A Parcel for Anna Browne

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘You on Valium or something?’ Ted asked, after she had refused to accept a delivery brought to the Messenger building in error and a near stand-up battle had ensued with the courier. ‘Normally you’d be high-tailing it round to Hanson Holdings to take it to them. What’s got into you?’

  ‘I’m sick of doing it,’ Anna replied. ‘It’s time the couriers realised they can’t keep making the same mistake when they’re short on time and expect us to do their job for them.’

  ‘What on earth did you say to Phil Jackson from the newsroom?’ Sheniece was aghast, later that day. ‘I met him in the lift and his face was white . . .’

  ‘He tried to blame me for him not booking the meeting room. His visitors were with him and he was making out I was his minion to shout at. I told him it was his fault and that reception staff aren’t responsible for room reservation,’ Anna told her, adrenaline still pumping from the situation that, even a week earlier, she wouldn’t have answered back on.

  ‘I hear you’ve been terrorising my colleagues,’ Ben smirked one morning in Freya & Georgie’s. Since his altercation with Jonah he had steered clear of any mention of her friend, choosing instead to pick up where he and Anna had left off. It was a safer option by far and one Anna had no intention of challenging. She was enjoying his company too much and was keen to banish Jonah’s suspicions about him. This, she reminded herself, was her decision to make. If Jonah were proved right, at least she would have had fun in the meantime. ‘What’s with you, Ms Browne?’

  ‘If you’re referring to Phil Jackson, he knows full well why I said what I did. We get it at reception all the time: we’re nobody’s servants.’

  Ben’s chuckle was as warm and sweet as the pastries and smiles Megan brought to their table. ‘I think the entire newsroom knows not to repeat Phil’s mistake now.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And I would hope, for the sake of your mystery parcel-sender, that he never upsets you again. Talking of which,’ he leaned a little closer, ‘any news on that front?’

  ‘No.’

  The mention of Anna’s parcels still sat uneasily within her, but she reasoned that Ben had as much right to enquire about them as anyone else.

  ‘I’m not a betting man,’ he said, popping the last piece of almond croissant into his mouth. ‘But I’ll bet another one arrives soon. You’ll tell me, won’t you, when it does?’

  Anna couldn’t read his expression, but was keen to draw a line under the subject this morning. ‘Of course I will.’

  She considered Ben’s recent interest in the parcels. It bothered her a little and she couldn’t quite say why. Was he a little too eager to discuss it? Or was it because he had so carefully avoided mentioning the parcels before? At least at work her colleagues’ interest had faded after the disappointing seventh parcel, so she had some breathing space there. Even Ben hadn’t noticed the homemade creation on her right wrist. The gifts had once again become intensely personal, the magic she’d experienced from the beginning making a magnificent return. She decided to be careful about how much she shared with Ben from now on. She’d promised she would let him know if another parcel arrived, but she’d never said how much she would tell him. Whoever was sending the parcels had intended them for her, not for her colleagues and certainly not an over-eager (if very good-looking) journalist.

  From now on, this was her adventure and she was determined to enjoy it.

  As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait long for her next gift to arrive. That Friday evening a brand-new parcel lay on her dining-room table in the light of the pendant lamp overhead. Determined to summon back the magic of the former deliveries, Anna took time to make a meal, put on her favourite music, pour a glass of wine and relax before opening the package. By the time she was ready to do so it was almost nine o’clock and a childlike excitement gripped her.

  She remembered her sixteenth birthday when Henry Nancarrow, her freckle-faced first love, had planned a surprise day for them both. Much to Senara’s disapproval, he had called on Anna at six o’clock in the morning, leading her, blindfolded, through Polperro and down to the harbour. When the scarf was removed from her eyes she found his father’s fishing boat bedecked with bunting and bearing a picnic for them to enjoy at sea. What Anna had loved the most – and had never told Henry – was that the walk from her front door to the harbour’s edge was more magical than any of the lovely things that followed. He had recognised her love of surprises and created a day with Anna at its centre – and that meant more to her than she could say. The thrill of what lay ahead that day outlasted their fledgling relationship (ended by distance, when Henry went to university in Edinburgh) and several relationships that followed; it glowed even now when she remembered it.

  The parcel was rectangular and a sliding, rustling sound emerged from its depths when it moved. The perfectly judged corners had returned, together with the blank sender details, a comforting sight after the chaotic appearance of the previous delivery. As Anna peeled away the brown-paper jacket she caught a glimpse of gold and her heart leapt. The box was made from matt-gold card, tiny ridges along its surface glinting as she held it. At the centre of the lid was a raised star covered in shimmering glass glitter, its sweeping trail picked out in black ink that swooped over the edge and down one side. Anna’s breath caught – and any doubts about the sender that she’d had after the last gift vanished – as she carefully lifted the lid.

  Inside, a layer of black tissue paper embedded with tiny gold stars hid the contents from view. Attached to the fold at the top was a square of white card, upon which was printed:

  ★

  ★ ★

  ~ Handmade for Miss Anna Browne ~

  A gift to dance under the stars in

  ★ ★

  ★

  A delicious rustle filled the air as the tissue paper parted, joined by an aroma that reminded Anna of her very first pair of ballet shoes, bought for her by Grandma Morwenna when she was seven years old. Within the starry tissue folds lay the most beautiful pair of midnight-blue, high-heeled velvet shoes, tied in the middle with a length of silver satin ribbon. A cluster of four glittering silver stars were positioned on the outer edge of each shoe and a tiny silver star had been hand-painted onto the top of each heel. They were quite unlike anything she had seen before and her fingers fumbled to remove them from the box. When she slipped them onto her feet they fitted perfectly, leading her to wonder how the sender had known her size. She rose and moved around, the comfort of the new shoes surprising her. Giggling, she gave a twirl on the polished floorboards of her apartment floor, feeling like a child let loose on a dressing-up box. Her sixth-floor flat was as close to the stars as she could be for now, but for the way the shoes made her feel she might as well have been dancing through the atmosphere at the edge of space. The gift was a magnificent return to form – and with it came a rush of awe that lifted Anna from her questions and concerns. The night hours melted away as she whirled and wheeled around the furniture, finally collapsing, breathless, in the early hours of the morning.

  Just as she was drifting to sleep, still clothed and wearing the beautiful shoes, she remembered Ben’s request to be told about the next parcel when it arrived. The only way she could know for sure whether he was the sender was to say nothing. One way or another, the truth would be revealed . . .

  Thirty-Three

  Rea Sinfield had worked for the Daily Messenger for four years, rising from the lowly rank of unpaid intern to become one of the staff writers who tackled everything from breaking news to celebrity gossip. She had established a reputation as a solid writer – an ‘all-rounder’ who could turn her pen to any given subject. Last week she had written a stellar article on the environmental implications of a proposed rail link; the week before her assignment entailed her enduring the endless chauvinism (not to mention dodging the roving hands) of a leading City stockbroker for a behind-the-scenes look at the London Stock Exchange. Today she had been given the task of carving a two-hundred-word story from a photo of
a fake-tanned former reality-TV star emerging from a club a little worse for wear. Versatility was her secret weapon. Even if it meant most of her working week was taken up with wading through mind-numbingly boring reams of research, much of which would be cut by the subeditor’s virtual pen.

  The advantage of such professional boredom was that it afforded her the opportunity to note the far more interesting goings-on of the newspaper itself. And, lately, life at the Daily Messenger had provided rich pickings. Vomit-inducing Damien Kendal, for instance, holed up in Juliet Evans’ office – and the Dragon ominously compliant with it all. The aftermath of Sanjay from Obits’ affair had lost much of its lustre, but the further exploits of his former lover were at least continuing to entertain. Claire Connors, the new rumour in the newsroom had it, was desperate for a baby as her forty-fourth year approached, making anything remotely male and virile fair game. The latest male interns were so terrified of the resident cougar’s passes that they regularly dived into cupboards, toilets and adjoining offices when she swept in.

  But what intrigued Rea more than all of these attractions was the suspicious chemistry clearly forming between her colleague Ben McAra and Anna Browne from reception. The hidden rumour-mongers of the newsroom were divided on whether McAra had any involvement with the strange, anonymous parcels the receptionist had been receiving for a few months, but all agreed that it was only a matter of time before the mysterious deliveries were overshadowed by the budding romance.

  Secretly, Rea hoped Ben and Anna would act on the attraction between them. If her fellow hard-bitten journalists knew this, she would be laughed off Fleet Street, but the fact remained that Rea longed to witness a real romance within the walls of the nation’s fourth-biggest tabloid. Not the sordid fumblings of Claire Connors et al., but something honest and authentic that would restore her faith in the existence of love. She had seen precious little of the latter in four years of journalism; even the love-life of her best friend Sheniece was more akin to a car crash than a beautiful journey. And as for her own dating hell – the less said about that, the better. If Ben and Anna fell in love, there was hope for Rea.

  And so, as she conjured journalistic eloquence from thin air, she watched and waited . . .

  ‘Have you forgiven your friend yet?’ Ben asked, handing Anna an oversized cup of frothy cappuccino.

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘The rude Yorkshireman.’

  Anna ignored the bait. This morning nothing could challenge her mood. In reality she might have been whiling away an hour before the start of her shift, but in her head she was still traversing her apartment in the magical heels. ‘I’ve nothing to forgive him for.’

  ‘Didn’t look that way in the street after you left.’ Seeing her reaction, he held up his hand. ‘What? I might have followed you both out.’

  ‘You’re impossible! Like I said, I wanted an early night, so I decided to go home alone. There’s no scandal here.’

  Denied the information he was after, Ben sank a little further into the coffee house’s leather armchair. ‘Spoilsport. Okay, next question: has he always been just a friend?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s an innocent question.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘So – indulge me.’

  Anna raised her eyes to the industrial silver air-conditioning pipes in the high ceiling of Freya & Georgie’s. ‘You want to know if I’m sleeping with Jonah Rawdon? Well, not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not. He’s my friend. That’s all.’

  Mischief played in Ben’s smile. ‘I hear you. So, there isn’t anyone . . . I should know about?’

  ‘Well, I was considering an illicit affair with Babs the cleaner.’ Anna joked, her expression deadpan.

  ‘You’re not . . . are you?’

  ‘Serves you right, for asking personal questions.’

  A little rattled, Ben turned his attention to the wedge of biscotti beside his flat white. Anna smiled at the pretty blonde barista collecting coffee mugs from a nearby table.

  ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ Megan nodded at the sunlight flooding the front half of the coffee shop. ‘Looks like we might actually get a summer this year.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Anna replied. ‘We need a bit of sunshine after all that rain.’

  ‘How’s your coffee this morning?’

  ‘Intrusive,’ Ben muttered under his breath.

  Anna’s smile widened in response. ‘Really good, thanks. Best coffee in the city, I think.’

  Megan’s face lit up. ‘That’s a lovely thing to say, thank you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t encourage strangers,’ Ben said, when the young woman had returned to the counter. ‘Next thing you know she’ll be sharing a bus ride home with you and buying identical outfits.’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical. You’re sounding dangerously like Ted Blaskiewicz. Where I come from, people talk to other people. It’s called being polite.’

  ‘In this city, we ignore people. It’s called being safe.’

  ‘You spoke to me when I hardly knew you. Should I be worried?’ Anna laughed. ‘You’re a pest this morning. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m sorry, just work stuff. Ignore me.’

  ‘I will. It will be good practice for being safe in this city, apparently.’

  Ben laughed. ‘Go out with me?’

  The question was fast, unexpected. Anna blinked. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Forget the dubious attractions of Babs and Jonah, and whoever else might ask. Let me take you to dinner?’

  She’d been pleased with the invitation of a drink last week. Dinner was far better. Had it been a month ago, or back when she first noticed him, Anna would have been too nervous to accept. But her life had changed irrevocably since then. Without hesitation, she accepted.

  ‘I’d like that.’

  They walked in delighted silence to work, their hands deliciously close to touching, and when they parted ways beneath the grand glass-and-steel atrium their smiles promised more – soon, but not yet. Anna moved on air to her workplace, Ben’s sudden invitation still playing in her mind. His questions about Jonah now made sense at least. The thought of the Yorkshireman made Anna wish she could share the news with him. She had missed his opinion, although she didn’t regret the silence she’d initiated. But given what had happened this morning, perhaps the time for reconciliation had arrived. Still smiling at the thought of what might await her and Ben, she decided to answer Jonah’s next call. It was time to move on.

  Thirty-Four

  Camden Lock was a writhing, bubbling mass of bodies when Anna stepped off the bus on Saturday morning. But for once she didn’t see the crowds of global tourists or the clumps of sullen teens blocking the paths around the market. The sun peeked fleetingly through gaps in the banks of white cloud like a coquettish game of hide-and-seek, flirting with the world below. It gave the day a playful air, helped in no small way by the promise of Anna’s first date with Ben that evening.

  Anna had come to find a dress to match her starlight-dancing shoes, which were the obvious choice to wear. It had been a while since she had treated herself to anything, the parcels fulfilling that need until today, and she was looking forward to finding something new. She wandered around the stands with the scent of Vietnamese noodles, fresh-baked French crêpes and coffee wafting up from the food stalls around the lock. Garments of all colours and fabrics passed under her fingers, but none quite fitted the quality of the parcel-sender’s latest gift. An hour of leisurely browsing passed and then she saw it: a simple, bias-cut dress with a full skirt at mid-calf length, its hue identical to the midnight-blue shoes. Congratulating herself on the match, Anna bought the dress and wandered over to the crêpe stand to reward herself.

  ‘Anna! Um, hi.’

  Jonah Rawdon’s hesitant smile and respectful distance contrasted sharply with the shoulder-to-shoulder bodies surrounding him. ‘Don’t leave, Anna. I want to apologise. Again.’

  Anna had no intention of going anywh
ere, but waited for him to say more.

  ‘Can I . . . buy you coffee, or lunch, or something? I’ve been a complete idiot and I’ve missed you.’

  As apologies went, it was far from the most eloquent. But Anna had known Jonah for long enough to understand how much effort it required. Granting him a smile, she nodded. ‘Lunch would be good. I’ve missed you, too.’

  In a canalside restaurant near the market, Jonah raised his glass. ‘Friends again?’

  ‘Friends.’ Their glasses clinked. ‘You were an idiot, though. If there was anything going on with Ben, you know I’d tell you.’

  ‘I know.’

  Anna’s pulse quickened as her eyes met his. He should be the first to know – just in case this evening was the start of something significant. ‘Um, which is why . . .’

  Jonah’s shoulders visibly fell. ‘Ah. When?’

  ‘He’s taking me to dinner tonight.’ She indicated the string-handled orange paper bag beside the table in which her new dress lay. ‘That’s why I was shopping.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Why don’t you like him?’

  Jonah appeared taken aback by her question. ‘I never said I didn’t.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sometimes I get a gut feeling about somebody.’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘I think he is. I’ve wanted to date him for a while and I’m really happy.’

  Jonah pushed a piece of steak around his plate with no intention of eating it. ‘I can see that. Everyone can see it. I even had the caretaker asking me yesterday what had happened to make you smile so much. It’s got to be plain as day if Seamus sees it. He thought it was me who’d made you smile, mind, but . . . You’re happier than I’ve seen you before and, well, I might not like the chap, but I don’t want to rain on your parade.’