Harriet owned a sleek chain of jewellery boutiques in the heart of London. Her father had helped her set the business up, and now, at forty, she strutted through society galas, flickered across glossy magazine covers and rubbed shoulders with the citys glitterati actors, pop singers, barristers and the like. She was also the proud mother of a sprightly boy called Mark. In other words, her life was neatly buttonedup, except for one glaring omission: love.
Despite a fivebedroom flat in a posh borough, Harriet felt an absurd loneliness that even a butler with a silver tray couldnt cure.
She hadnt always lived among the Thames and doubledecker buses. As a little girl she grew up in the market town of York with her doting granny, Molly. When Harriet was six, her parents were poached by a London firm on a threeyear contract and had to leave her in Mollys care. The old woman adored her, my little sunshine, she would coo.
At sixteen Harriet fell headoverheels for her classmate James. He returned the sentiment, and the pair spent their teenage years glued together, oblivious to anyone else. Grandma Molly, who had raised five children herself, simply waved a hand and muttered, What havent we all done at sixteen? A bit of foolishness is part of the package.
After school they both enrolled at university. In the first term Harriet cheekily told James, Get ready to be a dad. He grinned and replied, Always ready! A month later, however, Harriet snatched her enrollment papers, packed a bag and hopped a train back to London to stay with her parents. James was left floundering, so he trudged to Mollys cottage for answers.
What are you thinking, lad? Youll feed a baby with textbooks? Lovelove isnt a toy, lovelove, and a child needs more than a lullaby, Molly chided, trying to untangle the mess.
James penned a hurried note to Harriet. She replied in a single word: Come. He rushed to London, only to be greeted at the door by Harriets mother, Margaret Clarke.
Good afternoon, Im James. Im here to see Harriet, he said, trying to sound confident.
Margaret smiled politely, ushered him into the kitchen and said, Well, dear, I have a favour to ask. Please leave our family alone. Forget about Harriet.
Could I wait for her? James ventured.
No, shes at a spa retreat. Shell be back in two weeks. Youve done all you could. Well sort it out from here, Margaret snapped, ending the conversation with a decisive tap of her tea cup.
James stood there like a nail driven into a wall. She rose from her chair, as if signalling the end of the moral lecture, and James shuffled out, sitting on a bench outside the flat before catching a train to the station.
For James, Harriets name would become a sort of saintly beacon for years to come Stella in Latin means star, after all. She turned into his guiding light, a lighthouse he could never quite reach. He returned home, buried himself in his studies, and wondered whether to storm Harriets life, give up, or simply move on. First loves, after all, have a way of sticking around like a splinter.
When Harriet eventually gave birth to Mark, James darted back to London, bearing a stack of presents for his newborn. Margaret, ever the ice queen, cooled his enthusiasm: Well raise Mark without you, thank you. We cant have our daughter subsisting on porridge and ale, as you seem to think would suit us. Tend to your own affairs.
Deflated, James trudged home, where his mate whispered, Watch out for a rich fatherinlaw hes as nasty as a horned devil. James would spend the rest of his life nursing a love for Harriet that never received a reply, while time slipped away faster than a London rainstorm.
Enter Felicity, a brighteyed lass who loved James with the kind of sincerity that could melt butter. They married, and a daughter called Julia joined the mix. In the early years of their marriage, James soaked up Felicitys affection like a sponge.
On the eve of their wedding, James confessed, Ive always dreamt of someone else. Felicity, though wounded, retorted, Your words cut deep, love, but Ill survive and fight for you. My love will be enough for both of us.
James eventually became mayor of his hometown, while Harriet still lingered in the back of his heart. Over the years their paths crossed again; James visited London, met the nowteenage Mark, and Harriet eventually remarried. Her new husband turned out to be a chap Margaret adored after all, shed handpicked him for her daughter.
Five years later, after a stint living with her husband in London, Harriet chose solitude and drifted back to York. When Mark turned fourteen, teenage turbulence erupted. James, your sons gone rogue! Come, help! Harriet shouted into the phone. James dropped everything, bolted to London to rescue his beloved.
Meanwhile, Felicity watched James leave, perched by the window and weeping. After years of sharing a home with James, shed grown accustomed to Harriets midnight calls. When the phone rang, James would spring from the bed, dart to the bathroom, whisper something tender to Harriet, leaving Felicity to play second fiddle. She never quite knew whether her husband appreciated her boundless generosity. Her heart felt like a locked room with no window, often clouded by confusion.
Yet whenever James returned from his London trips, Felicity felt a womans bliss her soul sang because he was home, and she imagined herself perched on a pedestal of marital bliss. She strove to be the ideal wife, dreaming of unlocking the castle of their marriage with a golden key, wiping away undeserved tears, and staying silently supportive when James waddled in a massive teddy bear for Mark as a gift. What steadied her was Jamess unabashed love for their daughter Julia, a comforting whisper from her grandmother: A wife is a plaster to a husband, a husband a shepherd to his wife.
Spring blossomed, and James prepared once more for a trip to London this time for Marks wedding. Felicity knew the reason: the ceremony. James brought a sweet present for the happy couple a twoperson holiday voucher to Greece.
Amid the wedding revelry, Harriet leaned close to James and murmured, Maybe we could start over?
James exhaled a weary sigh and replied, No, Harriet. Its too late. Im marrying my Felicity. I could never find a better wife.
