Welcome to My World

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  ‘I do hope you’re not mocking me, Harriet Langton.’ Harri held her hands up. ‘I wouldn’t dare, Viv.’

  Viv surveyed her with suspiciousness. ‘Mmm. Anyway, it’s not important. What is important is something that happened to pop onto my doormat this morning.’ She opened a drawer in the vast central island of her kitchen and produced a magazine, then proceeded to perform a frighteningly energetic victory dance around the terracotta-tiled kitchen floor.

  Harri saw the title Juste Moi and took a deep breath. ‘Right then. Let’s have a look.’

  Viv could hardly catch her breath as she finished her dance with an elegant landing on a chair next to Harri at the kitchen table. ‘Oh, it is so much better than that!’

  Harri surveyed her carefully. ‘How do you mean?’

  Viv thrust the magazine at Harri. ‘Our darling boy only made the front cover!’

  ‘What? How? I mean, it’s just a column inside . . .’

  ‘Not any more!’ Viv was in serious danger of exploding in an effervescent shower of stars. ‘They’ve made him into a feature!’

  Hands slightly shaking, Harri released the magazine from Viv’s maniacal clutches and read the main headline: ‘FREE TO A GOOD HOME SPECIAL: Our hottest candidate yet!’

  ‘That’s . . . that’s not possible . . .’ she stuttered. ‘When I spoke to Chloë she said the column wasn’t doing well at all . . . I – I don’t believe it . . .’

  ‘Believe it, sister,’ Viv replied, sounding like a gruff supporting cast member from Cagney and Lacey. All that was missing was a gun sling and a bad seventies suit . . . She whipped the offensive publication from Harri’s hands and flipped through it until she found the page. ‘Look at that!’

  The formerly innocuous ‘Free to a Good Home’ column was now a double-spread, glossy feature, a picture of Alex gracing most of the right-hand page. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the worst thing – the very worst thing – was a quote from Harri herself, glowing accusingly at her in vivid red letters:

  Alex is gorgeous, talented and caring.

  Any girl would be lucky to call him hers.

  Harri Langton, Alex’s best friend

  ‘That’s such a sweet thing to say, darling,’ Viv gushed, clamping a hand on Harri’s arm. ‘Al will be so flattered.’

  Panic was threatening to remove Harri’s capability of rational thought or physical movement. ‘But I didn’t say that,’ she protested, doubt gnawing at the edge of her assertion. ‘At least, I don’t think I said that . . .’

  ‘Well, you must have said it, darling, or else why would they print it?’

  Viv’s blind acceptance of journalistic integrity was touching, if completely unfounded, especially in the light of Harri’s conversation with Chloë regarding the feature. The feature is dying on its sweet arse here . . . your friend Alex is the first decent candidate we’ve had in two years . . . Judging by the article’s considerable promotion in Juste Moi it appeared that Chloë was at least safe from demotion to ‘Celeb Gossip’ for the time being.

  ‘He’s going to kill me,’ Harri moaned, imagining the look on Alex’s face when he saw the article and the damning evidence of her involvement in garish red letters.

  Viv tutted. ‘Stop being so melodramatic, Harriet! He is not going to kill you. He is going to thank you when all those lovely ladies start to reply. Trust me, I’m his mother. Nobody understands Alex like I do.’

  Harri mentally activated everything crossable and hoped that, for once, Viv was right.

  The week passed by in a blur as Harri tried to comprehend the new upgraded status of Alex’s ‘Free to a Good Home’ article. After the initial shock of seeing the feature so prominent in the magazine, her confidence began to bounce back. After all, what was the worst that could happen? Even if Alex did find out and was annoyed at first, surely if Harri had managed to find him the woman of his dreams as a result then that would be enough to make him forgive her. Besides, by the end of the week Harri had something else to occupy her thoughts – namely, an unexpected argument with Rob on Friday evening.

  Knowing he was unlikely to be home until after seven that night, Harri decided to surprise her boyfriend by making dinner for him. He seemed to be working so much lately that she thought he deserved a treat. She spent a good hour cleaning the kitchen and preparing the meal, creating a selection of Spanish tapas for a starter, with a main course of lemon, thyme and garlic roast chicken with butternut squash wedges and Mediterranean roasted vegetables – a little more adventurous than Rob would normally choose (being a firmly English eater, suspicious of anything ‘foreign’) but still safely recognisable for him to take the risk.

  At seven-thirty, just as Harri was beginning to wonder what could be keeping Rob, her mobile rang.

  ‘Hey, Red.’ Rob’s voice sounded weary.

  ‘Hey you. What time will you be home?’

  There was a long pause. ‘I won’t. Not until Monday night.’ Harri’s eyes drifted over the dining table with its two perfectly prepared place settings, candles and open wine bottle. ‘Oh.’

  ‘That’s what I was ringing to tell you. Kingston Corp found a glitch in our proposal and we had to travel up straight away to try to save the deal. I know I should’ve called you earlier, but it’s been manic here since I arrived.’

  Harri felt her heart plummeting. ‘I wish you’d called me, Rob. I made dinner.’

  There was a long sigh at the other end of the line. ‘No, Red! Oh baby, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

  ‘It’s fine, I understand.’

  ‘No, you’ve every right to be upset. But I honestly had no choice but to come here.’

  Moving to the table, Harri began to clear away the cutlery. She could feel angry tears building but she was determined not to let them fall. ‘I know you didn’t. I’ll just be glad when you can finally tie up this Preston thing and get your life back. It seems a bit unfair that you’re always the one who has to go dashing up the M6 every time your company hits a problem.’

  The weariness increased in his voice but his answer was gentle. ‘We’ve had this discussion before and it leads us nowhere, does it? I’m really sorry I didn’t ring you and I feel bad that you went to all that trouble for me, but I’m here now and there’s not much more I can do about it, is there?’

  Harri hated it when things between her and Rob were tense. They had never been the kind of couple to bicker much in the past, but since the Preston job appeared in their lives it was as if a brooding tension was never far away from their conversations. Of course, she didn’t blame Rob – he was just doing what his bosses asked him to. But Harri could feel considerable resentment growing within her at the company which demanded his absence from her so often.

  ‘Well, maybe if you had a different job . . .’ she began, instantly kicking herself for saying it.

  Too late. Rob’s irritation buzzed against her ear. ‘Oh like that’s going to happen with the way the job market is at the moment! You know how important this job is, Red – not just for me but for both of us.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just think you deserve more than TGP give you. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Oh, like you get from SLIT, you mean?’

  Harri felt her hackles rising. ‘That’s completely different and you know it.’

  ‘How? How is it different? George has had you doing more or less the same job since you started. I’ve worked my way up at TGP and now I’m head of a sales team with four people under me. That brings responsibility. Which means having to work away from home when they need me.’

  ‘What about when I need you, Rob?’ Tears stung Harri’s eyes as the frustration of the past few months broke free. ‘I know you have to work but ever since this Preston job appeared it’s like I’ve been relegated to second place. And I’m sick of you working away at weekends. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth . . .’

  Rob groaned. ‘Come on, Red, please . . .�
�

  ‘No. I’m not going to apologise for how I feel. I wanted to spend this weekend with my boyfriend, not be twiddling my thumbs at home. And yes, you should’ve called me. Because then perhaps I wouldn’t have wasted my time this evening.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, eh? Quit my job? Come home? I’ve said I’m sorry, and yes, I would much rather be spending this weekend with my girlfriend than be holed up in some crappy office in Preston. But I can’t change the situation and to be honest I don’t want to fight about this. I think I’d better go.’

  ‘Fine.’ Harri ended the call and threw her mobile onto the table with a loud cry of frustration.

  An hour later, curled up on her sofa with Ron Howard lying expansively across her lap, Harri had calmed down sufficiently to call a truce. Reaching for her mobile, she sent Rob a text:

  I’m sorry. Call me when you get this. H xx

  After staring at the mobile screen for a long time, Harri came to the depressing conclusion that Rob wasn’t ready yet to accept her apology. Well fine, let him stew for a bit. In the meantime, she knew she had to do something, go somewhere – anywhere – to stop herself brooding over the argument. Who was likely to be around at ten o’clock on a Friday evening? Scrolling through the names on her mobile’s address book, she considered the possibilities:

  Auntie Rosemary? No, she would be at her Knit’n’Natter group with friends she had met in antenatal classes when she was expecting Rosie and James, and had kept in contact with ever since. They took it in turns to meet at one another’s houses and put the world to rights over dry sherry, old movies and the brightly coloured knitting projects they never actually looked at as their needles clicked away.

  Stella – now there was an idea. She’d mentioned earlier that Stefan was in Milan for the weekend so she would be at a loose end. Harri dialled the number and waited.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, Stel, it’s me. Just – er – Rob’s busy so I’m free, if you wanted to do something?’

  There was a muffled sound that bore a remarkable resemblance to a male laugh and Stella muttered something away from the phone. ‘Hey, hon, sorry, I . . . Something came up . . .’ Another stifled laugh, this time matched by Stella’s own. ‘Call you tomorrow, OK?’

  Before Harri could answer, the call ended. Fantastic. Returning to her address book screen, Harri continued the search.

  Viv? Harri stared at her number and took a deep breath. Viv would want to know why Harri wasn’t with Rob this evening. Which would, undoubtedly, entail her having to endure an endless commentary from Viv about Rob’s job. After all the upset she’d already experienced tonight, was she really ready to put herself in the Vivienne Brannan firing line of animosity? She shook her head and looked over at Ron Howard, who had jealously claimed ownership of the TV remote control by sitting on it.

  ‘What do you reckon, Ron, hmm? Face the wrath of Viv or sit here stewing over Rob?’

  Ron Howard simply rolled over on his back and demanded a tummy tickle. Harri obliged, her thoughts cloudy and disorganised as she ruffled the thick, white fur on his substantial belly.

  The only other option was Alex. After all, he’d called on her in a romantic emergency more than enough times in the past to warrant returning the favour.

  ‘He-llo.’

  ‘Hey, Al, it’s Harri.’

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Just wondering if you’re up to anything tonight?’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Right . . . I was thinking maybe a film, or grab a pizza, or . . .’

  ‘I see.’

  What on earth was he playing at? ‘Al, are you OK?’

  ‘Ha! That’s right, you’ve reached my answerphone. And you thought it was me all along! Gutted! So, hey, leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Or will I?’ A loud beep sounded, followed by Harri’s own sigh of frustration.

  ‘Hey, Al, it’s me. Just wondering if you’re busy, which, clearly, you are. Very amusing message there. Hilarious. Catch you later, moron.’

  Groaning, she tossed the phone to the other end of the sofa and wandered through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Then she walked back into the living room and over to the large stack of DVDs in the corner. Discounting the romantic comedies – You’ve Got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, Because I Said So, et al. – she reached the travel-related selection. She needed to escape, wrench her mind from Stone Yardley for a few hours to regain her focus. Running her hand across the glossy spines of the cases, the world was, quite literally, at her fingertips: Thailand, Fiji, New England, Norway, Venice . . . She paused, her hand hovering over the title, the thud of her heart loud in her ears. No, not Venice. Not tonight. It was too precious to be sullied by any lingering thoughts of the argument. Finally, she settled on Dan Beagle’s Guide to India, snuggling down under a blanket on the sofa before hitting Play. Ron Howard curled himself over her feet as the famous adventurer, photographer and TV presenter’s face appeared on screen.

  ‘Hi, I’m Dan Beagle. For the next two hours, I want you to accompany me on a journey of discovery through this uniquely beautiful country. Welcome to my Indian Odyssey . . .’

  A stab of loneliness jabbing inside, Harri smiled at her hero.

  ‘Thank you, Dan.’

  Chapter Eight

  You’ve Got Mail . . .

  The door opens and Stella’s kitten heels click-clack onto the grubby magnolia tiles of the toilet floor. Harri holds her breath and wills her heartbeat to quieten in her ears, afraid that it might be loud enough for Stella to hear it echoing around the grey-green toilet walls.

  ‘Listen, Harri. I didn’t mean any harm by what I said, you know. I just wanted to be honest. Let’s face it: enough people here were bound by their dishonesty until tonight . . . Look, I know you’re upset, OK? I just never meant to hurt you. Dan and I – well, we’re going to move back here as soon as the royalties for his book come through. So I’ll be around again – just like old times, hey? Come out, would you? Please, Harri?’

  Go away, Stella.

  ‘We can make this all OK, I know we can, if you just come out now?’

  Harri shakes her head silently.

  There is a long sigh from the other side of the cubicle door. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I know I did the right thing. There. I’ve said it. I never meant to hurt you or embarrass you; for that I’m really sorry. But I won’t apologise for telling the truth. I can’t, you see. Absolute truth is the only pure thing we have in this life; to deny its place is to deny life itself – that’s what Lama Rhabten taught me . . . But I suppose you don’t need to hear that now. Look, here’s my new mobile number . . .’

  A white envelope is pushed timidly under the door to Harri’s cubicle. ‘Just call me when you’re ready to talk, yeah?’

  Harri waits until Stella has gone before she stoops to pick up the envelope.

  When Harri had first agreed to Viv’s Big Idea, she hadn’t really considered how she was going to break the news to Alex. But now, with the ‘Free to a Good Home’ article making Juste Moi’s cover, the issue of how to tell him suddenly became a sticky subject. The easiest option was to tell him straight away, endure whatever initial reaction he might have and then just carry on. But the more Harri considered this, the trickier it seemed to be. Perhaps if Alex didn’t find out about it and Harri was able to arrange some dates from any replies to the feature then all might be well . . . On the other hand, in a place as small and gossip-fuelled as Stone Yardley, how likely was it that nobody else would see the article and show him the magazine?

  For a week, Harri waited, anticipating the moment when Alex found out. But nothing happened: Alex was just his usual, jovial self whenever he called or texted her.

  After a fortnight, she began to relax a little. Maybe Viv represented Juste Moi’s entire readership in Stone Yardley - after all, she had to subscribe to receive it. Or maybe Chloë’s worst fears had been proved founded and, following an unprecedented lack of response f
rom the readership, she had been forced back into the prison otherwise known as ‘Celeb Gossip’ . . .

  A little over a week after the argument, Rob finally sent a text:

  I hate it when we fight. How about dinner at mine 2nite at 7ish? Rx

  It was clear from the moment Harri arrived at Rob’s house that evening that the argument had been forgotten. Everything about her boyfriend seemed back to normal and she welcomed the return of the Rob she loved so much.

  ‘Things will be better soon, I promise,’ he murmured into her hair that night as she snuggled up to him. ‘Once the Preston job is sorted it’ll be back to me and you.’

  The following Saturday morning, Harri got up early to give her cottage a much-needed clean. She was just scrubbing the bath (dreaming about wandering around Venice’s streets) when an excited knocking at her front door broke her reverie. She opened it to find Freddie Mills looking like he had just won the lottery, brandishing a large grey post sack. ‘London! Delivery from!’ he exclaimed, sounding for all the world like a Black Country Yoda.

  Harri looked at her postman, then down at the sack. ‘Are you sure?’

  Freddie nodded vigorously, a rebellious strand of hair breaking free from his careful comb-over and flailing about high above his head, like a waving antenna in the breeze. ‘I have an official delivery chit and everything! London deliveries to our little village . . .’ He shook his head in awestruck wonder and handed her a clipboard and pen. ‘Sign here, chick.’

  Harri accepted the clipboard gingerly as if it were an incendiary device and checked the details:

  TO: Harriet Langton, Two Trees Cottage, Waterfall Lane, Stone Yardley, West Midlands. SENDER: Juste Moi magazine, London W4

  Stunned by this unexpected delivery, Harri signed the form and handed it back to Freddie, who grabbed the postbag and swung it heavily inside the hallway.