‘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.
Chapter Six
Hide-and-Seek
The door to the ladies’ opens with an unwilling creak.
‘Is she in here?’ a female voice asks.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ a young man answers from the corridor beyond, his tone uncertain. ‘Maybe she’s gone home.’
‘Well, I never saw her leave, Thomas, and not much escapes my notice.’
‘You can say that again – ouch!’
‘Less of your cheek, sunshine, thank you very much.’ The door opens a little wider and Harri can hear a step onto the dull magnolia tiles. ‘Harriet? Am you in here, chick?’
Harri holds her breath. She can’t face a conversation; not yet.
‘She isn’t there, Eth— Mrs Bincham,’ Tom whispers, his embarrassment as obvious as the acne on his chin.
‘Mmm. Well, maybe you’re right, Thomas, maybe she’s gone. Better just check the hall again then, eh?’
Harri breathes a sigh of relief as the voices disappear and the door closes.
Ethel Bincham was the cleaner at Sun Lovers International Travel. At least, that’s what it said on her contract. However, with eyesight as bad as hers, coupled with her penchant for long chats with the staff, and George’s unwillingness to let her go after her many years of more or less faithful service, cleaning was not exactly top of her list of priorities. She prided herself on her ability to listen and fancied herself almost a surrogate mother, provider of pure Black Country wisdom and nothing less than a soothsayer for the assembled workers each Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning, seven o’clock till nine. In days of yore, every village would have its local wise woman, a source of mystical wisdom, cures for all ills and an understanding ear in time of need; now, the fortunate residents of Stone Yardley had Mrs Bincham.
‘Would you run the Hoover round this evening before Mrs B comes in?’ George often asked Harri on a Tuesday afternoon (knowing full well that she would be the last person out of the office and probably the first in next morning).
The irony of the request was never lost on Tom. ‘Doesn’t that kind of defeat the object of having a cleaner?’
George couldn’t really argue with this reasoning, but knew that his initial lack of courage to let Ethel go when he realised she could hardly see the office, let alone the dust, had inevitably made a rod for his own back.
The morning after her late-night bout of ill-judged spontaneity, Harri arrived at work to find Ethel attempting to water the artificial aspidistra in the window.
‘It’s looking a bit peaky,’ Ethel informed her cheerily, ‘and no wonder – it’s bone dry!’
‘It’s artificial,’ Harri began, but Mrs Bincham was having none of it.
‘No, it’s an aspidistra, Harriet,’ she corrected, tutting loudly. ‘You youngsters don’t know anything about plants these days.’
Harri gave up and retreated to her desk. She switched her computer on and began to leaf through the morning post, most of which seemed to consist of stationery catalogues nobody could remember requesting and offers of business loans from banks she’d never heard of. As she worked, she was aware of Mrs Bincham surveying her carefully, although exactly how much Ethel could see was anyone’s guess.
Harri picked up a pile of new brochures and walked over to the display units, wistfully gazing at each cover as she restocked the shelves: azure harbours with dazzling white yachts and jade-green waves lapping against white sand beaches, as smug couples stalked possessively along the shore. A sharp razorcut of longing sliced through Harri’s heart at their blissful expressions. If only she could step into the pictures and leave everything far behind . . .
‘Thought you might need this,’ Ethel’s raspy voice said right by her ear, bringing her sharply back to reality. Harri jumped and almost knocked the mug of super-strong tea from Mrs Bincham’s hands as she did so.
‘Oh! I’m sorry, Mrs B, I was miles away.’
‘I could see that,’ Ethel replied as Harri accepted the mug. ‘Where was it this time, eh?’
Harri looked sheepish. ‘Grenada.’
‘Don’t they do Coronation Street?’ Ethel asked.
Harri stifled a giggle. ‘Um, no, that’s—’
‘No matter,’ Ethel cut in, rummaging in her tartan shopping trolley and producing a large off-white Tupperware box that looked at least a hundred years old. ‘I’ve been baking again.’
‘Oh . . . you really shouldn’t have . . .’
‘Tsk, nonsense, I love it! My Geoff says I missed my calling in life – should have been a baker, he reckons. Mind you, he also used to fancy Margaret Thatcher, so what does that tell you? Now, clap your chops round one of these.’
Harri peered dubiously into the fusty plastic-scented depths of the box and selected an overly browned, crunchy square of something. ‘Thanks,’ she replied, hoping she sounded convincing.
Ethel’s face was a picture of gleeful anticipation. ‘Well, go on then,’ she urged.
Harri took a bite. ‘It’s – um – different,’ she ventured, uncertain whether the odd concoction of tastes was pleasant or not. ‘What is it?’
Ethel’s wrinkled cheeks flushed with pride and she patted her recently set blue-rinsed curls. ‘My own recipe,’ she grinned. ‘I love Bakewell tart, see, and my Geoff’s partial to Chocolate Crispy cakes – big kid that he is – so, I thought, why not combine the two? Proper bostin’ stuff, that.’
Harri swallowed and reached for her tea. ‘So this is . . . ?’
‘Chocolate Crispy Bakewells!’ Ethel proudly announced. ‘Remarkable, eh?’
Harri couldn’t argue with that. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Ta.’ Ethel’s smile morphed into solemnity. ‘Now, are you going to tell me what’s up?’
‘I’m fine, Mrs B, just a bit tired, that’s all.’
Ethel’s eyes may have been lacking in physical performance but her perception was as sharp as ever. ‘Don’t give me that, Harriet. “Just tired” my backside. I know a troubled soul when I see one.’ She parked her ample behind on the edge of Harri’s desk and motioned for her to sit down. ‘Now, why don’t you just tell your Auntie Eth all about it, eh?’
In truth, Harri didn’t quite know what to say. She was tired: her whole body ached from only an hour’s sleep the night before and her eye sockets felt as if she’d been punched repeatedly in the face by a crazed boxer. Added to which, telltale shivers in her bones were heralding the unwanted onslaught of a cold following her late-night soaking by the postbox.
All night long she had wrangled with her thoughts, her mind abuzz with worry upon worry as she cursed her spontaneity, finally succumbing to sleep curled up on her sofa under a travel rug (which, like its owner, had never actually travelled much further than her armchair).
Harri wasn’t sure Mrs Bincham would understand (after all, this was the woman who thought an aphrodisiac was a flower, and the giant Egyptian statues in the Valley of the Kings were known as sphincters), but she found herself trying to explain it all anyway. Ethel listened calmly, nodding sagely every now and again as she munched a square of Chocolate Crispy Bakewel
l, her dentures clicking rhythmically as Harri recounted the events of the past few weeks.
‘I don’t know, Mrs B. Part of me still believes this could work for Alex, but since I actually posted the letter I can’t shake the thought of what might happen if it doesn’t. There’s nothing I can do about it either way now: I just have to get on with it, I suppose.’
‘I completely get you, chick. It’s very simple, really: you’ve got the Big F at work here.’
Given her current sleep-deprived mind, Harri blocked out the many possibilities appearing before her and asked the obvious question. ‘The Big F?’
Mrs Bincham peered carefully over her right and left shoulders as if checking for unwanted spies. ‘Fate, Harriet. You’ve trusted the situation to fate so’s you’re no longer in control. It’s only natural you should be a bit jumpy while you’re waiting to see what’s in store for you. I mean, anything could happen next – good or bad.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so, chick. I’ve a feeling about this. My mother always said I was psycho, you know. Swore it blind till the day she popped off. “Your gran was a psycho, your Auntie Lav was a psycho and now the Gift’s passed to you, our Eth,” she used to say to me.’
‘Don’t you mean “psychic” . . . ?’
‘Now, I’ve never held much with all that mumbo-jumbo rubbish, to tell the truth. But every now and again I get my feeling and I have to say, stuff happens, like.’
Although Mrs Bincham was smiling, Harri didn’t exactly feel reassured. ‘So what do I do now?’
Mrs Bincham’s grin broadened. ‘Nothing you can do, our kid. Just got to sit it out, I s’pose. So you have another bit of Chocolate Crispy Bakewell while you’re waiting and I’m sure that’ll take your mind off it, eh?’
Harri surrendered to the inevitable and reached into the Tupperware box.
Welcome to My World Page 6
