Welcome to My World (30 page)

‘Harri, you
have
to let up on yourself. None of this is your fault.’

‘Evidently your son doesn’t agree.’

Viv sighs, its echo cold and metallic as it reverberates around the toilet. ‘He’s understandably upset by what happened tonight. He just needs some time to calm down.’

Forgive me if I don’t believe you, Harri thinks to herself. I saw the way he looked at me.

‘It’s that friend of yours who’s to blame,’ Viv continues, oblivious to Harri’s opinion. ‘Silly,
silly
girl. Of course, she won’t have any idea of what she’s done. Didn’t hang around long enough to find out. Probably the best decision she’s made all night.’

Harri gazes up at the pool of water gathering at one end of the skylight. ‘Has Stella gone?’

‘Yes. Yes, she has.’ Though Harri can’t see her face, she can guess what Viv’s expression will be.

But what about Alex?
Harri looks up at the grimy ceiling as a fresh onslaught of emotion grips her throat.

Chelsea Buckden was every inch the antithesis of what Alex was looking for when Harri met her the next day in the small Caffè Nero franchise behind the bus depot in Lornal. Breaking from her usual method of calling to vet Alex’s possible dates, Harri was keen to do this particular interview in person. After all, it was the
least
she could do, given the circumstances . . .

The none-too-subtle tones of Chelsea’s ‘Free to a Good Home’ reply rang in Harri’s ears, making the prospect of her revenge even more delicious.

. . . I think we have loads in common. You have your own business and I love spending money. You’re well fit and I know I look good. I like a man who will treat me right and it sounds like you want a woman you can take care of . . .

Chelsea’s ironed-flat, brassy blonde hair was moulded into a high beehive and hairsprayed to within an inch of its life; thick, tangerine foundation clung heavily to her face, whilst almost black eyeshadow, false lashes and more liquid eyeliner than most women would use in a month made her eyes look as if she either hadn’t slept for a fortnight or was auditioning to be a panda at London Zoo. Her bulging, almost perfectly spherical breasts looked so removed from the rest of her chest that it gave the impression she could walk away from them at any time, and her too-short (in all directions) body-con dress left absolutely nothing to the imagination. There was no denying the fact: when it came to flaunting her sexuality Chelsea Buckden was the kind of woman blessed with all the demureness of an Exocet missile.

She gave a disinterested yawn and inspected her too-long acrylic nails as Harri approached.

‘Hi,’ Harri smiled, extending her hand which, unsurprisingly, wasn’t accepted.

‘You’d better get coffee,’ Chelsea replied. ‘That irate guy behind the counter’s been giving me grief.’

A little taken aback, Harri nodded. ‘Sure, erm, what would you like?’

Chelsea chewed her gum and looked Harri up and down contemptuously. Picking up her baby-pink phone, her eyes moved away to the screen. ‘Soy latte, extra shot, extra hot. Large.’

‘She with you?’ asked the stocky bloke behind the counter, tending to Harri’s order.

‘You could say that. I’m meeting her for a friend.’

‘Too scared to show up, was he? I would be. She makes Jodie Marsh look virginal.’

Harri smiled and sorted through the change in her purse.

‘Can I take a couple of those chocolate muffins as well, please?’

‘No problem. That’s five ninety, please.’

Harri handed over her money. ‘Thanks.’

Stocky Bloke grinned. ‘You’re welcome. Just promise me you won’t take make-up tips from that
thing
, OK?’

‘I think I’m safe on that score, thank you!’

Chelsea was texting when Harri rejoined her at the table, her nails making squeaky clicks as they hit the keys. Ending her acrylic communication, she tossed the phone carelessly onto the table, where it spun across the polished wood. ‘This Alex – he’s fit, yeah?’

‘Well, you saw his photo, so—’

‘And he’s loaded?’

Harri frowned. ‘I, er, don’t know if I’d say that, exactly.’ Chelsea leaned forward, her silicone enhancements bobbing across the table top and almost toppling her muffin in the process. ‘But he has his own coffee shop, right? So I mean, he must be raking it in.’

Stocky Bloke, who had begun to clear the table next to them,

sniggered. ‘Yeah, chick, all closet millionaires, us coffee-shop owners.’

‘Er – nobody asked you,’ retorted Chelsea, giving him a look that could have withered steel. Turning back to Harri, she raised an overplucked, pencilled eyebrow. ‘So when am I meeting him?’

Harri reached in her bag for her diary. ‘Let me just check. Is tomorrow night any good for you?’

‘Can’t do. I don’t finish work till six and then me and the girls are hitting the town.’

‘Oh, right. Birmingham?’

Chelsea shot a disdainful look at Harri. ‘
No
. Wolverhampton.’

‘Ah, sorry. My mistake.’

‘Yeah, well, no offence, but I’m guessing it’s been a while since you went out. Only the chavs and desperados go to Broad Street now.’

It was all Harri could do not to burst out laughing. This was turning out better than she’d hoped. Alex was in for the nightmare date of his life. ‘OK, how about next Monday evening? It’s only for a drink, anyway, to begin with.’

A filthy smirk snaked its way over Chelsea’s collagen-pumped lips. ‘Yeah, well, I think you’ll find it won’t stop at one
drink
. When it comes to me, men always get more than they bargained for, know what I mean?’

Harri took a large gulp of coffee to hide her smile.

Driving home half an hour later, Harri was thrilled at the prospect of Alex’s comeuppance, even if the small, sensible part of her mind refused to be convinced. Still, she told herself, as revenge went, it was relatively tame: true, it would probably be the most excruciating hour of his life, but that was all. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

* * *

Despite Rob being frustratingly AWOL and Alex’s conversation with Jack still sitting uncomfortably in her mind, Harri didn’t have long to mull over everything, as Friday afternoon was unusually busy for SLIT – at one point the customers even creating a queue (something akin to the arrival of a rare comet as far as the staff were concerned).

‘If this goes on, we’ll have to get more chairs!’ George exclaimed excitedly as he dashed past Harri’s desk with an armful of brochures.

Tom leaned back and smirked at Harri. ‘If this goes on, we should ask for more money.’

‘I reckon your pay rise is going to fund the new chairs,’ Nus called over. ‘Dream on, Tombo.’

Tom pulled a face and returned to helping Mr and Mrs Talbot choose their coach tour.

‘I’m looking for a family holiday, somewhere child-friendly, for next June,’ said the young woman with the small child on her lap, sitting opposite Harri. ‘I notice you have some offers in the window. We want to take Jacob here on his first trip. We’ve been saving since he was born and think it’s the right time to book something.’

Harri smiled and made a mental note of the family holidays SLIT currently had on offer, bearing in mind the usual desired locations for their customers: Cornwall, Devon, Pembrokeshire . . . ‘Great. So did you have anywhere particular in mind?’

‘Somewhere hot – Spain or Greece?’

This was such a shock to Harri that she found herself doing a double take. ‘S-sorry, did you say you’re looking for a holiday
abroad
?’

A strange expression passed across her customer’s face. ‘Yes – that’s not a problem, is it?’

Aware she was now staring at the lady as if she were seeing a mirage, Harri checked herself and grabbed a handful of brochures. ‘No, no, of course not, it’s just . . . Never mind. Right, well, we have a great selection here . . .’

An hour later, most of the customers had left and Tom, Nus, Harri and George were gathered in the centre of the shop, recovering from the rush with well-earned mugs of tea.

‘In-cred-ible.’ George shook his red shiny head, his face flushed from the afternoon’s excitement. ‘I can’t remember a day like it.’

‘Oh, but you haven’t heard the best of it,’ said Tom. ‘Harri sold a holiday abroad.’

This revelation was met with utter disbelief by George and Nus. ‘No!’

‘Yes, indeedy. Tell them, H.’

Harri nodded. ‘Two weeks. Crete.’

George blew out a whistle. ‘Well, I never. An extraordinary day all round then.’

The phone on Harri’s desk interrupted their conversation and Harri wheeled her chair over to answer it.

‘Hi, Harri? It’s Emily. Sorry to ring you at work, but something amazing just happened.’

‘Must be the day for it,’ Harri replied. ‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing. What’s up?’

‘I quit!’

Following the shock of the foreign holiday sale today, Harri found herself struggling to comprehend this news. ‘What? When?’

‘Just now! I walked into my boss’s office and handed in my resignation. Can you believe it?’

‘Well, I . . . no, I can’t. Are you – how are you feeling?’

Emily giggled nervously and Harri could hear her breathing quickly. ‘I’m shaking! I’ll be OK – I think. I just wanted to thank you.’

‘What for?’

Harri could almost feel the glow emitting from Emily’s ef fervescent glee. ‘For what you said about being spontaneous.’

‘I said I couldn’t do it—’

‘No, I don’t mean that! I mean what you said about your friend doing it.’

A thud of realisation hit Harri’s stomach. She closed her eyes. ‘Alex.’ She remembered mentioning his story over dinner at the farm in summer.

‘Yes, Alex. I need to meet this man and thank him – his story was just an inspiration. Next time you come over you must bring him!’

‘Right, well, I’m not sure he’d be up for the—’

‘Anyway, I’ve got to go. I need to tell Stu. He owes me a tenner, actually: he bet me last night that I wouldn’t go through with it! I’ll call you next week and we’ll arrange to meet up, OK? Bye!’

Harri slowly replaced the receiver and stared hard at the phone. This was turning out to be a very strange day indeed . . .

Walking into the green-scented coolness of Eadern Blooms later that day felt like stepping into an oasis of pure calm. The familiar yellow tiles, white-painted walls and swathes of glorious flowers soothed Harri’s eyes and wrapped their loveliness around her heart like a warm jumper on a snowy day. So many things seemed to have happened this week to push her out of her comfort zone: Rob’s sudden change from attentive to distracted by the re-emergence of the Preston job; the continuing absence of Stella; Alex’s conversation with Jack and her resulting plot with the nightmare known as Chelsea Buckden; even Emily’s sudden spontaneity this afternoon – what Harri needed more than anything right now was someone to listen to her.

Auntie Rosemary was putting the finishing touches to a large basket arrangement, wrapping lengths of baby-pink ribbon around its handle and stapling an elaborate florist’s bow at the front. Harri loved watching her aunt work – the effortlessness with which she created amazing displays; stripping stems, curling ribbon and working her magic on blooms and foliage. Harri often wondered whether her aunt found comfort in bringing joy to so many people. Rosemary certainly seemed to be at her most peaceful when up to her eyes in greenery and multi-coloured flowers – and, knowing the problems she had contended with over the years: her husband leaving her with two small children to provide for – Harri could only assume that the cheery florist’s shop had been a source of strength and hope for her aunt.

‘Harri, sweetheart!’ Auntie Rosemary exclaimed when she looked up from her work. ‘What a wonderful surprise! It’s lovely to see you. Do you want to pop the kettle on and I’ll just finish this? Barnie’s coming to take it any minute.’

Like the rest of the shop, Eadern Blooms’ small kitchen was light, welcoming and homely: faded flowery tiles by the small yellow sink; Auntie Rosemary’s home-made bunting (which sometimes made an appearance in the front at Easter) hanging happily around the tiny window; the collection of mismatched mugs jumbled together by the kettle; teaspoons stacked haphazardly in an old lidless teapot; the patchwork tea cosy that had been there for as long as Harri could remember and that once served as a makeshift crown when she was playing princesses with her cousin Rosie.

Harri looked through the steam at the small cork notice-board covered with a hotchpotch of photographs. There was a black-and-white image of Rosemary as a young woman, strikingly good-looking with her closely cropped, almost black hair and long, lithe limbs, posing with an ice-cream cornet and a pretty smile on holiday in Bridlington. A slightly creased colour photo featured a heavily pregnant Rosemary with a surly-looking toddler on her lap (Harri’s cousin James only discovered the power of charm many years later). And right in the middle, amidst weddings, christenings and funerals, flower shows, carnivals and birthdays, was a photo that caused Harri’s heart to beat furiously: Mum and Dad, looking happy and healthy, with Harri as a young child, all auburn curls and carefree smile. The sense of family that she missed so much was there in glorious Kodacolor for all to see. It was a perman ent testament to something that had once been so vital, living, real.

Swept away by a tidal flow of nostalgia and longing, Harri reached out and stroked the fading gloss of the image, wiping away the condensation from the kettle steam as hot tears welled in her eyes. The rattling sound of Auntie Rosemary walking through the rainbow-coloured bead curtain from the shop brought her sharply back to the present.

‘How are you getting on, sweetheart?’

Wiping her eyes quickly, Harri poured boiling water from the kettle into the old, bright yellow teapot and stirred it. ‘Almost done. Just drowned the teabags.’

Rosemary squeezed Harri’s arm. ‘It always tickled me when your mum said that.’

‘I know.’ Harri’s eyes drifted back to the photographs and her aunt caught it immediately.

‘I still find it hard believing they’re gone,’ she said, her gentle voice suddenly small and vulnerable. ‘You know, even this afternoon, a lady walked past the window and I could have
sworn
it was your mum. All these years and I still expect her to walk in through the door . . .’ She sniffed, pulled an embroidered handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and wiped her nose. ‘Right then, let’s find some spare smiles from the cupboard and put them on, shall we? Can’t have us all mournful at the start of a weekend.’