Welcome to My World. Miranda Dickinson

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      Ron Howard purred loudly and fell off the sofa.

      It wasn’t that Harri minded doing things for Viv: she had known her for long enough to understand that beneath all the fuss and bluster lay a deep concern for her wellbeing. What Harri did object to was the way Viv assumed she had nothing better to do with her time than to jump at her every whim. Tonight would be no exception: whatever the reason for the urgent dinner invitation, it was bound to entail Harri doing something she wouldn’t normally have chosen. That said, there was something strangely comforting about having Viv in her life. Whilst Viv’s ideas were often outlandish, her concern for Harri was unquestionable. In many ways, she was a surrogate mother for Harri and relished every intricacy of this role. And Harri loved her for it. So, quickening her pace under the dusky evening sky, she walked straight towards the next thrilling episode of Vivienne Brannan’s Imagination.

      To say Viv was excited would be like calling Everest ‘a bit of a hill’. As Harri approached Viv’s farmhouse on the long winding gravel drive that dropped steeply from the white gate at the roadside, she could see her friend standing in the front porch, peering impatiently out into the growing dark, arms folded like a shivering teacher on playground duty in winter. Her face lit up when she saw Harri approaching and she rushed out to meet her.

      ‘Oooh, this is so thrilling!’ she exclaimed, flinging her arms around Harri and expelling every last bit of air from her lungs in an enormous bear hug. ‘Come inside, come inside! You have to see this!’

      Winded from her overenthusiastic welcome, Harri fought to regain her breath and slowly followed Viv into the farmhouse. A wonderfully heady brew of roasting meat, baking pastry and steaming vegetables met her nostrils as she stepped through the doorway. One thing you could always count on with Viv was her ability to make any meal occasion into a pièce de résistance. Even snacks or impromptu lunches were transformed into show-stopping culinary events; there was no such thing as ‘just a sandwich’ as far as Viv was concerned. It was easy to see from where her son had gained his considerable catering skills.

      ‘I didn’t realise we were banqueting tonight,’ Harri grinned as she entered the kitchen.

      Viv dismissed the comment with a nonchalant sweep of her hand. ‘Oh, this? It’s nothing. Besides, you know me – I don’t do low-key.’

      ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’

      ‘I do hope you’re not mocking me, Harriet Langton.’ Harri held her hands up. ‘I wouldn’t dare, Viv.’

      Viv surveyed her with suspiciousness. ‘Mmm. Anyway, it’s not important. What is important is something that happened to pop onto my doormat this morning.’ She opened a drawer in the vast central island of her kitchen and produced a magazine, then proceeded to perform a frighteningly energetic victory dance around the terracotta-tiled kitchen floor.

      Harri saw the title Juste Moi and took a deep breath. ‘Right then. Let’s have a look.’

      Viv could hardly catch her breath as she finished her dance with an elegant landing on a chair next to Harri at the kitchen table. ‘Oh, it is so much better than that!’

      Harri surveyed her carefully. ‘How do you mean?’

      Viv thrust the magazine at Harri. ‘Our darling boy only made the front cover!’

      ‘What? How? I mean, it’s just a column inside . . .’

      ‘Not any more!’ Viv was in serious danger of exploding in an effervescent shower of stars. ‘They’ve made him into a feature!’

      Hands slightly shaking, Harri released the magazine from Viv’s maniacal clutches and read the main headline: ‘FREE TO A GOOD HOME SPECIAL: Our hottest candidate yet!’

      ‘That’s . . . that’s not possible . . .’ she stuttered. ‘When I spoke to Chloë she said the column wasn’t doing well at all . . . I – I don’t believe it . . .’

      ‘Believe it, sister,’ Viv replied, sounding like a gruff supporting cast member from Cagney and Lacey. All that was missing was a gun sling and a bad seventies suit . . . She whipped the offensive publication from Harri’s hands and flipped through it until she found the page. ‘Look at that!’

      The formerly innocuous ‘Free to a Good Home’ column was now a double-spread, glossy feature, a picture of Alex gracing most of the right-hand page. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the worst thing – the very worst thing – was a quote from Harri herself, glowing accusingly at her in vivid red letters:

       Alex is gorgeous, talented and caring.

       Any girl would be lucky to call him hers.

      Harri Langton, Alex’s best friend

      ‘That’s such a sweet thing to say, darling,’ Viv gushed, clamping a hand on Harri’s arm. ‘Al will be so flattered.’

      Panic was threatening to remove Harri’s capability of rational thought or physical movement. ‘But I didn’t say that,’ she protested, doubt gnawing at the edge of her assertion. ‘At least, I don’t think I said that . . .’

      ‘Well, you must have said it, darling, or else why would they print it?’

      Viv’s blind acceptance of journalistic integrity was touching, if completely unfounded, especially in the light of Harri’s conversation with Chloë regarding the feature. The feature is dying on its sweet arse here . . . your friend Alex is the first decent candidate we’ve had in two years . . . Judging by the article’s considerable promotion in Juste Moi it appeared that Chloë was at least safe from demotion to ‘Celeb Gossip’ for the time being.

      ‘He’s going to kill me,’ Harri moaned, imagining the look on Alex’s face when he saw the article and the damning evidence of her involvement in garish red letters.

      Viv tutted. ‘Stop being so melodramatic, Harriet! He is not going to kill you. He is going to thank you when all those lovely ladies start to reply. Trust me, I’m his mother. Nobody understands Alex like I do.’

      Harri mentally activated everything crossable and hoped that, for once, Viv was right.

      The week passed by in a blur as Harri tried to comprehend the new upgraded status of Alex’s ‘Free to a Good Home’ article. After the initial shock of seeing the feature so prominent in the magazine, her confidence began to bounce back. After all, what was the worst that could happen? Even if Alex did find out and was annoyed at first, surely if Harri had managed to find him the woman of his dreams as a result then that would be enough to make him forgive her. Besides, by the end of the week Harri had something else to occupy her thoughts – namely, an unexpected argument with Rob on Friday evening.

      Knowing he was unlikely to be home until after seven that night, Harri decided to surprise her boyfriend by making dinner for him. He seemed to be working so much lately that she thought he deserved a treat. She spent a good hour cleaning the kitchen and preparing the meal, creating a selection of Spanish tapas for a starter, with a main course of lemon, thyme and garlic roast chicken with butternut squash wedges and Mediterranean roasted vegetables – a little more adventurous than Rob would normally choose (being a firmly English eater, suspicious of anything ‘foreign’) but still safely recognisable for him to take the risk.

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