Welcome to My World Read online

  It was still playing on her mind when she arrived at her aunt’s shop on Thursday lunchtime. Eadern Blooms had served as Stone Yardley’s florist for thirty-five years and, with the exception of a new sign over the door and an A-board for the street (which Harri had persuaded Auntie Rosemary to invest in the year before), the shop hadn’t changed. The sunny yellow tiles and white-painted walls were simple but perfect for making the flowers stand out – they were, after all, the stars of the show, as far as Rosemary was concerned. As she entered the shop, Harri said hello to Mrs Gilbert from the cake shop, who was leaving with a paper-wrapped bunch of deep purple lisianthus.

  ‘Hello, Harriet, how’s the world today?’ Mrs Gilbert smiled.

  ‘Quiet, as far as Stone Yardley’s concerned,’ Harri replied, holding the door open for her. ‘Having a good week?’

  ‘Manic! Dora’s introduced her new Irish Coffee Cheesecake this week and we’ve been run off our feet. Sugarbuds hasn’t been this busy since Christmas.’

  Auntie Rosemary was in the workroom at the back of the shop when Harri approached the counter, so Harri tapped the hotel-style brass bell to summon her aunt’s attention. It was something she had done since she was little, relishing the thrill of ringing the bell when her parents had brought her into the shop. She called out, just like her dad had done, ‘Shop!’

  Rosemary’s flustered face appeared in the hatchway, which opened to the workroom. ‘Hello, you. Let me just wrap this bouquet and I’ll be right with you.’

  Harri absent-mindedly turned the rotating unit on the counter that held a selection of cards for inserting into floral arrangements. Most of them looked as old as the shop: faded painted pink and yellow roses, watercolour storks carrying blanketed babies, white arum lilies bending their heads in sympathy and linked horseshoes surrounded by fluttering confetti. Harri wondered if anyone actually chose to use one of these cards, or if they, like the brass bell and sunshine-yellow vinyl floor tiles, were simply irreplaceable elements of the shop’s heart.

  Five minutes later, Auntie Rosemary bustled in, strands of silver-grey hair flying loose in all directions from the messy bun at the back of her head, and a roll of twine around her right hand like a post-modern bangle. ‘I’m here, I’m here,’ she exclaimed, placing her cool hands on Harri’s cheeks and kissing her forehead, ‘and so are you! So, the kettle’s on and I’ve got some sandwiches from Lavender’s – tell me all your news.’

  They pulled up wooden chairs behind the counter and ate their crusty sandwiches from Stone Yardley’s bakery as Harri shared recent events with her aunt.

  When she mentioned her concerns about dinner with Alex, Auntie Rosemary frowned and took a large gulp of tea.

  ‘I don’t think you need worry, Harriet, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to talk about.’

  ‘But he’s actually done the travelling thing. I’ve just read about it. I think I’m just worried that he’ll laugh at me.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly, sweetheart. From my scant experience of men, I can tell you that one thing they like is to be listened to. And if the person listening to them knows less about a subject than they do, then all the better. I would hazard a guess that Alex is no different. You’re a fantastic listener and you’ll be interested in all of his travel stories – what more could he want in a dinner guest?’

  ‘You’re probably right. I’m sorry, Auntie Ro. You know me, always thinking three steps ahead.’

  Rosemary smiled and brushed crumbs off her fluffy grey cardigan. ‘In that respect you’re the spitting image of your mother. She was a born organiser – and so are you. Worrying ahead comes with the territory, I suppose.’

  ‘So you think I’ll be fine?’

  Her aunt stood up and ruffled Harri’s hair. ‘I think you’ll have a fantastic time.’

  In the end, it was Stella who – in classic Stella Smith fashion – allayed her fears by summing up the situation in one sentence.

  ‘He seems like a nice bloke, there’s free food and you get to overdose on travel stories. It’s a no-brainer: stop thinking too much and just go.’

  So the next week Harri arrived at Wātea for dinner. Alex was just finishing for the day and looked shattered. She waited while he turned off lights and checked everything was ready for the morning.

  ‘Busy day?’ she asked, as he joined her by the counter.

  Alex rubbed his forehead. ‘Yeah. It’s been crazy since we opened. I was worried people would stay away because we’re not like the old place.’

  Harri laughed. ‘Did you ever visit the old place?’ Alex shook his head. ‘Then you don’t know what you’re missing! I mean, look around here: the place is far too welcoming. You should be putting the fear of God into anyone who dares set foot on the premises! And those sofas? Too comfy by far! What are you trying to do, make people want to stay here?’

  ‘Blimey, was it that bad?’

  ‘Yes, it was. Trust me, this place is just what Stone Yardley needs.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  They exchanged shy smiles.

  Alex pushed his hands into his pockets self-consciously. ‘So – if you’d like to follow me, I’ll sort out some food.’

  Up in his flat above the coffee lounge, Alex made Singapore Noodles while Harri walked around, gazing at the photos that covered the walls. After they’d eaten, she sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling a steaming mug of jasmine tea and trying to contain her excitement like a kid at Christmas, as Alex produced box after box of treasures. Postcards, fabrics, sculptures, seashells and countless photo albums emerged and were spread out over the floor, while Alex recalled his travels and Harri listened, wide-eyed, her mind brimming over with images almost too wonderful to bear.

  ‘This shell came from Philip Island, in Australia – you should see the penguins there, Harri. It’s just mad to be surrounded by them on a beach! . . . An old priest in Belarus gave me this icon – he said it would keep me safe on my journey. Then he prayed over the coach we were travelling in, except he had to use a prayer for blessing a horse and cart because it was the only one for a mode of transport in the prayer book.’

  Harri picked up a picture of Alex standing next to a Maori man, easily half a foot taller and almost twice as wide, with an enormous white smile that dwarfed even Alex’s grin. The smiley Maori had his arm slung around Alex’s shoulders and they looked like they’d just heard the most hilarious joke.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she asked, turning the photo towards him.

  ‘Oh, wow, that’s Tem – he’s a great guy I met on South Island in New Zealand. He ran the local bar and he gave me a job for three weeks when my funds were running low. He taught me some Maori – that’s where Wātea comes from. It means “to be open” or “free”. He said I was a free spirit and I had to stay like that, wherever I went. I learned a lot from him.’

  Harri looked at the collection of mementoes laid out before her and shook her head. ‘Al, this stuff is amazing. How come you don’t have it all out on display?’

  Alex shrugged. ‘Because, honestly, nobody wanted to look at them – until I met you again, that is.’

  ‘That’s crazy. This stuff is . . .’ she struggled for a moment as all the superlatives that came to mind seemed suddenly inadequate. ‘I think this is wonderful, Alex. You have no idea how lucky you are to have all these memories.’

  Alex smiled, his dark brown eyes catching the light from the group of tealight candles on the coffee table. ‘I think we’re going to be great friends, you and me,’ he said. ‘Soul mate travellers, that’s what we are.’

  Harri wasn’t exactly sure what a ‘soul mate traveller’ was, but she was happy to be called one nevertheless. This, she was to learn, was one of the things that set Alex apart from the others in Stone Yardley: he had a vocabulary for his world that surpassed the horizons of anyone else. Looking through his eyes, Harri saw the world around her in a new, altogether more attractive light. Alex was the ultimate dreamer – hopelessly
optimistic about everything he surveyed. Even the most mundane thing became a magical mystery tour when he was involved – like the time he turned mopping the floor into a game of curling, using two steel buckets as stones and mops like the brushes. And while his unrealistic view of life lay at the bottom of many of his romantic problems, often landing him with a broken heart, at least when Alex was around life was never dull.

  Over the next year, their friendship grew with each Wednesday night meal. Alex cooked dishes he had collected during his ten years travelling the world and Harri listened to his stories as the scents of spices, meats, fish and fruit fragranced the flat above Wātea.

  ‘Pad Thai,’ he announced, one evening, as spicy cinnamon, chilli and allspice-infused steam filled Harri’s nostrils. ‘They cook this everywhere in Thailand – little street stalls serving this up on almost every street corner. I got the recipe from Kito, a Japanese lady who moved to Phuket twenty years before when she married a local man – she was the landlady in the hostel where I was staying. Her Thai mother-in-law had insisted that Kito master the dish before she gave her blessing to the marriage, “so I know my son won’t starve” – and Kito had cooked it ever since.’

  Meeting Alex was as refreshing as Welsh mountain air; his sense of humour, wry view of the world around him and intense interest in other people made him irresistible company. And as the weeks stretched to months, Harri found herself increasingly opening up to him – more than she had to Stella, Viv or even Auntie Rosemary. In turn, Alex’s trust in Harri grew – leading, eventually, to the subject of his not-so-wonderful love life one Tuesday evening when Harri received a text as she was about to go to bed.

  Hey H, are you still up? Fancy a chat? Al ;)

  Harri almost ignored it, the lure of her warm bed and favourite Venice book vying for her attention, but Alex had never contacted her so late before and that alone was enough to make her call him.

  He sounded tired when he answered, the spark gone from his voice. ‘Mate, I’m sorry for texting so late.’

  ‘Is everything OK, Al?’

  He gave a long sigh. ‘I’m fine, really. I just had my last date with Claudia – you know, the accountant I’ve been seeing for a couple of weeks?’

  ‘Oh, hon. What happened?’

  ‘Man, I don’t know. She just isn’t the woman I thought she was. Turns out the only reason she agreed to date me was because she wanted to make her ex jealous.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And, apparently, the plan worked. Hence my final date. After all that I just needed to speak to someone normal, you know?’

  Harri laughed. ‘Oh, let me guess: the normal person didn’t answer their phone so you had to call me instead?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that. No, actually, I value your opinion.’

  Quite taken aback by this unexpected compliment, Harri took a few moments to respond. ‘Oh – right – er, thanks, Al.’

  The ice thus broken on the subject, discussions about Alex’s love life began to pepper their Wednesday night conversations. Harri didn’t mind, really – it was worth it for her armchair adventures traversing the globe.

  It was about this time that Alex took the brave step of tackling the thorny subject of Harri’s lack of travel.

  ‘OK,’ he said one Wednesday night as he passed a bowl of spicy, smoky Hungarian Goulash to Harri. ‘Imagine right now I could give you a plane ticket to anywhere in the world.’

  Harri tore a strip of still-warm walnut bread and dipped it in the paprika sauce. ‘Then you’d be a millionaire and I doubt we’d be eating dinner in a tiny flat above a coffee shop.’

  Alex pulled a face at her. ‘Seriously, think about it, H: if you could pack a bag right now and just go anywhere, where would you go?’

  ‘Well, it depends.’

  ‘Depends on what? Come on, H, you don’t need to plan an entire itinerary before you go. This is make-believe, OK?’

  Harri scooped up a spoonful of goulash and blew on it, feeling cornered. ‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to just pick somewhere, Al. It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘It does, Harri! I’m talking turn up at the airport – money no object – and choose anywhere in the world. Just like that.’

  Harri dropped her spoon with a loud clank. ‘See, that’s so easy for you. Just pack your bags and go, without any thought for who or what you’re leaving behind. I have responsibilities, you know: my job, my cat, Rob . . .’

  Alex held his hands up. ‘Whoa, Harri, my good friend, it’s not real.’ He observed her carefully. ‘OK, seeing as you’re so woefully inept at this, let me help you. Let’s go for somewhere not too far away to start off with, like . . . like Italy, for example.’ Harri felt her heart give a little leap and her face must have betrayed this as Alex’s smile broadened. ‘Ah, good, Italy it is, then. How about Rome?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘Florence?’

  ‘I’d like to see Rome before Florence.’

  Alex clapped his hands, clearly enjoying this new game. ‘OK, good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Er – Milan?’

  Harri thought. ‘I’d like to see Rome and Florence before Milan.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘So, we need to find a destination to usurp Rome from the top spot.’ He screwed his eyes up, then opened them wide, snapping his fingers. ‘Aha! Got it! Venice!’

  Harri recoiled. ‘No. Not Venice.’

  Surprised, Alex leaned back in his chair. ‘Oh? Why not?’ She really didn’t want to be drawn on this, especially as Alex didn’t know about her secret longing to visit the city. ‘Just not, that’s all.’

  ‘But it’s meant to be beautiful, H.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s Venice ever done to you, eh?’

  She wriggled uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Nothing. This is getting daft now. Can we change the subject, please?’

  But her protestations were in vain. Alex had sensed the story beneath and wasn’t going to let go without a fight. ‘Nah. I want to know why not Venice. Let me guess: you don’t like canals?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You think it’s too touristy?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You have an irrational fear of gondoliers?’

  Harri had to laugh at that one. ‘You’re impossible.’

  Alex smiled cheekily and took a mouthful of goulash. ‘So tell me, why not Venice?’

  There was no point arguing with him when he was in a mood like this. Taking a deep breath, Harri told him the truth. ‘Because I don’t want to go there on my own.’

  ‘So get Rob to take you.’

  She dismissed it. ‘He wouldn’t enjoy it, Al, you know that.’

  He leaned closer. ‘So, you do want to go to Venice?’

  ‘Of course I do! I have so many books on the city that I could probably write a guidebook myself without ever having set foot there.’

  He leaned closer. ‘Really? So where’s the first place you’d go when you arrived?’

  Feeling her heart skip, Harri closed her eyes and she was there in the city she loved so dearly. ‘Santa Maria della Salute church and the Dorsoduro, where the maskmakers have their shops,’ she breathed. ‘Or anywhere. I’d just step off the vaporetto onto the fondamenta and head off in a random direction, so I could get lost – then have fun finding my way back.’

  ‘Blimey, you’ve really planned this, haven’t you? So I still don’t get it: if you love a place so much, why not head there first?’

  Harri sighed. ‘It’s just that if I’m heading anywhere, like you say, leaving all my responsibilities behind, then that means I’m travelling alone, right?’

  His expression clouded over. ‘Er, yes, but . . .’

  She stared at him. ‘So why would I want to go to one of the most romantic cities on earth on my own? Venice should be somewhere you are taken to, by someone who loves you.’

  ‘I see. And if the person you love doesn’t want
to take you there?’

  Her heart sinking, she shrugged. ‘Now can we change the subject, please?’

  Alex agreed, but sadness filled his eyes as he watched her eating.

  Two years since their first Wednesday evening – and countless whirlwind romances, acrimonious break-ups and midnight heart-to-hearts later – Harri was well versed in the Alex Brannan Rollercoaster of Life.

  A week after his mother’s Big Idea, Harri found herself rudely awakened by what sounded like a herd of frantic buffalo charging her front door. Struggling to focus, she grabbed her alarm clock and juggled it up to her eyes until its bouncing red numbers calmed down enough to make sense: 2.47 a.m.

  Muttering murderously under her breath, she snapped on the bedside lamp (half blinding herself in the process), wrestled the duvet away from her legs and half ran, half fell down the stairs towards the unrelenting hammering of fists at the door.

  ‘OK, OK, I’m here,’ she grumbled, fumbling at the chain and wrenching the door open. ‘What do you want?’

  The sight of the sodden, sorry figure on her doorstep stopped her anger in its tracks as torrential rain blew into the hallway, lashing her legs. ‘Alex? For heaven’s sake, it’s nearly three o’clock.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just – I didn’t know where else to go . . .’

  ‘Whatever, just come in.’

  Harri turned and strode through into her tiny living room, turning on lamps as she went and cursing as she stubbed her toe on a pile of books in the dim light. Alex followed behind, his soaked jeans and sweater leaving a trail of muddy water in his wake. Wincing as the kitchen strip light blazed into life, Harri filled the kettle and noisily pulled out two mugs from the cupboard overhead, throwing haphazard spoonfuls of coffee into each one. She let out a sigh and rubbed her sleep-filled eyes with clumsy fingers. For a moment the only sounds in the kitchen were the low buzz from the strip light and the hiss of water boiling. Then, Alex spoke from the doorway.