Welcome to My World. Miranda Dickinson
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Seven
A Question of Priorities . . .
With all the excitement of tonight, Harri realises that she completely missed the buffet. Or, more precisely, the buffet completely missed her – considering that most of it was being requisitioned as ammunition at the point she fled the main hall. As the decision to attend the party was made at the last minute, there was no time for food beforehand, her time being taken up with trying to find a dress that wasn’t too large for her. Looking down at her arms, Harri is surprised at how much weight she has lost during the past fortnight. Thankfully, an emerald-green halter-neck dress donated to her by Stella two years ago and relegated to the deepest, darkest part of her wardrobe on account of its being too tight, came to the rescue. Teamed with the too-expensive purple shoes she bought from the boutique shop in Innersley, and a thin purple cardigan she found stashed under T-shirts in the ottoman at the bottom of her bed, the overall effect with her long auburn hair is impressive, if not exactly the warmest option.
Harri is suddenly acutely aware of the hunger gnawing away at her insides. Reaching into her handbag, she sorts through the detritus of her everyday life – purse, phone, keys, tissues, receipts and old shopping lists – until she finds a treat-sized Mars bar. She has no idea how long it has lain in the depths of her bag, but needs must. Tearing open the wrapper, she takes a small bite and leans back against the cold ceramic cistern behind her.
‘What are you doing this evening?’ Viv asked as soon as Harri answered her phone.
‘Um, I hadn’t decided yet . . .’ she began.
‘Excellent!’ Viv declared. ‘Dinner at mine, seven thirty. OK? Good. See you then!’
Harri opened her mouth to speak, but it was too late. Viv had been replaced on the line by a monotonous buzz. Shaking her head, Harri put down the receiver and stared at Ron Howard, who was lying at an impossible angle on the very edge of the sofa cushion.
‘Seven thirty? Let me just check my diary . . . Ah, yes, that should be fine. Thank you so much for the invitation . . . Honestly, Ron, it’s a good job I don’t have much of a social life. What would she do if I ever said no?’
Reluctantly, she picked up her bag and slung it across her shoulder.
‘Oh, well, I suppose I’d better go and see what she wants. Unless you have any objections, Ron?’
Ron Howard purred loudly and fell off the sofa.
It wasn’t that Harri minded doing things for Viv: she had known her for long enough to understand that beneath all the fuss and bluster lay a deep concern for her wellbeing. What Harri did object to was the way Viv assumed she had nothing better to do with her time than to jump at her every whim. Tonight would be no exception: whatever the reason for the urgent dinner invitation, it was bound to entail Harri doing something she wouldn’t normally have chosen. That said, there was something strangely comforting about having Viv in her life. Whilst Viv’s ideas were often outlandish, her concern for Harri was unquestionable. In many ways, she was a surrogate mother for Harri and relished every intricacy of this role. And Harri loved her for it. So, quickening her pace under the dusky evening sky, she walked straight towards the next thrilling episode of Vivienne Brannan’s Imagination.
To say Viv was excited would be like calling Everest ‘a bit of a hill’. As Harri approached Viv’s farmhouse on the long winding gravel drive that dropped steeply from the white gate at the roadside, she could see her friend standing in the front porch, peering impatiently out into the growing dark, arms folded like a shivering teacher on playground duty in winter. Her face lit up when she saw Harri approaching and she rushed out to meet her.
‘Oooh, this is so thrilling!’ she exclaimed, flinging her arms around Harri and expelling every last bit of air from her lungs in an enormous bear hug. ‘Come inside, come inside! You have to see this!’
Winded from her overenthusiastic welcome, Harri fought to regain her breath and slowly followed Viv into the farmhouse. A wonderfully heady brew of roasting meat, baking pastry and steaming vegetables met her nostrils as she stepped through the doorway. One thing you could always count on with Viv was her ability to make any meal occasion into a pièce de résistance. Even snacks or impromptu lunches were transformed into show-stopping culinary events; there was no such thing as ‘just a sandwich’ as far as Viv was concerned. It was easy to see from where her son had gained his considerable catering skills.
‘I didn’t realise we were banqueting tonight,’ Harri grinned as she entered the kitchen.
Viv dismissed the comment with a nonchalant sweep of her hand. ‘Oh, this? It’s nothing. Besides, you know me – I don’t do low-key.’
‘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