Free Summer at Shell Cottage by Lucy Diamond

the basket of toiletries awkwardly balanced on one arm as she typed. Could meet you for coffee afterwards if you fancy
it?
    His reply came two minutes later as she was paying for her purchases at the till.
    Sorry, will be a while yet! Lots to discuss – but going v well. Xx
    Harriet wrinkled her nose in disappointment then stuffed the phone back in her bag and handed over a twenty-pound note to the cashier. Oh well. It had been a long shot, she supposed. With a bit
of luck, that American editor would be drunk by now and promising Robert that yes, of
course
his wife and stepdaughter could join him for the New York leg of the tour . . .
    She rolled her eyes at her own pipe dream and left the shop. Now to bump straight back down to earth by seeing if she could hunt down a pair of shorts on the high street which didn’t make
her bottom look too elephantine. ‘This could take a while,’ she murmured to herself as she strode grimly forwards.
    After a bruising hour spent wincing at the sight of her unflattering-shorts-wearing reflection in various changing rooms, Harriet decided to abandon the idea and wear long,
leg-hiding skirts all summer instead, whatever the weather. Even on the beach if she had to. Never mind that Robert’s sister Freya was sure to be swishing around in floaty chiffon tops and
stylish tea dresses in Devon. Never mind that Olivia, Robert’s mum, was the most intimidatingly elegant woman ever, even when she’d been swimming in the sea, for heaven’s sake,
somehow remaining luminous and poised when everyone else was soggy and tousled with salt in their hair. Never mind that Harriet’s only existing shorts were a pair of denim cut-offs which were
getting a bit thin between the thighs now and had a grease mark on one buttock, where she’d accidentally sat on a discarded chip paper at Notting Hill Carnival last year.
    To hell with the search for new shorts. Everything she tried on made her look like a comedy holidaymaker, rather than chic beach goddess. She just had to hope that Olivia and Freya didn’t
remember the denim cut-offs from last summer and – worse – chose to comment on them.
Goodness, Harriet, they’ve lasted well, haven’t they?
Shorthand for
Goodness, Harriet, buy yourself a new pair of ruddy shorts, will you, for crying out loud? Those ones are hanging by a thread, you cheapskate.
    No. They weren’t like that, thank God. And if they did notice, they were both too well mannered to comment anyway.
And besides, Harriet,
she told herself, suddenly cross at her
own self-absorption,
they’ll be far too preoccupied with everything else, i.e. missing poor dead Alec, to give your fat arse a second glance, for heaven’s sake.
If anyone was
going to be rude about her attire, it would be Molly, who seemed to think Harriet chose each outfit specifically to annoy or embarrass her.
    Marylebone was one of Harriet’s favourite places to browse, with the heavenly cheese shop, gorgeous boutiques and cool Scandi design shops tucked into the stately Victorian mansion blocks
and Georgian houses. Yet today, she felt defeated. By the time she’d slunk empty-handed from the last clothes shop she could bear to trawl through, she wished more than ever that Robert had
taken her up on the offer of coffee and a chat. He was the lovely sort of husband who could reassure a woman about her thunder thighs in a way that was actually convincing. Or else he’d just
take the mick out of her for caring and turn the whole thing into an affectionate joke, somehow managing to cheer her up and make her feel devastatingly attractive to the whole of humankind before
she knew it.
    She wondered for the hundredth time how his lunch meeting was going . . . and then let out a gasp of excitement as she noticed that the Marylebone Tavern was just across the street. Ooh!
Quel coinkydink,
as Molly would say. Should she peer through the window? Pretend to be casually passing by and –
Oh! Robert! Fancy seeing