Welcome to My World (41 page)

Stella didn’t reply – not that Harri was expecting her to. For all she knew, Stella could be in a Tibetan monastery perched precariously in the mountain mists – and she was pretty sure there wouldn’t be an internet café there. The weeks passed by, Easter came and went, and still Alex remained firmly off-limits to her.

At the beginning of April, when a welcome bout of un seasonably warm weather brought the Rose & Slug regulars back to their chairs on the allotment, Viv persuaded her to join them, ‘to get you out a bit more’.

Viv, concerned over Alex and Harri’s refusal to rebuild their friendship, sat Harri down with a particularly strong glass of elderflower wine, a little way away from the noisy joviality of Merv and the gang.

‘Sweetheart, I don’t know what’s gone on between you and Al, but he misses you. I know he does. He’s planning his wedding but his heart isn’t in it. He needs a friend – you could help him so much right now.’

Harri shook her head defiantly. ‘I can’t. And please don’t ask me to explain why. I don’t think either of us could salvage our friendship if we tried. It’s gone too far for that.’

‘Strange. That’s not how Alex sees it.’

‘Well, maybe he wasn’t in the same room that I was. Look, I know what you’re trying to do and, believe me, I think it’s admirable, but you just have to accept that my friendship with Al is over.’

May arrived in the rain, and memories of the April sun were quickly washed away. On a particularly murky Tuesday afternoon at SLIT, Harri received a call from Rob’s mother.

‘Hi, Clarice, how are you?’

‘Good, good,’ Clarice replied, her mind obviously dashing from one thought to the next. Rob often joked that his mum was so hyperactive if you filmed her and played it on slow motion, she would still look like she was speeded up. ‘I need a favour.’

‘How can I help?’

‘Well, I popped over to Rob’s house this morning to pick up some laundry to iron for him while he’s away and there was one of those blasted cards from Royal Mail saying they’d tried to deliver a parcel that requires a signature. The thing is, it’s his nan’s birthday on Friday and Rob’s arranged for some old cine film of her and my dad to be transferred to DVD as a surprise. I think that might be what the parcel is. But if Rob’s not coming back until next Monday I’ll have to pick it up from Little Swinford sorting office, or else Mum won’t have it in time for her birthday. I knew he’d have his driving licence and credit cards with him, so I had a look for his passport but couldn’t find it. Do you have any idea where it could be?’

‘I didn’t realise Rob had a passport,’ Harri replied, a little taken aback.

‘It was news to me when he mentioned it. He renewed it a while back, apparently – something to do with legal stuff for his job, I think.’

Harri thought for a moment. ‘He keeps most of his import ant papers in an old bureau by the wardrobe in his spare room – if it’s anywhere, I’d imagine that would be where he’d keep it.’

‘That room is such a tip I daren’t even set foot in there. Good thinking, Harriet. The only problem now is, I can’t get back to his house today. I’ve just taken my car to Evans’ Garage to have the dent knocked out of it from when I hit that bollard at Sainsbury’s.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll head to his house straight after work. Then I can drop the passport with you on my way home.’

‘You’re a lifesaver, Harriet. I’ll see you later. Thank you!’

At six, Harri opened Rob’s front door, pausing briefly to collect his post, before heading up the stairs to the small, third bedroom that Rob sometimes used as an office, but which was, ostensibly, a dumping ground for stuff that hadn’t quite made it into the loft yet. Carefully negotiating old fitness equipment, dusty holdalls and stacks of survival magazines, Harri made her way to the bureau. It was a hideous piece of furniture – some eighties designer’s ill-judged attempt at ‘reimagining a Victorian classic’. Veneered with a layer of too-burgundy mahogany-effect vinyl, with a slatted cover that rolled up jerkily to reveal a range of tiny compartments, the bureau bore more resemblance to a bread bin on stilts than a nineteenth-century gentleman’s writing desk.

As with the rest of the room, the bureau was a place to stash piles of paper – Rob’s half-hearted attempt at a ‘safe place’ for his important documents. Creased, coffee-stained bank statements and old gas bills jostled for position with cheque book stubs, old mobile phones, photographs of the Dynamo Stone Yardley team, countless letters and used envelopes with nothing inside them. Harri groaned as she surveyed the task before her of finding Rob’s passport in this lot.

Rolling up her sleeves, she began picking her way through the piles, her heart jumping every time she caught sight of something red, only to find it was an old blood donor card, pocket diary or, strangely, hotel sewing kit. Just when she was about to give up, she spotted it, half-stuffed into a brown envelope. Grasping it thankfully, she navigated the floor junk and raced down the stairs.

As she reached the front door, the envelope in her hand slipped and a small rectangle of card fluttered to the carpet. Bending to pick it up, she realised immediately what it was.

A boarding card stub. For a British Airways flight from Birmingham International Airport to Paris Roissy/Charles de Gaulle Airport. In disbelief, Harri read the date aloud: ‘22
^nd
December’. Clamping a hand to her mouth, she let out a yelp of pain as a crashing realisation hit her head on.
That was the day Rob was meant to be in Preston after cancelling our Christmas break
.

She emptied the envelope, its contents spilling out across the beige carpet and confirming her worst fears. There were more: Vienna, Prague, Milan, Rome, two more for Paris . . . but the most devastating revelation was yet to come. Hidden securely within the pages at the back of the passport was a final stub, one that shattered Harri’s heart into a billion tiny pieces: Venice Marco Polo Airport.

‘N-no . . .’ she stammered. ‘That’s not possible . . . he . . . No!’ It was as if the whole world were being sucked into a black hole beneath her as the name on the last boarding card repeated louder and louder in her mind.
Venice
. . . The place she dreamed of, the destination her heart most desired. And yet Rob had flown there only two days after her birthday in April last year. Presumably, not alone . . .

Slumping to the bottom step, the shaking in her hands intensified as tears flooded her vision. How
dare
he? How dare he insist on keeping her in the UK when he was travelling to the very places she most longed to see?

Now all of his grand gestures made sense: far from being the heartfelt tokens of love Harri had assumed, they were merely the outward workings of a guilty conscience – Rob absolving himself for the lies he had fed her.

All this time, Harri had been beating herself up for her stolen kiss with Alex, painting Rob as the faithful, betrayed partner. She had lost sleep over her indiscretion, believing herself to be unworthy of his love. But nothing she had ever done could warrant the kind of sustained deception Rob had practised.

The enormity of it was almost too much to comprehend as she sat on the horrible carpet in his horrible house, staring at the crumpled boarding pass in her hand. Now, Rob’s apparent enthusiasm for cheap camping weekend breaks was revealed as nothing more than a cost-cutting exercise. It all made sense: with so many European trips to pay for, all he had left for Harri was small change. That was all she meant to him: someone to throw the scraps of his leftover affections. She let out another loud sob. All that time – when she had stood by him, defended his lack of travel imagination and the amount of time he was giving to the mythical contract in Preston, graciously forgiving his every broken promise – Rob had been boarding planes with someone else, heading off for adventures while Harri sat at home.
All that time
– wasted on someone who had never been worthy of her love . . .

Who he travelled
with
was immaterial: the biggest betrayal was his blatant disregard for the thing she loved the most.

How stupid and naïve he must have thought her! As the full weight of the revelation fell on her, Harri’s devastation gave way to thundering anger. White-hot fury shuddered through her limbs as she grabbed the damning evidence, opened the door and got into her car. Throwing the envelope on the passenger seat, she grabbed her mobile and fired off a text:

She drove to Rob’s mother’s house, ignoring the insistent ring-tone of her phone all the way. No prizes for guessing who was calling. Clarice’s cheery smile faded instantly when Harri handed her the envelope and Harri realised with horror that she already knew what it contained.

‘Rob called me,’ Clarice said quietly. ‘Honestly, Harri, you have to believe me that I didn’t know he’d taken
that woman
abroad. He promised me he was going to break it off with her last year, but . . . for what it’s worth, my son is an idiot.’

‘Yes, he is. You knew, then?’

‘Oh, yes, he tells me everything,’ she said proudly.

Harri’s laugh was bittersweet. ‘Shame you didn’t tell me. What’s her name?’

Clarice folded her arms and looked away. ‘Melissa. He works with her. She’s married, of course: husband works away a lot. Just so you know, the Preston contract was real, but it was all signed and sealed last July. I’m so sorry, Harri.’

Harri sighed. ‘It’s not your fault. But there is one thing you can do for me.’

Clarice nodded. ‘Anything.’

‘Tell your son to stop calling me. I’ve nothing more to say to him.’

Pulling away from Clarice’s road, she suddenly recalled Alex’s words before the kiss, the last time she had seen him:

You just need to believe it’s possible.

He was right: all her life there had been other things to blame her fear on. But the fact remained that if she was as passionate about travelling as she said she was,
nothing
should stop her from stepping on a plane. Especially not Rob . . .

As she drove home, an idea started to form in her mind, tiny but burning bright: by the time she walked into the cottage her mind was made up. Picking up the phone as Ron Howard made a fussy circumnavigation of her feet, she called George.

‘
Harriet?
Is that you?’

‘Yes, it is. Sorry for ringing so late, George, but it’s a bit of an emergency.’

‘Flippin’ ’eck, what’s up? It’s not going to involve hospitals, is it?’

Harri smiled. George’s aversion to all things bloody, broken or infectious was nigh on legendary.

‘No. I need to take some time off, in a bit of a hurry.’ Her heart was banging against the wall of her chest, her palms clammy as adrenalin pumped through her veins.

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. For two weeks. I know it’s short notice, but I really have to go now.’

George paused and Harri could almost hear his mind whirring. ‘This isn’t like you.’

Her excitement began to sink away. ‘I know.’

‘So it must be important for you to ask. Oh, what the heck, it’ll do Nusrin and Thomas good to have a bit of responsibility thrust upon them. I suppose I’ll see you in two weeks.’

‘Thank you, George!’

‘Wait – where are you going?’

Harri smiled, remembering a conversation that afternoon at work. George had appeared with the new offers for the window and, as happened every week, Tom, Nus and Harri had gathered round to see which destinations were included. One had really caught her eye, not least because she had bought a travel book for the place only a week before.

‘Wow – Kefalonia,’ Tom had breathed, picking the card up. ‘Two weeks, self-catering in a luxury apartment, flying from Birmingham International.’

‘Man, how nice would that be?’ Nus had said wistfully. ‘Kefalonia in May – perfect! Before all the horrible kids go out there for summer holidays, and not too hot.’

‘It’s meant to be amazing,’ Harri had agreed, recalling the pictures of deep blue and turquoise seas around picturesque beaches and hidden coves she had seen in her book.

‘You should go,’ Tom had beamed. ‘Bit of sun, nice apartment, all those friendly towns . . . I’d be there like a shot if my mum hadn’t cut up my credit card.’

‘Kefalonia,’ Harri said now. ‘The holiday from the offers? Excellent choice. Want me to book it for you from my wireless connection to the office network?’

‘Would you?’

‘Your wish is my command,
mademoiselle
.’

‘What about the money, though?’

‘Settle up with me when you get home. When do you want to travel? How about later tomorrow? Give you a chance to pack and that.’

Harri realised she hadn’t thought this through. She didn’t even have a decent suitcase to pack, let alone suitable clothes. ‘I think that might be an idea. I’ll have to go to Berryhall first thing tomorrow to buy some things – oh, and pick up some money.’

She heard George laugh. ‘When did you get so impetuous, eh? When you get to Berryhall, head to Best Choice Travel and ask for Holly. Tell me how much you want and I’ll call her tonight and arrange for some Euros to be left for you – just pay for them when you get there, OK?’

‘Thank you. Um, George?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Why are you being so nice to me?’

He sighed. ‘Because I know something big must’ve happened and you sound like you need a break. And also because, contrary to popular opinion, I am not a heartless ogre from Codsall.’

‘Well, right now, I think you’re wonderful,’ Harri said. George coughed nervously. ‘You can pack that in right now. Just beggar off and have a nice time, OK?’

The next call Harri made was going to be tricky. Ron Howard needed looking after and it was too late to book him into the cattery. There was only one option left . . .

Half an hour later, with a very bemused ginger and white cat in tow, Harri arrived at Viv’s house.

The front door flew open as she reached the doorstep and Viv threw her arms around Harri, hugging her tightly.