Harper's Fate

by F. C. Clark

  ‘Harry, do you want tea and toast?’ I holler up the stairs.

  ‘Yeah, great. I’m having a quick shower – I’ll be down in five.’

  Finishing mixing the ingredients for a fruitcake for tomorrow, I place the dough in the oven. Kettle on, bread in the toaster, I sit at the kitchen table with my thoughts as Harry ambles in, ready for bed.

  ‘Are you OK?’ She looks at me with a concerned face, tenderly stroking my hair.

  I force a smile. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just been a crap day and tomorrow isn’t going to be any easier. I’m not looking forward to saying goodbye to Mr Jones. I know I’m not really saying goodbye, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Onwards and upwards: you need to think about what you want to do. It’s a perfect opportunity to get your teeth into something new. Besides, you knew Mr Jones’s job was temporary.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. All I want is a peaceful life and a permanent job. I know – I sound pathetic. Allow me to wallow.’

  ‘Time’s up, babe. Ready to face the real world?’ Harry replies. ‘Now where’s my bloody tea and toast?’ She knows my philosophy: food always provides comfort and clarity.

  I join Harry as we devour our evening meal.

  ‘The way I see it, you can do anything you want, and I mean whatever you want,’ Harry says, her mouth full of toast. ‘You’re the only person I know who can turn their hand to anything.’ She licks her fingers clean of butter.

  ‘I think that’s the problem. I’m not sure what to do. Maybe interiors.’ I sit and contemplate my future.

  ‘Why don’t you take time in France to think properly about what you really want to do?’

  ‘I guess next week is the perfect opportunity. I can work on my CV whilst we’re away.’

  Harry begins to smile; clearly, my life is not that amusing.

  ‘Harriet Harper, what gives? That smile doesn’t belong to this conversation… you’re hiding something.’ I fold my arms and grin at my sister. I know her far too well, and I’m sure there is a male reason for her playful expression.

  ‘OK, you know I told you about the French artist Raymond Leclair. Well, he asked me out to dinner.’ She looks down at her hands, resting on the table.

  ‘That’s fantastic! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

  ‘The Prince Charming situation. I didn’t want to rub salt in your wounds.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Harry, just because disasters follow me like flies to shit, don’t hold out on me. Christ, I need faith in humankind. I want to believe that there’s happiness somewhere for all of us.’

  ‘Disasters? You’re so dramatic.’

  ‘OK, I’m single and don’t have a job. Like I said – a disaster.’ We both laugh. ‘Well, I’m waiting. What’s he like?’

  ‘Not what you would expect.’ She looks a little coy. ‘He is older than me, and…’ she pauses, ‘he has grey hair.’

  ‘So he’s mature. What’s the problem with that? At least he won’t behave like some of the immature arseholes you’ve dated.’ I raise my brows and laugh. Undeniably, not all her past relationships have gone well. ‘It’s the accent – go on, admit it….’ I tilt my head as she blushes, confirming my thoughts.

  ‘Kate, it’s more than that. I told you that I’ve been working on the insurance for his art display here in London?’

  I nod.

  ‘We just hit it off, and he gets me. I know, I hear myself and it sounds bloody ridiculous, but … I don’t know. Something feels right – and before you ask, no, I haven’t done anything yet, not even a kiss.’

  ‘Is he the one?’

  ‘A bit soon to know, don’t you think? But I really like him – a lot.’

  ‘So he has grey hair… Hmmm, I wonder if that means he’s grey all over.’ Harry taps my arm as we fall about laughing.

  ‘I’ll let you know. Listen, I know we’re off to France on Sunday, but I really don’t want to discuss it with the girls. Kiki will drive me insane.’

  ‘Not a word, I promise.’

  ‘Good… I’m off to bed. How long before you’re done?’ Harry stands and clears her plate and cup into the dishwasher.

  ‘I’m waiting for the cake and the shirt.’

  Jobs completed, I retreat upstairs, and hang the blue shirt on my wardrobe door to dry. Although I’m exhausted, I need a shower. The hot water runs down my sensitive skin, as my mind returns to him and the impact he’s still having. I begin to mentally rationalise our incompatibility: he’s rich, I’m not; he’s arrogant, I’m not; he’s super-sexy… Bloody hell, I can’t allow my mind to speculate any further; my feelings are far too unnerving. I wash my hair and body in record time, and swiftly pull on my pyjamas. Feeling lifeless, I crawl under the duvet, even though I have wet hair.

  He sits at his desk. His naked torso is muscular and defined. My eyes go to his firm lips, and… Why is he not looking up? I bang my hands on the desk, but with no response. I can hear his phone ringing. It’s getting louder. Why is he not answering it, and why is he not looking at me? Ring, ring, ring…

  I open my eyes, as my arm reaches out to stop the annoying sound that has intruded on my delicious dream. Oh, what a body – but why didn’t he look at me? I shake myself. He obviously didn’t look at me because it was a dream – or was it a sign? This is ridiculous. I can’t believe that, after a peaceful night’s sleep, he is still on my mind … and on my tits – I wish. Immediate distraction is needed.

  Toast in one hand and coffee in the other, I stand in the kitchen, checking I have everything I need.

  Harry soon joins me. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Coping at the moment. I hate goodbyes.’ I rub my stomach, feeling the tense emotions building. ‘There’s not much I can do about it. Today is here, and this time tomorrow we’ll be getting ready for France.’ I know I sound lacklustre, but it’s all the conviction I can muster.

  Harry sits and eats her breakfast, not convinced of my sanity or my ability to get through the day without tissues.

  ‘What are you doing about the shirt?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ll drop it off at the security desk.’

  Harry looks at me, dismayed. ‘You’re not going up to the office?’

  ‘No. I decided last night it wasn’t worth the risk of more humiliation – even though he does have my underwear. Anyway, we’re worlds apart. Just because he is hot it doesn’t mean he can have me…’ I stand up from the table, clearing my plate – and mind. ‘Besides, it’s irrelevant. He wasn’t interested, and I have nothing to offer him.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous! Of course you have something to offer him. I may ask, what does he have to offer you?’ As usual, Harry has an inherent need to defend me.

  ‘I’m not going and that’s final.’ My mind is made up.

  ‘I think you should – you never know.’

  ‘That’s the point. I don’t know and, more to the point, I don’t know anything about him… I had a dream about him sitting at his desk, with no top on. He looked totally lickable, but he wouldn’t look at me – in my dream.’

  Harry looks at me in complete bewilderment.

  ‘I think it’s a sign.’

  ‘No. I think it’s a sign that you have officially lost the plot.’ She shakes her head in disbelief.

  ‘Maybe you’re right, but he would chew me up and spit me out. However tantalising that thought seems, I’m sure he’s not right for me.’ I feel deceitful; only I know of the lust I feel for the Adonis.

  Once in my room, I wonder what disaster will land at my feet today. Looking out of the window I check the weather before choosing what to wear. Rummaging through my wardrobe I decide to wear skinny black capri-length trousers with a black fitted sleeveless blouse and black wedges. With the added glamour of black kohl to my eyes, I look like Brigitte Bardot – my own interpretation of her look. Now here com
es the tricky part: trying to attack my Seventies throwback hairstyle. The look is entirely self-inflicted: going to bed with wet hair is a personal invite for Roller Girl to visit.

  One last item I have to collect is the blue shirt hanging on the door of my wardrobe. Hmm – how shameful would it be to spray the shirt with the smallest amount of perfume, just enough to let him know what he’s missing? Oh, who am I kidding? More like what I want him to have.

  Harry and I check our reflections in the hall mirror. This is a time-honoured ritual for us Harper girls: one last check to ensure there is no evidence of any fashion faux-pas. We are similar, with dark brown eyes, the same height, the same clothes size – always a bonus: means we have double the wardrobe. Even our skin tone is fairish but tans golden. It’s our hair that sets us apart: Harry has long dark hair and I have long blonde kinky hair: Seventies Roller Girl.

  * * *

  Outside Jones Tailors, I take a deep breath and open the door for the last time.

  ‘Morning!’ I sing the word to disperse the sense of emotion in my voice. Not a peep. There is complete stillness inside the shop; it’s almost eerie. ‘Mr Jones,’ I call out. Normally I’m met by various muted humming sounds from several machines.

  ‘I am out the back.’

  With all my bags, I walk through the shop and see Mr Jones sitting at his cutting table with a pot of tea for two, and a balloon that says ‘Bon Voyage’. I congratulate myself for lasting two minutes before my crying commences.

  ‘Dear God, it is only nine o’clock – am I to put up with this flood of emotion all day?’

  A nod is the only response I can offer. Mr Jones stands and takes my bags, placing them on the cutting table. He then follows through with an affectionate embrace. This display of warmth is the most physical contact I have received from him during the past six months.

  ‘Now, now – come, Kate.’ He removes me from his grasp. ‘Sit down and I will pour you a cup of tea. I do believe you have cake?’

  ‘Yes.’ With some effort, I manage to speak.

  Emptying the bags on the table, I remove the fruitcake and wipe away my tears with the back of my hand, hoping to gain some composure.

  ‘Are you going to miss me or my cakes?’ I laugh, allowing humour to defuse my overwrought emotions.

  ‘Your cakes, of course.’

  Something feels different. I scan the shop.

  ‘Ah, you are wondering why it’s so quiet, Miss Harper. Well, I decided that, today being your last day, there shall be no work.’ He speaks whilst pouring the tea. ‘That is not strictly true.’ He peers at me with his usual Mr Jones look. ‘We will work, but not in our usual manner.’

  I look at him, slightly confused. He stands and collects pattern paper and blue fabric from a table.

  ‘This, my dear,’ he holds up a pattern, ‘is for you.’

  I frown.

  ‘A leaving gift, Kate: you and I are going to make you a handmade Jones shirt.’ He declares with a smile: a smile of pride, knowing for me this parting gift is priceless.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. You’ll lose a whole day’s work.’ I am shocked – and touched – by his display of kindness towards me.

  ‘Nonsense, I want to enjoy the time with you. Undeniably, you entered my shop like a whirlwind, with your non-stop chatter and more cakes than I ever thought it possible to eat.’ He takes a breath, as I sense he too is feeling sad at our working relationship ending. ‘More importantly, you entered with compassion, an open heart towards me, towards life… everything you talk about.’ He takes my hand. ‘It truly has been a time of profound benevolence, one that I shall never forget. You, my dear, have made a very long-lasting impression on me.’

  ‘Oh, great, that’s tipped me over the edge.’ I just about finish my sentence as the tears stream down my face, with no floodgates to stop them.

  I take his free hand and squeeze it tightly. I can no longer speak. I need comfort to disperse my tenseness, and food is my weapon of choice.

  ‘What a nightmare I had yesterday afternoon.’ I remove the shirt and box of plasters from my bag, whilst Mr Jones pieces together what happened yesterday. ‘The Sutton delivery?’ I jog his memory. ‘I delivered the shirts and completely humiliated myself in the process.’ I fold my arms and smile.

  I begin to retell the tale. However, I decided it would be wise to refrain from mentioning that he was completely fuckable, and the ache between my thighs remains. Nevertheless, judging by my body’s reaction and the look on Mr Jones’s face, I can assume that he has drawn his own conclusion of what is swirling through my mind.

  ‘So why the plasters?’ He gestures towards the box on the table, drinking his tea.

  ‘I thought Prince Charming seemed to have everything – well, I assume he does, and he was extremely intractable – his word for describing me. I thought I’d give him a gift that might amuse him.’

  ‘Am I to believe you like him? I’m trying to remember who he is… I know I measured a chap from Sutton Global, but it was some time ago, here at the tailors. All deliveries and invoices are sent directly to the company.’

  ‘Well, he was gorgeous… Besides, he’s out of my league and I’ve tried not to think about him.’ I’m sure Mr Jones knows that is complete and utter bullshit.

  ‘No one is out of your league, Kate: never allow anyone to categorise you. I made that mistake years ago and still regret it today.’ His words are followed by an instant wash of sadness that sweeps across his face.

  ‘It’s not that. We’re so different – worlds apart. He buys handmade shirts! His world is obviously full of money, and mine – well, I have no money.’ I take a breath. ‘Besides, I’m off to France on Sunday – so I think I’ll have food, and wine, for thought. I’m going to be really proactive and find myself a new career…’ I look a little smug, and yet I know, in the back of my mind, that it will take more than a trip to France and a new career to extinguish the burning heat.

  ‘I think you are foolish. Sometimes fate offers you new adventures, therefore you should follow the path it sets you on.’ Mr Jones speaks sternly to me, as though I was his child, giving me the benefit of his life experience – and perhaps mistakes he’s made.

  ‘Yes, but that path is to the penthouse glass tower, not a place I need to visit.’

  ‘Think about it, Kate, that is all I ask.’ He reaches over and touches my hand.

  ‘Yes, I will, but what I would like to do is perhaps make him a tie as a way of thanking him for the loan of his shirt. Too cheesy or…?’

  ‘I think that’s putting your opponent in checkmate; it will give him something to think about every time he wears it.’ Mr Jones stands and collects pieces of fabric. ‘Colour choice?’

  ‘Definitely black; that will match his dark smouldering eyes.’ I sigh deeply, remembering his dark intense stare.

  ‘Oh, my dear Kate, I think you’ll need to stay in France to get over this brief encounter.’ We both laugh. I think Mr Jones may have a point; perhaps a French au pair should be my new vocation.

  As promised, we begin to make the shirt. Watching a master at work is awe-inspiring. Even though he said we would be working together, I assume that was a figure of speech.

  ‘Were you ever confused about what job you wanted to do, especially when it’s forever?’ I sit dreamily watching him work.

  ‘Kate, the problem is, you have too many choices today.’ He takes a step back, assessing the shirt.

  ‘Did you always want to be a tailor?’

  ‘No, but you are aware of the history attached to the shop: the business dates back many generations. But, in answer to your question, it was not my passion – it was a decision made by my family.’

  ‘Oh, I just assumed – well, I don’t know what I thought. You’re so clever. So if this isn’t your passion, you’re bloody good at it.’

  ‘Do not misu
nderstand me; I love fabric. That passion was instilled in me from birth, I’m sure of it. But my love of fabric was not suits, my dear.’ He stops working and walks towards a store cupboard in the corner of the cutting room. ‘Come here – I would like to show you something.’

  He disappears into the cupboard as I make my way towards him. I enter an illuminated area lined with shelves that are full of books. Mr Jones gestures towards the collection.

  ‘Please, choose a book.’

  I follow his instruction, but which book shall I choose? I take one at random. Cautiously, I open it to reveal the most stunning drawings – sketches of clothes, dresses, skirts, coats, evening gowns.

  ‘Did you draw these pictures?’ I look in complete astonishment as I turn the pages.

  ‘Yes.’ He takes a deep breath, then sighs.

  ‘You’re so talented.’ I look at his face. ‘But why are they locked away?’ I continue to admire the drawings, astounded by the impressive charcoal images.

  ‘As I said, my love affair is with fabric, but not necessarily fabric for suits. My family would have deemed it too feminine.’ He looks at me, not with contempt, simply resignation at the role he had to play within the world, irrespective of his choices.

  My heart sinks. ‘But now you could do it.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, I am too old for all that – a quiet life is what I need, not runways.’ He touches my hand in appreciation.

  A drawing of a full-length dress catches my eye.

  ‘I’m speechless. I always said you were talented, but this… Well, that’s answered a question I’ve wanted to ask you.’ He looks at me, waiting. ‘When I get married, will you make my wedding dress?’

  ‘I would be honoured. However, I think you still need to find a suitable gentleman first – maybe Prince Charming?’ He raises his eyebrows as we both laugh.

  ‘If only he bloody exists.’

  He walks to a corner of the room and collects a roll of fabric wrapped in protective material.

  ‘Come – I would like to show you this.’