
‘Not judging by your face it isn’t.’
‘Seriously, Tom, it’s nothing.’
‘Liar.’
‘Am not!’
‘So if it’s nothing you can tell me what it’s about then, can’t you?’ Tom smirked, mayonnaise glistening on his chin as he pointed his half-devoured sub roll at Harri. ‘Ha – get out of that one!’
Harri let out a sigh of resignation. ‘It’s something I’m doing for a friend.’
His eyebrows shot up as he lowered his voice. ‘Mafia?’
‘Sorry?’
‘They’ve hired you as a hitwoman and the letter is details of your mark.’
‘You watch far too many gangster films,’ Harri laughed.
‘My Uncle Jez says the Mafia has a base in Birmingham,’ Tom retorted. ‘It’s common knowledge.’
‘Oh, and your Uncle Jez is such a trusted authority on that kind of information, isn’t he? I mean, wasn’t it Uncle Jez who was convinced that the Ku Klux Klan were holding secret meetings in Ellingsgate last summer?’
Tom looked away. ‘He saw them meeting in that field.’
‘Hmm, yes, and when he called the police, what did they find?’
Tom’s greasy cheeks flushed scarlet. ‘Beekeepers,’ he muttered. ‘Exactly. Ellingsgate Beekeeping Society. So I don’t think we need to listen to your Uncle Jez, do we?’
‘So what is it you’re doing for a friend, then?’ Tom shot back grumpily.
Harri grimaced. ‘Something he might not thank me for.’
‘OK – interests. Um, travel, photography, dining out, cinema . . . Anything I’ve forgotten?’
‘Bugging people. Alex is particularly interested in that,’ Stella replied, emptying two sachets of sugar into her takeaway coffee cup.
Harri looked up from the form spread before her on the weathered wooden picnic table at which they both sat. ‘Be serious, Stel.’
Stella picked up the flimsy plastic stirrer and stirred her coffee with intense irritation. ‘I’m deadly serious. This is a bad idea. Alex is going to kill you,’ she added for the umpteenth time since Harri had first mentioned Viv’s Big Idea. This had become her mantra, destined to accompany every conversation.
‘You’re not helping, Stel.’
‘I wasn’t trying to. Can we talk about something else, please?’ Harri groaned and shoved the form back into her rucksack. ‘Fine. I’ll finish it later, when I won’t annoy anyone.’ She looked out across the country park at families enjoying the unseasonably mild March Saturday. Vale Edge Park was one of her favourite local places – a large area of woodland around a high sandstone hill about twenty minutes’ drive from Stone Yardley. Here she had spent most Sunday afternoons with her parents during childhood summers, riding bikes, having picnics and playing games. It was a popular destination for families, mountain bikers and dog-walkers, its trails offering something for everyone. Many of her first dates had taken place here; shyly holding hands by the lake or stealing kisses along the woodland paths through carpets of bluebells and bracken. In the early days, this had been the scene of countless laughter-filled walks with Rob, Harri pointing out wildflowers or birds and Rob identifying them with that confident, completely gorgeous smile of his.
In their more adventurous moments, Stella and Harri ventured here to walk up onto Vale Edge, before returning to the welcome retreat of the tiny log cabin that served as a refreshment kiosk. This afternoon, however, any thoughts of such exertions had been banished by Stella’s ‘urgent cake and caffeine craving’.
‘This chocolate cake is a-mazing, H. Are you sure you don’t want to try some?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of parting you from it,’ Harri replied, popping a piece of buttery flapjack into her mouth.
‘You know, I hoped you were going to say that.’
‘I thought as much.’ They exchanged smiles. ‘Look, Stel, I know this magazine column is a daft idea, but it might just work. Stranger things have happened.’
‘You honestly think it might bring Alex the woman of his dreams?’
Harri did her best to look convincing. ‘It might . . .’
‘I don’t know why you’re doing this if you aren’t one hundred per cent sure about it,’ Stella said, taking a long sip of coffee.
‘Because maybe Viv’s right that Alex needs help,’ Harri said, smoothing down a strand of red hair that the wind had worked loose from her ponytail. ‘I’d just like to see him happy.’
Two noisy children dashed past their table with a large dog, its fur dripping from a recent foray into the lake. Stella wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘It could be worse, Harri. You could own one of those.’
‘A dog or a child?’
Stella pulled a face. ‘Either. Eeuwch. I am never having kids or dogs. Imagine spending your life trailing after that lot. Horrible, messy creatures – why in the world anyone would want that mayhem in their lives is beyond me.’
A harassed-looking woman appeared, stopping at their table and gripping it with both hands like a desperate lunatic from the asylum. ‘Have you seen them?’ she demanded, her eyes wide from too many late nights and hectic days.
‘Two screaming brats and a mangy mutt? They went that-a-way,’ Stella replied, and the woman hurried away.
‘Stella, you’re awful. Poor woman.’
‘Two words, Harri: “contraception” and “vet”.’
Harri shook her head. ‘You’re unbelievable. And I know you don’t mean it.’
Stella inspected her nails. ‘Oh, yes, I do. You wouldn’t catch me and Stefan signing up for that nightmare scenario.’
‘Ah, Stefan. How is the latest flame?’
Stella’s eyes lit up. ‘Gorgeous, H. Not gorgeous like Jase or Andy, of course, but with Stefan it’s the whole package, you know what I mean?’
‘I think I can guess.’
‘He’s caring and thoughtful – and his house is just to die for!’
Hmm. What attracted you to the millionaire Stefan, Stella? ‘Right, I see.’
Harri’s sarcasm was not lost on Stella. ‘His money isn’t the important thing, whatever you think. Honestly.’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘You’re such a cynic. This could be true love and all you can do is mock me. Just because you’re all loved-up, doesn’t give you the monopoly on happy-ever-afters.’
‘Sorry.’
Stella took a sip of her coffee and pulled a face. ‘This stuff doesn’t get any better, does it?’
Harri smiled. ‘Shh. Ralph will hear you.’ She looked round to see if the short, white-haired proprietor of the Vale Edge café was listening. Thankfully, he was engaged in an extremely animated conversation with the leader of a group of local ramblers, who were laying siege to most of the picnic tables around where Harri and Stella sat.
‘I don’t mind if he does. It’s high time our Ralphy learned about decent espresso.’ Stella flapped her hands as a thought blew into her mind. ‘Ooh, ooh, I meant to tell you, Stefan finally solved the problem of who you remind me of.’
Harri wasn’t aware this was a problem. ‘Oh?’
Clapping her hands Stella smiled triumphantly. ‘Amy Adams.’
‘I do not look like Amy Adams.’
‘Yes, you do. All that annoyingly gorgeous red hair of yours and your amazing blue eyes – you’re the total spit of her.’
Harri shook her head. ‘Just because I have auburn hair and blue eyes does not make me Amy Adams. Anyway, last month you thought I looked like Debra Messing and last year you said I was a dead ringer for Julianne Moore. Aren’t you just working your way through red-headed actresses?’
‘Nope. Not this time. Stefan and I were watching Enchanted and he said, “She looks like your friend Harri.”’
‘Hang on a minute – you were watching a Disney film with Stefan?’
Stella jutted her chin out. ‘He happens to be a fan of animation. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
Harri held her hands up to call a truce. ‘Hey, if your fabulously wealthy boyfriend wants to revere the House of Mouse, then who am I to question him?’
‘Exactly. So when does this form thingy have to be back with the magazine?’ Stella asked, expertly swinging the conversation back.
‘As soon as possible. They really like him, Stel.’
‘I told you they would. Of course, you could always just forget to send it back . . .’
The thought had crossed Harri’s mind, but now the magazine knew about him they were likely to pursue Harri for information. It was too late to back out. ‘That’s not going to work, mate. I’ve got to do it.’
There is something to be said for careful consideration and thought. Since the loss of her parents, Harri had relied upon her head to lead the way for every decision she made. As far as Harri was concerned, it was a much better option than trusting her heart, which often sent her in a different direction entirely. Unfortunately, she was surrounded by an entire clan of heart-followers – Viv, Alex, Stella and even Tom at work – none of whom seemed to agree with her cautiousness.
‘How are you ever going to do exciting things if you spend all your time just thinking about them?’ Stella often asked.
Secretly, Harri longed to be the type of person who threw caution to the wind and just went with the flow. Like Alex was. The tales of his spontaneity were nigh on legendary. He had just decided, one Monday afternoon thirteen years ago, whilst sitting at his desk in the large insurance firm he worked for, to quit and see the world. He typed out his resignation letter, walked straight into his boss’s office and, five minutes later, cleared his desk and left the building forever. Four weeks later, he was on a plane to Australia with only the next four months of his life planned. From there he met a friend who was travelling to New Zealand, so that’s where he went next, finding a job at a backpackers’ hostel for six months, doing general chores at first, then working in the kitchens. One of the girls visiting the hostel was the daughter of a hotel owner in Singapore who just happened to be looking for a sous chef for his busy restaurant, so Alex packed up again and went to work there. And so it continued, year after year; one spur-ofthe-moment decision after another, taking Alex all over the world.
‘How do you do it?’ Harri asked him one Wednesday night, as he expertly juggled steaming pans in the kitchen of his flat above the shop. This particular evening Malaysian Ginger Prawns were on the menu, stir-fried with fresh root ginger that made the tongue tingle and sweet honey to soothe the palate, served on a bed of fragrant jasmine rice. As Harri leaned against the breakfast bar, the aroma of the meal sent images of floating markets, bamboo houses and piles of multicoloured spices whizzing through her mind.