Welcome to My World

by Miranda Dickinson

  In the middle of it all, Alex staggered, bloodied, through the wrecked remains of his engagement party towards Harri. His dark eyes – which earlier had been so happy to see her – now filled her with fear . . . because this time the look he gave her was real pity.

  Hurt, scared and angry, Harri chose the only sensible thing left to do. She fled out of the hall, down the corridor, pushed open the grey-green door to the ladies’ loo and locked herself in the middle cubicle, sitting on the wobbly plastic seat with her head in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Stepping Out

  It’s time.

  Rising to her feet, Harri takes her bag off the hook and reaches for the lock. It slides open with a loud click. Swinging the door open, she walks out into the washroom area. It’s colder in here than she realised and she is glad of Viv’s pashmina still wrapped around her shoulders. Stepping over to the wash basins, she catches sight of herself in the mirror. Blimey, she looks rough. Glancing at the pale stripe across her left wrist, she remembers that she left her watch at home tonight. Even so, she can tell it’s late.

  She leans against the ladies’ loo door, listening carefully for any signs of life. But all is silent: the commotion that drove her in here is now audible only in her memory. Confident that she is alone, she pulls the door open and steps out into the corridor.

  The light is still on and Harri wonders if someone has stayed behind to wait for her. The heels of her too-expensive shoes click-clack loudly down the parquet floor of the corridor until she reaches the main hall. Far from the scene of carnage she left, most of the debris has now been tidied away, leaving an empty space behind. Nobody is here, either. Secretly, Harri had entertained a hope that Alex might be waiting for her – even if it was just to have the last say before walking away forever – but the emptiness of the hall confirms her worst fears: she has lost him, for good this time.

  Just as she is about to leave, a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention, spinning her back round. A figure is standing by the entrance to the kitchen. Squinting, she tries to make out their features, her heart in her mouth.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘You the last of ’em, are you?’ A short, wiry-limbed man steps forward.

  Harri’s hope plummets. ‘Oh, hi, Ned. Yes, I think I am.’

  ‘Proper bostin’ punch-up it was in ’ere tonight,’ he observes drily. ‘I ’aven’t seen one that good since the Silver Jubilee.’

  Harri smiles politely and makes her escape into the cold night.

  It’s too late for a taxi now – and she doesn’t have the number of a local rank, anyway. The only way to get back to her cottage is to walk. In reality, it isn’t far – only a mile and a half – a journey she has made countless times before on pleasant summer evenings. But tonight it seems to take an eternity. Her feet feel leaden, dragging her downwards, making every step an immense effort . . .

  As she walks, she remembers the harbourside in Fiskardo at night: the warm breeze swirling around her arms as she passed row upon row of tables and chairs in the waterfront restaurants; the lights of the town reflecting in the indigo-black waters of the harbour; above her, the full moon she had watched rise quickly from the sea like Venus in an old master painting. Now it feels almost as if she dreamed Kefalonia – the cold breeze numbing her fingers as she draws the ends of Viv’s pashmina ever closer.

  If only she hadn’t confided in Stella. She should have known that information like that wouldn’t have stayed hidden for long once Stella was in possession of it. Yet at the time the thought of her friend thousands of miles away and unlikely to return gave her reassurance to divulge it. How wrong she had been . . .

  As she opens the gate from the field and walks out onto Waterfall Lane, her thoughts inevitably shift to Alex and her heart contracts with a long, dull ache. She had come so close to regaining her friendship with him – how had it all been taken away from her again so easily?

  ‘Do you love him, Harri?’ Blanche had asked one night as they ate a dessert of Greek yoghurt with walnuts and thick honey under the vines at To Kardiva.

  ‘I honestly hope not,’ Harri had answered truthfully. But inside, she knew the answer to the question; and so, she suspected, did Blanche.

  Not that any of that matters now, of course. Alex is gone and she needs to move on, like Blanche said: Just keep looking out for the next great love of your life . . .

  At least – she muses as she walks – with the complications of her heart removed, she can set about creating the kind of life she wants to live. She will definitely take more holidays abroad: Blanche has invited her to New Jersey later in the year, ‘when my break from looking for Number Six is over . . .’ and Harri plans to combine it with a trip to New York, visiting her cousin Rosie and seeing the sights. Before she left for Kefalonia, Emily had asked her to help with the art and craft holidays at Greenwell Hill Farm too – a prospect Harri still likes immensely. Getting through the past few months and taking her first steps into the big wide world that she has always wanted to experience has brought about a vital change within her: the fear of the unknown has gone.

  She walks the final stretch of Waterfall Lane, passing her neighbours’ houses as she nears her own. Reaching the gate at the bottom of her garden, she lifts the latch – and stops dead . . .

  Someone is waiting for her. He is leaning against the front door, shoulders hunched against the cool night.

  ‘Alex?’

  Slowly, she walks up the garden path towards him. He says nothing, eyes scrutinising her, cold and emotionless. He has come for the last word.

  Harri has had enough drama and tension tonight to last her for several lifetimes. Wearily, she stops in front of him. ‘Do you want to come in?’

  Nothing. No response, not even a flicker. ‘OK, well, if you don’t mind, I’ve had a horrible day and I want to go to bed.’ She waits for him to move, but he remains stoically in the porchway. It is too much. ‘Al,’ she pleads, emotion constricting her words, ‘just say what you came here to say and then let me get on with my life. There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t already beaten myself over the head with.’

  He breathes out, his breath a cloud of warm steam rising in the cool atmosphere that surrounds them. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Is what true?’

  ‘What Stella said tonight. Do you love me?’

  ‘Why on earth does it matter?’

  His eyes sear into hers. ‘Because I want the truth.’

  She stares back at him. ‘I would have thought you’d had more than enough “truth” tonight.’

  ‘I want to know, Harri. Do you love me?’

  Perhaps the quickest way to get him to leave her alone is to be honest, Harri reasons. ‘Yes, I do. And I really wish I didn’t, but there it is. Now can I get into my house, please?’

  ‘See, the thing is, Harri, I can’t believe you told Stella all this stuff. She humiliated me – she humiliated all of us – for what purpose? I’m sure we could have survived blissfully unaware of all of that for the rest of our lives. I mean, why rake it all up now?’

  Harri rubs her eyes. ‘You know what, Al? I don’t need this. I’ve just spent I don’t know how many hours trying to get my head round it all and I’ve failed miserably. You just need to deal with it too, and move on. And I’m sorry I had to inconvenience you so much by falling in love with you. Believe me, I didn’t plan it. But you needn’t worry: I won’t inconvenience you any longer. Thanks for being my friend, but I think you’ll agree it’s run its course. So just go home and let me get on with my life.’

  Alex shakes his head. ‘Ah, but I don’t want to.’

  With a cry of frustration, Harri steps forward. ‘OK, what do you want from me, Alex?’

  He reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a long, white envelope. ‘I want you to have this.’

  Surprise sweeps aside her anger. ‘What is it?’

  ‘This is what I was goin
g to give Chelsea tonight, only I really don’t think there’s much point doing that now, is there? Seeing as she’s having an affair with my best friend. She probably wouldn’t have appreciated it anyway.’

  ‘I am sorry about that, Al,’ Harri replies softly. ‘I know what it feels like.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry to hear about Rob. You didn’t deserve that. Go on, open it.’

  Harri carefully unseals the envelope and takes out a plane ticket. Twisting it round, her eyes read the destination. Her heart leaps – then tumbles. Carefully, she replaces the ticket in the envelope and calmly hands it back. ‘I can’t. Sorry.’

  His frow furrows. ‘You can, it’s yours.’

  She pushes it back towards him. ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘But it’s Venice,’ he protests, refusing to accept it from her.

  ‘And that’s why I can’t. Not on my own.’

  There is a long silence. Harri’s eyes brim with tears and the pain forces her eyes away from the ticket in her hand.

  Then, Alex speaks, his voice unsteady. ‘I know. That’s why I have one too.’

  Looking up, Harri searches his face. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come to Venice with me.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . . I . . .’

  ‘See, I’ve tried to put you out of my mind, Harri. I moved things on with Chelsea, proposed and started planning the wedding. I even bought tickets to the one place you love the most, thinking it would put you out of my head for good if I saw it with Chelsea. But nothing worked. All I can think about is the way we kissed that night. It changed everything. Don’t look so shocked, H; you can’t be totally surprised by this?’

  ‘Forgive me, but I am. What you said then – the way you looked at me – you were horrified. I saw it in your eyes again this evening. How can that be love?’

  ‘You saw fear, Harri! This whole thing scares the life out of me because you’re my friend and I depend on you – and I don’t want to risk losing you. That night I was an idiot and I ran away because I couldn’t cope with how I felt.’ He takes a step closer, his hands closing around hers as she grips the Venice ticket. ‘You blew me away when you kissed me. I’ve never felt like that with anyone before – not even Chelsea, who I was convinced was the One. And it shook everything up.’

  Questions are building like skyscrapers inside her – layer upon layer of issues, fears and disbelief cementing themselves together, blocking the way forward from view. At a loss for how to respond, Harri shrugs. ‘So where do we go from here?’

  Warmth ignites Alex’s expression, a fire she has never seen before burning in his eyes. ‘Venice. Me and you. I know we don’t have the answers yet, but I’m willing to work it out if you’ll help me?’

  Heart beating wildly, Harri bows her head and whispers: ‘So take me to Venice . . .’

  Then his hands are stroking her face, his eyes are melting into hers and, when their lips meet, it’s like a billion shooting stars colliding, filling every atom of darkness with shimmering light . . .

  Venice: La Serenissima – the serene city where love and dreams walk its streets, hand in hand. On a stone bench overlooking the Grand Canal, two lovers kiss, each embrace answering another question in their hearts.

  This is where Harri and Alex chose to begin the greatest journey of their lives – together. And all around them, the city smiles.

  Read on for an exclusive extract from

  Miranda’s next novel,

  It Started With a Kiss

  coming in 2010.

  Chapter One

  The Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

  When it comes to telling your best friend that you love him, there are generally two schools of thought. One strongly advises against it, warning that you could lose a friend if they don’t feel the same way. The other urges action because, unless you say something, you might miss out on the love of your life.

  Unfortunately for me, I listened to the latter.

  The look in Charlie’s eyes said it all: I had just made the biggest mistake of my life . . .

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Maybe I should say it again? I said I love you, Charlie.’

  He blinked. ‘You’re not serious, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I could feel a deathly dragging sensation pulling my hope to oblivion.

  ‘H-how long have you . . . ?’

  I dropped my gaze to the potted plant beside our table. ‘Um – a long time, actually.’

  ‘But, we’re mates, Rom.’

  ‘Yeah, of course we are. Look, forget I said anything, OK?’

  He was staring at his latte like it had just insulted him. ‘I don’t know how you expect me to do that. You’ve said it now, haven’t you? I mean it’s – it’s out there.’

  I looked around the overcrowded coffee shop with its uniformly disgruntled Christmas shoppers, huddled ungratefully around too-small tables on chairs greedily snatched from unsuspecting single customers. ‘I think it’s safe to assume that none of that lot heard anything.’

  As attempts at humour go, it wasn’t my finest. I took a large gulp of coffee and wished myself dead.

  Charlie shook his head. ‘That doesn’t matter. I heard it. Oh, Rom – why did you say that? Why couldn’t you just have . . .?’

  I stared at him. ‘Just have what?’

  ‘Just not said anything? I mean, why me? Why put this on me now?’

  I hated the look of sheer panic in his eyes. He’d never looked at me that way before . . . In my perennial daydream about this moment it had been so very different:

  Oh Romily – I’ve loved you forever, too. If you hadn’t told me we could have missed each other completely . . .

  ‘We’re fine as we are, aren’t we? I mean, if it’s good then why change it? I can’t believe you actually thought that declaring your undying love for me would be a good idea.’

  Well, excuse me, but I did. Somewhere between my ridicul ous, now obviously deluded heart and my big stupid mouth, my brain got pushed out of the picture and I – crazy, deranged loon that I am – found myself persuaded that I might be the answer to his dreams. That maybe the reason for the many hours we’d spent together – cheeky laughter-filled days and late night heart-to-hearts dripping with chemistry – was that we were destined to be more than friends. Everyone else noticed it: it was the running joke amongst our friends that Charlie and I were like an old married couple. We’d lost count of the number of times complete strangers mistook us for partners. So if it was this blindingly obvious to the world, how come Charlie couldn’t see it?

  Of course, I couldn’t say any of the above to him. Only much, much later, staring at the wreck that was my reflection in the bathroom mirror through mascara-blurred eyes, did I deliver my Oscar-worthy performance. But then and there, in the crowded café packed with people who couldn’t care less about what I was saying, I found that – to my utter chagrin – all I could say was:

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘I did not see this coming. I thought we were friends, that’s all. But this – this is just weird . . .’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Charlie.’

  He stared at me, confusion claiming his eyes. ‘I – I didn’t mean . . . Heck, Rom, I’m sorry – you’ve just got to give me a moment to get my head around this.’

  I looked away and focused on a particularly harassed couple talking heatedly at the next table over enormous mugs of cream-topped festive coffees. ‘You don’t appreciate me,’ the woman was saying. Right now, I knew exactly how she felt. ‘The thing is,’ Charlie said, ‘you’re just Rom – one of the guys, you know? You’re a laugh, someone I can hang out with . . .’ He gave a massive sigh.

  ‘I’m really not sure how to deal with this . . .’

  I’d heard enough. I rose to my feet, intense pain and crushing embarrassment pushing my body up off the chair. I opened my mouth to deal a devastating parting shot, but nothing appeared. Instead, I turned and fled, stubbing my toe on a
neighbouring customer’s chair, tripping over various overstuffed shopping bags and almost taking a packed pushchair with me as I beat an un-graceful retreat from the coffee shop into the bustling shopping mall beyond.

  ‘Rom! Where are you going? Rom!’ Charlie’s shouts behind me blended into the blur of crowd noise and Christmas hits of yesteryear as I ran through the shopping centre, making my way blindly against the tidal flow of bodies, countless faces looming up before me, unsmiling and uncaring.

  As I passed each shop the Sale signs began morphing into condemnatory judgments on my actions, screaming at me from every window:

  Insane!

  Stupid idiot!

  What were you thinking?

  Paul McCartney was singing ‘Wonderful Christmastime’ like it should have an ironic question mark at the end, as the jostling crowd propelled me involuntarily towards the upward escalator. Unable to wriggle free, I found myself moving along with the throng. But I felt nothing; my senses numbed by the faceless bodies hemming me in and my heart too beset by ceaseless repeats of Charlie’s words to care any more. At a loss to make sense of the total catastrophe I’d just caused, I surrendered to the welcoming blandness of my surroundings and, quite literally, went with the flow.

  What was I thinking telling my best friend in the whole world that I loved him? Perhaps it was the impending arrival of the Most Wonderful Time of the Year (thanks for nothing, Andy Williams) or the relentlessly festive atmosphere filling the city today that caused me to reveal my feelings to Charlie like that. Perhaps it was the influence of watching too many chick-flick Christmas scenes that had tipped my sanity over the edge and made the whole thing seem like such a great idea (Richard Curtis, Norah Ephron, guilty as charged). Whatever the reason, I had completely ruined everything and was now undoubtedly facing my first Christmas in fifteen years without him.