CHAPTER 35
Harriet
Dorset
That evening found Harriet striding down East Street, her hair blowing in the wind.
It was dark already but the sky was clear and a half-moon glimmered in the indigo sky.
Joanna was about to head off to Prague, so Harriet had decided to take the opportunity to meet her next contender.
Third time lucky . . . And she’d decided already that this would be her last. The dating site had been fun, it had taken her out of what she thought of as her rather humdrum existence for a while, it had made her think that she could escape, that she could be someone else. But . . .
She pulled her bag higher onto her shoulder.
It was hardly even a bag; just a small black leather purse with a thin shoulder strap.
She’d bought it for herself yesterday and felt guilty ever since.
She had only ever owned cavernous, practical, no-nonsense bags that would comfortably hold half a kilo of potatoes, a cauliflower and a dozen eggs as well as her purse and a packet of tissues.
This black leather purse spoke of a different life.
And although she was meant to be browsing for Christmas presents, it had seemed to call out to her.
It was the kind of purse that Joanna would own – and it was half price, she saw, as she checked the tag.
Cavernous bags were hardly suitable for evening wear. Whereas this . . .
She couldn’t escape her life – she had made a promise to her father and she would never break it.
But that didn’t mean that nothing could change.
She touched the purse lightly with her fingertips.
It was smooth, soft and blissfully impractical.
It was a treat, it made her feel different.
Elegant. The new me, she thought, with a slight swing of the hips.
She checked her watch. It was seven thirty-two p.m. precisely.
She stopped to glance in an estate agents’ window, wondered, as she kept doing these days, if Joanna would end up staying in West Dorset.
She wouldn’t be surprised – and something inside her felt glad.
It had been a long time since they were close, but although her sister could still be profoundly irritating, Harriet now realised, after her break-up with Martin, that Joanna’s life wasn’t perfect either, that she too had her problems, her issues, her fallibilities.
And Joanna had certainly been fallible this afternoon when she’d been so busy looking at old family photographs that she’d entirely failed to notice another tradesman had come to call.
Harriet shook her head in despair. She’d only found out about this because she’d slipped into her mother’s room earlier this evening to fetch her cardigan and noticed the bed was covered with shiny brochures.
Where had they sprung from? She picked one of them up.
The Gardenia Conservatory. Make every day a hothouse. ‘Brimming hellfire,’ she’d muttered.
Joanna had come out of her bedroom, looked in and said, ‘What’s up, Het?’ She’d hovered in the doorway – probably poised to make a quick getaway.
‘Have you seen these?’ Harriet picked up another. ‘The Tulip Temple?’ Ye Gods . . .
Joanna had smiled uncertainly. ‘It doesn’t hurt to dream,’ she said. ‘Does it?’
Harriet shook her head. She was entirely missing the point. ‘But how did they get here?’ she asked. ‘Who brought them?’ And had Mother committed them to buying a conservatory and simply failed to mention it?
Joanna hesitated. ‘There was a builder here this afternoon. But don’t worry, I got rid of him.’
Harriet waited.
‘Well, to be honest, Het, he was here for a while. I didn’t realise who it was downstairs. I assumed it was Owen or someone from the village.’
And she didn’t think to check? Harriet clicked her tongue. ‘And how exactly did Mother get in touch with a builder?’ She felt as if she was fighting a losing battle.
‘Ah.’ Joanna looked a shade guilty. And took a step back onto the landing. ‘That could have been my fault too, I’m afraid.’
‘You didn’t let her use the phone?’
Joanna grimaced. ‘I taught her how to use email.’
‘You . . . ?’ Words failed her.
‘She was interested in my work. She seemed to be enjoying learning about new technology. I wanted to give her a hobby, like we discussed – you know . . .’ Already, Joanna was halfway across the landing. ‘I didn’t really think,’ she amended.
No. That was her problem. She never thought. And Mother, it seemed, had turned into someone who was as devious as they came.
‘I’m sorry, Het.’ She was halfway down the stairs now. ‘But maybe she found the builder online.’
‘Online . . .’ Her mother now had access to every tradesman in the land – virtually. It was hopeless, wasn’t it? Why did Harriet bother? She had absolutely no control over this household.
She sighed. And she’d had the dream again last night. Go back to sleep, little one. By the morning it will have flown away. Memories like gossamer. Uncatchable. It had been as unsettling as ever.
Seven thirty-five. Harriet didn’t want to be early for her date – it was against the rules. She dawdled past the charity shop, pretending an interest in a red teapot complete with turquoise cosy that stood in the window like a reminder of times gone by.
Come to mine, Scott had written in his email. We can chill out there in comfort.
Mine . . . It sounded special. In fact, everything about him sounded special.
But Harriet was a realist and it was far too risky to go somewhere private when you didn’t know someone from Adam or Jack the Ripper.
She thought of her prowler – she hadn’t seen him since the binoculars episode, but no doubt he wasn’t far away.
And she knew Scott even less well than other correspondents from Someone Somewhere.
They had only been emailing for a few days.
Even meeting, at this stage, was rash. But there was something about this man that seemed different – in a good way.
So . . .
I like comfort, she had written back to him, adding (firmly), but for a first date I think we should meet somewhere more public.
It was daring enough to be meeting him in the dark rather than in broad daylight. For heaven’s sake. She didn’t want to commit dating suicide.
Right, he wrote back. Cool.
Indeed.
He had suggested the Vassar Bar at the top of the Bull Hotel.
Go through the ballroom. You can’t miss it.
Harriet walked on. There were still plenty of people wandering up and down the street, going into the pubs, a large group heading into the Thai restaurant over the road. She took a deep breath and entered the Bull Hotel. She checked her watch once more. Seven-forty. Perfect.
She climbed the stairs and walked through the empty ballroom. There was only one man in the bar, so it had to be him. He stood up.
Harriet gulped. Even in the dim light – there was a huge central pear-drop chandelier but it must be on a dimmer switch as it barely shimmered – she could tell that he was absolutely gorgeous.
He was tall, lean and rangy. He had long hair tied back in a ponytail – oh, God, just like one of the farm workers they’d had when Harriet was sixteen.
Jamie. Harriet shivered at the memory of his brown back and frayed denim jeans.
Scott was wearing denim jeans too. And a white linen shirt.
‘Hi,’ he said in a low and husky voice.
‘Hi.’ Harriet wondered if she was still breathing.
‘Good to meet you, Harriet.’ He had restful eyes (blue, she decided, though she couldn’t really see in this light) and a welcoming smile.
‘And you.’ Harriet looked around the small, square room.
‘What an amazing place.’ She had to distract herself, stop herself from drooling over this apparition.
The Vassar Bar had gold brocade curtains at the windows and Persian rugs on the wooden floor.
The furniture was antique and ornate, candles burnt on the pitted wooden tables casting a flickering light, and something soulful and jazzy was playing softly in the background.
There was a piano in the corner and the bar was long and smooth polished mahogany, backed by stacks of gleaming glasses and bottles of spirits and liqueurs of all shapes and sizes.
‘Yeah.’ Scott motioned for her to sit down next to him on the red leather Chesterfield in the centre of the room.
Harriet inched her way past the wooden table. How old was he? No more than forty, surely, although fine laughter lines were etched into the soft skin around his eyes. Good sense of humour then, she thought. And maybe a strand or two of distinguished grey in the hair?
‘However did you find it?’ She had lived all her life a few miles up the road and she hadn’t known the bar even existed. Not that she came to the Bull very often – hardly ever, in fact. How would she have the time?
They spent the next hour or so chatting, although it could have been longer, Harriet was so enamoured she even forgot to look at her watch.
Anyway, she didn’t need to check the time, she had the whole evening off; Owen and Joanna were with Mother (Owen had pretty much jumped at the chance, it had to be said).
Harriet was free . . . She looked deep into Scott’s eyes. And what a way to enjoy her liberty.
Scott had never been married, he told her, though there had been a few ‘special ladies’ in his life – which was hardly surprising. Harriet watched him as he sauntered up to the bar, oozing confidence, their two wine glasses held loosely by the stems in one hand.
‘I just haven’t met the right person,’ he said, putting another glass of chilled white wine in front of her. ‘I guess I’m too much of a romantic at heart.’
‘Me too,’ Harriet breathed, although this was a relatively new addition to her persona – it had made a brief appearance in the days of Jamie’s supple brown back and then stayed dormant until she walked into the Vassar Bar tonight.
‘Truth is, I’m looking for a princess,’ he said, leaning closer.
My God, Harriet thought. That was upping the ante. She wasn’t sure she would ever be princess material. She eyed the wine warily. She’d had one glass already, and the glasses were so big that each one was practically a jugful.
‘Someone to look up to and adore.’
‘Really?’ Her voice was weak.
‘Everyone’s so cynical these days.’ He twirled the stem of his glass.
She stared, half hypnotised by his long brown fingers, by the pale yellow liquid splashing gently against the sides of the wine glass. ‘I suppose they are,’ she agreed. And after all, in this world, who could blame them?
‘But I can tell you’re not cynical in the least,’ he assured her.
‘Me?’ She laughed as if the idea was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.
Scott put his wine down with some force. Harriet felt the vibration. ‘Cards on the table,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ Harriet held her breath.
‘I’m looking for someone who wants to dream the dream with me,’ he said.
‘The dream?’ She had almost forgotten how to dream.
She thought of what Joanna had said about their mother’s dreams – Harriet had never seen them as dreams before, never thought about it that way.
Of course, there was the dream that she kept having at night – not a nightmare, because her father was in it, so it could never be that.
But other dreams . . . She wasn’t sure if she had ever even had them.
There had only ever been life on the farm, looking after everything, and then the promise she’d made to her father – to keep it all going, to watch over Mother, to be strong. She sighed.
‘Someone to love.’
Harriet closed her eyes. Any moment he might propose.
‘Is it too much to ask?’ he demanded.
I could do it, Harriet wanted to shriek.
I could be that princess, I could live that dream.
But she managed to hold back somehow. Instead, she opened her eyes and sipped her wine.
‘Are you a poet?’ she asked. ‘I write myself occasionally.’ Shopping lists mainly, but that was beside the point.
Joanna had proved that there was a writing gene in the family and Harriet was damned sure she could do it too – if she only had the time.
‘God, you’re a perceptive woman.’ Scott clasped her hand and Harriet almost passed out in excitement. ‘I write lyrics mostly. And I play the guitar, of course.’
Of course . . . Harriet had always wanted to go out with a musician. They would be good at so many things, she felt – understanding, sympathy, rhythm.
‘In fact, I got shortlisted for Song for Europe once,’ he said modestly.
‘Wow.’
‘And I sent some stuff to Cat Stevens.’
‘Did he—?’
‘No, he sent it back. But someone who worked for him said he liked it.’
‘Teaser and the Firecat,’ she murmured.
‘Hmm.’
They seemed to be on the same wavelength and he had started to stroke the base of her thumb absently. Harriet worried that if he didn’t stop soon, she was likely to reciprocate by ripping open his shirt.
She just smiled when he went up to the bar to order another two glasses.
‘What about you?’ he asked on his return.
‘Pardon?’ Harriet’s eyes, which had been half closed in ecstasy, jerked open.
‘Have you had much stuff published?’
‘Oh, the odd thing here and there.’ She waved her hand airily. ‘But mostly I write for my own pleasure.’
He nodded appreciatively. ‘It’s a mistake to allow commercial considerations to intrude on the path of one’s vital creativity,’ he said. ‘Go with the creative flow, that’s what I say.’
Harriet couldn’t agree more.
And so, half an hour later, when he suggested coming back to mine for the second time in their brief acquaintance, she didn’t say no.
But, ‘I must use the . . .’ She struggled to her feet, which wasn’t easy because of the low height of the Chesterfield, the total state of relaxation and desire that had swept over her and the three large glasses of wine she’d consumed.
The Ladies’ Powder Room, as it was called, increased her feeling of the surreal.
Harriet stepped back into the past once more, into a land of pink flocked wallpaper, gilt mirrors, Victorian washbasins and scented hand towels.
She examined her face in the mirror, dusted more powder on the shiny bits and reapplied Joanna’s lipstick.
She’d wanted her life to change, hadn’t she?
‘So?’ he asked her when she returned. He put a hand on her shoulder and the heat of his palm seemed to burn through her thin blouse.
Harriet tried to look casual as though she did this – what? what? – every day of the week. ‘The night is yet young,’ she said, smothering a giggle.
Scott took her hand. ‘You’re so right,’ he said.
And he led her out of the bar, through the ballroom with the white balustrade and orchestra gallery, and the sash windows of bevelled glass that reached from floor to ceiling. Down the stairs and into the dark, velvet night.