Welcome to My World

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 to the doorstep. ‘So much mail from London – well, I’ll be. Thank you for making this poor old sod’s day, Miss Langton! Ta-rar!’ And with that, he was gone.

Harri stumbled back into her living room as Ron Howard slowly emerged from his hiding place. Hardly daring to look, she opened the first bag. It fell forward as she did so, its contents spilling out across the carpet, and Ron Howard sprang onto the sofa to save himself from being engulfed by the tidal wave of letters. Harri bent to pick up a handful and saw, with mounting dread, that each envelope bore the same five terrible words: ‘Free to a Good Home’.

This was a nightmare: Alex was officially a hit with the desperate readership of Juste Moi – and now Harri must uphold the second part of her bargain with Viv: to find a girl for Alex from the vast selection of candidates.

It was going to be hell . . .

* * *

Getting too excited is perhaps not the best idea when you’re in your fifties with sky-high blood pressure and under strict doctor’s orders to avoid stress. But Viv was not likely to let some jumped-up locum’s opinion intervene at a time like this. Harri eyed her friend with concern as she bounced around the living room like a three-year-old on Haribo overload.

‘So . . . many . . . letters!’ she gasped, plunging her hands into the nearest postbag and throwing envelopes into the air like a lottery winner revelling in wads of banknotes.

‘Viv, calm down!’

‘Calm down? How on earth do you expect me to do that, Harri? I mean, look at this! All these beautiful, intelligent young women eager to meet my lovely son! It’s wonderful!’ She clapped her hands together.

‘Look at what you’ve done, Harri!’

Harri ignored her sinking feeling. ‘Shouldn’t that be we, Viv?’

Viv dismissed this with a flamboyant wave of her hand. ‘Ooh, that’s just details.’

Harri eyed her suspiciously. ‘You are planning on helping me go through all of these, aren’t you?’

Viv picked up a pale pink envelope and inspected the handwriting. ‘Of course I am, darling! I’m a tad busy this week, but after that I’m all yours.’

‘Right, well, I’ll wait until you’re free and then we’ll start.’

Staring at her, Viv dropped the envelope back into the postbag. ‘Harri, this is my son’s future happiness we’re dealing with – we can’t delay it any longer. He’s waited long enough, don’t you think? So you just make a start and as soon as the Summer Fair planning committee stuff is sorted I’ll be there to help.’

Harri folded her arms. ‘I am not doing this all by myself, Viv. This was your bright idea, remember? I don’t mind making a start but you’d better be around to help with the lion’s share – planning committee or no planning committee. Right?’

‘Absolutely, darling. You have my word on it. I’ll only be absent from duty for a week and then it’s Team Harri and Viv all the way. In the meantime, you have my moral support, dear. And all the apple pie you can eat.’

By Tuesday evening, when Auntie Rosemary came to visit, the postbags were still sitting unopened underneath the window. Ron Howard, most offended by their presence, had gone off in a huff and was now curled up in the washing basket in the kitchen. There was no use Harri trying to hide the bags before her aunt walked in; the cottage was almost too small for its furniture already, without accommodating four enormous sacks.

‘What, in the name of all that’s good, are those?’ Rosemary asked.

Harri groaned and shut the front door, following her aunt inside. ‘It’s a long story. Cup of tea?’

Rosemary bent down to inspect the sacks as Harri walked into the kitchen. ‘“Free to a Good Home”? What’s this all about?’

‘It’s nothing, really. Just something I agreed to help with,’ Harri replied, hoping that her breezy tone would appease Rosemary’s curiosity.