Welcome to My World

Right at the start, there are two things you should know about Harri: one, she doesn’t usually make a habit of locking herself in toilet cubicles during parties; and two, she is normally one of the most sane, placid individuals you could ever meet.

But tonight is an exception.

Because this evening – at exactly 11.37 p.m. – the world Harri knew ended in one catastrophic event. In the space of three and a half minutes, everyone she loved collided in an Armageddon of words, leaving mass carnage in its wake – sobbing women, shouting men and squashed vol-au-vents as far as the eye could see. Powerless to stop the devastation, she resorted to the only sensible option left available – seeking refuge in the greying vinyl haven that is the middle cubicle in the ladies’ loo at Stone Yardley Village Hall.

So here she is. Sitting on the wobbly toilet, black plastic lid down, head in hands, life Officially Over. And she has no idea what to do next.

It was all Viv’s idea. Harri should have said no straight away but, being Harri, she decided to give her first Sunday school teacher the benefit of the doubt.

‘You know how useless Alex is at finding suitable girlfriends,’ Viv said, lifting a steaming apple pie from the Aga and in advertently resembling a serene tableau from
Country Life
as she did so. ‘He’s hopeless! I mean, twelve girlfriends in the last year and not two brain cells between them. Danielle, Renée, Georgia, Saffron, two Marys, three Kirstys, an
India
, for heaven’s sake – and the last two I can’t even remember . . .’

Harri smiled into her mug of tea. ‘Lucy the weathergirl and Sadie the boomerang.’

Viv looked up from her flour-dusted
Good Housekeeping
recipe book. ‘The
boomerang
?’

‘Yeah, you know, the one who keeps coming back when you chuck her,’ Harri grinned.

‘Harriet Langton, you can be awfully sharp for someone so generally charitable.’

Harri gave a bow. ‘Thank you, Viv.’

‘So, anyway, about Alex . . .’ Viv smiled – and then presented her Big Idea. So subtle in its introduction, it seemed so inn ocuous that nobody could have predicted the devastation it was about to cause.

It began with a nib feature in
Juste Moi
, Viv’s favourite women’s glossy magazine. Between articles on the latest fashions that Hollywood starlets were scrapping over, and scarily titled features such as ‘Over 50s and the Big-O’, was a small column entitled ‘Free to a Good Home’.

‘People write in,’ Viv explained, ‘and nominate a man they know, to be recycled.’

‘Recycled?’ Harri repeated incredulously. ‘Into
what
? That sounds horrific.’

‘It’s not like going to the bottle bank, Harri. It’s presenting a man who’s been unlucky in love – you know, divorced, recently separated or just plain rubbish at finding the right girl – to a whole new audience.’

‘I can’t believe that works,’ Harri giggled. ‘I mean, who writes in to a magazine to ask out a guy they’ve never met?’

Viv shot her a Hard Paddington Stare. ‘
Plenty
of people, apparently. You would be amazed at how many responses this column gets. Listen to this. “Our February ‘Free to a Good Home’ candidate, Joshua, received over two thousand letters from women across the UK, all keen to prove to him that true love is still very much alive and well. Josh thanks all of you who replied, and is currently whittling the responses down to his top ten, whom he will contact shortly to arrange dates. Good luck, ladies!” How about that? What does that tell you, Harri?’

Harri wrinkled her nose. ‘It tells me that there are too many desperate women out there. Two thousand sad, lonely and deluded individuals letting their dreams get abused in the name of journalism.’

Viv’s enthusiasm was unabated. ‘It does not. It means that concerned friends and mothers – like, well,
me
, for example – can have the opportunity to find someone truly worthy of the men they care about. After all, we mothers know our sons better than anyone else, so who better to pick the perfect girlfriend for them?’

‘It sounds kind of creepy to me. And what about the women who write in? How do you know that the guy you’re pinning your hopes on isn’t some sad loser who’s single for a very good reason – like halitosis, or strange hobbies, or an unhealthy aversion to personal hygiene?’

‘It’s all very well for you, Harriet, you have a lovely boyfriend. You’ve been in a relationship with Rob for so long that you’ve forgotten the pain of being single. Alex doesn’t have that luxury, remember. So I’m just acting in his best interests.’

‘You aren’t thinking about nominating Alex, are you?’ Harri felt like her eyebrows were raising so high they would soon be visible above her head, making her look like a Looney Tunes cartoon character. ‘No way, Viv! How would he feel if he knew his own mother had put him up for auction in this meat market?’

‘I’m not suggesting
I
nominate him, sweetheart,’ Viv said with a reproachful motherly smile.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘I’m suggesting
you
nominate him.’

The suggestion hung in the air between them, sparkling in its audacity. Harri needed a few moments to take it in.

‘
Sorry?
’

‘Well, I can’t do it, can I? Al would instantly dismiss the notion on the grounds of me being an interfering mother.’

‘And he wouldn’t do the same with an interfering best friend?’

Viv looked sheepish and folded her hands contritely. ‘Harri, I honestly wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t the only way to help my son. I’m worried about him – despite what he thinks about me being a nosy old busybody.’

‘It’s a really bad idea. He’d be mortified by it – I know I would.’

‘But he doesn’t need to know about the magazine part. And we could vet all the replies he gets.’ She pointed at the picture of the last successful candidate. ‘Over two thousand replies for him – and, let’s face it, he’s not exactly a supermodel. Just imagine the choice we could have for Alex!’

Harri had to agree that Joshua the ‘Free to a Good Home’ nominee had a face only a mother could love. Alex, on the other hand, had no problem attracting the opposite sex. It was just attracting the right kind that he struggled with.

‘I know he needs help, Viv, but is this really the best option?’

‘You know better than most how woefully inept my son is at forming meaningful relationships. You’ve had the pleasure of living through each disaster with him. I know he confides in you.’

‘All the same, it sounds like a nutty idea to me.’

‘Well, my son seems to live his life by nutty ideas. You don’t just walk out of a perfectly good job and go travelling around the world for ten years if you’re in any way sane, do you? The point is, Harri, Alex is a lovely, honest, good-looking young man and he will be a fantastic catch for the right young woman. Besides, you’re always saying that he goes for the wrong sort of girls – so this is the perfect opportunity to find the
right sort of girl
for him. Don’t you think?’

Viv had definitely missed her true calling, Harri mused. She would have made a great prime minister, or UN negotiator, or crazed terrorist . . . But despite it all, Viv was right: Alex possessed a near legendary bad taste in women. It was also true that Harri suspected Alex deliberately pursued women he had little intention of settling down with.

Of course, if Harri could have seen into the future, she would have refused, point blank. She would have laughed it off, changed the subject, or just grabbed her coat and left. But right then, she decided it was better to be involved and keep Viv in check than it was to risk Alex’s mother doing it alone.

So Harri said yes. And that’s when the trouble started.

‘Harri? Are you in there?’

Behind the locked cubicle door, Harri remains silent. There is an awkward pause on the other side, and the sound of kitten heels nervously tapping, as the woman standing by the basins appears to be debating her next line.

‘Um . . . listen, Harri, this probably isn’t as bad as it looks right now. I mean . . . um . . . OK, it does look pretty bad, actually, but if you just come out I’m sure we can discuss this calmly and rationally with everyone . . . um . . . well, with the people who haven’t left yet or . . . um . . . gone to hospital . . .’

Another pause. Then a large sigh.

‘Well, OK, I’ll . . . I’ll leave you to think about it, hon.’

The ladies’ loo door opens and the kitten heels beat a hasty retreat.

Harri shakes her head.

Stella Smith was Harri’s oldest and dearest friend.

They met on Harri’s first day at school, in the small playground at the front of Stone Yardley Village Primary. Harri was five and a half, and was beginning her schooling there six months later than most of her classmates, having recently moved to the area from her birthplace in Yorkshire.

Her first memory of Stella was of a tall, dark-blonde-haired girl in a red polo-neck jumper – which appeared both to accentuate her long fingers and elongate her neck like a Masai tribeswoman – heading confidently towards her, clutching a large bag of crisps.

‘Shall we be friends?’ Stella asked (although it was more of a command than a question).

‘Yes,’ Harri replied.

Stella smiled at her new friend. ‘Good. Have a Monster Munch then.’

And that was it.

Twenty-two years later, their taste in refreshments had matured from Irn-Bru and Wagon Wheels to lattes and Starbucks’ Skinny Peach and Raspberry Muffins, but Stella and Harri’s friendship remained strong as ever.

To the casual observer, Harri and Stella’s friendship might have appeared to be a strange mix. Stella was well-known for commanding attention wherever she went (now being nearly six feet tall with long bottle-blonde hair, cheekbones to die for and practically no inhibitions makes that easy). Harri, on the other hand, was quietly confident and assured; barely five feet four with wavy auburn curls, big blue eyes and more than a healthy dose of common sense. But when they were together, something magical happened. In Stella’s company Harri found she could be herself, whilst Stella felt safe, accepted and loved. It was, in many ways, the perfect combination.