Welcome to My World

‘Er – pink bunny and yellow teddy bear.’

‘Bunny’s mine and teddy over there.’

Alex looked appreciative when she turned back to him. ‘You’re a natural, mate. Are you sure you don’t want to change your career and work for me?’

‘What, and leave my exciting jet-set lifestyle at SLIT? No chance!’

Alex returned to the espresso machine, grabbed a coffee arm and banged out the spent grounds. Filling it afresh from the coffee dispenser and tamping it down, he reattached the arm and set a mug underneath to catch the thick brown liquid as it dripped lazily from the machine. No matter how many times Harri watched him do this it never failed to fascinate her. There’s something incredibly powerful about watching someone work, Harri always found: Stella swiftly typing a letter without looking at the keyboard once; Viv cooking; Auntie Rosemary assembling a bouquet of flowers in one hand as she floated around her shop; even her completely barmy Grandpa Jim building some Heath-Robinsonish contraption in the small workshop at the bottom of his garden in Devon.

Alex poured milk into the long-handled steel milkpan and turned a handle on the machine to release steam into its base. It was such an evocative sound – bubbly, crunchy and metallic all at once. Once frothed, he let the pan stand for a while, before bumping the base smartly on the wooden worktop and pouring its contents into the mug, holding the froth back with a spoon and then scooping out snowy blobs onto the top of the cappuccino.

‘There you go. I think you’ve earned that today,’ he smiled, dusting the top with chocolate powder as he pushed the mug towards her.

‘Thanks. So how’s Mad Mothers’ Wednesday going?’

‘Mad. I swear there’s more of them in here each week. I think they’re cloning themselves. Honestly, it looked like a scene from Ben Hur: The Early Years in here earlier – all those chariots parked up everywhere. Some of the old dears couldn’t even get in through the door. I’ve been a bit sharp with them, to be honest.’

‘Ah. Not much chance of you scoring a date with a single mum anytime soon then?’

‘Yeah. I think I might’ve burned my bridges on that one.’

Harri feigned disappointment. ‘Oh, well, Plan B it is then.’ Amusement lit Alex’s eyes. ‘Excellent, maestro. So, what’s the plan then?’

Harri looked around her like a shady informant in a thirties gangster flick, leaned closer to Alex and tapped her nose. ‘Can’t reveal my sources yet. Suffice to say that your name has been circulated in the right – er – circles. We should know more very soon. Until then, there are things only I know that you can’t know until it’s the right time for you to know, understand?’

Alex held his hands up. ‘Crystal clear. Are you sure you’re capable of the mission, though?’

‘You doubt a woman of my obvious covert skills?’ Harri feigned astonishment. ‘I am a woman of infinite capabilities, I’ll have you know. I am a woman on a mission.’

‘With an unusual flair for dairy-related nasal adornment.’ Alex reached out to wipe a large glob of milk froth from Harri’s nose as they both descended into helpless giggles.

‘He is going to kill you when he finds out,’ Stella frowned, picking up a strange garment, allegedly masquerading as a T-shirt. ‘Which way is this supposed to go?’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Harri. ‘I think that’s the arm-hole.’

‘Oh, right,’ replied Stella absent-mindedly, adding the unusual creation to the pile of clothes slung over her arm as the next offering captured her attention.

It was Saturday morning and, with Rob away again, Harri had found Stella’s invitation to accompany her to the large out of town shopping centre appealing. And it had been fun, until Stella appeared to get stuck in TKMaxx. Harri loved shopping, but compared with her best friend, she was a mere amateur. When Stella was on a retail mission, nothing short of an act of God could move her from her path. Two hours after they first entered the store – and no closer to making a purchase – Stella and Harri made a slow advance along the narrow gap between the seemingly endless rails of clothes.

‘You won’t be able to take all those in with you, you know.’

‘I’ll leave some with the girl and keep swapping them,’ Stella breezed, adding another two garments to the pile on her arm, ‘and besides, you’re coming in with me so you can bring some in.’

And so Harri dutifully followed her best friend into the cramped changing room cubicle, oohing and aahhing in all the right places in the hope that it might encourage a decision. While she waited, she consoled herself with the thought of the large caramel macchiato waiting for her when they were finally released from the store’s clutches. Only thirty-nine garments to go and then it’s all mine . . .

‘Are you listening?’ Stella barked, as the glorious daydream dissolved like a sugar lump in hot espresso, snapping Harri back to reality. ‘I said, what do you think?’

It was the third pair of jeans Stella had eased her perfect figure into and Harri honestly couldn’t tell the difference. ‘How much are those again?’

Stella let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I told you, fifty-two pounds. I knew you weren’t listening.’

‘Sorry, hon. They’re nice, but I like the first pair the most.’

‘Really? You don’t think they make my bum look big?’

‘You don’t have a bum, Stella.’

‘Yes, I do. That’s why it’s a no-carb week this week.’

‘You’re crazy. You look great, hon. And those jeans – any of them – make you look great. But do you really need any more jeans? You’ve got about fifteen pairs at home.’

‘That’s a complete exaggeration, Harri! It’s only nine, and anyway these are Fornarina.’

It was going to be a long day, Harri groaned inwardly, as Stella rotated slowly, scrutinising every inch of her reflection from every conceivable angle. Harri closed her eyes and imagined herself alighting from a packed vaporetto water taxi into the buzzing throng of a Venetian quayside, then wandering through the streets, finding a pavement café and slowly sipping rich espresso as colourful waves of people washed past her . . .

‘So when do you think you’ll hear from Juste Moi?’

Daydream shattered, Harri shuddered. ‘I don’t know. Probably a few months or something. If they accept him, that is.’

‘Of course they’ll accept him,’ Stella insisted, echoing Viv’s words from earlier in the week. ‘He is a gorgeous man. Irritating as hell, but gorgeous. You wait and see.’

Harri didn’t have to wait long.

Chapter Five

The Point of No Return

The buzz from the fluorescent strip light above the cubicle seems to be getting louder as the rain on the skylight intensifies. The only other sound is the thumping of Harri’s heart, loud in her ears. It’s slowed a little since her flight into the ladies’, wow, thirty minutes ago. She wonders if the survivors of the Stone Yardley Armageddon are still in the hall; or maybe Viv has moved the remnant on, like a brisk police officer shooing onlookers away from a crime scene – OK, people, step away now, nothing to see here . . .

One thing’s for certain: Alex won’t be there. Not after that look. Harri feels a stab of icy pain at the memory. He hates me. I’ve lost my best friend. In all the time she’s known him, she’s never seen him so hurt, so angry. And every last atom of it directed straight at her. No, Alex will be long gone by now. If only she’d listened to her conscience when the letter arrived from Juste Moi . . .

Dear Ms Langton,

Many thanks for your nomination for our ‘Free to a Good Home’ feature.

Everyone here at Juste Moi loved your letter – your friend Alex is exactly the kind of candidate we want to feature in the magazine.

If you could provide us with a few more details on the form enclosed, we’ll set the wheels in motion to find the lady of his dreams!

Looking forward to hearing from you soon,

Chloë Sahou

Features Writer

‘What’s that?’ asked Tom, peering over Harri’s shoulder as she read the letter. It was lunchtime and Harri had finally plucked up courage to open the envelope with the Juste Moi frank that Freddie Mills, the friendly postman, had handed to her that morning.

‘Looks like an exciting one,’ Freddie had remarked, tapping the top of the envelope with a nicotine-hued forefinger. ‘London postmark, that. One of them fancy magazines, I reckon – they’re all there, you know. Any publication worth its salt is based in London.’