Chapter Four
Recycle Your Man
Harri can’t think straight: too many voices competing for attention inside her weary mind. She looks down at her shoes – new and probably too expensive for her, bought especially for tonight – even though until the very last minute she wasn’t even certain she was coming to the party at all. They are gorgeous – and they were meant to make her feel special, which they do – or did, at least until about an hour ago. Sixty quid for a pair of purple high heels – more than she’d ever spent before. How times change . . .
‘That photographer bloke you like’s got a new book out,’ Rob said one Saturday morning as they were browsing the bookshelves in Bennett’s Pre-Loved Books in Innersley, the market town that lay five miles from Stone Yardley. Rob and Harri had spent most of the weekends of their relationship here, mooching about the farmers’ market, enjoying coffee at Harlequin Café or wandering round the various antique shops dotted along the main street, but since Rob’s promotion last year to Sales Team Leader in the specialist hydraulics firm where he worked, he had been working away most weekends – so this occasion was a notable exception.
‘I know, but it’s forty quid,’ Harri sighed. ‘I can’t justify that cost for a book. Even if it is Dan Beagle.’
Rob wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘I know it’s tough right now, but if I make good on the Preston job things’ll start to look brighter.’
Harri slipped her arm round Rob’s waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘Reckon we can scrape enough change together for a coffee?’
Rob kissed the top of her head. ‘I think we can manage that. You go and grab a table and I’ll buy the drinks.’
Harri walked to the side of the bookshop where a few small tables were nestled between the bookcases. Choosing one near the large window that looked out onto Innersley’s Sheep Street, she sat down. The bookshop had a unique scent – dust, old leather, ink and coffee – and no matter how many times she came here, she was always bowled over by it. Watching the sun streaming through the window in swirling dusty splendour, she drank in the moment. It was days like this that she loved the most – just her and Rob, whiling away the lazy hours together.
As if he knew what she was thinking, Rob appeared, his figure cutting through the rays of sunlight as he walked towards her carrying a tray.
‘Nigel took pity on us,’ he grinned as he sat down. ‘He said he needed help finishing off these muffins, so I volunteered our services.’
‘Excellent. Good old Nigel.’ As Harri took a bite of raspberry and white chocolate muffin, Rob slid a green and white striped paper bag towards her.
‘And this is for you.’
Surprised, Harri stared at it. ‘You haven’t been spending money on me again, have you?’
Rob’s eyes were full of sparkle. ‘Might have. Open it and find out.’
Harri reached inside the bag and gasped. ‘Dan’s book! But – that’s so much money, hon – you can’t afford it.’
‘Yes, I can. You’ve had your heart set on this book for months, so I wanted you to have it. No arguments, OK? If Tierney, Gratton and Parr want me to work all hours to win their precious Preston contract then I think the very least they can do is fund your travel book collection.’
Harri hugged the book to her chest. ‘Thank you so much!’
‘Ah, here they are!’ boomed a deep voice as Nigel Bennett, owner of the bookshop, appeared by their table. Though it had been many years since he retired from the RSC in Stratford-upon-Avon, his theatrical Shakespearean delivery was still impressive – every word correctly enunciated and every ‘r’ rolled. ‘Our semi-resident young lovers! How good to see the two of you – Lucien and I had all but given you up for lost.’ He reached down and lovingly patted a doe-eyed chocolate Labrador by his side. ‘Shall we imprison young Robert here to save him from Preston’s clutches, Harriet?’
Harri smiled. ‘Maybe we should. Thanks for the muffins – they’re wonderful.’
Nigel flushed with pride and proffered a flourishing bow. ‘My pleasure, dear lady. I shall leave you lovebirds to enjoy your Saturday. Adieu!’
Rob watched him go. ‘Got to love Nigel.’
‘Absolutely. It is great to have you all to myself this weekend, though,’ Harri admitted.
‘Yes, it is. Hey, I don’t like working away all the time, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘But it’s for us, Red, honestly. If I can land the Preston contract then it means we can start to think about – you know – the future and stuff.’
The sun streamed through the window of the bookshop in swirling dusty splendour as Harri leaned against her boyfriend. It was days like these that she longed for – where anything was possible and they were together. If only Rob’s company would grant him more free weekends . . .
In the past few months, Rob’s mentions of ‘the future’ had become noticeably more frequent, fuelling Harri’s hope that maybe he was leading up to formalising their commitment. He had occasionally alluded to them moving in together, but what Harri really wanted was for them to get married.
Truth be told, while Harri’s regular attendance at Stone Yardley’s parish church contributed to this decision, the main reason for her resistance to cohabiting was that she wanted to be proposed to. Old-fashioned it may be, but Harri maintained her hope that Rob would actually want to marry her. And despite the passage of seven years without any such monumental happening, Harri’s hope remained. After all, Rob loved her and he was working hard to provide for their future. Therefore it was only a matter of time before he proposed. Wasn’t it?
When Harri first met Rob, at a charity football match organised by Merv, Viv’s on-off gentleman friend, she had been completely bowled over by him. And, it seemed, the feeling was mutual.
Rob had been talked into joining the football team by his boss at work and, hoping for a promotion, he agreed. His case was greatly helped by the fact that he was pretty nifty on the pitch, scoring three textbook goals against a team of weedy solicitors from several local law firms. Athletically built and fast on his feet, Rob ran rings around their defence and Harri couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was perfect: his chestnut-brown spiky hair, hazel eyes and olive complexion, coupled with a smile that could melt chocolate, made for a killer combin ation. Harri couldn’t help thinking he looked like Frank Lampard – the reason she had watched several televised matches, even though she possessed very little interest in the beautiful game itself. When Merv called him over to meet Harri, Rob Southwood had looked at her like all his birthdays had arrived at once.
‘A redhead, eh?’ he had smiled. ‘I’ve heard they’re trouble.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.’
‘Oh, really? Then I wouldn’t mind dispelling the myth with you sometime.’
‘That sounds like fun,’ Harri had replied. ‘So how about this evening over a drink?’
‘Perfect.’
So they arranged to meet, Harri hardly believing her good fortune at securing a date with the handsome stranger. Drinks had quickly become dinner, which turned into a lively, animated discussion at his house late into the night. When Harri finally stood to leave, Rob escorted her to the door, opened it and then surprised her by placing an arm across the doorway.
‘You’re amazing, Harri. I have to see you again.’
‘I’d like that, Rob.’
Then he’d pulled her