Welcome to My World. Miranda Dickinson

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СКАЧАТЬ rubbed and never once thought to use the opportunity to sink his considerable claws into the unsuspecting tickler’s forearm; and he never, ever tucked his tail in – leading to many occasions where it was accidentally tripped over or stamped on. Washing, too, was something he took a long time to acquire the necessary skills for: Harri frequently had to wipe his nose and forehead after he had been eating his food, as it never seemed to occur to him to wash there. Auntie Rosemary once joked that he’d obviously left his mother before she could teach him all of these cat essentials. Harri was simply thankful he had turned up – the other stuff just made him who he was. Most importantly, he was a good listener. Well, as good a listener as a cat can ever be, snoring, purring and occasionally farting contentedly while Harri poured out her heart to him. Did Ron Howard understand? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was there when she needed him.

      After a day of trying to distract her mind from her posting Alex’s profile to Juste Moi, Harri retreated to the safety of her cottage. With a bowl of home-made tomato, basil and chorizo soup (straight from the pages of her latest Food & Travel magazine) and a chunk of Gruyère ciabatta from Lavender’s Bakery, Harri and Ron Howard snuggled down for a night of rubbish television. She had just taken her first mouthful of soup when the phone rang on the bookcase, just out of reach. Much to Ron Howard’s disgust, she manoeuvred herself from underneath his furry frame to answer it.

      ‘Hello, may I speak to Harriet Langton?’ asked a well-spoken woman.

      ‘Speaking.’

      ‘Ah, Ms Langton, hello. Sorry to ring you so late, but it’s Chloë from Juste Moi. It’s just a quick call to check if you’ve sent us the form back for your friend Alex for “Free to a Good Home” yet?’

      Harri felt the single spoonful of soup curdling in the pit of her stomach. ‘Yes – um – yes, I sent it last night, actually.’

      The sense of relief from the other end of the conversation was palpable. ‘That’s great, thank you so much.’

      ‘I’m not sure he’s what you’re after, you know,’ Harri began, hoping that Chloë would say something like, ‘Oh I see. Best not to bother then, eh?’ and end the call.

      Of course, she didn’t. ‘I’m sure he is, Ms Langton. After all, you must think he’s a worthy candidate, seeing as you nominated him.’

      Touché. ‘Right, yes, I suppose I did.’

      ‘Trust me, Ms Langton, everyone has second thoughts about this. Believe me, I know. I’ve had more conversations with dithering best friends, sisters and mothers than you would ever imagine since we started this feature.’

      Harri wasn’t convinced by this. ‘I’m just concerned that Alex might not be happy about it, that’s all.’

      Chloë gave a long sigh and lowered her voice. ‘Look, I’ll level with you, OK? The feature is dying on its sweet arse here – my editor says I have to turn it around in the next two months or I’m back to “Celeb Gossip”. Do you know how awful that is? Trust me, it’s death to your career. I’ve been here for four years and nobody has ever gone back – do you understand what I’m saying?’

      ‘I – er – think so . . .’ Harri stuttered, momentarily stunned by the journalist’s sudden change of demeanour. ‘But I thought the last man got thousands of responses?’

      ‘Like crap he did.’ Another elongated sigh ensued. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Langton, forgive me. It’s just been a really long day.’

      ‘Tell me about it.’

      ‘OK, I’m being really honest here: your friend Alex is the first decent candidate we’ve had in two years. Most of the muppets who get nominated for this feature don’t know one end of a woman from the other – hence the fact that they are still single . . .’

      Harri suppressed a smile, recalling her previous conversation with Viv on the matter.

      ‘. . . but Alex is – well, I mean, he’s hot as, for one thing. Then there’s the travel, the successful business . . . He ticks all the boxes, trust me. It’s just possible that he could save my career.’

      Despite her inner conflict of panic and mirth, Harri couldn’t fail to feel compassion for the overstressed journalist on the line. ‘I see. Well, that’s OK then.’

      ‘You honestly won’t regret this, I promise! So your letter should arrive tomorrow and then it’s all systems go, eh?’

      ‘Great.’

      ‘Have a super evening! Bye!’

      Harri replaced the receiver and flopped back down on the sofa as Ron Howard slunk heavily back onto her lap. The bowl of soup on the coffee table remained there, its temperature dropping steadily; Harri’s appetite had suddenly vaporised.

      ‘Looks like it’s happening, Ron,’ she whispered, stroking his vibrating back. ‘What on earth have I let myself in for?’

      Ron Howard stretched his paws out and farted loudly. Enough said.

      Chapter Seven

       A Question of Priorities . . .

      With all the excitement of tonight, Harri realises that she completely missed the buffet. Or, more precisely, the buffet completely missed her – considering that most of it was being requisitioned as ammunition at the point she fled the main hall. As the decision to attend the party was made at the last minute, there was no time for food beforehand, her time being taken up with trying to find a dress that wasn’t too large for her. Looking down at her arms, Harri is surprised at how much weight she has lost during the past fortnight. Thankfully, an emerald-green halter-neck dress donated to her by Stella two years ago and relegated to the deepest, darkest part of her wardrobe on account of its being too tight, came to the rescue. Teamed with the too-expensive purple shoes she bought from the boutique shop in Innersley, and a thin purple cardigan she found stashed under T-shirts in the ottoman at the bottom of her bed, the overall effect with her long auburn hair is impressive, if not exactly the warmest option.

      Harri is suddenly acutely aware of the hunger gnawing away at her insides. Reaching into her handbag, she sorts through the detritus of her everyday life – purse, phone, keys, tissues, receipts and old shopping lists – until she finds a treat-sized Mars bar. She has no idea how long it has lain in the depths of her bag, but needs must. Tearing open the wrapper, she takes a small bite and leans back against the cold ceramic cistern behind her.

      ‘What are you doing this evening?’ Viv asked as soon as Harri answered her phone.

      ‘Um, I hadn’t decided yet . . .’ she began.

      ‘Excellent!’ Viv declared. ‘Dinner at mine, seven thirty. OK? Good. See you then!’

      Harri opened her mouth to speak, but it was too late. Viv had been replaced on the line by a monotonous buzz. Shaking her head, Harri put down the receiver and stared at Ron Howard, who was lying at an impossible angle on the very edge of the sofa cushion.

      ‘Seven thirty? Let me just check my diary . . . Ah, yes, that should be fine. Thank you so much for the invitation . . . Honestly, Ron, it’s a good job I don’t have much of a social life. What would she do if I ever said no?’

      Reluctantly, СКАЧАТЬ