Welcome to My World (20 page)

Alex poured a glass of wine. ‘My mother is about as subtle as a demolition ball.’

‘She’s excited about your love life, that’s all. I think it’s sweet.’

‘Well, I’m glad someone’s excited about it.’ Harri was suddenly aware of the sparkle retreating from his eyes. She knew this look only too well.

‘Oh, Al, what’s happened?’

He flicked a greenfly off the chair arm and gave her a resigned smile. ‘Oh, I dunno, H. Annie was really nice. You were right: we had loads in common, she was interesting, we had great conversations . . .’

‘But?’

He sighed. ‘There was something missing.’

Harri frowned. ‘Like what?’

He shrugged. ‘I have no idea. The magic wasn’t there, I guess.’

‘That’s never stopped you before.’

Alex laughed and playfully punched her arm. ‘Harsh. But true. Anyway, I said the whole “thanks, but no thanks” speech and that was that. She didn’t seem all that surprised, to be honest.’

‘Ah.’ Harri called to mind the promising pile of Contenders waiting patiently on her coffee table. ‘Well, I may have a few more suggestions.’

Alex’s sparkle made a welcome comeback. ‘Really? Who?’

‘Well, there’s Erin.’

‘OK. Details?’

Panicking, Harri racked her brain for the contents of the second letter in the Contenders pile.

‘She sounds great,’ Alex nodded appreciatively. ‘So when am I meeting her?’

Harri drove her beloved car onto the long, expansive gravel drive leading to Hillford Hall and instantly felt out of place as she parked amidst the Jaguars, Bentleys, Mercedes and Aston Martins languishing luxuriously by the immaculately manicured hedges that bordered the car park. It wasn’t the first time she’d visited the sprawling, red sandstone Georgian mansion – Harri made several visits each year to meet with Philip Lombard, the hotel’s charismatic Aussie manager, to arrange special event accommodation packages – but every time she arrived, she couldn’t help but be overawed by the majesty of the place.

Philip was talking to a pretty young receptionist when Harri entered and he smiled broadly when he saw her.

‘Harri, what a great surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you till next month.’ He walked over and kissed her on both cheeks. Harri returned the favour, noticing his expensive aftershave and impeccable suit as she did so. No wonder the suave forty-something was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the area.

‘Don’t worry, Phil. I’m actually here to see Erin.’

‘Ah, excellent. I was wanting the two of you to meet, actually. Erin and I have big plans for the events programme next year and we really want to increase our weekend packages. I’d appreciate your input and I’d be happy for SLIT to handle the lion’s share of bookings.’

‘Excellent. Well, if you email me the details I’ll liaise with Erin and we’ll put something together.’

‘Wonderful.’ A mischievous smile played on his lips. ‘Are you sure I can’t spirit you away from George to work here? I could really use your expertise, you know.’

‘It’s tempting, Phil, and I’ll bear it in mind, I promise. I’m just not ready to leave the world behind me yet, you know? Not even for this magnificent place.’

Phil laughed. ‘OK, well, you can’t blame a guy for trying. Erin’s in the Blessenden Suite – second floor, follow the signs to the East Wing.’

Everything about Hillford Hall whispered understated luxury. Once a country seat of the Earl of Dudley, the stunning mansion sat in thirty acres of landscaped parkland, complete with a silver expanse of lake at its front. There was an otherworldliness about this place; when Harri was here she could easily imagine herself on a historic estate somewhere in France, Italy or Austria.

The Hall’s state rooms were once the envy of many in élite society: a hundred and fifty years ago, countless extravagant parties and soirées took place here as the Earl and his family threw ever more elaborate social events to impress the great and good of the country. Nowadays, the majority of the Hall’s guests were rich businesspeople, wedding parties and the oc casional visiting celebrity, especially when Hillford hosted one of its famous outdoor concerts.

Harri followed the signs along the thickly carpeted hallway until she reached a set of large polished oak doors with shiny brass handles. Taking a deep breath, she entered.

Named in honour of Lady Blessenden, wife of an eminent lord, and a notorious socialite who scandalised 1920s society with her many affairs, the Blessenden Suite was every bit as opulent as its namesake had been. Two enormous glittering crystal chandeliers hung from the intricately moulded plaster ceiling, while a huge carved four-poster bed assumed pride of place, draped with gold brocade curtains and crisp Egyptian cotton bed linen.

Standing by the bed, a tall, immaculately attired young woman with glossy mahogany hair looked entirely at home in her impressive surroundings. Glancing up from her clipboard, she flashed a friendly smile at Harri.

‘Hi. Can I help?’

Harri approached and extended her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Harri. We spoke on the phone earlier.’

Erin flushed slightly and quickly shook Harri’s hand. ‘Great to meet you. Thanks for coming so quickly.’

‘You’re welcome. Phil – er – Mr Lombard said he wants us to work together on Hillford’s concert packages for next year.’

Erin nodded. ‘Yes, absolutely. While you’re here remind me to arrange a date for that. But now,’ she linked her arm through Harri’s, ‘let’s head to my office so we can discuss your very gorgeous friend.’

One thing was certain about Erin Donnelly: she was a very self-assured woman. Where Annie had been endearingly shy, Erin was refreshingly honest, unafraid of her own opinions, yet still exceedingly open to other people’s. She was bright, articulate and interesting – not to mention the owner of looks that were likely to bring about serious whiplash injuries for admiring males in her vicinity. Alex was bound to be bowled over.

‘So, let me get this straight: I’m someone you met through work?’ Erin repeated, obviously a long way from being convinced that this cover story was going to work.

Harri ignored the insistent butterflies in her stomach and managed a smile. ‘Yes, that’s right. And it’s not exactly a lie, seeing as we’re going to be working together soon anyway.’

‘Sounds to me like you’re trying to convince yourself,’ Erin noted wryly.

Blimey, is it that obvious?
Harri pushed away the mounting panic within her and attempted a nonchalant smile. ‘No, not at all. It’s just that I think Al will react better if he thinks we already know each other, you know?’

Erin smiled. ‘Fine. So when am I meeting him?’

Next day, Stella made an unexpected appearance at SLIT. Harri was thrilled to see her. It had been the kind of day where lunchtime takes forever to arrive, then passes in the blink of an eye, and the assembled staff of the travel agency were desperately in need of something to break the monotony of what was looking like being a long afternoon.

‘Great to see you, Stella,’ Nus beamed. ‘So, what’s the gossip?’

Coming from the famously underwhelmed Nus, this welcome was tantamount to a red carpet reception and twenty-one-gun salute.

‘Thanks, Nus,’ Stella replied uncertainly. ‘Not much goss, I’m afraid, except that I’ve booked Harri and me into a day spa the weekend after next.’

‘Stel, that’s fantastic! I mentioned it to Rob and he’s fine with it, so we can go.’

Stella tucked a perfectly straightened strand of blonde hair behind one ear as she gave Harri a stern look. ‘It’s
fine
for us to go anyway, whatever your boyfriend says.’

Tom groaned. ‘Oh, man, a spa? I can’t think of anything worse.’

‘Good job you’re not going, then,’ Nus scowled at him. ‘Which spa are you going to?’

‘La Mer.’ Stella’s eyes lit up and she began gabbling excitedly about the luxurious treatments and the list of celebs that reportedly frequented the establishment. ‘. . . I mean, actresses from
Emmerdale
and
Hollyoaks
have been to La Mer, so it must be, you know, top notch! I got us on a two-for-one deal too, so I was mightily chuffed with that.’

‘You’re going to La Mer? Oh my
life
, that’s like the most amazing place,’ Nus said, becoming more animated than Harri had seen her in months. ‘They have, like, fifty treatments and it’s awesome! There’s this floral steam room, like a sauna but with aromatherapy oils – it’s meant to be amazing for your skin. We had their brochure last month when Mrs Harris was booking her mother’s sixtieth birthday surprise, remember?’

Harri thought back and remembered the commotion La Mer’s brochure had caused. Nus had spent every lunch break for two weeks engrossed in its glossy pages and nearly ended up in fisticuffs with Mrs Harris when she wanted to take it home. Even George had been spotted sneaking a look at the exclusive delights when he thought nobody was looking.

‘Blimey, Stel, is this going to be expensive?’

Stella dismissed this with a flick of her hair. ‘Stop panicking, H. It’s all taken care of.
Julian’s
paying.’ She looked at her watch and began to leave. ‘Right, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, yeah?’

Harri followed her to the door. ‘Hang on a minute, who’s Julian?’

‘Oh, he’s just a guy,’ she smiled, and walked out onto the High Street with Harri in tow.

‘What do you mean, “just a guy”? What happened to Stefan?’ Stella shook her head. ‘We’re over. It’s cool.’

‘But I thought he was going to be the walk-in closet of your dreams?’

‘Yes, well, he wasn’t.’

‘And Julian is?’

Stella folded her arms defensively. ‘He might be, he might not. But he’s a generous guy who just happens to know the owner of La Mer. So when I told him about me and you needing a day spa he was only too willing to oblige. Happy?’

Harri laughed. ‘Perfectly. Speak to you later, then?’

Stella’s phone began playing ‘Lady Marmalade’ somewhere in her oversized bag and she stared at the screen before answering the call. ‘I have to take this, OK? Speak later, then. Julian! Hello,
you
. . .’

Harri watched her friend walking away. Another day, another prospective millionaire . . . It must be so easy for someone like Stella, she mused, with a seemingly endless supply of well-heeled guys waiting to indulge her every whim. She must have dated fifteen men in the past year and yet Harri had never seen her hurt or upset when a relationship ended. Stella just seemed to shrug it off and move on to the next willing suitor. Sometimes, Harri wished she could be more like her best friend – less affected by the world around her, less concerned by others’ opinions of her. Maybe then she could have some stamps in her passport . . .

‘If you’re planning on standing out there all day, the least you can do is give these out,’ George barked in her ear, making Harri jump. He thrust some badly printed leaflets into her hand.

‘What are these?’

George’s face had disdain written all over it. ‘Leaflets, Harriet. You know, bits of paper you give people to show them what we do?’

Harri sighed. ‘Can’t we send Tom out, George? I was supposed to be working on the Hillford Hall proposal this afternoon.’

Her boss ran a hand through his imaginary thick, flowing hair. ‘That can wait.’ He prodded the leaflets with a chubby finger. ‘
These
can’t.’

It was frustrating, but at least this menial task would kill an hour or so. ‘Fine. I’ll take them around the local shops and try to get some displayed.’

‘Excellent!’ George exclaimed, slapping Harri on the back so hard that she was nearly propelled across the busy road. ‘Off you go, then,
assistant manager
of ours.’

The High Street was busy today as Harri reluctantly started her leaflet drop. Several mums were chatting by the entrance to the Co-op, their children suspiciously observing each other from the comfort of their buggies. One of the ladies waved Harri over as she neared them.

‘Not waitressing today?’ she smiled.

Harri laughed. ‘No, I only do that as a hobby. Doing my real job today.’ She handed over a leaflet and the other mothers gathered round to read it.

‘Twenty per cent off? That’s pretty good.’

‘I’ve been on at Will for ages about a holiday. Maybe we should pop in.’

‘Feel free to,’ Harri replied, surprised at this unexpectedly enthusiastic reaction. ‘We have some fantastic family holidays at the moment.’

Harri continued down the street. A frantic Jack Russell on an extendable lead dashed past her, dragging a tiny elderly lady along in its wake. Harri stepped aside to let them pass before walking into Stone Yardley’s post office and newsagent’s.

Doreen Perry looked up from a stack of newspapers and smiled. She had been postmistress for as long as Harri could remember and, remarkably, seemed to have resisted the passage of time. Amply-bosomed yet diminutive in stature, she had a deep love of hand-knitted cardigans. But most remarkable by far was Doreen’s hair, which had always remained in the same beehive style. The sheer height of it was a feat in itself and added significantly to her presence; the colour had progressed from peroxide blonde in the seventies to purpley-red in the eighties, jet black in the nineties, and was now a shade she lovingly termed ‘Cilla Red’ after her favourite TV personality.