Welcome to My World. Miranda Dickinson

Oxford, walking, cycling or just sitting in coffee shops, talking for hours. Rob fascinated her – with his knowledge of nature and his endless opinions on just about everything. It became a kind of a never-ending game that Harri played, bringing up new topics to see how quickly he could form a viewpoint on them. Rob loved that she loved it too; he would answer her with a wry smile, his cheeks flushing slightly at her wholehearted interest in what he said. She still loved their discussions, but his workload had significantly lessened the times when they were possible. While her love for Rob burned as brightly as ever, she could feel a dark resentment at his growing obsession with work bubbling within her. Since the Preston contract had loomed large in their lives, their time together seemed to be dictated by the company that employed him, as it demanded more and more of Rob’s time.

      Of Harri’s friends, Viv was the most vocal about Rob’s job.

      ‘Ooh, that man,’ she glowered, when Harri went to visit her a few days later, slamming a large bone-china teapot onto a cast-iron stand in the middle of the large pine table in her kitchen to emphasise her disgust. ‘If he put half the time he spends at that job into considering you, then you’d be married by now.’

      Fearing for the teapot’s safety, Harri reached across the table and gently rescued it from Viv’s vice-like grip. ‘I’ll pour, shall I?’ She was beginning to wish she’d never mentioned how much Rob’s absence was upsetting her.

      Viv grimaced, clearly rattled. ‘Sorry. That poor teapot – it’s a wonder it’s still here.’

      ‘Maybe we should get it some counselling,’ Harri said, pouring tea into two china mugs.

      ‘Do they do counselling for inanimate objects?’

      ‘Maybe they should.’

      ‘If they do then we can book your boyfriend in,’ Viv replied with a wicked smirk. ‘He’s about as inanimate as you can get when it comes to proposing to you.’

      ‘Viv, that’s not fair. Rob is a fantastic boyfriend and he’s working really hard for us. It isn’t his fault he has to be away so often. I just miss him, that’s all. And as for him proposing, well, I think that might be closer than we think. He bought me Dan’s book the other day – that’s the third present in a fortnight – and he keeps talking about “the future”. I honestly think he might say something, once this horrible Preston stuff is over. Anyway, the way things are at the moment, he’s fortunate to have a job at all, so I really shouldn’t be complaining.’

      Viv’s expression softened and she patted Harri’s hand. ‘Oh, my darling girl, I only worry because I want you to be happy. It’s what your mum would have wanted too . . .’

      It was time to change the subject, as Harri was feeling decidedly queasy. ‘So – I sent the letter.’

      ‘Which one?’

      ‘To Juste Moi. About Alex.’

      Viv’s eyes lit up. ‘And?’

      ‘I haven’t heard anything yet.’

      ‘Does Alex know?’

      Hmm, interesting question. Alex knew that Harri was going to help him find somebody – he just didn’t know how she was planning to do it. ‘I’ll tell him if they choose to feature him.’

      ‘Excellent,’ said Viv, rubbing her hands together like a silver-tressed, Laura Ashley-attired, fifty-something Bond villain. All that was missing was the large white Persian cat . . . ‘Then our plan is officially in action.’

      ‘Well, yes, if they accept him, that is,’ Harri warned.

      ‘Of course they’ll accept him! He’s gorgeous – way out of their usual league. I mean, you should see some of the sorry excuses for manhood they dredge up most months!’

      ‘Let’s just wait and see if they put our sorry excuse for manhood in their column, eh?’

      Alex was back to his usual chirpy self when Harri arrived at Wātea that afternoon – an amazing feat considering it was ‘Mad Mothers’ Wednesday’, when the local young mums’ group descended on the café. Harri picked her way carefully through the minefield of baby buggies to the counter, where Alex was filling measuring jugs with warm water and carefully balancing feeding bottles inside.

      ‘Do me a favour, pass these to the table behind you, would you? Lady with the screaming baby.’

      This description didn’t exactly narrow it down, as almost every woman at the large table appeared to be wrestling a noisy bundle of animosity. In desperation, Harri held the measuring jugs aloft one by one.

      ‘Purple stripe?’

      ‘Over here.’

      ‘Tommee Tippee?’

      ‘That’s mine, thanks.’

      ‘Mothercare?’

      ‘Which one?’

      ‘Er – pink bunny and yellow teddy bear.’

      ‘Bunny’s mine and teddy over there.’

      Alex looked appreciative when she turned back to him. ‘You’re a natural, mate. Are you sure you don’t want to change your career and work for me?’

      ‘What, and leave my exciting jet-set lifestyle at SLIT? No chance!’

      Alex returned to the espresso machine, grabbed a coffee arm and banged out the spent grounds. Filling it afresh from the coffee dispenser and tamping it down, he reattached the arm and set a mug underneath to catch the thick brown liquid as it dripped lazily from the machine. No matter how many times Harri watched him do this it never failed to fascinate her. There’s something incredibly powerful about watching someone work, Harri always found: Stella swiftly typing a letter without looking at the keyboard once; Viv cooking; Auntie Rosemary assembling a bouquet of flowers in one hand as she floated around her shop; even her completely barmy Grandpa Jim building some Heath-Robinsonish contraption in the small workshop at the bottom of his garden in Devon.

      Alex poured milk into the long-handled steel milkpan and turned a handle on the machine to release steam into its base. It was such an evocative sound – bubbly, crunchy and metallic all at once. Once frothed, he let the pan stand for a while, before bumping the base smartly on the wooden worktop and pouring its contents into the mug, holding the froth back with a spoon and then scooping out snowy blobs onto the top of the cappuccino.

      ‘There you go. I think you’ve earned that today,’ he smiled, dusting the top with chocolate powder as he pushed the mug towards her.

      ‘Thanks. So how’s Mad Mothers’ Wednesday going?’

      ‘Mad. I swear there’s more of them in here each week. I think they’re cloning themselves. Honestly, it looked like a scene from Ben Hur: The Early Years in here earlier – all those chariots parked up everywhere. Some of the old dears couldn’t even get in through the door. I’ve been a bit sharp with them, to be honest.’

      ‘Ah. Not much chance of you scoring a date with a single mum anytime soon then?’

      ‘Yeah. I think I might’ve burned my bridges on that one.’

      Harri feigned disappointment. ‘Oh, well, Plan B it is then.’ Amusement lit Alex’s eyes. ‘Excellent, maestro. So, what’s the plan then?’

      Harri looked around her like a shady informant in a thirties gangster flick, leaned closer to Alex and tapped her nose. ‘Can’t reveal my sources yet. Suffice to say that your name has been circulated in the right – er – circles. We should know more very soon. Until then, there are things only I know that you can’t know until it’s the right time for you to know, understand?’

      Alex held his hands up. ‘Crystal clear. Are you sure you’re capable of the mission, though?’

      ‘You doubt a woman of my obvious covert skills?’ Harri feigned astonishment. ‘I am a woman