She should have been used to the Big F by now – although she had never really thought about it in that way before. She had become accustomed to the strange mix of joys and sorrows that twisted and twirled her from one event to the next, often unannounced. It was just life.
She remembered her grandma once saying: ‘Life is like a wild pony – you can never tame it. But if you grab its mane and hold on with all your might, it will be the most thrilling ride you’ll ever have.’ Grandma Langton had lived in a tiny cottage on the edge of Dartmoor, where Harri and her parents would visit during the summer holidays. As a little girl, Harri had liked nothing better than to hold tightly on to Grandma’s hand as they battled against the elements to climb the hill behind the cottage and gaze out across the windswept moor to where the wild ponies grazed. Even as a small child, she’d appreciated and envied the beautiful creatures’ freedom, walking and cantering wherever they pleased. The thought of jumping on one of their backs and taking off across the wildly undulating moor towards distant hills was at once impossibly exciting and ridiculously scary, but Harri longed to be as carefree as they appeared to be. As for Grandma, her own ‘thrilling ride’ had come to an abrupt halt when Harri was eleven – life throwing her from its back for the last time.
Life, or fate – or whatever you chose to call it – had certainly taken Harri for more than one breathless ride over her twenty-eight years – although it had to be said that most had been brutally scary rather than exhilarating. Losing one parent to cancer was bad enough; losing both was cruel in the extreme, not least because her mother’s malignant tumour was diagnosed while her father was enduring his last weeks of life. As Dad lay on the sofa in the family home, too weak to move, but still somehow able to smile and joke (which he accomplished with aplomb right up until he finally succumbed to unconsciousness), Mum made two sets of funeral arrangements – one for him, one for her – sitting at the kitchen table making copious lists for Harri ‘for when the time arrives’.
Dad’s cancer had taken him slowly, a long-drawn-out process over nearly six years, which crumpled the once strong and vital six-foot-three former rugby player into a pitiful heap of skin and bone arranged painfully across the old Dralon settee in the living room. In contrast, Mum’s illness took hold at lightning speed: five and a half months from the diagnosis to her funeral at St Mary’s, Stone Yardley’s parish church. Five months after burying her husband, Mum went to join him and Harri was alone in the world. Of course, she had friends. Viv and Stella rallied round, cooking meals (Viv) and getting her out of the house to go shopping or for walks (Stella), whilst Auntie Rosemary came to stay for three months, helping Harri to put the family home on the market and, eventually, find the tiny, ivy-covered cottage that was to become her own, bought with the money left to her by her parents.
Her father’s illness meant that holidays were spent near to home or at least a major hospital: the Lake District was about the furthest they dared travel and this was only because they had family living in Kendal, should an emergency arise. Towards the end, Langton family holidays became more like sofa transfers: Dad carefully transported from home in their old red Volvo to a different living room three hours away – the only difference being the mountain views from the window.
When Harri met Rob, just over a year later, she found herself returning to the Lake District for summer holidays. Rob viewed camping as ‘the purest form of holidaying’. Understanding Rob’s long-held passion for all things outdoors was part and parcel of loving him, as far as Harri was concerned. His father had been a scout master for years so Rob and his brother, Mark, spent weekends and holidays under canvas from an early age. When his father died five years ago, following the pursuits he had learned from him took on a whole new significance for Rob. It was almost as if being outdoors brought him closer to his father’s memory. Watching him pitch a tent, knot guy ropes and make a fire was strangely comforting for Harri – Rob’s capability and protectiveness made her feel safe.
‘If he’s so fond of camping, why don’t you go to one of these new glamping sites, with yurts and wood-burning stoves?’ Stella suggested during one of their many coffee-shop outings. ‘Or do it somewhere warm, like France?’
‘It just wouldn’t be his sort of thing,’ Harri replied, stirring her cappuccino with a wooden stirrer. ‘And actually, that’s OK.
It’s just part of who he is – like me with my travel book addiction. I don’t feel I have to like everything he likes and neither does he with me. We’re settled and secure enough with each other to be able to have different interests. When we go camping it’s like he feels he’s fending for us, I think. It’s that whole “protective caveman” instinct.’
Stella’s eyes lit up. ‘I have to admit, it’s quite sexy when guys get like that – all rugged and strong.’
‘Oh yes. I have no complaints there,’ Harri agreed as they clinked coffee cups in a mutual toast.
‘So I bet your beloved likes that Ray Mears bloke, doesn’t he?’
Oh, yes. To say Rob worshipped at the well-worn survival boots of Ray would be putting it mildly. When his father was alive, Rob had taken him on several of Mr Mears’ bushcraft weekends – something Harri was hugely relieved she hadn’t been invited on. Camping in the great outdoors was one thing; eating bugs and making shelters out of twigs and tarpaulin was definitely above and beyond the call of duty.
So, whilst Rob would indulge in copies of Survival Monthly or his extensive collection of Ray Mears DVDs, Harri knew she could always escape into the welcoming pages of Condé Nast Traveller and Lonely Planet magazine – and, of course, her favourite books on Venice and the Veneto.
For as long as she could remember, Harri’s imagination had been her sanctuary; she could escape into its endless possibil ities whenever she wanted to get away. As a little girl she would dream herself cycling past tulip fields in Holland, or twirling round an opulent Viennese ballroom in a beautiful gown to the swirling strains of Strauss; in her teens she would rollerskate along the promenade at Miami Beach, or spot multi-hued parrots in Brazilian rainforests; by the time she reached her twenties, she would be backpacking across Australia, bridge-swinging in New Zealand’s South Island, or riding galloping horses through the tide along Mexican beaches.
But Venice had always towered head and shoulders above the rest of her dreams. Its colour, opulence and uniqueness captured her heart and fired her imagination – her parents’ own dyed-in-the-wool romanticism alive and well, and coursing through her own veins.
When her parents were resting, or she just needed five minutes to herself, escaping was as easy as closing her eyes or opening a travel magazine. For a few moments, she could go wherever her heart desired. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t actually jump on a plane and visit these places; it was enough to imagine herself there. Where others would choose chick-lit, crime thrillers or historical drama to provide their escape, Harri chose a travel book. No matter where it was, as long as she could learn something new about the world, Harri eagerly consumed its contents, each new glimmering scrap of information adding to the growing travel library in her mind.
Fuelled by her daydreams, Harri’s longing to travel grew stronger as the years passed. The true extent of her desire to see the world was something she confessed to nobody but Ron Howard, the large ginger and white cat that had appeared in her front garden one December morning as a small, shivering kitten and stayed with Harri ever since. Harri had never considered herself a cat person, yet there was something she understood immediately about the tiny stray trying to shelter under the birdbath from the fast-falling snow. He was like her: adrift in a new, unfamiliar place, seeking refuge from the winter cold. Harri had not long moved into her cottage and was still feeling a stranger in her own home, surrounded by someone else’s curtains, carpets and paint colours. From the moment he made his impromptu arrival in Harri’s life, Ron Howard was a soul mate. Unlike Rob, Stella or anyone else, he didn’t mind watching awful foreign soap operas like
Santa Barbara, or endless travel documentaries on cable. He liked nothing better than to curl up on Harri’s lap, purring or snoring loudly through hours of other people’s experiences. There was something uniquely comforting about a creature that required nothing more than food and fuss; no expectations, no conditions, no arguments – simply feed me and love me.
In many ways, Ron Howard was particularly un-catlike. He liked to play fetch with his toys or bits of screwed-up paper; he rushed to the front door whenever someone new appeared; he loved to have his tummy rubbed and never once thought to use the opportunity to sink his considerable claws into the unsuspecting tickler’s forearm; and he never, ever tucked his tail in – leading to many occasions where it was accidentally tripped over or stamped on. Washing, too, was something he took a long time to acquire the necessary skills for: Harri frequently had to wipe his nose and forehead after he had been eating his food, as it never seemed to occur to him to wash there. Auntie Rosemary once joked that he’d obviously left his mother before she could teach him all of these cat essentials. Harri was simply thankful he had turned up – the other stuff just made him who he was. Most importantly, he was a good listener. Well, as good a listener as a cat can ever be, snoring, purring and occasionally farting contentedly while Harri poured out her heart to him. Did Ron Howard understand? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was there when she needed him.
After a day of trying to distract her mind from her posting Alex’s profile to Juste Moi, Harri retreated to the safety of her cottage. With a bowl of home-made tomato, basil and chorizo soup (straight from the pages of her latest Food & Travel magazine) and a chunk of Gruyère ciabatta from Lavender’s Bakery, Harri and Ron Howard snuggled down for a night of rubbish television. She had just taken her first mouthful of soup when the phone rang on the bookcase, just out of reach. Much to Ron Howard’s disgust, she manoeuvred herself from underneath his furry frame to answer it.
‘Hello, may I speak to Harriet Langton?’ asked a well-spoken woman.
‘Speaking.’
‘Ah, Ms Langton, hello. Sorry to ring you so late, but it’s Chloë from Juste Moi. It’s just a quick call to check if you’ve sent us the form back for your friend Alex for “Free to a Good Home” yet?’
Harri felt the single spoonful of soup curdling in the pit of her stomach. ‘Yes – um – yes, I sent it last night, actually.’
The sense of relief from the other end of the conversation was palpable. ‘That’s great, thank you so much.’
‘I’m not sure he’s what you’re after, you know,’ Harri began, hoping that Chloë would say something like, ‘Oh I see. Best not to bother then, eh?’ and end the call.
Of course, she didn’t. ‘I’m sure he is, Ms Langton. After all, you must think he’s a worthy candidate, seeing as you nominated him.’
Touché. ‘Right, yes, I suppose I did.’
‘Trust me, Ms Langton, everyone has second thoughts about this. Believe me, I know. I’ve had more conversations with dithering best friends, sisters and mothers than you would ever imagine since we started this feature.’
Harri wasn’t convinced by this. ‘I’m just concerned that Alex might not be happy about it, that’s all.’
Chloë gave a long sigh and lowered her voice. ‘Look, I’ll level with you, OK? The feature is dying on its sweet arse here – my editor says I have to turn it around in the next two months or I’m back to “Celeb Gossip”. Do you know how awful that is? Trust me, it’s death to your career. I’ve been here for four years and nobody has ever gone back – do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘I – er – think so . . .’ Harri stuttered, momentarily stunned by the journalist’s sudden change of demeanour. ‘But I thought the last man got thousands of responses?’
‘Like crap he did.’ Another elongated sigh ensued. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Langton, forgive me. It’s just been a really long day.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘OK, I’m being really honest here: your friend Alex is the first decent candidate we’ve had in two years. Most of the muppets who get nominated for this feature don’t know one end of a woman from the other – hence the fact that they are still single . . .’
Harri suppressed a smile, recalling her previous conversation with Viv on the matter.
‘. . . but Alex is – well, I mean, he’s hot as, for one thing. Then there’s the travel, the successful business . . . He ticks all the boxes, trust me. It’s just possible that he could save my career.’
Despite her inner conflict of panic and mirth, Harri couldn’t fail to feel compassion for the overstressed journalist on the line. ‘I see. Well, that’s OK then.’
‘You honestly won’t regret this, I promise! So your letter should arrive tomorrow and then it’s all systems go, eh?’
‘Great.’
‘Have a super evening! Bye!’
Harri replaced the receiver and flopped back down on the sofa as Ron Howard slunk heavily back onto her lap. The bowl of soup on the coffee table remained there, its temperature dropping steadily; Harri’s appetite had suddenly vaporised.
‘Looks like it’s happening, Ron,’ she whispered, stroking his vibrating back. ‘What on earth have I let myself in for?’
Ron Howard stretched his paws out and farted loudly. Enough said.
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.’
Welcome to My World Page 7
