A Parcel for Anna Browne

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Then take it home and promise me you’ll eat it later.’ Tish frowned. ‘My mother always insisted I ate something when a crisis hit. Though in her case it was usually half a ton of pasta. Be thankful I’m only pressing a pastry on you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I don’t like seeing you like this, sweetie. You’ve been so up lately.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry.’ Anna made herself drink some coffee, baulking at its bitterness. ‘This is strong.’

  ‘Triple-shot. I thought you needed it.’ She flicked a sugar packet across the coffee-shop table to her. ‘Use that. It’ll help.’

  Anna doubted very much that the too-strong beverage could be helped by a small packet of sugar, but she did as Tish suggested. ‘I’ve gone over and over what Ted told me all day,’ she confessed, ‘and I can’t make sense of it. If Ben was only interested in the parcels, how come we spent the best part of six hours together and he never mentioned it? He’s too busy to waste that amount of time for a story.’

  ‘And you didn’t feel he was building up to it?’ Tish asked.

  ‘Not at all. As far as I was concerned, I thought we were having fun.’

  ‘Could’ve been trying to get on your good side, I guess? Building up your trust before jabbing the knife in?’

  Tish Gornick was a woman blessed with a killer line in questioning.

  ‘He could have been. But it’s hardly a groundbreaking story, is it? Not his usual column-fodder. A receptionist receiving gifts from an unknown sender doesn’t fit the pattern. It’s a small, human-interest piece. That isn’t going to bother a star reporter. When I was shadowing Ben, I saw the junior reporters in the newsroom handing down those kind of stories to the interns to write.’

  And why would Ben have wasted all day pretending to like her, if all he wanted to do was tell her story? If he was pretending, that is. Anna considered herself a good judge of character, but if Ben had been feigning friendship, he’d had her completely fooled. There had been nothing in their exchanges at the fair to suggest he wanted anything from her other than the pleasure of her company. How could she have been so mistaken?

  ‘Unless he sent them.’

  Anna looked up at her friend. ‘That’s what some people at work think. But surely that would give him even greater reason to talk about the parcels when he had the chance? And it wouldn’t benefit him to engineer a story just for the sake of a few lines. I just don’t understand, Tish. I keep telling myself it’s just Ted stirring, as usual – or that he was trying to protect me.’

  ‘There is that, I guess.’ Tish wasn’t convinced. ‘Do you want to know who’s sending you the parcels?’

  At the very beginning Anna’s answer would have been a definite no. But too much had happened – both to her and in her – for this to remain so. The question kept returning to her thoughts. Who was behind the anonymous gifts and, more importantly, why was she receiving them? ‘Yes,’

  Anna replied. ‘I think I do.’

  Twenty

  Narinder Rana was not a bad man. Maybe he was a little cheekier than his fellow deliverymen at the central-London courier firm, perhaps a tad braver when it came to bantering with customers. But his intentions were as pure as the driven snow.

  Almost always . . .

  But this was too good an opportunity to miss.

  For the last three weeks he had delivered parcels to a pretty brunette receptionist in the Daily Messenger’s impressive building and had struck up a line of friendly conversation, during which he had learned that she had no idea who was sending them. This, unsurprisingly, he rarely encountered in the course of his work. She was very attractive – more so each time he saw her – single, as far as he knew, and clearly intrigued by the parcels he delivered. As were several of her colleagues, whom he noticed scurrying to her side as he left the building. The younger receptionist – about whom he had been well warned by his workmates – appeared particularly keen to inspect each new parcel. So keen that she hadn’t tried it on with him for a month now, which was a blessed relief. Narinder didn’t like her sort: too eager to thrust everything they had under your nose. The brunette was far more intriguing.

  And now Narinder was walking into the Daily Messenger building with another parcel addressed to Miss Anna Browne. No sender details, wrapped in brown paper and smaller than the last. Another delivery to intrigue the pretty young lady. And the perfect opportunity to make his move . . .

  ‘Surprise!’ the courier smiled, sliding a small parcel across the reception desk to Anna.

  This was just what she needed. After a few days mulling over the events of the weekend, and Ted’s supposed revelation about Ben, she had been hoping that another parcel might arrive and turn her mind to more positive things.

  ‘Am I glad to see you,’ she smiled at Narinder, welcoming the thrill that returned as she accepted the parcel.

  ‘I’ll say this for him: your mystery chap’s a dab hand at parcel-wrapping. Shame you don’t know who he is, though.’

  Anna checked that none of her colleagues were within earshot and leaned a little closer to the courier. She had been toying with an idea for a while, and now seemed like the perfect time to pursue it. Of course Narinder might say no – it could breach the terms of his employment and land him in trouble. But unless she asked, she would never know. ‘Actually, I was meaning to ask you about that . . .’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve had quite a few parcels now – five, including this one – and you’ve delivered all but one of them. Which means whoever is sending them has settled on your company as their preferred courier.’

  There was a definite twinkle in Narinder’s eye. ‘Our rates are very competitive.’

  ‘Of course. But what it also means is that the sender probably has an account with you?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Anna hoped he wasn’t offended by her suggestion, but she had come too far to back out. ‘That you might be able to check for me? Last time you mentioned something about paperwork back at the depot? I realise it’s a big ask, but I really want to know who to thank for these wonderful gifts.’

  Narinder rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know. Stuff like that we’re not supposed to share . . .’

  Anna’s heart sank. ‘I understand.’

  ‘That’s not to say there isn’t a way round these things.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Fact is, I might know something.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Possibly. Don’t suppose you’re free for a drink Saturday night? About seven?’

  Anna considered this. From what Sheniece had told her about the courier, he wasn’t averse to a bit of wheeling and dealing, so he might be bluffing to get a date. On the other hand, if he did know something, surely it was worth one drink on a Saturday evening to find out?

  ‘I might be . . .’

  A few years had passed since the end of Anna’s last relationship – a junior architect called Tom, who, it transpired, was more in love with his burgeoning career than with the idea of settling down. At the time she had been blindsided by the break-up, not least because Tom had pushed for them to move in together and plan for the future. Years of seeing her mother rush into new relationships and get hurt had made Anna wary of pursuing her own relationships in the same way, but she loved Tom and everything he said indicated his full commitment. But a little over a month after Anna finally relented and agreed to move in with him, Tom changed his mind, accepting a year-long posting to an architects’ firm in New York and moving out of her life. Since then she had dated, but she had yet to find anyone she wanted anything more with. This was one drink with a good-looking, single man who might just be able to shed light on the identity of the mystery gift-sender. It was a small risk for a potentially large reward.

  I can do this, she told herself. It’s not a big deal.

  Her colleagues, however, disagreed.

  ‘You’re going on a date with him?
’ Sheniece’s jaw had dropped low enough to grant Anna a clear view of the chewing gum wrapped around her molars. ‘Narinder Rana – the wide-boy from CityServe Couriers?’

  ‘It’s just a drink . . .’

  ‘It is never just a drink with that bloke. Jenny from Classifieds went out with him last year. She said he’s out for whatever he can get.’

  ‘Which, as I’ve said, will be one drink.’ Anna rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know why you’re so shocked, Shen. I do go on dates, you know.’

  ‘Not with anyone who matters, and definitely not with people like Narinder Rana.’

  ‘This is about that McAra chap, isn’t it?’ Ted nodded sagely. ‘Rebound.’

  Anna ignored him. ‘It’s one drink, in a pub that will be packed with other people. And I’ll be fine.’

  ‘No, you won’t. This is a really bad idea . . .’

  ‘Now, you heard her, Sheniece,’ Ted said as he passed the fuming junior receptionist. ‘If Anna thinks she can handle it, that’s good enough. You’re just sore he isn’t interested in you.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I might have flirted with him once or twice, but that’s just to entertain myself. And why can’t I be worried about my friend? You seem willing to butt into her business at the drop of a hat. Maybe you’re the one who’s jealous!’

  Leaving her colleagues to battle it out, Anna dismissed their concern. She was going to be fine.

  The unknown promise of Anna’s fifth parcel sustained her through the day and all the way home, but unlike before, she couldn’t prolong the anticipation once she arrived home. Her raincoat, umbrella and handbag were discarded on the breakfast bar as she headed to her sofa with the precious item. This time she didn’t even pause to look for sender details, knowing that she would find none, her fingers sliding quickly beneath the perfect points of brown paper. Lifting them up, she pulled out a cube of cardboard the colour of clementine oranges, constructed of a series of triangular folds fastened with a vivid blue bow. When opened, the triangles parted to reveal a slender glass vial of liquid decorated with a single swirl of silver paint, nestling in a padded dark-grey velvet cushion. A curl of cream vellum paper had been wrapped around it, upon which was written:

  A signature scent for Miss Anna Browne

  She cradled the delicate glass atomiser in her fingers as she slowly prised open its frosted stopper. The moment it was removed, the most wonderful aroma filled the air. Anna closed her eyes and let the fragrance surround her. It was the sea and powdered sugar; tiny violets that grew wild in between weathered stone walls across clifftop fields; and chamomile warmed by the sun in Grandma Morwenna’s garden. It was a scent designed to stand out, confident and heady, and Anna immediately understood why it had arrived now. At the beginning of her extraordinary adventure she wouldn’t have considered herself brave enough to wear it; now, she was eager to discover the effect it might have.

  And tomorrow night would be the perfect opportunity to find out.

  Twenty-One

  The city-centre pub was as busy as Anna expected it to be, crammed with city workers keen to put the past week behind them and enjoy the weekend. It was loud and boisterous, the general buzz punctuated by sharp barks of laughter. Drinkers occupied every available inch of floor space, propped against pillars and leaning almost back-to-back with perfect strangers without acknowledging their existence – a phenomenon unique to the city. It had been alien to Anna when she arrived from Cornwall, where it was always best to assume you knew someone regardless of how unfamiliar they looked, but now the carefully observed splendid isolation suited her. Far safer to pretend you were invisible than risk awkward, unwanted communication. It clothed her in a blanket of anonymity, giving her mental space even when her personal space was compromised – a much better way to be than living under the scrutiny of a small seaside community.

  Her new scent surrounded her, its aroma warmed and deepened by the contact with her skin. The daisy-chain necklace was cool against her collarbone, the owl brooch pinned to her jacket. With her gifts for company, Anna felt strong, ready for whatever this evening might bring.

  Bracing herself, she squeezed between the wall of bodies towards the bar. As she reached it she saw a hand rise above the heads of the drinkers and wave in greeting. Narinder was at the far end of the bar, his pint already half-empty.

  ‘We finish early on Saturday shifts,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘White wine, please.’

  Narinder raised a five-pound note to attract the barman’s attention, turning to Anna while he waited. ‘I like this place. Your local, is it?’

  ‘No. But I’ve been here a few times with people from work. I like it.’ Anna had been careful to choose a pub far from her own home. It was a personal policy formed from bad experience. When she first began dating after Tom left for New York she once made the mistake of meeting a graphic designer from Shoreditch in the pub across the road from Walton Tower. While it was immediately obvious to her that he wasn’t what she was looking for, he unfortunately failed to reach the same conclusion, which led to several awkward meetings in the pub afterwards and, eventually, Anna finding a different pub to patronise.

  ‘It’s a cool place. Busy, though.’ Narinder slid the glass of wine to Anna, who was careful to take a small sip. She needed to keep her wits about her this evening, to gather the information she needed.

  ‘Isn’t everywhere in the city on a Saturday evening?’

  ‘Good point.’

  For a while they passed the time with non-contentious subjects: their jobs, the weather, what they both enjoyed in their spare time – nothing that might provide a stumbling point during the early awkwardness of their meeting. But after an hour the time inevitably arrived to address the real reason they were there. By then, they had happened to spot a table away from the bar and had settled against the dark-brown leather of the bench seats. Narinder had refreshed his pint while Anna’s wine glass remained half-full. She seized the opportunity when a lull appeared.

  ‘So . . . I was wondering: have you been able to find out anything about the sender of my parcels?’

  Her pulse began to pad against the silver daisies at her neck. The moment suddenly assumed a significance she had not anticipated: depending on the courier’s answer, the next few minutes could change everything. Anna would know more about the sender than before – briefly she wondered if some of the magic would disappear with the mystery. Did she really want to know?

  Of course she did. It had been all she’d thought about since the fifth parcel arrived and, as Saturday evening approached, her excitement had been building. It seemed the next stage in the journey she had unwittingly embarked upon: the next logical step. What was the alternative? If the sender of the parcels chose not to reveal their identity, where would Anna go from there? Part of her wondered if the mystery might be the point of the gifts. But perhaps it was her responsibility to take control now. Until this point she had been content to receive the generosity of the unknown person without question, a passive player in an adventure she had not written. That had to change eventually; now was as good a time as any.

  Besides, Anna Browne was experiencing the strongest surge of confidence in her life, driven, she was certain, by the mysterious gifts. She wanted to know who had sent them and discover why.

  Narinder glanced to the side, secret agent-like, which – given that he had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise of the pub – was a somewhat futile gesture. ‘I have.’

  Anna’s heart skipped a beat. ‘And?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to know?’ It was as if he knew what she was thinking. ‘Because, you know, once I tell you, there’s no going back.’

  ‘I’m prepared for that. What have you found out?’

  Narinder swigged a mouthful of beer. ‘I think I know who it is.’

  ‘You think you know?’

  ‘No, I’m pretty sure.’ Why had eye contact become a challenge for him?

&nbs
p; ‘Okay, so who do you think it is?’

  ‘I haven’t got a name yet. But it’s definitely a bloke.’

  ‘Definitely?’

  ‘I think.’

  Confused, Anna stared at him. ‘How can you think it’s a bloke? Surely it is or it isn’t?’

  ‘Yeah. What you said.’

  He was making no sense at all and Anna began to feel the moment slipping away. ‘Who do you think it is, Narinder?’

  ‘Bloke started coming into the depot about a month ago. I didn’t catch his name – the reception guys deal with orders; I’m just in the unit behind the office. But I hadn’t seen him before that.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  Narinder looked at Anna like a mechanic who doesn’t want to give a reason for expensive car repairs. ‘Didn’t get a very clear view, to be honest.’

  ‘Is he tall? Short? Young? Middle-aged? What colour hair does he have?’ Frustration was building as she squared him.

  ‘About our age. Couldn’t make out hair colour. But tall, I’d say. Not as tall as me, but taller than you.’ Pleased with his summary, he rewarded himself with the last of his beer.

  Considering the difference between their heights was at least a foot, this didn’t provide much insight. Anna took a breath and adopted a different approach. ‘Okay. So it’s a man, who started sending parcels about a month ago, and he’s around thirty years old. Can you tell me anything else about him? Anything at all?’

  ‘Not right now, no. But if we did this again – say, next Saturday – I could have more details for you.’

  And then, the penny dropped for Anna. ‘You don’t know who it is, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do! Tallish guy, our age, comes in once a week . . .’ He was flailing now. ‘It’s like I said . . .’

  ‘What you said was what you thought I wanted to hear. Which was enough to keep me hanging on without giving me any concrete facts. Am I right?’ Her heart hammered in her chest, her skin clammy from the atmosphere in the pub.

  His defiance only remained as long as it took to meet her stare. Then his shoulders dropped. ‘Yeah, all right. Can’t blame a guy for trying, eh? How about I buy you dinner next Saturday night to apologise?’