Читать книгу Welcome to My World - Miranda Dickinson - Страница 10

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 in the free paper?’ Nusrin asked.

‘The very same,’ George grinned, his shiny, red head blushing with pleasure. ‘Genius, eh?’

‘I didn’t think anyone read the Gazette,’ Harri said. ‘Mine goes straight into the recycling box.’

‘Well, apparently there are people in Stone Yardley who don’t follow your woeful example, Harriet,’ retorted George, sailing into his office. ‘I think the hustle and bustle of this travel agency speaks for itself, don’t you?’

As he shut the door, Tom chuckled. ‘Shame nobody actually booked anything today then, isn’t it?’

‘Apart from the Wilkinsons booking their annual coach trip to Rhyl,’ Nusrin replied.

‘But we’ve done a brisk trade in brochures,’ Harri smiled.

Half an hour later, the impressive flow of browsing customers had all but vanished, allowing Harri, Tom and Nusrin to grab a well-earned lunch break. Nusrin had seized the opportunity to vacate the premises, ever-present mobile in hand and packet of cigarettes hastily shoved in her coat pocket, leaving Tom and Harri to eat their lunch in relative peace. And for Harri finally to read the letter. Trying to read its contents, Tom nodded knowingly. ‘Top secret communications, eh?’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, folding the letter defensively to hide its contents from her prying colleague.

‘Not judging by your face it isn’t.’

‘Seriously, Tom, it’s nothing.’

‘Liar.’

‘Am not!’

‘So if it’s nothing you can tell me what it’s about then, can’t you?’ Tom smirked, mayonnaise glistening on his chin as he pointed his half-devoured sub roll at Harri. ‘Ha – get out of that one!’

Harri let out a sigh of resignation. ‘It’s something I’m doing for a friend.’

His eyebrows shot up as he lowered his voice. ‘Mafia?’

‘Sorry?’

‘They’ve hired you as a hitwoman and the letter is details of your mark.’

‘You watch far too many gangster films,’ Harri laughed.

‘My Uncle Jez says the Mafia has a base in Birmingham,’ Tom retorted. ‘It’s common knowledge.’

‘Oh, and your Uncle Jez is such a trusted authority on that kind of information, isn’t he? I mean, wasn’t it Uncle Jez who was convinced that the Ku Klux Klan were holding secret meetings in Ellingsgate last summer?’

Tom looked away. ‘He saw them meeting in that field.’

‘Hmm, yes, and when he called the police, what did they find?’

Tom’s greasy cheeks flushed scarlet. ‘Beekeepers,’ he muttered. ‘Exactly. Ellingsgate Beekeeping Society. So I don’t think we need to listen to your Uncle Jez, do we?’

‘So what is it you’re doing for a friend, then?’ Tom shot back grumpily.

Harri grimaced. ‘Something he might not thank me for.’

‘OK – interests. Um, travel, photography, dining out, cinema . . . Anything I’ve forgotten?’

‘Bugging people. Alex is particularly interested in that,’ Stella replied, emptying two sachets of sugar into her takeaway coffee cup.

Harri looked up from the form spread before her on the weathered wooden picnic table at which they both sat. ‘Be serious, Stel.’

Stella picked up the flimsy plastic stirrer and stirred her coffee with intense irritation. ‘I’m deadly serious. This is a bad idea. Alex is going to kill you,’ she added for the umpteenth time since Harri had first mentioned Viv’s Big Idea. This had become her mantra, destined to accompany every conversation.

‘You’re not helping, Stel.’

‘I wasn’t trying to. Can we talk about something else, please?’ Harri groaned and shoved the form back into her rucksack. ‘Fine. I’ll finish it later, when I won’t annoy anyone.’ She looked out across the country park at families enjoying the unseasonably mild March Saturday. Vale Edge Park was one of her favourite local places – a large area of woodland around a high sandstone hill about twenty minutes’ drive from Stone Yardley. Here she had spent most Sunday afternoons with her parents during childhood summers, riding bikes, having picnics and playing games. It was a popular destination for families, mountain bikers and dog-walkers, its trails offering something for everyone. Many of her first dates had taken place here; shyly holding hands by the lake or stealing kisses along the woodland paths through carpets of bluebells and bracken. In the early days, this had been the scene of countless laughter-filled walks with Rob, Harri pointing out wildflowers or birds and Rob identifying them with that confident, completely gorgeous smile of his.

In their more adventurous moments, Stella and Harri ventured here to walk up onto Vale Edge, before returning to the welcome retreat of the tiny log cabin that served as a refreshment kiosk. This afternoon, however, any thoughts of such exertions had been banished by Stella’s ‘urgent cake and caffeine craving’.

‘This chocolate cake is a-mazing, H. Are you sure you don’t want to try some?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of parting you from it,’ Harri replied, popping a piece of buttery flapjack into her mouth.

‘You know, I hoped you were going to say that.’

‘I thought as much.’ They exchanged smiles. ‘Look, Stel, I know this magazine column is a daft idea, but it might just work. Stranger things have happened.’

‘You honestly think it might bring Alex the woman of his dreams?’

Harri did her best to look convincing. ‘It might . . .’

‘I don’t know why you’re doing this if you aren’t one hundred per cent sure about it,’ Stella said, taking a long sip of coffee.

‘Because maybe Viv’s right that Alex needs help,’ Harri said, smoothing down a strand of red hair that the wind had worked loose from her ponytail. ‘I’d just like to see him happy.’

Two noisy children dashed past their table with a large dog, its fur dripping from a recent foray into the lake. Stella wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘It could be worse, Harri. You could own one of those.’

‘A dog or a child?’

Stella pulled a face. ‘Either. Eeuwch. I am never having kids or dogs. Imagine spending your life trailing after that lot. Horrible, messy creatures – why in the world anyone would want that mayhem in their lives is beyond me.’

A harassed-looking woman appeared, stopping at their table and gripping it with both hands like a desperate lunatic from the asylum. ‘Have you seen them?’ she demanded, her eyes wide from too many late nights and hectic days.

‘Two screaming brats and a mangy mutt? They went that-a-way,’ Stella replied, and the woman hurried away.

‘Stella, you’re awful. Poor woman.’

‘Two words, Harri: “contraception” and “vet”.’

Harri shook her head. ‘You’re unbelievable. And I know you don’t mean it.’

Stella inspected her nails. ‘Oh, yes, I do. You wouldn’t catch me and Stefan signing up for that nightmare scenario.’

‘Ah, Stefan. How is the latest flame?’

Stella’s eyes lit up. ‘Gorgeous, H. Not gorgeous like Jase or Andy, of course, but with Stefan it’s the whole package, you know what I mean?’

‘I think I can guess.’

‘He’s caring and thoughtful – and his house is just to die for!’

Hmm. What attracted you to the millionaire Stefan, Stella? ‘Right, I see.’

Harri’s sarcasm was not lost on Stella. ‘His money isn’t the important thing, whatever you think. Honestly.’

‘Perish the thought.’

‘You’re such a cynic. This could be true love and all you can do is mock me. Just because you’re all loved-up, doesn’t give you the monopoly on happy-ever-afters.’

‘Sorry.’

Stella took a sip of her coffee and pulled a face. ‘This stuff doesn’t get any better, does it?’

Harri smiled. ‘Shh. Ralph will hear you.’ She looked round to see if the short, white-haired proprietor of the Vale Edge café was listening. Thankfully, he was engaged in an extremely animated conversation with the leader of a group of local ramblers, who were laying siege to most of the picnic tables around where Harri and Stella sat.

‘I don’t mind if he does. It’s high time our Ralphy learned about decent espresso.’ Stella flapped her hands as a thought blew into her mind. ‘Ooh, ooh, I meant to tell you, Stefan finally solved the problem of who you remind me of.’

Harri wasn’t aware this was a problem. ‘Oh?’

Clapping her hands Stella smiled triumphantly. ‘Amy Adams.’

‘I do not look like Amy Adams.’

‘Yes, you do. All that annoyingly gorgeous red hair of yours and your amazing blue eyes – you’re the total spit of her.’

Harri shook her head. ‘Just because I have auburn hair and blue eyes does not make me Amy Adams. Anyway, last month you thought I looked like Debra Messing and last year you said I was a dead ringer for Julianne Moore. Aren’t you just working your way through red-headed actresses?’

‘Nope. Not this time. Stefan and I were watching Enchanted and he said, “She looks like your friend Harri.”’

‘Hang on a minute – you were watching a Disney film with Stefan?’

Stella jutted her chin out. ‘He happens to be a fan of animation. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

Harri held her hands up to call a truce. ‘Hey, if your fabulously wealthy boyfriend wants to revere the House of Mouse, then who am I to question him?’

‘Exactly. So when does this form thingy have to be back with the magazine?’ Stella asked, expertly swinging the conversation back.

‘As soon as possible. They really like him, Stel.’

‘I told you they would. Of course, you could always just forget to send it back . . .’

The thought had crossed Harri’s mind, but now the magazine knew about him they were likely to pursue Harri for information. It was too late to back out. ‘That’s not going to work, mate. I’ve got to do it.’

There is something to be said for careful consideration and thought. Since the loss of her parents, Harri had relied upon her head to lead the way for every decision she made. As far as Harri was concerned, it was a much better option than trusting her heart, which often sent her in a different direction entirely. Unfortunately, she was surrounded by an entire clan of heart-followers – Viv, Alex, Stella and even Tom at work – none of whom seemed to agree with her cautiousness.

‘How are you ever going to do exciting things if you spend all your time just thinking about them?’ Stella often asked.

Secretly, Harri longed to be the type of person who threw caution to the wind and just went with the flow. Like Alex was. The tales of his spontaneity were nigh on legendary. He had just decided, one Monday afternoon thirteen years ago, whilst sitting at his desk in the large insurance firm he worked for, to quit and see the world. He typed out his resignation letter, walked straight into his boss’s office and, five minutes later, cleared his desk and left the building forever. Four weeks later, he was on a plane to Australia with only the next four months of his life planned. From there he met a friend who was travelling to New Zealand, so that’s where he went next, finding a job at a backpackers’ hostel for six months, doing general chores at first, then working in the kitchens. One of the girls visiting the hostel was the daughter of a hotel owner in Singapore who just happened to be looking for a sous chef for his busy restaurant, so Alex packed up again and went to work there. And so it continued, year after year; one spur-ofthe-moment decision after another, taking Alex all over the world.

‘How do you do it?’ Harri asked him one Wednesday night, as he expertly juggled steaming pans in the kitchen of his flat above the shop. This particular evening Malaysian Ginger Prawns were on the menu, stir-fried with fresh root ginger that made the tongue tingle and sweet honey to soothe the palate, served on a bed of fragrant jasmine rice. As Harri leaned against the breakfast bar, the aroma of the meal sent images of floating markets, bamboo houses and piles of multicoloured spices whizzing through her mind.

‘How do I do what?’ Alex replied through a cloud of ginger-infused steam as he lifted the wok lid.

‘The whole spontaneity thing.’

Alex let out a laugh that filled the whole room. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘I’m just curious.’

‘Considering becoming a spontaneity convert, eh?’

‘I didn’t say that. It’s just that I seem to be the only person in the entire world who can’t just do things.’

His eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘And that bothers you?’

Harri felt her defences prickle. ‘No, not really. It’s just – something I was thinking about, that’s all.’

Alex’s grin was mischievous but not unkind. ‘Ah, well, you see, that’s where the problem lies, H: if you’re thinking about being spontaneous then you’ve kind of missed the point.’

Harri shook her head. ‘Very funny, Mr Seat-of-His-Pants-Flyer. Forget I said anything, OK?’

‘Aw, mate, I’m sorry. You just make it too easy . . . Look, I can’t explain how to be spontaneous. It’s something you do, not something you psychoanalyse. Don’t question, don’t worry and certainly don’t deliberate. If it feels right, you just go with it.’

‘But don’t you ever worry about it all going wrong?’

‘Heck, Harri, you know me. Sometimes it does go wrong. Spectacularly wrong on several occasions, as you no doubt can recall. But I never worry about it: if it all goes belly up then I just deal with the consequences. If you think about things too much, you’ll never do anything, or go anywhere.’

Harri could almost imagine a version of herself setting off happily into the unknown – but quickly the questions and contingencies returned, blocking out the possibilities. ‘Well, who’s to say that my way isn’t the best?’

Alex thought for a moment, then lowered his voice as if to soften the blow of what he was about to say. ‘Nobody, I guess. You may very well be saving yourself from a shed load of failure by being cautious. But look at it this way, mate: would you rather be walking along a gorgeous palm-fringed beach somewhere or reading about it?’

It hurt, of course, but he was right.

Sitting in the cosy living room of her cottage the following Sunday evening, Harri stared at the completed ‘Free to a Good Home’ form in front of her. Though she said it herself, she had done a great job: Alex was well and truly described on the single A4 sheet. The woefully single readers of Juste Moi were going to tremble in their fluffy slippers at the mere sight of him. In fact, reading her description of him, even Harri was impressed.

She was about to file it safely away behind the clock on her mantelpiece (just so she could have a final think about it that night to make sure she was doing the right thing) when a thought hit her. If there was ever a time to practise spontaneity, this was it. She wasn’t going to post it in the morning, she was going to post it right now. True, no self-respecting postie was likely to be collecting mail from her local postbox at 11.30 p.m. but at least the form would be in the box and therefore safe from Harri’s second thoughts, which would doubtless halt its progress if it remained behind the clock. Kicking off her slippers, Harri grabbed the envelope and purposefully licked the flap, sealing it with a confidence that shocked her. Then she pulled on her wellies (the closest footwear to hand – hey, that was spontaneity in itself, wasn’t it?), threw on her coat over her pyjamas, grabbed her keys and ran down the stone path from the cottage, flinging open the small, white creaky wooden gate and walking the five steps it took to reach the small, red postbox nestled in the dry-stone wall over the road.

Five small steps for anyone else: five giant leaps for Harri-kind, she thought triumphantly, as she thrust the small white envelope decisively into the black abyss of the postbox . . .

. . . and instantly regretted her decision.

Harri stared at her empty hand, still hovering over the inky blackness of the postbox’s opening, feeling her heart sinking to the furthest end of her pink and white polka-dot wellies. ‘What have you done?’ a little voice demanded inside her head, accusingly. Harri felt her heartbeat pick up and an icy-cold pang shudder down her spine. Suddenly, spontaneity didn’t seem like the blinding idea it had been moments before.

Maybe, she thought in desperation, if she stared hard enough at the opening, the letter would magically reappear and everything would be fine. Perhaps the postman would just inexplicably miss the letter and it would remain forgotten at the bottom of the box for years to come. Or maybe she would wake up any second and find that it was all a terrible dream . . .

Harri’s train of thought was brought to an abrupt halt as the heavens opened above her. Large spots of rain began to pepper her head and shoulders, catching the light from the streetlamp as they fell: a shower of shimmering crystals splashing around her as she remained frozen to the spot. It’s done now: there’s no going back. As if to underline the sense of dread pervading her soul, a deep rumble of thunder rolled across the distant sky. Slowly, resignedly, Harri turned and walked back home.