The Wish List (2 page)

I am feet from the front door when I career into something large and hurtle to the floor, generating a noise comparable in volume to that of a runaway boulder smashing into the side of a
mountain.

I blearily register that it’s one of those inflatable space hoppers with ears for handles and a smiley face painted on the front. Then I register something else. The bedroom door is
opening . . .

I scramble to the front door, open it and throw myself out. Then I sprint down the street as fast as is possible in two strappy sandals with only one heel between them.

One week earlier . . .

Have you ever stumbled across something you completely forgot existed, but the second it’s in your hand, your head floods with memories?

That’s what happens when I discover the list.

It was the picture of my mum blowing out candles at her thirtieth-birthday party that tumbled out of the photo box first. It’s not the best image of her. It has that slightly blurry
quality of most pre-digital snaps – from the days when you could count on only two pictures in a film of twenty-four not to have decapitated the subject matter.

But you can see this much: she’s laughing. Her face is full of joy, her eyes sparkling with life. She looks so carefree. And she was. The date on the back is 17 January 1988. Just a few
weeks before everything changed.

The picture belongs in an album that fell out of my photo box – the one I had to wrestle from the cupboard to reach my overnight bag. It’s not the only thing that puts a momentary
halt to packing for my forthcoming weekend away.

The list is written on a folded piece of A4 paper tucked in the back of the album. The handwriting is neat and distinctively teenaged, embellished enthusiastically with biro hearts and several
declarations that ‘Cally luvs Johnny’.

I instantly recall when we composed it.

It was during one of the revision sessions I had with Cally and Asha, probably during a break – we had at least four per hour to minimise the risk of ‘burning out’, as I
remember.

It also must have been during a temporary ceasefire in the constant war between my older sister, Marianne, and me; that’s the only explanation for her inclusion.

I can picture every one of us, although whether the uniform ‘Rachel’ haircuts, Doc Marten boots and blue mascara are real detail or my imagination at work, I couldn’t tell
you.

It is dated 1997 – the year Tony Blair came to power, the world was introduced to Harry Potter, and I broke my ankle dancing to ‘Groove is in the Heart’ by Deee-Lite at Mark
Blackman’s party.

We were fifteen years old. Underneath are four signatures – Marianne Reiss, Emma Reiss, Asha Safaya and Cally Jordan. And finally there’s the hilariously grand declaration that we
will ‘undertake to do our utmost to perform the above achievements to the best of our abilities within the agreed and specified timescale’.

It sounds terribly serious.

As I take a last look at the picture of my mum, something occurs to me. Fifteen years on, perhaps we didn’t take that list seriously enough.

I’ve always been unconvinced by the concept of a fish pedicure. Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for spa days. I simply fail to comprehend how shoving your feet in
tank of marine life so the tiny vertebrates can banquet on your blisters is a better alternative to a pumice stone from Boots.

‘Emma, it’s lovely,’ declares Cally, wiggling her toes. ‘Just get your feet in.’

I peer into the bowl, where the fish are swarming round her toes, battling for space like the stars of a sex-education video.

‘These fish are illegal in America,’ I inform her.

‘I don’t think they carry the death penalty.’

I’m in Edinburgh with Cally and Asha after being invited by my sister, Marianne, five months after she relocated here. She promised a ‘lovely, relaxing weekend’ for my friends
and me. Only, it didn’t start well.

The four-and-a-half-hour journey from Liverpool – which involved wrong turns, Cally flinging the satnav out of the window and a set-to with an HGV driver at Westmorland Services after she
squirted his Cornish pasty while cleaning the windscreen – was far from serene.

But by the time we’d arrived at the spa, swathed ourselves in fluffy white robes and proceeded with our lavender oil massages (which admittedly has left me smelling Shake ’n’
Vac-ed), we were well on our way to chilling out.

Cally is taking that mission very seriously. And I can’t blame her.

My best friend’s two-year-old son, Zachary, might look gorgeous, with a smile that makes that kid from
Jerry McGuire
look as cute as Les Dawson. But even his devoted mother admits
he’s redefined the term ‘terrible twos’ and has a similar effect on passers-by as a rampaging velociraptor.

Despite my efforts to get Cally out more, her childcare is limited. She already relies on her mum a lot and Zachary’s dad is not on the scene to help out. Which means this weekend is the
most excitement she’s had in a while. Especially since becoming a mum had a more fundamental effect on Cally than any of us could have imagined.

It’s not that she looks any different from before. If anything, she’s more attractive, with generous
Mad Men
curves, lustrous strawberry-blonde hair and bright green eyes
that no sleep deprivation dulls.

But she is different, at least in one way.

‘So, Cally, do you think you might
meet someone
this weekend?’

She looks at me like I’ve escaped from somewhere that serves antipsychotic drugs for breakfast.

‘I’ve got a bed all to myself – with lovely white sheets, no small child and no prospect of being woken at three thirty in the morning with a request to watch
Toy
Story
for the fourth time
.
There’s no way anyone else is getting in it with me.’

There was a time, not so long ago, when this statement could never have been attributed to my best friend.

When she was fifteen, Cally was boy mad (even if her experience was theory-based and derived from a combination of bonkbuster novels and Brook Advisory Centre leaflets). When she was
twenty-five, she was man mad (in the three years we lived together the rare Sunday mornings were those when I
didn’t
bump into a strange man in the kitchen).

These days, she isn’t
anything
mad. Instead, she is celibate. Defiantly, unapologetically so.

On the day Cally became pregnant as the result of a one-night stand she lost interest in the opposite sex and never regained it. I thought this might change when she returned to work at a big
accountancy firm after maternity leave. I was wrong.

‘Emma – seriously – this is only a half-hour session. You need to get your feet in.’

The door opens and in walks Asha.

‘How was your massage?’ I ask.

‘Utter bliss,’ she smiles, sitting next to me and fixing her robe. I can’t help but notice that the spa technician, supposedly just sipping sparkling water on the opposite side
of the room, is sizing her up. Not in a bad way – it’s just that Asha has incredibly striking looks and people of both genders find it impossible not to look twice.

Her grandparents were from northern India and, although her mum was Lancastrian through and through, and her dad grew up in Liverpool, she has the dainty, almost doll-like features of a
Bollywood princess.

But don’t let that, or the dulcet voice, fool you. Asha is the most passionate and principled person I know – a teenage feminist who grew into a woman determined to make a
difference.

‘I feel as though I’ve earned this after the week I’ve had,’ she tells me, taking off her slippers and sliding her feet into the water.

‘Heavy week?’ I ask.

‘They all seem to be, lately, Em.’

Asha’s work crises put everyone else’s in perspective. For six years, she’s worked at a domestic-violence refuge at a location in Liverpool that’s secret to all but the
staff and its residents. For the last three, she’s been in charge of the place, a position that’s involved tears and frustration but for which Asha couldn’t be more perfect. Her
empathy is seemingly endless, as I discovered at first hand in the immediate aftermath of my recent – and very messy – break-up.

I don’t know why spa days, like dieting and Jennifer Aniston films, are better suited to life when you’re not seeing anyone. I suppose that’s one advantage of my current lack
of romantic action. Though I must admit that I’m not entirely happy with this state of affairs.

It’s not being single
as such
that disagrees with me. I’m independent enough, so I’ve enjoyed the post-relationship Saturday nights with the girls – and the
prospect of never again watching a programme presented by Jeremy Clarkson fills my heart with unrestrained joy.

But I
am
missing something from my life – and his name is Rob. Sweet, handsome, devoted Rob, who I think about all the time. So why are we no longer together? That would be
because I dumped him. And
why
did I dump him? Oh. Don’t ask difficult questions . . .

‘Aren’t you partaking?’ Asha asks, gesturing at the fish.

‘Of course,’ I shrug.

‘Go on, then,’ urges Cally.

‘I
will
.’

I lower my legs slowly towards the water.

‘This is
supposed
to be enjoyable,’ Cally pipes up – completely putting me off.

‘I nearly did it then!’ I bluster.

Cally and Asha exchange looks. And I know it’s time to get on with this.

So I straighten my back, take a deep breath, and carefully sink my feet into the water as the fish dive towards them. It’s not unpleasant. But it’s not pleasant either.

In fact, there is only one, single overwhelming adjective I can use to describe it.

Ticklish
.

Within the split second it takes for this to register, I am literally shaking with it, gasping like a four-year-old with a feather duster under each armpit.

‘I wonder if we’ve put too many fish in your tank?’ muses the spa technician helpfully.

This is all it takes to know I simply have to remove my feet.
Now.

They emerge, Neptune-like, as I catch my breath, paying little attention to the suckers attached to them. Fortunately, most of the fish make a last-minute escape. That’s . . .
most
of them.

The exception is the one poor creature that’s happily nibbling my big toe one minute, and, the next, is flying across the room as if it’s been inadvertently caught in a
pancake-tossing competition.

The scene is like a maniacal cross between
Finding Nemo
and
The Dam Busters
as the room is brought to a standstill and the fish is propelled in a perfect arch . . . into the
spa technician’s sparkling water.

She screeches, picks up the glass, completes several hysterical circuits of the room then chucks the fish – complete with ice – back into the tank, before turning to me,
Estée-Laudered lips contorted into the grimace of a serial killer.

‘Well, that was nice,’ I say brightly. ‘Now I’m off to the bar to ask a man to make me something cold with a slice of lemon. And I don’t mean a fruit
salad.’

Marianne has always had an eye for cool places. And the Hotel Missoni on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile is
dripping
in coolness – from the sexy dreadlocked doormen
in designer kilts to the fact that Cally bumped into the Kings of Leon in the lift. Literally. She got a high heel caught in the hem of her wide-legged trousers and launched herself head first into
the hairy one with the beard. Which
wasn’t
cool. Neither was the look on his security guard’s face.

Still, this place is enough to make anyone regret trying to get away with two extra weeks between highlights.

Apart from that, I’m as comfortable with my appearance tonight as you can be in the presence of a professional model – although, given she’s my sister, that’s something
I’ve got used to. And I’m proud to say that I am exactly the same weight as Marianne, give or take a pound.

Of course, she’s five foot eleven and I’m five foot four, but let’s not dwell on that. Plus, we look alike in some ways, with the same blue-grey eyes, fair hair and generous
mouth. The difference is that Marianne has cheekbones you could stand your drink on and her last zit appeared on a camping trip in 1994 and turned out to be a mosquito bite.

This is only the second time I’ve visited Marianne since she moved here five months ago – although she is planning several trips back to Liverpool in the next few months to pick up
various bits of furniture she’s got stored at Dad’s. Even though my sister and I haven’t lived in the same city for years, I never really stop missing her.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when I ceased thinking she’d been put on earth specifically to ruin my life. I suppose when you’ve grown up without your mum around, having another
female in your life goes a long way. Dad did an amazing job of raising us, but he isn’t the sort of man in whom you’d confide about the issues that vex girls when growing up. Marianne
and I preferred to maintain the illusion we were the only women on the planet to never experience a period, kiss or underarm hair. I suspect we were all happier with that set-up.

‘I can’t wait to show you round the city,’ my sister tells us, crossing her ludicrously long legs. ‘We’ll do the castle in the morning, then climb up Arthur’s
Seat, then we’ll go shopping in Princes Street. I only wish Brian wasn’t away this weekend too.’ He’d had to take his mum to visit relatives in Aberdeen last time I was in
Edinburgh. ‘Emma, I’m dying for you to meet him.’

Brian is Marianne’s new boyfriend and, although I haven’t met him yet, I already know this much: I can’t quite understand her enthusiasm for him.

Obviously, I’m happy that she’s happy – if she
is
happy. But my worry is that living here with Brian is the complete antithesis of the life she had in London. A life
she adored – and who wouldn’t? Two years ago, Marianne had a glamorous career, a devoted man and a trendy Primrose Hill apartment. She was like Gwyneth Paltrow without the pro-biotic
jumpers and cabbage crisps.