Wishful Thinking (53 page)

‘So you're a writer and a gentleman.' I was struggling to recover my
sang-froid
. If I had any. ‘I'd never have guessed. The two don't usually go together.'

‘I see you're feeling better.' Now, the irony wasn't just a note: it was a whole chord. For some reason, it made me feel wonderful.

He went on: ‘I'd like to have seen you tonight, but I've got my son for the weekend – a sort of pre-Christmas session – and I think it's a bit soon to inflict him on you. I don't want a moody teenager putting you off me. How busy are you next week?'

I'd like to have seen you – a
bit
soon to meet his son – how busy are you . . . ? As the import of all this sank in, my hangover evaporated into the ether. Now, all I had was a headache and a vague lingering nausea, but it didn't matter. I wasn't going to die of unrequited lust after all. He hadn't kissed me because of
chivalry
 . . .

‘Oh, not too bad,' I said, floating up into the air on a pink cloud of happiness. A couple more Paracetamol and I'd be in heaven. ‘You know how it is at this season. The usual social round.'

‘How about Tuesday? It's the annual dinner for previous winners of the Golden Bludgeon—' a prestigious award for thriller writers ‘– but I can give it a miss.'

‘I expect I could manage that . . .'

This
time, I didn't drink too much. I didn't flop in the taxi or expire on the sofa. I lit a candle and removed the cat, lest his icy stare prove discouraging. I put Ravel's
Bolero
on the sound system, but never got around to switching it on.

This
time, Todd kissed me.

But I'm not going to tell you any more about that, because this is reality, which is so much better than fiction – so much deeper and wilder and
sexier
– I'm just going to trail off into a row of dots, the way they did in the old days, before erotic scenes became obligatory. If you don't yet know what I'm getting at, then go and find out . . .

. . .

. . .

!!!

And now we're nearly at the end. When I started telling this story, I never thought I'd get as far as a middle, let alone an ending, and I certainly didn't expect it to be happy – not for me, anyhow – though I hoped, because hope is the nature of man. (Or woman.) Of course, it isn't really the end – in fact, it feels more like a beginning – because things go on happening, and stories unravel indefinitely. But we're reaching the point where I'm going to leave off. I've got writer's cramp, and repetitive brain syndrome, and on my screen the words are running into each other like athletes at a sporting event when someone has spiked their feed. I need a small drink, or a large drink, and about a year at the gym (I'll have to join one), and now all I have to do is decide whether I'm going to show it to Todd . . .

(Sorry, but I can't write his name now without putting dots after it. Association of ideas.)

Just a few more details.

Lin came back in the New Year, looking radiant. She'd had a wonderful time, Andy was wonderful, the children thought he was wonderful (or at any rate, they thought the castle was wonderful, which was the same thing), everything was wonderful. Actually, yes – um – they were engaged. She wasn't rushing into anything, honestly she wasn't – after all, they'd known each other more than ten years – so we couldn't say she was going too fast, could we? We didn't. And she was going to leave work, and live in Scotland with the children, and we must all come up for the wedding, and lots of visits (castles have plenty of room), because the one thing she would
really
miss was her friends. We hugged her, and congratulated her (and ourselves, just a little), and went out to crack a bottle of champers, without any of the men, and drink to Charlie's Angels, or whatever.

‘All for one!' said Georgie. ‘One for all!'

‘Farrah Fawcett!' said Lin, who'd never really caught up on that one.

‘Toil and trouble!' from me.

We drank enthusiastically. The champagne – courtesy of Andy Pearmain – was vintage.

‘It's been an amazing year,' I remarked. Time for a quick retrospective. ‘It was last January when we went to the Wyshing Well – d'you remember? After that lunch at the Bel Manoir with Jerry Beauman.'

‘At least one wish came true,' Lin said. ‘You don't have to work with Jerry any more.'

‘Did we wish for that?' I asked.

‘We must've done,' said Georgie. ‘Anyone would.'

‘Actually, all our wishes came true, in the end,' Lin said pensively. ‘I've met my true love – even if I already had and didn't know it – and Cal's helping Georgie clear her debts, and Cookie's become Todd's own personal sex goddess.'

‘Did I say so?' I was rather startled. After all, they hadn't seen the dots.

‘No, but it's obvious.' Lin gave me a sweet, knowing smile, which wasn't what I expected from her. ‘We should've trusted the fairy from the start.'

‘It wasn't the fairy,' Georgie said. ‘It was us. We did it ourselves.'

I was silent. I thought of Georgie's millionaires, and her break with Cal, and Lin and Ivor and Meredith, and my one night as a vamp when I nearly lost my friend. Beware the day your wishes come true. And we did it ourselves . . .

Now, Lin was marrying Andy, whom she
hadn't
loved at first sight, and Georgie was paying at least part of her debts herself, and I was a bit slimmer and much more confident and seriously involved with a gorgeous man, who'd said to me the other night would I mind
not
wearing that red dress any more, except in private, because it was awfully revealing and he wanted to keep me all to himself.

If wishes
do
come true, it's never the way you expect.

‘It's a funny thing,' Lin said, reverting to the subject of Andy, ‘but I often wonder why it took me so long to fancy him. If I was blinded by being nuts about Sean, and then Garry, or . . . D'you know, he's shaved off his beard? I think all men should shave off their beards. He looks so much younger . . . and he's got a lovely chin.'

Chins, I remembered, had always been an important issue for Lin. I met Georgie's eye, and she smiled a smile of unholy glee.

‘I wonder what made him do that?' she said.

THE END