As she passed through the small villages on the fringes of the Black Country’s border, the decorated windows revealed fleeting snapshots of other people’s Christmases: families gathering for a day that could prove to be restful or stressful; presents, food, too many repeats on TV . . . all playing out behind closed doors. In her car, she was an onlooker, granted a glance at what Christmas was for others. But this sensation was nothing new to Harri: this was how every Christmas felt to her. It was the one day of the year when being without family seemed the cruellest – not least because every programme, advert and film on television seemed to feature the clichéd image of complete families: mum, dad, two kids . . . Strangely enough, furniture store adverts were the worst for Harri. One sight of smiling family groups snuggling together (albeit on horrendous sofas) was enough to reduce her to a sobbing wreck from the start of December to New Year’s Day. Consequently, she always felt one step removed from Christmas – and it was only when she drove down the long, steep track towards Emily and Stu’s farm that she realised how apprehensive the thought of fitting herself into someone else’s festivities was making her.
The farmhouse smelled amazing when she walked inside – roasting meat, freshly cut herbs, the spicy tang of cinnamon and ginger. It looked like the Williamses had bought the entire contents of a Christmas tree light factory and hung them over every available banister, doorway, picture frame and shelf. Harri made a mental note not to stand still for too long today in case she too was draped with multicoloured lights.
Emily and Stu fussed around their houseguest, sitting her down on a shabbily chic upholstered armchair by the wood-burner, bringing her rose tea and home-made star-shaped cinnamon biscuits, and apologising profusely for Fly’s over-enthusiastic attentions. Classic Christmas songs were drifting in from the radio in the kitchen while It’s a Wonderful Life played on the sitting-room television. Harri let it all infuse through her, forgetting her previous trepidation and, blissfully, finally able to put Rob out of her mind.
The day turned out to be wonderful beyond what she could have anticipated, and Emily and Stu were the perfect hosts. Christmas dinner at three (accompanied by the obligatory message from Her Majesty, of course); home-made Christmas cake with slices of Red Leicester cheese in the warmth of the sitting room; good-natured competition over games of Who’s in the Bag? and Trivial Pursuit, leading to relaxed, late evening conversation with coffee as Fly and the three cats took turns to claim squatter’s rights on laps and feet.
When Harri arrived home in the early hours, she was glowing. Sleepy and content, she pulled the secret Venice box from its hiding place, climbed into bed and snuggled down under the bedclothes. One by one, she brought out her treasures – and even though she had gazed upon them a thousand times before, her heart was still thrilled at the sight until, at last, she drifted away into sleep.
Hey Red I know ur mad at me but I had no choice remember? Work is a nightmare. Nobody wants 2b here and my team r miserable. Only a few people I can talk to, rest r losers. BTW, where’s good 4 holidays in Spain? Mel from my team wanted to know so I said I’d ask. Please call me, Red. This is getting stupid. R xx
By New Year’s Eve, Harri had received fifteen such texts from Rob, each one progressively more desperate than the last. Not wanting to take the situation into the New Year, she finally phoned him at lunchtime. The call rang out for some time before he answered breathlessly.
‘Sorry, baby, I was in the bathroom . . . Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘So am I forgiven yet? I really am sorry, you know.’
Harri sighed. ‘Yes, but only just.’
Rob’s relief was audible. ‘Thank you – I was worried you might never forgive me.’
‘Well, I have, so . . . Just promise me you won’t ever do that to me again, OK? Don’t build up something for weeks and then drop me from a great height. You know how excited I was about that break – it was something we needed.’
‘Babe, you know I had no choice . . .’
Harri could feel her nerves twitching. ‘Are all your team there?’
There was a pause. ‘Well, no, but . . .’
‘Right. So who’s missing?’
‘Only a couple.’ Rob sounded defensive. ‘John Marshall couldn’t because his wife’s just had a baby, and Sue Gerard had already arranged for her mother to come out of sheltered housing to stay with her over Christmas.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘One or two refused . . . but . . .’
Harri stared out of her kitchen window. ‘The point is that you could have said no, couldn’t you?’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘So next time, you can do the same. That’s all I’m saying.’ She decided to change the subject to avoid further argument. ‘Anyway, what are you doing for New Year?’
‘Hitting the hotel bar, probably. I might not call later. I’m planning on getting very drunk.’
Great, thought Harri, first Christmas and now New Year without him. ‘Right. Better say Happy New Year now, then.’
She heard him breathe out slowly. ‘Happy New Year, baby. Next year will be better, I promise. Call you tomorrow night, yeah?’
Ending the call, Harri ruffled Ron Howard’s fur. Purring appreciatively, he rolled onto his back, stretching all four paws out like a slow yoga posture. ‘Just me and you then, eh, Ron? So what’s it going to be – wild night out on the town? Firework display in the back garden?’
Ron opened his eyes and made a half-purr, half-miaow sound, as if to say, ‘Why are you asking me? I’m a cat.’ Pulling a face, Harri stood and wandered into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Just then, a loud knock summoned her to the front door. She opened it and, to her surprise, found Alex.
She hugged him, glad to have company. ‘Wow, I wasn’t expecting to see you today! Come in – the kettle’s on.’
‘Ah, a woman after my own heart,’ Alex chirped, following her into the living room. ‘I’m out with Chels tonight at an obscenely expensive party, so I thought I’d pop in for the last bit of sanity I’m likely to enjoy this year.’
Harri sliced up a home-made Dundee cake (a present from Viv before she headed off for her ‘cruise of doom’) and took a slab of Double Gloucester cheese out of the fridge.
‘Thought you might like a bit of cake with your tea.’
Alex chuckled. ‘Absolutely. It’s not like I haven’t already eaten my own bodyweight in food over the past few days or anything. Is it my mum’s?’
‘The very same.’
‘So what’s the cheese for?’
Harri stared incredulously at him. ‘To have with the cake, of course. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that?’
‘You’re having me on.’
‘You mean with all the travelling you’ve done over the years, you’ve never had fruit cake and cheese before?’
‘Never.’
Harri tutted and gave him a look of mock despair. ‘Honestly, you know nothing. In Yorkshire it’s practically written into the constitution.’
‘I’ve never been to Yorkshire.’
‘Well, that would be why you didn’t know. Wow, you mean there’s one place in the world I’ve been to, but you haven’t?’
‘It would appear so.’
Smiling, she handed him a slice of cake and a wedge of cheese. ‘Trust me, it’s worth it.’
Alex had to agree when he’d tasted the combination – and Harri was amused at how the tables had been turned: now she was the one with travel stories, introducing him to exotic new flavours . . .
After an hour of jocular conversation, Alex paused and looked at her. ‘I’ve been meaning to say something, H, and I’ve been thinking about it all over Christmas.’
Subconsciously, Harri braced herself. ‘Go on.’
He twisted on the sofa to face her squarely. ‘I’m just so sorry that you heard me being a complete idiot with Jack. I would have reacted exactly the same if I’d been in your shoes – no,
wor
se, probably. And Chelsea overreacted at the pub. She gets nervous around people she doesn’t know, you see – it’s a defence mechanism to talk about herself all the time. The thing is, H, I don’t want you to feel blocked out now I’m with her. I know I’ve been guilty of “new relationship syndrome” lately – the guys gave me a right rollicking about it, believe me – so one of my New Year’s resolutions is to spend more time with my friends and not be so insular.’ He stopped and his chocolate stare widened. ‘But one thing that won’t change is Chelsea. I love her, Harri. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before – not even Nina. And I’d like you to be happy for me. I know you had your misgivings at first, but she’s so much better with me now, you know. She’s really starting to soften and I know she loves me. I think – hell, I know – she’s the One.’
Something inside Harri sank like lead. ‘Really? Wow . . . look, Al, the reason I started the whole Juste Moi thing was because I wanted you to be happy. If Chelsea is the one who does that, then it’s fine by me.’
Alex hugged her. ‘Thank you. You don’t know what that means.’
Pressed against his chest, Harri silently disagreed. I know: it means Chelsea is here to stay. Heart thudding, she closed her eyes.
Chapter Eighteen
Questions and Answers . . .
A bottle of water rolls under the door. Harri picks it up and takes a long swig to wash down the headache pills. There is silence as she drinks, but she is aware of Viv waiting patiently on the other side of the cubicle.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Oh, why won’t you come home with me, sweetheart? I can make up the bed in the guest room, you can get a good night’s sleep and everything will look brighter in the morning.’
‘I don’t think it will. And I don’t think I’d be very good company either.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Harriet, I’m not asking you for company,’ Viv scoffs. ‘I’m trying to be supportive. At some point you have to move out of there.’
Her words have far more resonance than she intended.
Preston eventually released Rob from its clutches halfway through the first week of January. He certainly seemed intent on making up to Harri: large bouquets of flowers arrived at SLIT at least twice a week, much to the delight of Nus (and utter disgust of Tom, who denounced the gesture as ‘lame-central’); he made a point of taking her out every Friday night;
he even half-mentioned they could holiday abroad this year, although, sadly, there was no mention of Venice. Initially, Harri remained highly suspicious of his actions, believing that it was too good to last. But as January passed into February, his tenaciousness began to melt her heart.
‘Well, I’ll say one thing for your young man,’ Auntie Rosemary said one Saturday lunchtime, as they sat on the high stools in Eadern Blooms, eating gigantic baguettes from Lavender’s Bakery during Harri’s lunchbreak, ‘he’s doing my business the power of good. All those bouquets have really helped to buck the January slump for us.’
Harri smiled and swung her legs from her stool like she used to do as a little girl. ‘He still hasn’t worked out that the flower orders he places online come through to you.’
‘But aside from all these grand gestures, how is he with you?’
The tone of her question took Harri by surprise. ‘Um, he’s – good. Great, actually. He seems to be making a real effort with me.’
Auntie Rosemary’s expression remained static. ‘Well, as long as you’re happy, that’s all.’
Harri studied her aunt, perplexed at her lukewarm response to Rob’s actions. Wasn’t she the one who had always said Rob should be more demonstrative, take her out more, consider their future together? So how come this wasn’t good enough, all of a sudden?
The question played on her mind all day until, at five thirty, when she was locking the shutters at SLIT, its monopoly on her thoughts was broken by the shrill ringing of her mobile.
‘Hello?’
‘Harri! There’s an emergency – I need your help! ‘Emily? Whatever’s happened? Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine, but I might just have made the worst mistake of my life! Can you come over?’
Harri had already started to walk quickly towards the car park. ‘I’m on my way—’
‘Wait! There’s one more thing: can you bring some old clothes to wear? And – I really don’t know how to ask this, but – could you find someone to bring with you?’
Stopping dead in her tracks, Harri stared at her phone. ‘Eh?’
An hour later, Harri’s silver-grey Punto sped along the road out of Stone Yardley, hastily purloined mops, brooms, two buckets and a bag of cleaning products rattling and clanking noisily in the back.
‘This is completely nuts. What on earth was she thinking?’ Alex asked, placing a steadying hand surreptitiously on the passenger door handle.
Harri smiled. It always amused her that such a laid-back man in all other areas of his life could become so nervous when faced with the terrifying prospect of being a passenger in somebody else’s car. They had only been travelling for ten minutes, yet already Harri had caught his foot stabbing at his invisible brake pedal in the footwell. It wasn’t Harri’s driving that was the problem, either: he reacted the same in any car.
‘I think Emily just got carried away.’
‘That’s got to be the Understatement of the Year so far! Who advertises a craft weekend without having everything ready beforehand?’
‘Evidently, Emily does.’
Alex spread his right hand out on his knee, as if to reassure Harri that he was calm, although the other hand was still gripping the handle. ‘And how many people has she got coming?’
‘Fifteen.’ Harri indicated left at a T-junction, turning onto a narrower country lane. ‘It could’ve been a total disaster for accommodation with it being Valentine’s Weekend, but I called Barbara at Little Swinford Country Club and, thankfully, they’ve had a cancellation. Otherwise I don’t know what she would have done.’
‘So what are we clearing out, then?’
‘One of the outbuildings that Stu’s been renovating to use as a craft studio. It’s got heat, light and electricity, but there’s a load of junk that needs shifting and everything needs to be cleaned.’
Alex rubbed the back of his neck. ‘And there was me thinking I’d got a relaxing blokey weekend while Chelsea is away. Fat chance.’
Harri smiled and reached over to squeeze his knee. ‘Thanks so much for volunteering.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Write it on my headstone.’
A last-minute thought was responsible for Alex now being seated in Harri’s car, being driven towards Emily and Stu’s farm in the dusky February light. Earlier dashing around trying to scrounge cleaning implements from the shops in the High Street and finding no brooms, Harri suddenly remembered that Alex had two in the storecupboard at Wātea.
‘I need your brooms! It’s an emergency.’ Seeing Alex’s concern, she quickly clarified. ‘Well, no-one’s died or anything, it’s just that my friend’s been really daft and I need to go and help her.’
This amused Alex. ‘OK, I need to hear more.’
‘I don’t have time – I’ve got to grab some old clothes from home and get over there as soon as I can.’
‘What about Rob? Is he not coming with you?’
Harri muffled a snigger. ‘Rob is allergic to cleaning at the best of times, Al. The last thing he’s going to want to spend his Saturday night doing is volunteering to do that. I’ve really got to go, sorry.’
Alex handed her the brooms and then stopped as a thought struck him. ‘Wait there.’
‘Al, I can’t . . .’ she protested, but it was too late: he had already dashed upstairs. After much banging of cupboard doors and heavy footsteps thumping around in the flat above, he reappeared dressed in a vintage T-shirt Harri hadn’t seen him wear since he met Chelsea, old ripped jeans and his much-loved red Converse boots, which had been consigned to the back of his wardrobe in recent m
onths.
‘OK, ready,’ he panted, grabbing his coat and keys, and virtually pushing Harri out of the door. ‘Let’s go clean!’
The Punto took a sharp left just before the grass triangle on the road towards Greenhill and Little Swinford, and bumped and jostled its way down the steep farm track. ‘What made you want to come, anyway?’ Harri asked, as Alex held on to the dashboard for dear life.
‘I didn’t have anything better to do. And it seemed like it might be fun.’
‘Blimey, you really don’t get out much these days, do you? OK, Mr Brannan, we’re here: you can relax and open your eyes now.’
Looking pale, Alex vacated the car as quickly as he could – only to be almost pinned to its door by Fly. ‘Whoa – er, hello, doggie.’
Harri smiled at the sight of the black and white furry animal joyously head-butting Alex’s knees. ‘Alex, meet Fly.’
Footsteps crunched rapidly across the gravel as Emily hurried towards them, flinging her arms around Harri. ‘Oh, you’re here! Wonderful you! And you’ve brought someone with you.’ She held her hand out to him. ‘Hi, I’m the crazy woman Harri’s probably told you about. Thank you so much for coming – um – Rob, is it?’
Harri rushed to correct her. ‘No, Em, sorry. This is my friend Alex – from the coffee shop in Stone Yardley?’
The mention of his name struck a chord with Emily and she blushed. ‘I am so sorry! Hi, Alex. Ah, so you’re the spontaneity guy. Lovely to meet you at last. Right, if you want to come into the farmhouse first I’ll make you a cuppa before we all get cracking.’
It transpired that Emily and Stu, during a particularly late night (that might possibly have involved several bottles of Merlot), had excitedly discussed ideas for their embryonic new business. Somewhere along the line, the idea of a Valentine craft weekend had been born and it had seemed like such a brilliant, original plan that Emily and Stu had dashed to their Mac and spent a happy hour designing an advert for the imaginary event. It was only the next morning, with throbbing heads and bilious stomachs, that the true horror of the situation began to reveal itself: the Sent email to the advertising manager of an online crafters’ forum and – worse still – their first bookings.
Welcome to My World Page 30
