The Wish List (10 page)

Two older boys pile out of the car after him, and then the man turns round. And every thought in my head rushes away like water slipping down a plughole as I stand, gasping, at my kitchen
window.

‘You have got to be joking.’ I realise I’ve tipped my pasta into a bowl of Domestos.

Matt Taylor, welcome to the neighbourhood.

Fifteen years ago, when I declared my ambition to ‘learn to play the guitar’, I assumed I’d be a natural. Even until recently, by which I mean thirty-five
minutes ago, that belief remained unchallenged. I had a
feeling
, nay a certainty, that I was a born musician. I love music – and wipe the floor with everyone else in the pop round of
our local pub quiz
.

‘When do I get to play a proper song?’ I ask Rob, strumming the guitar. Every time, in the second before I do this, I expect the resulting melody to be something Tracy Chapmanesque
– soulful and romantic. The reality is that it sounds like a chimpanzee attempting to riff with an empty Flora tub and four elastic bands. But I’m not perturbed – we’ve only
just started.

‘Normally after half a dozen lessons or so, although’ – he winces as I strum – ‘let’s say a dozen. To be on the safe side.’

He looks outrageously hot today – even hotter than I remember from when we were together, and, believe me, I never took that for granted. I simply couldn’t. All he’d have to do
was gaze at me with those glittering green eyes, or smile one of his devastating smiles, and I stood no chance.

I have literally never found a man as physically attractive as I find Rob. My two previous long-term relationships – with Mike, who I was with for the three years at university, and Will,
for four years in my early twenties – were more like friendships, with hindsight. And certainly never involved lust-levels comparable to these.

‘I was hoping this would be a crash-course. But, okay – as long as I can play something
good
by my birthday party. Like the Stone Roses or KT Tunstall. Oh and Adele’s
“Whenever I’m Alone with You” has a guitar bit.’

He looks alarmed. ‘It has
two
. That’s ambitious, Em. I was thinking more along the lines of . . .’ he hesitates. ‘“Kumbaya”.’

I give a feistier-than-intended strum, only for my plectrum to disappear completely into the hole in the guitar. A frustrating ten-minute break follows, during which I’m forced to tip the
instrument upside down, peer into the hole and shake it over my head repeatedly until the small piece of plastic plops out and almost harpoons my retina.

I can’t deny it feels odd being at Rob’s on a Saturday morning now we’re no longer an item. He lives in a two-bedroom apartment overlooking Sefton Park, which is lovely, or at
least,
could
be lovely. Rob is one of those men who have never quite got used to their mum not being around to clear up after them, and labour under the misapprehension that the only
cleaning a lavatory requires is flushing it.

I don’t want to overstate this; the place isn’t hideous. But you can tell a twenty-eight-year-old bloke lives here and not
me
, for example, whose instinctive urge to bleach
his dishcloths on walking through the door is as unstoppable as a category five hurricane.

‘You don’t look very relaxed, Em – let me show you the best position to sit.’ He gently takes the guitar from me, sending a shiver of electricity up my arm as our fingers
touch. Then he sits back and launches into the Verve’s ‘Bittersweet Symphony’. I find myself mesmerised by his hands, his fingers . . . his biceps. ‘Do you see what
I’m doing?’ he asks, finishing the song and handing the guitar back to me.

The muscles in his arms flex again as I take it from him and I’m suddenly struggling to respond. Oh God! I really
must
stop fancying Rob so much. It’s not good for
anybody.

‘I can do that,’ I say confidently, gripping the guitar and focusing on the task at hand. I picture myself as Laura Marling . . . Courtney Love . . . Susanna Hoffs. I imagine how
amazing it’d feel if I could play in a way that even
approaches
that by my birthday. I could cavort round the stage,
owning
it, lapping up applause as I swing my hips
and—

‘Emma?’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

I play only four notes, but my efforts are perfectly horrible. I’ve never felt like such an underachiever. The lesson lasts half an hour after that and Rob looks mentally exhausted when he
shows me out.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?’ I ask, as I drink in one last look of his face. ‘You know, getting together when we’re not still . . .
together.’

He hesitates then nods. ‘I’m sure we can both be grown-up about it, can’t we? It’s absolutely fine,’ he smiles, holding my gaze. My heart skips a beat.

‘Well, I’m really grateful,’ I whisper.

He nods again, failing to remove his eyes from my face. I suddenly want to kiss him, to hold his face in my hands and press my lips against his. But I know how catastrophic submitting to my
temporary lust for him would be when, ultimately, I can’t give him what he wants.

‘Enjoy the rest of your weekend,’ I manage, forcing myself to turn and head down the stairs.

‘You too. And keep practising, won’t you?’

I stop at the supermarket to pick up supplies for lunch with Dad. He offered take me out, go for a drive in the country, but as I know this would involve a Little Chef and a
technicolour array of money-off coupons, I take matters into my own hands.

The house hasn’t altered much since Marianne and I moved out, and even then the only bits that were updated after Mum died were the bedroom walls and the posters on them, which we once
revised bi-monthly.

I’ve offered to redecorate for him, to put my tendency to mentally interior-design everyone else’s house into practice, but he declined. It’s not that Dad’s incapable of
DIY; in truth, it’s one of his few obsessions, but all he does is repaint the walls in variations of the same shade (Dulux, Nutmeg) that Mum chose twenty-five years ago.

Technically, it’s not ‘my kind of house’; I love period properties, anything pre-twentieth century, with history and charm. This house has no history pre-us to speak of, no
original features or listed status. It’s simply a quiet, mid-sized semi with achingly suburban brickwork and equidistant bedding plants in the front garden.

That doesn’t change the fact that it’s home and always will be. I always knew that wherever I ended up in life – five minutes away or close to the Arctic Circle – this
was my shelter, a place of memories, happiness and excellent biscuits.

‘That you, Emma?’ Dad cries from upstairs as I enter the hall and am assaulted by a waft of Air Wick.

‘Hi, Dad,’ I reply, heading to the kitchen to unpack my bags.

‘Won’t be a sec!’

I’m preparing a chicken salad, with Classic FM in the background, when I hear Dad in the doorway.

‘
Ta-da!
’ I turn round. ‘What do you think?’

It is immediately evident that my father has been clothes shopping. This I know because every time he does so – on average once every two years – he does the
‘
Ta-da!
’ thing. At which point, Marianne or I tell him that he mustn’t, simply
mustn’t
, leave the house in daylight.

What I’m confronted with today, however, is different from the usual terrible jumper/too-big slacks combo. It’s different and it scares me. The problem with this outfit is not that
it’s unfashionable. It’s so
on trend
, I start hiccupping in shock.

‘What in God’s name are you wearing?’ I splutter.

He frowns. ‘Do you think it’s a bit groovy for my age?’

I look him up and down, taking in the Superdry T-shirt straining across his generous belly. He looks like Father Christmas going surfing. I take in the jeans – the
twisted
jeans,
no less – and, just before my head spins round, I focus on the bag. It’s . . . it’s . . . a man bag! My father owns a
man bag
!

This situation could not be more wrong if it had a giant ‘F’ and ‘See me after class’ stamped on it.

‘It’s definitely erring on the groovy side, Dad.’

‘How did your guitar lesson go?’ he asks gaily.

‘Hmm . . . I’ve got some way to go, but it was only my first lesson. I’m determined that by my birthday I’ll be playing “I Am the Resurrection” by the Stone
Roses, or something of that standard.’

‘I’ve got great faith,’ he grins. ‘Anyway, come and sit down. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. I need your advice.’

I was six when we lost my mum. I wish I could say I remember her vividly but, to my enduring frustration, I don’t. Marianne, being a little older, has something I
don’t: memories. Rich, plentiful reflections of the past.

I can recall only fragmented bits and pieces, a scrapbook of thoughts collected from anecdotes and photographs. Such as the one in which she’s painting my toenails pink, or laughing on the
beach – or drawing pictures with Marianne at the kitchen table.

There’s one particular photo I love of all three of us, the women in the family. She’s wearing a silk shirt and a diamond necklace that I apparently loved to borrow, convinced that
simply wearing it qualified me as a princess. I’ve no idea what happened to the necklace; it went missing somewhere along the way, like most of my memories.

You get different reactions when you tell people your mum passed away from cervical cancer at the age of thirty. Some are horrified to have asked, fearful that the mere mention will reduce me to
tears. Others are awkward, some emotional, some just plain sad.

Except I’ve lived without a mum for seventy-five per cent of my life and my sense of loss isn’t acute; it’s not furious or all-encompassing. On some days, it barely feels like
a loss. I hardly had her in the first place. But therein lies my sadness in those moments when I do think about her. A quiet, underlying sorrow for something – someone – I’ve been
denied.

Mum was the love of Dad’s life, a woman who defined him as much as he defined himself. She was seven years younger than him and they couldn’t have been more different. She was
soft-spoken, clever and beautiful; he was the outgoing but gentle soul who quietly adored her. Which was about the only thing Dad did quietly.

‘So, Emma,’ he says, twiddling with a Bourbon biscuit. ‘Have you heard of a thing called . . . Match. Dot. Com?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Well . . . you might not believe this. But I’ve got a date.’

No, no, no, no. And no.

Coping with the idea of my father in a skinny-fit T-shirt is one thing. Supplying him with dating advice is quite another. What the hell does he want me to say – ‘Make sure you use
protection’?

‘It all stemmed from me joining that Facebook whatnot,’ he explains, filling the kettle. ‘It’s smashing that – isn’t it?’

I can’t bring myself to respond. I hyperventilated enough when I got the friend request from him. I couldn’t believe it.
My
father. On Facebook. With one hundred per cent
access to every hen-night picture I’ve been tagged in, including my old university friend Sarah’s Amsterdam jaunt with the six-foot penis (and I’m not referring to the
waiter).

‘Well, I told Deb and she started saying that now I’d gone all digital I should do some
internet dating
.’ He whispers the last two words behind his hand, as if
he’s sharing his pin number with me at a football match.

Deb is assistant manageress at the shop my dad established thirty years ago. It’s a mobility shop, with every brand of scooter, stairlift and walking aid known to man. My dad can say more
about battery charging and off-road capabilities than any unsuspecting customer thought they wanted to hear. Deb has been his sidekick for sixteen years, an outspoken redhead he refers to as a
‘girl’, despite her being fifty-six.

‘She met her new man, Barry, on it,’ he continues. ‘I don’t think much of him, personally. A flashy sort – he goes line-dancing. Still, the principle obviously
works. She’s been banging on about it for months and I finally thought: why not? I’m going to Doodle it.’

‘You mean Google.’

‘Absolutely.’ He puts down two teas and carefully tears off the lid of one of those little milk portions you get on flights. Given that it’s been two years since he last went
abroad, I try not to think about this. ‘I’ve been a member for a month. I wasn’t impressed until I met Suzie – the lady I’m going out with.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, she’s got all her own hair and teeth and—’

‘No, I mean, why weren’t you impressed with the others?’

‘Oh.’ He squirms. ‘Lots weren’t my type. They were a bit too . . .’

‘What?’

‘I hate to use the word floozy—’

‘I hope you avoided
them
,’ I interrupt, horrified.

‘Of course. Suzie’s nothing like that. We’ve been emailing for three weeks.’

My mind is awash with thoughts. I know I should be full of encouragement; after all, it’s twenty-three years since Mum died and Dad’s never gone out with anyone since, not
properly.

He did have one ‘friendship’ a few years ago with a woman who ran the Neighbourhood Watch in the next road, but that ended abruptly when she suggested that all the photos of Mum
should be put away as they were hurting her feelings.

Obviously, I don’t want Dad to grow old by himself. Obviously, I’d love him to hook up with a lovely woman who adores him and could persuade him to paint the hall a different
colour.

At the same time, I feel an instinctive unease. Especially as one obvious question is nagging at me.

‘This Suzie isn’t eighteen, is she?’

He looks appalled. ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

‘Because you’re dressed like one of the Inbetweeners.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘She’s fifty-eight. And the reason I’ve bought new clothes is simply because Suzie’s
with it
. She’s chic. At least, she looks it on
Facebook. She used to be a dancer.’

‘She sounds nice,’ I reply, hoping that
dancer
doesn’t mean
stripper
. ‘So when’s your date?’