The Wish List (23 page)

‘Hahahahahahahaah! Not
the
Beyoncé,
obviously
. It’s a friend of hers who also happens to be called Beyoncé. That’s the fashion industry for
you!’

He frowns. ‘Still, I’ve never heard of—’

‘Look, it doesn’t matter what her friend’s called!’ I snap. ‘The point is, there is a friend. Who likes camping. And I’d been asked to take a load of camping
equipment to that friend’s – to Beyoncé’s – home. In Fazakerley.’

‘I see.’

‘Unfortunately,’ I continue, ignoring the suspicious wrinkle above his nose, ‘between the guitar lessons and moving jobs and . . . hooo-eee, all sorts of things that have been
keeping me terribly busy, I haven’t had a second to do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘Deliver the camping equipment.’

‘I see,’ he repeats, as if he’s about to expose me as the killer in
Death on the Nile
. I take out my key fob.

‘And so . . .’ I click twice and the boot springs open, displaying enough equipment to see us through an Antarctic expedition. ‘Ta-da!’

Rob’s jaw drops. And it’s immediately clear that he doesn’t share my enthusiasm.

‘Emma . . . did you definitely plan for us to stay in the inn?’ Rob asks as he stands watching while I breathlessly attempt to construct the tent.

‘Of course! These things happen.’ I take off my coat to try and reduce the torrential rate at which I’m perspiring.

‘Only . . . it seems odd that you happen to have had a tent in your car.’

I bend down and start to wrestle with a swathe of canvas. ‘I don’t know what makes you say that,’ I fire back. ‘Could you get that pole over here, please, and help me
pull this up?’

He takes a deep breath before walking over, picking up the pole and trudging to me. I take it from him and scrutinise both ends. I know this jumble of metal and canvas transforms into a four-man
tent somehow, because Marianne has told me it does. How such a phenomenon can be achieved is, at this stage, a mystery on a par with the construction of Stonehenge.

It’s not that I’ve never put up a tent before – I have. Admittedly, there were four of us at the time, one of whom was a practising Brown Owl. It’s that, despite
Marianne’s claims that this is a super-duper easy-peasy model, it emerged only after I’d unpacked it that the instructions are in Japanese (in which I’m distinctly rusty), and
it’s now dark.

I straighten my head torch, looking like I’m off for a hard day down the pits, before starting to screw together two poles. I am gratified to discover that, despite being a different
length to the ones I did earlier, I am at least starting to produce something vaguely tent-shaped.

‘Do you think you’ll be long?’

I pause. ‘I. Don’t. Know.’ My voice is icy enough to freeze my molars solid, but I can’t help myself. And Rob clearly notices.

‘Do you want me to help?’ he offers begrudgingly.

‘Why don’t you start unloading some stuff?’ I suggest, aware that if he gets started on this too he might spontaneously combust with frustration. It turns out to be a good
decision – and with my focus totally on erecting the tent, it takes me only an hour and a half.

‘Right, I think we’re done.’ I brush myself down, feeling quite proud.

Then I register that Rob is standing with a fixed, perplexed gaze, as if trying to work out the meaning behind a Damien Hirst sculpture. ‘Is it supposed to look like that?’

I frown. ‘Like what?’

‘Well . . . with that big baggy bit in the middle. And, you know, with the roof on that side so much lower than on the other. And . . . what are these for?’

He points to three poles on the ground.

‘They’re spares,’ I inform him confidently.

‘I’m just concerned it looks a little wonky,’ he adds. I take a deep breath and try to remain calm.

Technically, I can’t deny that he’s right. Necessity required that I made a couple of impromptu adjustments to get the thing up. We’d have been here until tomorrow otherwise
– and in the light of the spots of rain, I couldn’t hang about.

The result is that our accommodation, I will reluctantly admit, looks like it’s been erected by King Louie from
The Jungle Book
during an acid trip.

But, hey, looks aren’t everything, are they? There’s no way Bear Grylls would worry about that. He’d do exactly what I’ve done in potential adverse weather conditions:
improvise.

I usher Rob into the tent, follow him in and zip it up.

‘It’s a bit windy,’ he grumbles. ‘And that rain’s picking up.’

‘It just sounds heavier from inside,’ I tell him as I set about briskly pumping air into the blow-up bed. ‘It’s cosy in here, isn’t it?’ I smile, stomping up
and down. He throws me a look that’s about as pleasant as a sewer pipe.

There’s something about his sulkiness that makes me determined to enjoy this experience, whether he is or not. I mean, it genuinely isn’t that bad. The wind and rain
will
pass because the weather forecast said we were in for a clear night. And, as soon as it does, I intend to go outside in my sleeping bag and fulfil this item on my list, regardless of Rob’s
view.

Still, I can’t pretend life wouldn’t be a lot easier right now if my boyfriend was smiling.

I finish pumping up the bed, put it into place, and then suggest he goes and relaxes on it while I rummage in my rucksack for the most essential equipment of the evening: a bottle of Sauvignon
Blanc and two plastic glasses.

I unscrew the top and pour the wine, unconcerned that it’s warm and there’s a chip in the plastic. I hand a glass to Rob and give him a conciliatory smile. ‘Would this cheer
you up?’

He looks up, hesitates, then returns the smile sheepishly. ‘What makes you think I need cheering up? I’ve got my gorgeous girlfriend, that’s all that matters.’

‘So you’re not too annoyed at me for not having a room with two baths?’

He takes my glass from me and places both mine and his behind him on the ground. Then he takes my face in his hands. ‘I find it impossible to ever be cross with you, Emma,’ he says,
kissing me on the lips.

I don’t know if it’s the wine, the vigorous exertion involved in blowing up the bed or the sound of raindrops on the canvas, but Rob’s kiss feels suddenly very erotic.

I find myself pulling him into me, longing for his hand to venture up my top and possibly elsewhere. He senses my desire and responds by kissing me harder, moving his hands over the small of my
back, my bum, between my legs.

The wind is picking up, but I don’t care; I’m as warm as toast, conscious only of Rob unbuttoning my jeans and tracing his fingers across the top of my knickers. As my lips sink into
his, I submit to the lovely sensation of lust swirling through my body.

I pull him in closer, as the feel of his lips across my chest leaves my skin tingling. He goes to slide his hand down inside my jeans, but there’s no room, so he starts tugging at
them.

‘Wait,’ I whisper, attempting to roll back so I can get the jeans off myself. Only, the bed is so bouncy that removing them while lying down involves several unplanned sit-ups,
before I scramble to a half-standing position – the only one feasible, given that the roof is too low to take me at full height.

Rob reclines on the blow-up bed and watches me undress. His eyes are heavy with desire as they drop from my face to my hands, which are now tugging my jeans downwards. I try to do this sexily,
like in an Agent Provocateur advert, but with approximately four feet in which to manoeuvre it’s difficult to do anything but hop up and down in a half-stoop until both my jeans and the lacy
Brazilians underneath are finally off.

With my bottom half dealt with, I plan to whip off the jumper next, a prospect Rob is physically panting over. I kneel on the ground, grab the waistband and have it round my ears, when I become
aware of something.

‘What was that?’ I say, whipping my jumper back down. Rob looks alarmed too. And it’s immediately obvious why. Within ten seconds, the wind has reached alarming levels and the
tent – which looked as safe as houses twenty minutes ago – is billowing like a panto dame’s knickers caught in an industrial fan.

I’m about to grab my jeans and go outside to re-secure the tent pegs when, to my alarm and astonishment, one of them – on the right side of the tent – comes loose.

This single peg, in itself no big deal, paves the way for a cataclysmic whoosh of wind to sweep through the tent with the velocity of a category nine tornado, filling the entire structure with
air.

I’m vaguely aware that Rob and I are squealing as we dive to the ground, attempting to pin down the bottom of the tent with our hands. But I’m not nearly strong enough. And, before I
can work out how or what has gone wrong, there is a gaping hole in the side of the tent, the poles are rattling like the bones in a decomposed corpse and the whole thing looks certain to
collapse.

‘Quick! Grab that side!’ I yell to Rob, and he scrambles over, clutching the other side of the tent as I close my eyes against the relentless rain.

It’s at that point that a bad situation gets horribly worse.

I’m not sure how the eighty per cent of the tent Rob and I are gripping ends up on the other side of the field. All I know is that one minute I have it securely in my hands; the next
I’m watching in disbelief as it makes its getaway into blackness, while I stand redundantly with a tent pole in my hands, my bare bum exposed, and my hair and face being lashed with rain.

‘
What the fuck are we going to do?
’ Rob cries, which I must admit is a very good question.

‘
Run to the car!
’

I take the one piece of canvas left on the tent and wrap it round my midriff like a hideous, mildewed sarong, before gathering up our belongings and sprinting to the car, battling against the
elements. When we get there, it emerges that I’ve left the keys somewhere inside the tent so we’re both forced to run back, fall to our knees and scramble around on the muddy ground
until we find them, just in time to watch my blow-up bed disappearing across the field.

By the time I reach the car, I am too shocked, stunned and miserable to speak, and so is Rob.

So we say nothing. We curl up together on the back seat, sharing the blanket my dad always insisted would come in handy one day.

My sleep is fitful; I wake constantly through the night, with the window handle prodding my side, and shivering from cold because my hair is totally unwilling to dry. It’s typical that
it’s only when I see the sun start to rise over the hill that I’m so dogged with tiredness, all I can do is close my eyes again and submit to the slumber.

I’m midway through a glorious dream in which I’m interior-designing a house in Miami beach and the hunkiest builder you’ve ever seen is hammering nails into the wall to put up
a set of delightful bamboo blinds . . .

Only, he carries on even when they’re up – at which point I wake up with a start and realise the banging is real.

An elderly face peers through my steamed-up window, but before I wind it down I attempt to make my creaking body sit up, and pull my jumper down over my bare legs.

‘Morning!’ she grins. She’s in her seventies, with a smart Barbour jacket and unbrushed candyfloss hair.

‘Uhrrghh . . . hello,’ I croak.

‘Might these be yours?’ she asks cheerily, holding up a pair of knickers – my knickers – between the finger and thumb of her gardening gloves. ‘They were stuck in
my gooseberry bush and I’m about to give it a trim.’

If there was a scale measuring hyperactivity, Perry Ryder Junior would spend most of his life near the top of it.

His stint in Austria – despite supposedly being a time for contemplative reflection – did little to quell this; indeed, he returned more full of beans (mad, bad beans) than
you’d imagine possible for a grown man.

Yet, today, now, for the first time since I met him, he has sunk into his seat and is still, silenced.

‘I’m really sorry, Perry,’ I say, sitting opposite him. ‘You know I’ve loved working here in lots of ways and . . . I’ll never forget it.’

‘There’s nothing I could do to change your mind?’ he asks, his bottom lip wobbling. ‘A pay rise?’

I think for a second, then shake my head. ‘I’m doing this because I believe it’s for the best. It’s not as if I’m going to a competitor; I’m going because I
want to have a go at something completely different.’

Perry straightens his dicky bow, pulling himself together. ‘Of course, I understand. And, although I’m always sorry to lose good people, it’s not as if this place is going to
fall apart!’

‘Of course not.’

He swallows, then nods.

‘I’d better get back,’ I add, standing up.

‘Okay.’

My eyes are glistening with tears as I walk to the door, and when I have my hand on the handle, Perry speaks again. ‘Emma?’

I wipe my eyes quickly and turn round, hoping they’re not red.

‘I should have told you this earlier. Much earlier.’ He hesitates.

‘What is it, Perry?’

‘You’re brilliant at this job,’ he says flatly. ‘
Really
brilliant. That’s all.’

‘You did it, then?’ Giles huffs, when I get back to my desk.

I nod.

He shakes his head and swills his espresso round his mouth as if it’s Listerine, before swallowing it. ‘I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive you, Emma. How am I
supposed to cope here alone?’

‘From what I’ve heard you’ve plenty of reasons to stay cheerful outside work at least,’ I reply.

He freezes, then buries his head behind his computer. Although Giles is reluctant to talk about it, I know he and Cally have seen each other twice since the polo. I’m not sure it’s
the start of a blossoming relationship or anything so grand. Because while I wouldn’t go so far as to say my best friend is using him for sex . . . oh, sod it – I will say it.
There’s no other way of putting it. Still – until my resignation today – he’s been like a different person. He’s
happy
.

I open up the script I’ve been working on and scan through it, eager to tie up the loose ends. But the ring on my mobile interrupts me – and when I pick it up and glance at the
front, I realise it’s Asha.