The Wish List (24 page)

‘Hi, there, how are things?’

‘Emma – I need to talk.’

‘Is everything okay?’ I ask.

‘Yes. No. Look, can you do lunch? I’ll meet you at the Egg café.’

The Egg is a Liverpool institution, a vegetarian bolt-hole reached via a creaky, poster-lined staircase. It’s pleasantly bohemian, with brightly coloured furniture,
vintage art and fantastic views over the city. We take a seat by the window and order our usual: cheese on toast with three salads.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

She takes a deep breath. ‘We’ve been spotted.’

My eyes widen. ‘By his wife?’

‘No, by Christina’s old friend, Tara.’

I try to think of something insightful and wise to say. ‘Shit.’

‘We drove to a restaurant in the Wirral last night, thinking we’d be unlikely to bump into someone we knew there – most of both of our friends live on this side of the
water.’ She shakes her head. ‘It was stupid, we were still close to home—’

‘What happened?’

‘We went to that lovely place in Heswall on the River Dee. We had a gorgeous dinner. It was the sort of night that underlined how much I cannot be away from this man. How much I love him.
How natural and good we are and . . .’ She pauses and looks at me. ‘Emma, the problem when you have all those feelings is that they make what you’re doing seem . . .
normal
.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You convince yourself that it’s acceptable for things to be the way they are, because so much feels right. Then you start behaving like normal couples in love do. Your guard is
dropped.’

‘What happened, Asha?’ I urge.

‘We were coming out of the restaurant, arm in arm, laughing . . . cuddling. Then I looked up and there was this woman. She was on her way into the restaurant with another woman who I now
know was her sister. She was standing, gawping at us.’

‘Did Toby say anything?’

‘No – everyone was too shocked. We just doubled our pace and jumped into the car. Toby looked like he’d had a heart attack.’

‘Oh God, Asha. So has this friend—’

‘Tara.’

‘Has she told Christina?’

‘Not yet. She spoke to Toby on the phone this morning – and gave him hell. She says the only way she can possibly keep this a secret is if he dumps me immediately.’

‘She’s agreed to keep it a secret? From her
friend
?’

‘For now – until she decides what to do. She says it’s for Christina’s sake and not his. And she’ll only do it if he gets rid of me, instantly. Which of course he
won’t do – although he’s not going to tell Tara that, obviously.’

I hold her hand as she fights back emotion. ‘On the plus side, maybe this will bring matters to a head. Clearly, this won’t happen for a little while, so the dust can settle after
Christina’s dad’s death. It’s just impossible at the moment.’

A waiter arrives with our lunch and places it in front of us. And suddenly I’m glad of an excuse not to respond.

‘A new job. That’s a huge one to cross off your list – you must be thrilled,’ says Matt, crossing his legs as he slouches on my living-room sofa with a
cup of coffee.

‘Yep.’

He frowns, taking in my expression. ‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you?’

‘God, no! The job looks amazing. Did you look at the company’s website?’

‘I did. And you’re right – it looks great. I’m sure you’ll settle in immediately. It’s really exciting. And there’s no doubt you’ve got a knack
for interior design. I love the way you’ve got this place.’

‘Well . . .
I try
,’ I reply, mock-smug.

He laughs. ‘I’m serious. Everything from the furniture to the pictures on the mantelpiece looks great.’

‘Technically, I’ve probably got too many – but I love the pictures of us all before my mum died.’

He stands and walks to the mantelpiece, picking up a photo of my mum on the beach in Wales with Marianne and me when we were tiny. I’m wearing the gaudiest swimming costume in the world
and my fringe looks as though it’s been cut by someone midway through a game of pin the tail on the donkey.

‘She was beautiful,’ he says.

‘She was, wasn’t she?’

‘What was she like?’

I shake my head. ‘I wish I could tell you. It breaks my heart sometimes. This woman who made me, gave birth to me, loved me . . . I hardly remember a thing.’

‘You must talk to your dad about her.’

‘Yes, sometimes. It’s not the same, though.’ I’m suddenly keen to get off the subject – so I sit on the sofa and take a sip of my drink. ‘So who’s going
to make my coffee for me with you out in bloody Iceland for a full week next month?’

He grins. ‘Oh, come on, haven’t you picked up anything yet? I thought the master taught you well?’

‘I’m afraid not, Yoda. I had a go the other day and it tasted like liquidised rabbit droppings.’

He laughs.

‘I am
so
jealous, by the way,’ I tell him.

‘Of what?’

‘What do you mean, of what? I mean of your trip to Iceland. I mean of you seeing the Northern Lights. I mean . . . the fact that you are living one of
my
dreams and are totally
blasé about the whole thing.’

‘Why have you never been?’

I sigh. ‘I’ve never really had the money. My budget for the list stretched to just under £600. With the polo and other bits and bobs, it’s disappearing fast – and
what’s left isn’t enough to fund a holiday. Plus, it’s not Rob’s sort of thing.’

Now that my boyfriend is speaking to me again, it’s obvious that anything less than a beautiful plush hotel is simply not worth suggesting.

‘Well, you should go one day. You’d love it.’

‘I know,’ I say glumly.

‘Honestly, it’d be right up your street.’

‘I know,’ I add.

‘You’ve got unbelievable countryside, amazing natural beauty. You can go snowmobiling, ride in jeeps . . .’

‘Boys’ stuff,’ I say dismissively.

‘. . . and then there’s the unbeatable nightlife of Reykjavik, some beautiful hotels and restaurants . . .’

‘Now you’re talking my language.’

We both laugh. Then he pauses and looks at me. And, in a heartbeat, says a sentence that I’m convinced I mishear: ‘Come with me.’

I carry on laughing. And laughing. Then I stop and realise he’s serious.

‘Matt, I couldn’t.’

‘Why not? I’ve already got a hotel room. You can have the other twin bed.’ I try not to blush. ‘All you’d have to do is get the flights and some spending money.
Admittedly, it’s not the cheapest place, but you could come just for a day or two.’

‘Matt, honestly, I’d love to but I couldn’t.’

‘You’ve got time off before you start the new job, haven’t you? Oh go on, it’d be fantastic. I’ll be working most of the time, but you could come with me
and—’

‘Matt!’ I snap, stopping him short. He suddenly looks embarrassed.

‘Sorry . . . I just thought . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘Silly of me.’

‘No, no it wasn’t,’ I insist. ‘It’s lovely of you to offer. Seriously, I’d love to go . . .’

‘So what’s stopping you?’

There is no way I could go on holiday with another man when I already have a boyfriend who loves me and is prepared to forgive me over the tent business. That would make me a hideous and
horrible human being . . . and I am certain that is a category into which I do not fall. I hope not, anyway.

‘It’s just a bad time – I’ve got loads on and . . .’ My voice trails off.

‘No worries,’ he shrugs, sipping his coffee. Then he smiles. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

Unfortunately, I think I probably do.

My final three weeks at work are a flurry of deadlines, panic – and Perry flapping around so much I’m convinced that if he stands too near the window he might
actually take flight, like a crazed version of Icarus just before his wings melted.

We’re preparing to go to broadcast at the moment, so it’s a tense and busy time, so much so that I barely get time to dwell on the fact that soon I’ll no longer be doing
this.

I’m so busy I hardly see or talk to anyone outside work except to know that Dad goes on two more (crap) dates, Cally and Giles seem to be stealing plenty of moments together and Toby
swears to Asha
on his life
that she’ll be put out of her misery soon.

On Friday, everyone at the office spills into the pub round the corner, unconcerned that I never even had time to organise a proper leaving do. It turns out to be one of those spontaneous nights
that simply wouldn’t be as good if it’d been planned. Everyone’s been so high on adrenalin for the last week that they proceed to let their hair down so comprehensively,
it’s simply impossible not to enjoy it.

Of course, it helps that Perry is splashing the cash, buying bottle after bottle of champagne and demanding to know who wants to come dancing. We end up at the Krazy House, a dusk-till-dawn club
full of students, blokes who look like WWE wrestlers . . . and Perry. Whose pogoing causes quite a stir.

I slip away before most of the others have left, unable to face the tearful farewells, and bump into Giles on the way out – he’s apparently on his way to Cally’s. Given that
the time is 12.45 – when Zachary will have been tucked up in bed for at least a few hours – it has ‘booty call’ written all over it. Giles insists she has a plumbing
emergency.

‘Have fun with your pipes, then,’ I say, hopping into a taxi.

I wake earlier than I’d hoped the next morning, my thoughts dominated by the idea of an entire week ahead with nothing to fill it. Actually, that’s not strictly
true. I’m having a double guitar lesson this week with Rob, who’s concerned about my inability to progress from page four of
Guitar for the Terminally Hopeless
. I pad through
to the kitchen and rewrite the mental list of things I’ve been meaning to do when the opportunity arises. Clean the windows. Sort out my sock drawer. Speak to a pension adviser. I
couldn’t be facing a less exciting week off if I’d volunteered to count the gravel on the drive.

I go to open the fridge to get out some milk and spot my list, realising I haven’t yet crossed out ‘Gain job as internationally renowned Interior Designer’. The
‘internationally renowned’ bit might have eluded me, but I think I can count this as a moral victory.

The thought that I’ll be in a new job in just over a week sends a rush of exhilaration through me. I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

You’re doing the right thing, Emma. You’re definitely doing the right thing.

When I open my eyes I look at the list – and at what I’ve done so far. I’m not doing
too
badly – even if ‘sleep under the stars’ and ‘have a
one-night stand’ never materialised. And I’ve at least got a clear idea about how to achieve most by 22 December.

I haven’t started the diet yet, of course – it’s only the start of November and I don’t want to begin too early and risk putting all the weight back on again. I’m
planning on a last-minute cabbage soup diet, which is apparently one hundred per cent effective, but does make your bowels feel like they’ve been attached to a centrifugal air compressor.

The only truly troublesome items now are visiting the Northern Lights and finding the man I’m going to marry, but I discounted the latter on day one anyway.

A car boot slams outside and I glance through the window to see Matt about to get into his car. He pauses and waves. I wave back. As he drives away, my mind starts imagining what it’d be
like to sit on a plane next to him, to fly off to an adventure that involves seeing the Northern Lights.

I shake my head. Get a grip, Emma. Get a bloody grip.

The following Wednesday, something happens in front of
One Born Every Minute
. I’ve never seen it before, even though Asha never misses an episode and has been
trying to persuade me to watch it for weeks.

We’ve been sitting on Rob’s sofa in front of it for forty-six minutes and I can’t deny it’s more than averagely gripping – even if it’s had a similar
psychological effect on me as
The Human Centipede
would have on my grandma.

The main protagonist is a woman in her thirties who was clear from the beginning, when she unpacked her bag of candles and whale music CDs, that she wanted
absolutely no drugs
.
She’s midway through having her epidural now. Ten minutes later, as the baby wriggles into the world and the camera focuses on his lovely, squished-up face, I can’t help but smile.

I regret it instantly.

Because a second later I realise that Rob is looking at me.
With intent
. His glistening eyes travel my face, interpreting my expression. And I know, I
just know
, what
he’s thinking. I am suddenly near-telepathic, such is the clarity and volume with which his thoughts are transmitted.

That could be us one day, Emma.

‘No,’ I say.

He frowns. ‘No what? I didn’t say anything!’

I slink down into the sofa. ‘Oh. Sorry.’

Rob cuddles up, his big arms round my waist, and I’m almost startled by how physically beautiful he is. From the flawless, tanned skin on his arms, to the immaculate features of his
devastatingly handsome face. I’m very lucky, in so many ways.

Yet, as we slouch here, flicking through the channels, something nags at me. Am I making too much of the camping trip, a disaster I not only should have predicted but which was caused entirely
by me? I knew Rob hated that sort of thing – and the fact he’s no good in a crisis hardly makes him a bad person.

But does it underline a fundamental incompatibility between us, the one that made me split up with him in the first place? Oh . . . I don’t know!

‘Is everything all right?’ He kisses me on the cheek.

‘Hmmm,’ I reply, forcing a smile.

‘You’re sure you’re okay with me going away this weekend? I’d much rather be with you than on a stag weekend but he’s my cousin and—’

‘Rob, it’s fine,’ I interrupt. ‘Of course I don’t mind you going away. And you’ll love Barcelona. It’s a great city.’

He tightens his arms round me and the squeeze feels good. The thought of splitting up with him again makes my stomach knot. And yet, here I am on a normal week night . . . feeling wrong.
Uneasy.