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the monopoly on happy-ever-afters.’

      ‘Sorry.’

      Stella took a sip of her coffee and pulled a face. ‘This stuff doesn’t get any better, does it?’

      Harri smiled. ‘Shh. Ralph will hear you.’ She looked round to see if the short, white-haired proprietor of the Vale Edge café was listening. Thankfully, he was engaged in an extremely animated conversation with the leader of a group of local ramblers, who were laying siege to most of the picnic tables around where Harri and Stella sat.

      ‘I don’t mind if he does. It’s high time our Ralphy learned about decent espresso.’ Stella flapped her hands as a thought blew into her mind. ‘Ooh, ooh, I meant to tell you, Stefan finally solved the problem of who you remind me of.’

      Harri wasn’t aware this was a problem. ‘Oh?’

      Clapping her hands Stella smiled triumphantly. ‘Amy Adams.’

      ‘I do not look like Amy Adams.’

      ‘Yes, you do. All that annoyingly gorgeous red hair of yours and your amazing blue eyes – you’re the total spit of her.’

      Harri shook her head. ‘Just because I have auburn hair and blue eyes does not make me Amy Adams. Anyway, last month you thought I looked like Debra Messing and last year you said I was a dead ringer for Julianne Moore. Aren’t you just working your way through red-headed actresses?’

      ‘Nope. Not this time. Stefan and I were watching Enchanted and he said, “She looks like your friend Harri.”’

      ‘Hang on a minute – you were watching a Disney film with Stefan?’

      Stella jutted her chin out. ‘He happens to be a fan of animation. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

      Harri held her hands up to call a truce. ‘Hey, if your fabulously wealthy boyfriend wants to revere the House of Mouse, then who am I to question him?’

      ‘Exactly. So when does this form thingy have to be back with the magazine?’ Stella asked, expertly swinging the conversation back.

      ‘As soon as possible. They really like him, Stel.’

      ‘I told you they would. Of course, you could always just forget to send it back . . .’

      The thought had crossed Harri’s mind, but now the magazine knew about him they were likely to pursue Harri for information. It was too late to back out. ‘That’s not going to work, mate. I’ve got to do it.’

      There is something to be said for careful consideration and thought. Since the loss of her parents, Harri had relied upon her head to lead the way for every decision she made. As far as Harri was concerned, it was a much better option than trusting her heart, which often sent her in a different direction entirely. Unfortunately, she was surrounded by an entire clan of heart-followers – Viv, Alex, Stella and even Tom at work – none of whom seemed to agree with her cautiousness.

      ‘How are you ever going to do exciting things if you spend all your time just thinking about them?’ Stella often asked.

      Secretly, Harri longed to be the type of person who threw caution to the wind and just went with the flow. Like Alex was. The tales of his spontaneity were nigh on legendary. He had just decided, one Monday afternoon thirteen years ago, whilst sitting at his desk in the large insurance firm he worked for, to quit and see the world. He typed out his resignation letter, walked straight into his boss’s office and, five minutes later, cleared his desk and left the building forever. Four weeks later, he was on a plane to Australia with only the next four months of his life planned. From there he met a friend who was travelling to New Zealand, so that’s where he went next, finding a job at a backpackers’ hostel for six months, doing general chores at first, then working in the kitchens. One of the girls visiting the hostel was the daughter of a hotel owner in Singapore who just happened to be looking for a sous chef for his busy restaurant, so Alex packed up again and went to work there. And so it continued, year after year; one spur-ofthe-moment decision after another, taking Alex all over the world.

      ‘How do you do it?’ Harri asked him one Wednesday night, as he expertly juggled steaming pans in the kitchen of his flat above the shop. This particular evening Malaysian Ginger Prawns were on the menu, stir-fried with fresh root ginger that made the tongue tingle and sweet honey to soothe the palate, served on a bed of fragrant jasmine rice. As Harri leaned against the breakfast bar, the aroma of the meal sent images of floating markets, bamboo houses and piles of multicoloured spices whizzing through her mind.

      ‘How do I do what?’ Alex replied through a cloud of ginger-infused steam as he lifted the wok lid.

      ‘The whole spontaneity thing.’

      Alex let out a laugh that filled the whole room. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

      ‘I’m just curious.’

      ‘Considering becoming a spontaneity convert, eh?’

      ‘I didn’t say that. It’s just that I seem to be the only person in the entire world who can’t just do things.’

      His eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘And that bothers you?’

      Harri felt her defences prickle. ‘No, not really. It’s just – something I was thinking about, that’s all.’

      Alex’s grin was mischievous but not unkind. ‘Ah, well, you see, that’s where the problem lies, H: if you’re thinking about being spontaneous then you’ve kind of missed the point.’

      Harri shook her head. ‘Very funny, Mr Seat-of-His-Pants-Flyer. Forget I said anything, OK?’

      ‘Aw, mate, I’m sorry. You just make it too easy . . . Look, I can’t explain how to be spontaneous. It’s something you do, not something you psychoanalyse. Don’t question, don’t worry and certainly don’t deliberate. If it feels right, you just go with it.’

      ‘But don’t you ever worry about it all going wrong?’

      ‘Heck, Harri, you know me. Sometimes it does go wrong. Spectacularly wrong on several occasions, as you no doubt can recall. But I never worry about it: if it all goes belly up then I just deal with the consequences. If you think about things too much, you’ll never do anything, or go anywhere.’

      Harri could almost imagine a version of herself setting off happily into the unknown – but quickly the questions and contingencies returned, blocking out the possibilities. ‘Well, who’s to say that my way isn’t the best?’

      Alex thought for a moment, then lowered his voice as if to soften the blow of what he was about to say. ‘Nobody, I guess. You may very well be saving yourself from a shed load of failure by being cautious. But look at it this way, mate: would you rather be walking along a gorgeous palm-fringed beach somewhere or reading about it?’

      It hurt, of course, but he was right.

      Sitting in the cosy living room of her cottage the following Sunday evening, Harri stared at the completed ‘Free to a Good Home’ form in front of her. Though she said it herself, she had done a great job: Alex was well and truly described on the single A4 sheet. The woefully single readers of Juste Moi were going to tremble in their fluffy slippers at the mere sight of him. In fact, reading her description of him, even Harri was impressed.

      She was about to file it safely away behind the clock on her mantelpiece (just so she could have a final think about it that night to make sure she was doing the right thing) when a thought hit her. If there was ever a time to practise spontaneity, this was it. She wasn’t going to post it in the morning, she was going to post it right now. True, no self-respecting postie was likely to be collecting mail from her local postbox at 11.30 p.m. but at least the form would be in the box and therefore safe from Harri’s second thoughts, which would doubtless halt its progress if it remained behind the clock. Kicking off her slippers, Harri grabbed the envelope and purposefully licked the flap, sealing it with a confidence that shocked her. Then

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