Welcome to My World. Miranda Dickinson
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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