Welcome to My World

by Miranda Dickinson

  Harri smiled weakly and walked out, sincerely hoping that the ‘lovely ladies’ of the West Midlands would think better of going out tonight . . .

  She made a deliberate detour to Stone Yardley’s Co-op, hoping that the tiny supermarket would live up to its Friday evening reputation and have only one of its four tills open to cater for the long queue of customers snaking angrily round its cramped aisles. Of course, this wasn’t the case: the Co-op was practically empty, with two cashiers patiently waiting to serve her. The supermarket had, quite clearly, received the same memo from the desk of The Big F as everyone else in Stone Yardley.

  To all concerned:

  You are strongly requested to act in highly improbable ways in order to allow Ms Harriet Langton to return home without delay. All usual time-wasting behaviour is strictly forbidden. Any attempt to ignore this advice will be treated as a breach of contract and will incur the severest penalty.

  Please note that The Big F is on the case. Thank you.

  Ron Howard greeted Harri like a long-lost friend, offering a less-than-convincing performance of a poor, starving beastie as he followed her into the house, miaowing plaintively. Harri propped her bags of shopping on the kitchen worktop and reached up to grab a tin of cat food.

  ‘Very good, Ron. Don’t give up the day job, fatty.’

  Seeing as nobody else in Stone Yardley was willing to help her delay the inevitable, she would just have to do it herself. She made a large mug of tea and took it upstairs, where she ran a warm, deep bubble bath, complete with candles. Pulling the small CD player from her bedroom as far as its flex would allow, she propped open the creaky wooden bathroom door with a travel book so she could hear the soothing tones of Newton Faulkner drifting in as she sank down amidst rose-scented bubbles.

  Almost an hour later, she reluctantly climbed out. Dressing in her brushed-cotton tartan pyjama bottoms, one of Rob’s faded T-shirts (that, wonderfully, still bore traces of his musky aftershave, even after a wash) and her oversized white fluffy towelling robe, she pulled on a pair of vivid pink and white bed-socks (so lovingly knitted by Grandma Dillon’s decidedly shaky hands for her, last Christmas) and headed downstairs.

  As soon as she reached the living-room doorway, the post-bags came into view, like four hulking shadowy gunslingers facing her at high noon. Come on, punkette, make our day . . .

  ‘OK, it’s time,’ she said out loud, making Ron Howard’s ample backside twitch in surprise. ‘Let’s do this!’

  Chapter Ten

  I Never Normally Do This, but . . .

  Harri wishes she had worn a watch this evening: in the last-minute rush to get ready, she had forgotten to put it back on after her shower. She has a vague recollection of it lying on the duvet amidst her hastily removed T-shirt and jeans as she struggled into her dress and heels. Looking down at the band of white skin on her left wrist, she notices how much she has caught the sun in recent weeks. She smiles slightly. Stella has always told her that redheads don’t tan: so she must have been surprised when she saw Harri tonight. But then, not as surprised as everyone else was . . .

  She wonders how long she has been in the grey-green confines of her self-appointed sanctuary. It feels like hours, but she can still make out the distant echoes of voices in the hall, so it can’t be that late – although it’s definitely too late for salvaging the one friendship she values most. Way too late for that to ever be right again. Idiot, she scolds herself, as she rubs the watch strap mark self-consciously and feels another wave of emotion beginning to break over her.

  Hi!

  First of all, let me say that I never normally do this. But I saw your photo and couldn’t help myself . . .

  Harri groaned and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece through bleary eyes. It was 9.30 a.m. and she had spent most of the previous night opening letters from Juste Moi hopefuls. She had drifted off on the sofa around four a.m., grabbing a precious few hours of sleep, before waking at seven and dragging her concrete-heavy limbs upstairs for a shower in a half-hearted attempt to wake up. A large cafetière of extra-strength coffee now sat on her table amidst the various piles of replies: Contenders, Possibles, Contingencies and Not Likelies. So far, the latter was the largest by a considerable margin – presently consisting of around a hundred letters and one rather large ginger cat. Harri shook her head at the sight of Ron Howard snoring happily amidst the rejects. At least someone was happy to be in that pile.

  ‘There’s obviously no creativity when it comes to “Free to a Good Home” replies,’ she said to herself. ‘I mean, almost every letter I’ve trawled through starts like this one.’ She held out the offending missive like a barrister proffering damning evidence. Ron Howard opened one eye and flicked his left ear. ‘I never normally do this . . .’ – yeah, right – ‘I couldn’t help myself . . .’ – I bet you couldn’t – ‘when I saw you, I knew you were the kind of guy I’ve been searching for . . .’ – purrrlease –‘I’ve enclosed a photo, so you can see I’m not some desperate woman . . .’ She turned the handwritten page over to view the photograph stapled to the other side and instantly pulled a face. ‘Oh, my life – I don’t need shocks like that when I’ve hardly slept.’

  She yawned and stretched her arms above her head to try to remove the stiffness in her neck. This was not how she had envisaged spending her weekend. She gazed wistfully at the bulky brown padded envelope lying unopened next to a vase of yellow roses Auntie Rosemary had given her earlier in the week. A new travel guide she had ordered online lay inside it – Hidden Venice – the latest insider guide to the city she longed to visit more than anywhere else in the world. It was waiting patiently for her to discover its manifold delights, something she had planned to indulge in all weekend, now relegated by the stacks of letters still to open.

  Leaving the paper-strewn sofa, she walked over to the window and gently lifted the envelope from its resting place beside the roses. Her heart rate began to increase as she carefully opened the flap, reaching inside to pull the glossy-covered volume from its packaging. As the cover photo of Venice by night met her eyes, her breath caught in the back of her throat. She had seen this image a thousand times over the years, yet it never failed to send thrills racing right through her. Dorsoduro – even the name was enough to transport her to the place her heart most desired . . . Lights from the gondola piers and colonnaded balconies of elegant palazzi were reflected in the indigo-black waters of the Grand Canal, red and gold vertical trails rippling beneath the softly illuminated domes of the church of Santa Maria della Salute. It was at once familiar and strangely alien to Harri – her mother had bought her a postcard of this exact scene when she was at primary school for a class project and Harri had stashed it in her underwear drawer, only bringing it out when her mother had long forgotten its existence. From that moment on, it had taken pride of place beside her bed – first Blu-Tacked to the red and green poppy-covered wallpaper in her childhood bedroom, and later in a gilt-edged frame that had been a gift from her grandma when Harri was in her teens. ‘Here, put that dog-eared Venice postcard of yours in this, sweetie,’ Grandma had smiled, her sun-brown skin wrinkling at the corners of her ice-blue eyes as Harri threw her arms around her.

  The faded, sticky-tape-repaired postcard still remained by her bed in its gilded frame now. It was the last thing she looked at before she closed her eyes and the first image she woke to see.

  Venice claimed the largest shelf space by far in Harri’s travel book collection – with everything from travel guides, maps and first-hand accounts of living there, to cookbooks of Venetian cuisine and novels set amidst its majestic buildings and canals. Whenever a travel programme promised reports from Venice, Harri watched it avidly; whenever one of her friends visited the city, Harri was the first visitor upon their return, eager to hear every detail and view every photograph.

  As time went on and more people learned of Harri’s long-distance love affair with the city, they brought her souvenirs whenever they visited Venice. Now she had a
secret hoard of Venetian treasure – everything from kitsch snowglobes with Venice landmarks inside and tiny plastic gondolas, to local newspapers, a Venetian mask and guidebooks from the Basilica San Marco, the Palazzo Ducale and the Museo Diocesano d’Arte Sacra. Contained within a battered-looking printer paper box and hidden carefully under her bed, this was Harri’s private joy – something she hadn’t even shared with Rob.

  Stella had been to the city several times, accompanied by someone a little wealthier and a little less in love with her than the previous companion each time. She had even visited Venice for a hen weekend with a gaggle of alcohol-fuelled female friends and once said she could see herself ‘popping there for a weekend alone’. Harri could think of nothing worse: for her, Venice was the ultimate city of love. Being there with someone you didn’t love or, worse still, being there on your own, seemed like the most tragic scenario. When she visited Venice, she promised herself time and again, she would walk there hand in hand with the love of her life.

  She stroked the cover of Hidden Venice again and sighed. Looking back to the sacks and letter-covered coffee table, her heart sank and she put her book aside and returned to the task in hand.

  Two hours later, Harri took a break. She was just about to make herself a sandwich when someone knocked at her door. What if it’s Alex? Panicking, she grabbed handfuls of letters, stuffing them behind cushions on the sofa and into the wicker basket beside her armchair. Dragging the sacks into the kitchen, she opened the broom-cupboard door and heaved them inside. The knock came again, echoing through the cottage, as Harri shooed Ron Howard from his bed of rejects and, at a loss for how to disguise the piles of letters already sorted, she grabbed a blue and white gingham tablecloth from the ironing board and threw it over the table, placing the vase of yellow roses in the middle. With a final check to make sure no offending items were on view, she straightened her jumper and made her way to the front door.

  ‘What on earth were you doing in there, Harri?’ Auntie Rosemary beamed, standing on the porch step, holding a large polka-dot cake tin in both hands.

  ‘Nothing.’ Harri tried her best to look nonchalant, but knew her deeply flushed cheeks were giving the game away.

  ‘Going through those dreadful letters, were you? Don’t look at me like that, Harri. I’ve known you all your life, remember. You’ve never been adept at lying – I can read you like a book. Now, can I come in?’

  Smiling at her aunt, Harri bowed and motioned for her to enter.

  When she stepped into the living room, Rosemary took one look at the coffee table and chuckled. ‘Ooh, nicely done, Harriet. The old “stuff-and-stash” technique, eh?’

  ‘When did you get so clever, eh?’

  Rosemary sat down on the sofa and reached behind the cushion to grab a handful of crumpled papers. ‘You forget that I am the mother of your cousin James. The things he stashed under his bed when he was at home would make your hair curl even more than it already does, trust me.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ ‘Excellent idea. So, how’s it all going?’

  Harri grimaced as she poured hot water into the teapot, warming it like her mum used to do. ‘Slowly. Let’s just say that the Not Likely pile is growing at an alarming rate.’

  ‘You poor sweetie. Well, it’s a good thing I came round, then.’

  By the time she returned to the living room with the tea tray, Ron Howard had smugly staked his claim on Rosemary’s lap. ‘I see you have a friend.’

  Rosemary patted his ginger and white head. ‘Ah, yes, I seem to have found my calling in life – at least as far as Ron’s concerned. Now, look in that tin, won’t you? I brought supplies!’

  Harri pushed the tray onto the least lumpy side of the coffee table, before opening the large tin and squealing with delight. ‘Your famous Lemon Drizzle Cake – with white chocolate buttons on the top! Oh, Auntie Rosemary, you’re such a star!’

  ‘I’m glad you approve, darling. Now, go and get a knife and some plates and then we can get started.’

  ‘Get started on what?’

  Rosemary smiled. ‘You didn’t think I’d let you do this all on your own, did you? Perish the thought, sweetheart! If you’re going to spend your whole weekend shifting through these –’ she paused to look at one of the crumpled pages in her hand – ‘dreadfully constructed letters, then you’ll need some company. That’s if you don’t mind?’

  Harri smiled as relief flooded through her weary frame. ‘I don’t mind at all.’

  The selection of replies, it had to be said, improved in ingenuity as Harri and Rosemary progressed through the first sack. One of Rosemary’s personal favourites was one from a lady now known affectionately as the Cat Lady.

  . . . As the saying goes, ‘love me, love my cats’! If we’re going to meet, which I have a good feeling we will, it’s important that you meet my two babies – of the feline variety, that is! Firstly, there’s Monty – we call him this because he has a fondness for digging up the flowerbeds, like the curly-haired bloke who used to do Gardener’s World. I have to say that our Monty is a little over-amorous at times, but as long as you don’t have brown trousers, your leg should be safe from his advances! Then, there’s Mrs Snuffles, who likes nothing better than sleeping in the dirty washing basket. Seriously, the smellier the better, as far as she’s concerned. So if you happen to like getting sweaty, she’ll adore you . . .

  ‘I don’t know what’s worse – Monty the randy tom or Mrs Snuffles snuggling up to your sweaty unmentionables,’ she laughed.

  Harri was particularly impressed by a sender she named the Job Application Lady.

  Alex

  Re: Juste Moi feature

  Having seen the ‘Free to a Good Home’ article in Juste Moi magazine (Issue 105, page 46), I am writing to apply for consideration.

  Further to my CV (enclosed), please consider the following additional information in support of my application:

  What I can offer:

  Loyalty

  Financial independence – I run my own successful PR consultancy

  Considerable circle of friends – many with connections

  Acceptance of partner’s flaws

  Conciliatory nature

  Excellent time management

  Sense of humour and intelligence

  My expectations:

  A partner who meets my required lifestyle demands

  A non-confrontational nature

  Faithfulness – I cannot stress this enough

  A willingness to put my needs first whenever possible

  An appreciation of fine wines would be viewed as a considerable benefit . . .

  ‘I’ve never thought of dating as being like applying for a job before,’ Rosemary said.

  Harri smiled. ‘Perhaps this is where Alex has been going wrong. He should just post up a card at the Job Centre and collect CVs instead. Much more civilised than all that “having to meet people” rigmarole.’

  ‘It would certainly be better than you having to sort through this bilge. Honestly, most of these replies are written in that awful text-speak. Don’t they teach girls correct English grammar these days?’

  ‘Apparently not. Blimey, do you realise we’ve cleared one sack already?’

  Auntie Rosemary frowned. ‘Are you sure that one’s empty?’

  Harri upturned the sack and shook it. A single fuchsia-pink envelope fluttered out and landed on the wool rug at her feet, closely followed by a strong waft of musky perfume, which made both Harri and her aunt balk as the scent snatched the breath from the back of their throats. It was the kind of perfume that ladies of a certain age love giving as Christmas presents to their unsuspecting great-nieces. Even Ron Howard, who was usually able to withstand the most strenuous efforts to evict him from his chosen warm spot, jumped up in horror from Auntie Rosemary’s lap, scampering out of the living room and up the stairs.

  ‘What, in the name of all that’s gracious, is that?’

  Harri bent down and picked up the of
fending item by one corner. ‘I have a funny feeling that this one might be destined for the Not Likelies.’

  Rosemary pulled a face and stood up. ‘I think it might be destined for the bin. The outside bin. What a terrible smell! I’m going to the kitchen for some fresh air. Coffee?’

  ‘Love one.’ Harri surveyed the pink envelope with its large, loopy handwriting and couldn’t help but be intrigued. Taking a deep breath, she ripped open the envelope and took out the equally strong-scented and vivid-hued letter.

  Hey Alex

  What’s a man like you doing in this Free to a Good Home thing?

  I saw you there and I thought you looked like my kind of guy. I mean, you’re successful, tall and really fit, so what’s not to love, right?

  I think we have loads in common. You have your own business and I love spending money. You’re well fit and I know I look good. I like a man who will treat me right and it sounds like you want a woman you can take care of.

  Interests? Well, travel, but none of that backpacking stuff, which is my worst nightmare. It’s got to be five-star all the way or I’m not even stepping into the airport. My appearance means a lot to me, so I make sure I invest in my looks. I like to be tanned and my nails are my pride and joy. Had my boobs done recently and, let me say, you won’t have any complaints in that arena. I’m blonde, five foot ten inches and a size eight. I love shopping, expensive shoes and perfumes. (This one was made in Paris for me by a French businessman who begged me to date him for three years. I didn’t.) I hate cooking but love five-star restaurants. Hate films with subtitles and don’t do talking for hours – action is what counts, know what I mean?