beyond the call of duty.
So, whilst Rob would indulge in copies of Survival Monthly or his extensive collection of Ray Mears DVDs, Harri knew she could always escape into the welcoming pages of Condé Nast Traveller and Lonely Planet magazine – and, of course, her favourite books on Venice and the Veneto.
For as long as she could remember, Harri’s imagination had been her sanctuary; she could escape into its endless possibil ities whenever she wanted to get away. As a little girl she would dream herself cycling past tulip fields in Holland, or twirling round an opulent Viennese ballroom in a beautiful gown to the swirling strains of Strauss; in her teens she would rollerskate along the promenade at Miami Beach, or spot multi-hued parrots in Brazilian rainforests; by the time she reached her twenties, she would be backpacking across Australia, bridge-swinging in New Zealand’s South Island, or riding galloping horses through the tide along Mexican beaches.
But Venice had always towered head and shoulders above the rest of her dreams. Its colour, opulence and uniqueness captured her heart and fired her imagination – her parents’ own dyed-in-the-wool romanticism alive and well, and coursing through her own veins.
When her parents were resting, or she just needed five minutes to herself, escaping was as easy as closing her eyes or opening a travel magazine. For a few moments, she could go wherever her heart desired. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t actually jump on a plane and visit these places; it was enough to imagine herself there. Where others would choose chick-lit, crime thrillers or historical drama to provide their escape, Harri chose a travel book. No matter where it was, as long as she could learn something new about the world, Harri eagerly consumed its contents, each new glimmering scrap of information adding to the growing travel library in her mind.
Fuelled by her daydreams, Harri’s longing to travel grew stronger as the years passed. The true extent of her desire to see the world was something she confessed to nobody but Ron Howard, the large ginger and white cat that had appeared in her front garden one December morning as a small, shivering kitten and stayed with Harri ever since. Harri had never considered herself a cat person, yet there was something she understood immediately about the tiny stray trying to shelter under the birdbath from the fast-falling snow. He was like her: adrift in a new, unfamiliar place, seeking refuge from the winter cold. Harri had not long moved into her cottage and was still feeling a stranger in her own home, surrounded by someone else’s curtains, carpets and paint colours. From the moment he made his impromptu arrival in Harri’s life, Ron Howard was a soul mate. Unlike Rob, Stella or anyone else, he didn’t mind watching awful foreign soap operas like Santa Barbara, or endless travel documentaries on cable. He liked nothing better than to curl up on Harri’s lap, purring or snoring loudly through hours of other people’s experiences. There was something uniquely comforting about a creature that required nothing more than food and fuss; no expectations, no conditions, no arguments – simply feed me and love me.
In many ways, Ron Howard was particularly un-catlike. He liked to play fetch with his toys or bits of screwed-up paper; he rushed to the front door whenever someone new appeared; he loved to have his tummy 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,