Welcome to My World (2 page)

Harri chose one of their frequent coffee-shop visits to tell Stella about Viv’s Big Idea.

‘She wants you to do
what
?’ Stella spluttered, almost choking on her macchiato.

‘Hmm, that was pretty much my reaction,’ said Harri.

‘No flippin’ way on this earth!’ Stella’s shoulders rocked wildly as she let out a huge guffaw. It was a truth universally acknowledged that Stella’s laugh had the potential to stop traffic.

‘Oh. My. Life! I hope you said no?’

Harri looked down into the foam of her cappuccino. ‘I
should
have said no . . . But she had a point.’

‘Her point being?’

Harri sighed. ‘Alex is rubbish at dating. No, actually, he’s very good at dating, it’s just that he’s rubbish at finding the right sort of women to date.’

‘Or brilliant at finding weird and wonderful bunny-boilers,’ Stella suggested.

‘Yeah, absolutely.’

‘It’s quite a skill he has there. Maybe he could offer his services for rooting out strange women. He could make a fortune!’

Harri grinned. ‘Honestly, Stel, I love Al dearly, but I’ve seen him devastated by his nightmare love life so many times . . .’

‘Usually at three in the morning, by the sounds of it.’

‘Don’t worry, after the last time he did that I made it perfectly clear that my emergency heart-to-heart service was only available during daylight hours.’

‘All the same, H, most people would’ve called time on him by now.’

‘Probably. But the problem remains that he doesn’t ever seem to learn from his mistakes. So maybe this crazy idea is worth a try. At least if Viv and I are vetting the candidates we can make sure the oddballs don’t get through.’

Stella snorted. ‘Oh, Viv’s promised to help you, has she? Well, I’ll believe
that
when I see it.’

‘No, she will, it’s all sorted.’

‘Yeah,
right
. I think I just saw a pig in a Spitfire overhead . . .’

Harri giggled. ‘You’re so cruel. I believe her this time.’

‘Good for you. But what happens if Alex – your Official Best Male Friend in the Whole Wide World – disowns you for nominating him in the first place, eh? I would be
livid
if I found out my best friend had put me up for a magazine love auction.’

‘I know. But knowing Viv she’ll concoct an even dafter plan than this if I don’t stop her. At least if I’m there to steer her I can protect Al from the wild vagaries of his mother’s imagination.’

During the following week, Harri mulled the Big Idea over and over, as she sat behind her desk at Sun Lovers International Travel.

The scratched metal name plaque on her MDF desk read ‘Travel Advisor’, but a more truthful (if prohibitively longer) description might have been ‘Travel Advisor Who Tries in Vain to Get Stone Yardley People to Visit Amazing Places She Longs to Go to Herself’.

Sun Lovers International Travel was not as grand and corpor ate as its name suggested. In fact, SLIT (as it was affectionately known by its owner – and acknowledged with a whole different connotation by its staff) was a small, single-fronted shop in Stone Yardley High Street. In its only window, carefully placed posters promised exotic adventures across the globe: Australia, Thailand, India and the USA, by luxurious air travel; whilst the handwritten offer cards Blu-Tacked to the window suggested altogether homelier destinations: Blackpool, Weston-super-Mare and Rhyl – usually by coach.

Business had been slow all week, and by Friday morning, with all of Harri’s jobs ticked off her list, she took the opportunity to lose herself in a glossy brochure for Venice.

Venice
. The place that had started it all . . . She smiled as familiar images of the city she’d loved from afar for so many years met her eyes. Grand
palazzi
, elegant buildings reflecting in the deep green-blue canals, brightly attired carnival-goers milling amongst tourists and city dwellers, as if being swathed head to toe in opulent velvet was as commonplace as buying your daily coffee . . . She could almost hear the sounds of the city wafting up from the brochure pages, almost taste the plates of delicious
cicchetti
snacks or the tangy limoncello . . .
One day
, she promised herself, as she had done a million times before,
one day I’ll be standing there . . .

She was brought sharply back to reality by Tom, SLIT’s trainee travel advisor and cultivator of some of the most impressive acne ever seen in Stone Yardley, who let out an enormous, adolescent sigh and flopped down on the chair opposite Harri’s desk.

‘Bored, bored,
bored
,’ he chanted, Buddhist-style, staring wide-eyed through his mop of oily, blond curls.

Harri quickly closed the brochure and smiled at him. ‘Loving your work again, Tom?’

‘Oh, totally. “Come and work in the travel industry, Tom, you get to see the world!” Yeah, right.’

‘Welcome to Sun Lovers International Travel,’ Harri smiled, reaching across to pat his hand. ‘So tell me, what exciting destinations have you dealt with today?’

Tom groaned. ‘Barmouth. Isle of Wight. And I almost sold a flight to Dublin.’

‘Dublin? Wow! What stopped the sale?’

‘Mrs Wetton didn’t realise it was outside England. She doesn’t believe in travelling abroad.’

Harri laughed. ‘Hmm, well,
Dublin
, that’s almost another
time zone
. I mean, they have different money and everything.’ Tom shifted his lanky frame awkwardly in the chair. At six foot four, he was almost a foot taller than anyone else on the staff, so wherever he stood or sat he appeared to have outgrown his environment like Alice in her Wonderland.

‘Why do you do this, Harri? I mean, you’ve been here for – how long?’

‘Nearly eight years.’ She could hardly believe it was true.

‘Yeah, exactly. And in all that time what’s the most exotic destination you’ve sold a holiday to?’

What was so sad about the question was that Harri didn’t even have to think about the answer. ‘Morocco. And the Harpers didn’t like it because it was “too foreign”.’

‘What is wrong with people in this town? If it isn’t a coach tour, they don’t want to know.’

‘
Luxury
coach tour, thank you,’ Harri corrected him with mock disdain.

‘Oh, yeah, luxury coach travel. Would that be Somers Travel Direct coaches, by any chance?’ Tom smirked. ‘
STD
coaches – they didn’t think about that one, did they?’

Harri laughed. She was certain that Albert Somers, local businessman, who had run his family coach firm for forty-five years, had never thought twice about the unfortunate initials. Yet it was a constant source of amusement to the staff when prim and proper elderly residents of Stone Yardley said things like, ‘We love STDs,’ or, ‘I don’t know what we would have done without STDs all these years!’ or, ‘I just couldn’t imagine a holiday without STDs.’

‘I guess we’re just unfortunate to be working with the most unimaginative travellers in the entire world,’ Tom sighed, stretching out his impossibly long legs and knocking over a pile of brochures by a neighbouring desk. ‘Oh crap!’

Harri left her chair to help him retrieve the brochures, casting a cursory glance across each shiny exotic cover as it passed through her hands: India, the Far East, the Caribbean, Hawaii . . . A brochure on Trinidad and Tobago fell open at a page of colonial houses surrounded by lush green palms and azure waters. Harri and Tom paused almost reverently and shared an unspoken moment of wistful awe.

‘I can’t understand why these people want to stay in the UK all the time when there’s this big amazing world out there,’ Tom said, shaking his head. ‘I just want to travel
anywhere
that isn’t here. So far, I’ve only managed Spain, Italy and France, but I’ve got so many more on my list that I want to see before I’m twenty-five. And I’m glad you understand, mate. I mean – case in point: you understand travel, right? So – where’s the most exotic place you’ve ever been?’

Harri winced. She hated this question and she felt her heart sinking to her toes. Because despite being so passionate about travel, despite knowing all she knew about destinations across the globe, Harri had only once set foot outside of the UK – on a day trip to Calais with her school. In fact, she had only ever been on a plane once: a small bi-plane that flew her round the local airfield on a half-hour trip, as a treat for her ninth birthday.

Tom’s jaw made a swift bid to meet the brown carpet tiles. ‘
Seriously?
’

‘Seriously. My parents were scared of flying, so we always had holidays in Yorkshire, Wales or the Lake District. I love it there – don’t get me wrong – but I’ve always dreamed of travelling.’

‘So how come you’ve never just done it?’

Harri loathed this question too. As usual, she dusted off the old excuses. ‘Life just didn’t turn out the way I planned it, that’s all. I got too involved in college, then Dad got sick and our holidays became respite care for him, with our relatives in Yorkshire and Cumbria.’

Tom flushed a spotty shade of crimson. ‘Right, and then your mum . . .’

Harri swallowed hard and looked down at the stack of brochures on the floor. ‘Yeah. So after everything with them I bought my house, got the job here and then I met Rob and started going camping with him.’

‘
Camping?
’ Tom laughed. ‘Wow, your fella knows how to give you a good time, doesn’t he?’ He ducked expertly, as Harri made a swipe at him with the last brochure.

‘Cheeky. I actually like camping, you know. Besides, Rob makes anywhere we go fun. I can’t tell you how lovely it’s been to have him in my life after feeling so alone without Mum and Dad. Yes, I’d love to travel, but right now, with Rob’s job the way it is, plus the recession and everything, going abroad just isn’t feasible for us. One day, it will be and then I’ll be off.’

‘Tell me about it. If I don’t save some money soon, I’m never going to be able to get out of this dump,’ Tom confided, lowering his voice in case their boss was earwigging from his office. ‘I mean, Georgie Porgie in there isn’t likely to give us a pay rise while he can use the “we’re in an economic downturn” excuse.’ His brown eyes twinkled and he jabbed Harri playfully with his elbow. ‘You
really
go camping with Rob?’

Harri smiled. ‘Yep. Every year.’

‘Thomas! In the unlikely event that you actually decide to do anything resembling
work
today, that window display needs refreshing sometime before the end of the twenty-first century.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Tom winked at Harri. ‘Ever get the feeling that George was trained by the interception squad at MI5?’

‘I can hear your sarcasm from here, Thomas!’

‘Right,
fine
. Sorry, H, better go before George busts a blood vessel or shops us to the KGB.’

Harri waved. ‘Have fun.’

‘Cheers. So – Rob does take you to
different
places camping, right?’

‘Of course! We’ve been all over – usually the Lake District but sometimes Snowdonia or Pembrokeshire too. We just drive around until we find a campsite and then explore the area for a couple of days before we move on. It’s nice to not be tied to a schedule, you know? And Rob’s great at planning little surprises for us. There was one time when we were staying at a site on a hill farm near Troutbeck and Rob arranged a candlelit meal for us, snuggled under travel blankets watching shooting stars in the sky over the mountains. I honestly couldn’t have been happier anywhere else on earth that night.’

Tom’s spotty face was a picture as he walked away. ‘Ugh. Pass me the sick bucket,
purrlease
. . .’

Harri’s tales of Rob’s makeshift romantic gestures were far better received by Stella, despite the fact that, as far as she was concerned, public displays of affection were nothing if they didn’t include luxury, indulgence and a hefty blow on a credit card.

‘I know your Rob is a sweetie, but why on earth hasn’t he taken you abroad yet?’ she asked, one Wednesday evening, when Harri had arrived for a chat after work. ‘He’s been in your life for seven years, Harri – you’d think he would’ve at least whisked you off to Paris or somewhere by now.’

Harri dunked a chocolate digestive biscuit in her tea. ‘He says he just doesn’t feel comfortable being somewhere where he can’t speak the language. But I suspect it’s because he doesn’t like flying. His mum told me that a couple of years ago – I’m not supposed to know, but it makes sense when you think about it.’

‘I suppose so. Hey, maybe he’ll spring a big trip abroad on you when he pops the question.’

Harri raised her mug. ‘I’ll drink to that!’

Every year, Stella promised to take Harri abroad with her. Around January or February, she’d beg Harri to bring home the latest brochures from work so that they could spend happy evenings poring over impossibly gorgeous destinations. Over countless bottles of wine, takeaways and coffee-shop visits they would plan their Big Girly Adventure: ‘like Thelma and Louise without the death or guns,’ Stella would quip. But somehow, as summer approached, she would find a new man and get so caught up in romantic stuff that Harri would inevitably get invited for ‘a really nice meal out’ and receive a tearful confession somewhere around dessert. This would generally go something like: ‘I know I promised I’d take you with me this year, but before I could say no I’d agreed to go with [delete as appropriate] Joe/Mark/Matt/Juan [yes, really], but I completely, honestly promise we’ll go somewhere next year . . .’

Despite the annual let-downs, Stella’s ill-timed romantic liaisons weren’t the problem. Neither was the recession, the weak pound or the rising cost of airport taxes. And, despite what Stella and Viv said, Rob wasn’t the problem, either. At the end of the day, it was down to
her
.

Every year, Harri would entertain the notion of choosing a destination from a travel brochure at SLIT, packing a case and heading off somewhere on her own. But when she thought it through, the reality of spending two weeks by herself began to tarnish the dream. What was the point of seeing wonderful places if you had nobody to share them with? Unlike Viv’s son Alex, who seemed entirely at home in his own company, for Harri the prospect held no allure. Ever since her parents died, she had become all too familiar with the sense of aloneness – why would she want to take that with her to another country? One day, she knew she would be able to do this and love it. But until she could overcome the fear of the unknown, she was content to stay as she was. Surely holidaying with Rob in the UK was far more fun than being abroad alone, wasn’t it?