Welcome to My World. Miranda Dickinson
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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 from 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.
‘Thanks. See you, Freddie.’
‘No probs, Miss Langton. You just stay there and I’ll bring the others in from the van.’
Shock rooted Harri to the doorstep. ‘The others?’
But Freddie had already skipped down the path to his red Royal Mail van, and was flinging open the back doors with great gusto. When he reappeared, he was proudly pushing a red trolley back up the uneven path to Harri’s door, laden with three more sacks. Harri watched dumbly as he carefully wheeled the trolley over the threshold and into her lounge, sending Ron Howard scuttling under the coffee table in fright.
‘I’ll just dump ’em in here, OK?’ he said, shaking Harri’s hand as he retreated