Читать книгу Welcome to My World - Miranda Dickinson - Страница 12

Chapter 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 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.’