Welcome to My World

by Miranda Dickinson

  Harri ended up confiding in Emily about it all, after a chance remark led to a full-blown conversation.

  Since Emily had handed in her resignation, the wheels had been put in motion for establishing her new holiday business and she had enlisted Harri’s help with the mountain of tasks she faced. In return, she had offered meals at her lovely farmhouse home – something Harri was glad to accept, especially as Wednesday evening at Alex’s had turned into cringe-worthy Chelsea worship sessions. It was during dinner at Emily’s house, a couple of weeks before Stella made contact, that the topic of Chelsea had come up.

  ‘I popped into Wātea yesterday,’ Emily said, bringing a freshly brewed pot of coffee to the large, pine kitchen table as Fly padded around her feet. ‘It’s changed a bit in there recently, hasn’t it?’

  Harri grimaced. ‘Yes, it has. But then so has Alex.’

  Emily’s dark green eyes saw more than Harri had intended. ‘Really? How come?’

  Normally, Harri would have laughed the question off, or changed the subject, but she found the opportunity to discuss the situation too inviting to decline. Emily listened intently, stroking Fly’s head as it rested on her knee, and when Harri had finished she reached across to place her hand on Harri’s arm.

  ‘Poor you. That’s a toughie, for sure.’

  Harri sipped her coffee. ‘The worst thing is, I just feel so hypocritical. I don’t like Chelsea and I especially don’t like how Al is changing, but I care about him and I don’t want him to feel like he can’t share that part of his life with me.’

  ‘Isn’t there any way you can tell him how you feel?’ Emily asked, passing a plate of home-made white chocolate and walnut cookies to Harri.

  ‘No, because then I’d have to admit why I introduced him to Chelsea in the first place. If he knew the truth it would end our friendship for good.’

  ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I admire you for sticking in there. She sounds absolutely horrendous.’

  It was nice to have someone who understood, but Emily’s reassuring words did little to quell the storm inside. So when Stella’s email arrived, it seemed a gift too good to ignore. In her lunchbreak, checking that George, Tom and Nus weren’t looking, she quickly typed a reply.

  From: armchairtraveller@gmail.com

  To: stellababy@danbeagle.co.uk

  Subject: RE: Surprise!

  Hi Stel

  It was SO good to hear from you! How are you doing? Are you coping without your straighteners and hairdryer? You have no idea how jealous I am of you actually getting to see that big, wide world.

  Things here are OK, some surprises but mostly Stone Yardley hasn’t changed. Oh, except we now have a Country & Western-themed club, can you believe it? the Cross Hotel has had a revamp and it’s now the Nashville Crossing! It’s still full of sixteen-year-olds pretending to be eighteen, and forty-something guys pretending to be twenty-one, of course, but now they can do it to the strains of Billy Ray Cyrus and Rascal Flatts . . . Barmy, but it could only happen in Stone Yardley!

  I’m really glad you emailed me – I need your advice. I made a stupid mistake and now everything is such a mess. Alex has a new girlfriend and it’s all my fault. I set him up with her to get my own back after I heard him telling Jack that the only reason he invites me round for food is to take pity on me. She was meant to be the worst possible date but he’s gone and fallen in love with the woman! Seriously, Stel, she’s the kind of bimbo, Z-list celeb clone that you used to laugh at when we went to clubs in Birmingham. Her heroine is Katie Price and she’s only interested in dim boyfriends with big bank balances. I hate it, but more than that, I hate myself for ever starting this whole thing. If I had just confronted him then I could have saved myself so much grief.

  Don’t get me wrong: this isn’t because Al’s going out with someone. Let’s face it, I wouldn’t have put myself through all the hassle of those magazine replies if I didn’t want him to have a girlfriend. I just wish it could have been anyone but her. Anyone. What should I do? I don’t know if you have an answer – I don’t even know if there is an answer – I just need your advice.

  Sorry to lay this on you, but you did ask!

  Email me soon

  H xx

  Already feeling lighter for having shared her thoughts, Harri hit Send and relaxed back in her chair. Stella would know what to do – and even if she didn’t, she would definitely have an opinion. All Harri had to do now was wait.

  Mrs Bincham was all of a fluster when she arrived at SLIT the next day. It took Tom, Nus and Harri the best part of five minutes to get any kind of sense out of her. Finally, after much cajoling and a hastily prepared mug of strong tea, she regained the power of almost rational speech.

  ‘My Geoff’s proposed!’

  Tom, Nus and Harri exchanged glances.

  ‘Erm – but aren’t you married already?’ Nus asked.

  ‘What on earth do you take me for, Nusrin? I’m a respectable woman!’

  ‘Mrs B, I don’t think Nus was implying that you and Geoff—’

  ‘And none of your twopenneth either, Thomas!’

  ‘Ethel, calm down,’ Harri soothed. ‘Now tell us what happened.’

  Mrs B dabbed at her brow with a yellow duster. ‘This morning, over breakfast, Geoff looked up from his OK! magazine and says, “Eth, I think it’s about time we renewed our wedding vows. What’s good enough for these celebrities is good enough for us. So how’s about it, our bab?” Well, you could’ve knocked me down with a feather when I heard that!’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I didn’t say nothing, Nusrin. I just got out of there as fast as these old legs could take me. I’m an old woman now – he shouldn’t be giving me shocks like that at my age!’

  ‘I think it’s a lovely idea, Mrs B,’ Harri reassured her. ‘It means he still loves you and wants to tell the world.’

  Mrs Bincham fixed Harri with a hard stare. ‘That’s as maybe, but I think it’s got more to do with him being so celebrity obsessed. I blame those blasted magazines he buys, I do. Next thing you know, Geoff’ll be asking me to have one of them boob jobs!’

  They all had to look away at this point, hiding their laughter from Ethel’s attention.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ George was standing in the open doorway from the street, macintosh half off his shoulders as if he was about to perform a middle-aged, chubby striptease.

  ‘It’s fine, George. Ethel’s just had a bit of a shock this morning,’ Tom replied, patting Mrs B’s hand protectively.

  For once, real compassion made a brief glimpse on George’s flushed face. ‘Oh dear, are you . . . is everything OK?’

  Ethel waved a hand dismissively. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Mr Duffield. I’ll be fine in a jiff.’

  ‘Geoff’s proposed – again,’ said Nus, clearly loving this Wednesday morning drama.

  ‘He has? What did you say?’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, I haven’t said anything yet. I was too much of a dither.’

  George placed his sodden raincoat on the coatstand by the door and approached Ethel. Kneeling down (not an easy task for someone of his considerable girth), he gently took her hand between both of his. ‘Ethel. How long have I known you and Geoff?’

  Mrs B was mystified by this question. ‘Years, I s’pose.’

  ‘And in all that time, I’ve hardly ever known the two of you to fight – bicker a little, maybe, but nothing worthy of note.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘Geoff’s a good man, Ethel. He loves you and he’s stuck by you all these years, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Mostly. Of course, he had that wobble when he turned forty, but we don’t mention that nowadays.’

  ‘What wobble?’ Tom enquired, only to be shushed by Harri.

  ‘So all he wants to do is to show everyone how proud he is to be your husband,’ George continued, much to the surprise of the staff gathered around him. ‘One little chance to say to everyone, “This is my wife and I
love her.” Now, you wouldn’t want to deny him that opportunity, would you?’ He shook his head encouragingly.

  Baffled, Ethel slowly shook her head along with him. ‘No, but I—’

  ‘I think you should go home now and tell him you accept,’ George smiled.

  ‘But, the cleaning . . .’

  Raising his eyes to heaven, George’s smile tightened slightly. ‘Don’t you worry about the cleaning. I’m sure we can manage without you for one day.’

  ‘We manage without you most days . . . ow!’ Tom yelped as Nusrin’s elbow made sharp contact with his ribs.

  ‘You’re right!’ Mrs B stood shakily to her feet and Harri helped her into her coat. ‘Thank you, Mr Duffield.’ She patted the top of his head as she walked out.

  Amazed by the spectacle they had just witnessed, Nus, Tom and Harri gawped at George, who was wobbling slightly in his kneeling position.

  ‘Wow, George, you old romantic you,’ Harri grinned. ‘Didn’t realise you had it in you.’

  ‘I don’t. I just couldn’t face an entire morning of her moping around doing no cleaning,’ George barked back. ‘Now quit mickey-taking and help me up, will you? I think my back’s gone . . .’

  Rob was not impressed by Geoff Bincham’s early morning proposal, although the thought of the old man reading OK! with his full English did amuse him.

  ‘I never had old man Bincham down as a celebrity junkie,’ he laughed, twisting spaghetti onto his fork. ‘He’s such a gruff old beggar whenever I see him.’

  ‘You’ve never forgiven him for sending you off in that under-sixteens cup match, have you?’

  ‘Well, I reckon his eyesight was going even then. He was a rubbish referee. So when’s this all taking place?’

  ‘Just before Christmas.’ Harri took a sip of wine and watched the candle flickering on the restaurant table between them. ‘I think it’s romantic.’

  She looked around at the other diners in the small Italian restaurant. It was unusual for Rob to suggest they ate out, even at weekends, let alone on a Wednesday night. So when he had texted her that afternoon to tell her he had booked a table at Violetta’s, she was delighted.

  She looked back at him and thought again how handsome he looked. He certainly seemed to be making an effort after the brief Preston blip in September – in fact, he had barely even mentioned work for the best part of a month. It couldn’t have happened at a better time: all the frustration she was feeling with the Alex–Chelsea situation had demanded so much of her thoughts recently that she needed things with Rob to be on an even keel. She gazed into his eyes, the thrill of their unexpected closeness bubbling up inside her. ‘Anyway, don’t you go pretending you’re a love cynic, Rob Southwood. After all, you’re the one who booked a break at an impossibly romantic Scottish castle for us.’

  Rob gave an overdramatic sigh and rolled his eyes. ‘You’ve rumbled me. I confess, I am a closet romantic.’ He lowered his voice, ‘But keep it quiet. I’m just not ready to come out in public with it yet, OK?’

  Harri giggled. ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’

  News of the Binchams’ marriage vow renewal spread around Stone Yardley like wildfire. Geoff Bincham had been very specific about what he wanted. ‘We need one of them celebrity weddings with all the trimmings. Only the best for me and my Eth.’ Rising to the challenge, the people of Stone Yardley rallied round: Auntie Rosemary offered to provide flowers, Viv used her powers of persuasion (and, rumour had it, a rather splendid three-layer chocolate cake) to secure Stone Yardley Village Hall at short notice, and Harri was volunteered to enlist the help of Alex for catering purposes. Harri strongly suspected that this had been Viv’s idea as a way of cajoling her son into taking part, but she agreed anyway. At least it would give her a rare opportunity to spend some time with him sans Chelsea.

  By Friday of that week, the weather had turned decidedly wintry. Graphite-grey clouds shrouded Stone Yardley in stubborn dankness, while incessant rain, driven by blustering wind, pummelled its streets and inhabitants. George, who had proclaimed to his bemused staff that he was suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder and insisted on ensconcing himself in his office gazing at a daylight simulation lamp, had made the decision to close at three o’clock. Unsurprisingly, nobody tried to dissuade him – in fact, Tom and Nus had switched off their computers and grabbed their coats before George had even finished talking. After checking that her boss was feeling well enough to lock up by himself, Harri left and battled her way down the High Street with her umbrella bending under the force of the wind and rain until she reached Wātea.

  Delicious aromas of coffee and the comforting warmth of Wātea’s interior wrapped around her senses like a giant hug as she entered, leaving the stormy street and weather-beaten shoppers behind. The coffee lounge was half full with customers obviously taking their time to put off having to step outside again.

  Alex was wiping down the counter and didn’t notice Harri’s arrival. She approached and knocked her fist on the vintage wood.

  ‘Knock, knock?’

  Alex’s head jerked up and he smiled. ‘Hey, stranger! What brings you to my establishment this early on a Friday?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the wind blew me in.’

  Genuine pleasure lit up Alex’s face. ‘Terrible when the weather does that to you, eh?’

  Enjoying the glimpse of the Alex she had been missing so much, Harri grinned back. ‘Dreadful. So, any chance of a coffee?’

  Alex folded his arms and took a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’m afraid that’s only possible if it accompanies a seriously large slab of chocolate fudge cake.’

  Harri shrugged. ‘Then I have no choice.’

  ‘Cool. Pick a table and I’ll bring it over.’

  Harri chose a table by one of the few remaining photographs from Alex’s travels (him pointing at a Route 66 sign next to the most enormous American sedan she had ever seen), peeled off her coat and unwound the scarf Auntie Rosemary had made for her at the Knit ’n’ Natter group last year, draping them both on the back of her chair. Smoothing down the auburn curls that had blown free from her ponytail during her blustery trek here, she looked around the room, noting how much had changed since Chelsea had arrived on the scene. Gone were the treasures from Alex’s adventures – the Masai blanket, African masks and Australian dream-time art; the stacks of travel magazines in wicker baskets by the sides of sofas had been replaced with month-old editions of glossy women’s magazines and the kind of celebrity gossip rags that Geoff Bincham would have been in seventh heaven with. It was as if the brave, free spirit of Wātea had been subdued behind the bars of somebody else’s opinion – and Harri couldn’t ignore her sadness at its unwelcome incarceration.

  ‘Your obscenely calorific confection, ma’am,’ Alex said, pushing a large slab of moist, dark cake layered with thick, chocolate fudge frosting, sprinkled with pink sugar crystals. ‘The sparkles are complimentary, by the way.’

  ‘How fab are those! Where did they come from?’

  Taking the seat opposite, Alex handed her a mug of coffee and took a sip from his own. ‘Abigail Reece had her birthday party here after school yesterday.’

  ‘Really? You hosted a kids’ party?’

  ‘Well, she came in with her mum and best friend from school, so I got Brenda to dash to the Co-op for candles and girly cake decorations.’

  ‘Al, that’s so sweet.’

  He dismissed the comment, stealing a small corner of her cake with his teaspoon. ‘Nah, it’s just that I know it’s been tough for them since Paul left. Plus, it’s not every day you turn eight.’

  ‘You big softie. I think that’s really nice, though.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  They exchanged smiles, Harri loving the total absence of tension between them.

  ‘I have a confession to make, actually.’

  This sparked his interest and he leaned forward eagerly. ‘You do? Ooh, this had better be a juicy revelation. It’s been far too dull a da
y so far.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint. I’m here on the scrounge, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Typical. Let me guess: my mother sent you?’

  ‘No. Well, she might have unofficially had something to do with it, but that’s just a suspicion on my part. Mr and Mrs Bincham are renewing their marriage vows next month and we’re all clubbing together to throw a party for them at the Village Hall.’

  ‘So you need food?’

  Harri gave a sheepish smile. ‘Bingo.’

  Leaning back in his chair, Alex crossed his arms behind his head and appeared to be in deep thought. As he did so, Harri caught a glimpse of his carved Maori bead necklace, hidden well beneath the collar of his girlfriend-approved GAP T-shirt. The sight of it made her inexplicably happy – as if it were proof that not all of him had been Chelsea-ised yet. ‘We-ell, I don’t know, being so close to Christmas and everything . . .’

  Harri’s heart plummeted. ‘Oh . . .’

  A huge smirk broke free. ‘You are so easy to wind up, H! Of course I’ll do it. I think it’s wonderful what they’re doing. But there’s one condition.’

  ‘OK, what?’

  ‘You help me. I don’t mind giving my time for free but I can’t ask Brenda or the other girls to do the same. Do we have a deal, Ms Langton?’

  Harri shook his hand. ‘Absolutely.’

  That weekend, Stella replied to Harri’s email.

  From: stellababy@danbeagle.co.uk

  To: armchairtraveller@gmail.com

  Subject: Eek!

  Blimey, when I asked for gossip I wasn’t expecting anything nearly as interesting as that! Poor you, H!

  First off, let me say what you’re too nice to write: Al’s woman sounds like a right old nightmare! I bet you want to scratch her eyes out when she does that competing thing. Can’t abide that myself, but then, thankfully, I’m not you. If I was in your shoes I’d probably have committed GBH by now . . . And what he said to Jack! If you ask me, he thoroughly deserves to end up with a nightmare girlfriend. (Actually, Dan said I need to learn to be more compassionate, so we’re going to visit this old monk friend of his in Tibet soon. You never know, I might be all chilled and chi the next time I see you!)