The Wish List

by Ruby Hummingbird

  The Wish List

  A charming page-turner that will break your heart and piece it back together

  Ruby Hummingbird

  Contents

  Prologue

  *

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Ruby’s Email Sign-Up

  A Letter from Ruby

  Acknowledgements

  For Andrea – a warm, wonderful and inspiring woman

  Prologue

  She didn’t remember much of the days and weeks and months after it had happened. She had moved through the flat, unseeing, time simply passing – daytime, night-time, all blurring into one long, terrible grey day.

  The weight fell from her and when she looked in the mirror she saw a skeleton of her past self: cheeks hollow, eyes deadened, fine grey hairs appearing at her temples.

  Nothing would ever be the same.

  She had stopped answering the door, let the post mount up, left the telephone off the hook. Then she would regret the silence, crave some other noise aside from the relentless sound of the sea as it rolled in and out, rhythmic, unstoppable, reminding her of time passing and of the world moving on while her whole life had stopped, reminding her of that night: that terrible night.

  *

  MONDAY – Weekly shop

  TUESDAY – Blow-dry

  WEDNESDAY – Laundrette

  THURSDAY – Albie

  FRIDAY – Ironing

  SATURDAY – Buy TV listings

  SUNDAY – Church

  One

  Maria padded back into her bedroom with a coffee. On other days she had a different routine – her usual one – but Thursdays were decadent. She climbed back under the duvet, settled herself back on the pillows and took a sip from the mug: it was like drinking satin. Instead of picking up her book on the bedside table, she ran through her morning’s preparations, pretending not to feel the fleeting flutter of butterflies in her stomach. It was the caffeine, she told herself.

  Closing her eyes, she ignored the strain of sunshine on the back of the thick cream curtains, not yet ready to pull them back and leave her cocoon. She loved Thursday mornings. She glanced at her beloved photo frame on her bedside table and smiled at it fondly. Everything hurt less on Thursdays.

  Setting the mug down, she enjoyed a few more moments of peace: the gentle tick of the alarm clock, the slight hum of traffic moving along the road below and her own breathing, slow, steady. The digits of the clock changed: it was past breakfast time, really. She’d skipped it, as she did every Thursday. She didn’t like to overindulge on Thursdays as she didn’t want to feel bloated for the day – she liked to have plenty of room for their treat in the café. It was time for a bath.

  But first, it was time for her to select music for it. She chose a piano concerto by Mozart and set up her record player, the needle needing a tiny blow to remove the dust that had built up over the last week. The sound of the instruments swelling in the small space, the decisive notes on the piano, loud and fast, reminded her how quiet her apartment was the rest of the time.

  Stepping into the bathroom, she headed straight to the cabinet. She pulled down a dark blue bottle and tipped a few drops of oil into the water, swirling it with her hand. The oil was expensive but she could make it last for weeks and the bath wouldn’t be the same without it. The small room immediately filled with the scent of lavender, the yellow liquid making the water silky and inviting. Stepping in carefully, gripping the side bars of the bath, she lowered herself slowly, feeling every muscle sing as it hit the warm water. Wiggling her toes, resting herself back on the folded hand towel underneath her head, she slowly closed her eyes again: decadent. It was a wonderful ritual. She reached for the book she had brought in and lost herself in the pages until the water grew tepid and her skin became even more wrinkled than usual.

  The LP had stopped a while ago and as Maria emerged from the bath, the small mirror steamed up, she was grateful only to have a glimpse of blurred pink cheeks and the damp grey tendrils sticking to her neck. She still had time to transform. Plenty of time on Thursdays.

  She rested her hand on her stomach and moved back to her bedroom, sliding open her wardrobe and staring at the clothes hanging on their hangers. She had watched the weather forecast last night after the nine o’clock news and knew there was a small chance of rain but, dash it, she could risk it: the sun still brightened her curtains.

  Pulling out a pair of black Capri trousers and a silvery-grey jumper with a lace collar, she lay them carefully on the bed. She had worn the jumper seven Thursdays back – she hoped he wouldn’t remember – and he had commented on the detail at the neckline. The memory of his words made her blush just as she had at the time, as if he was right here in her bedroom, saying it again.

  Now that she had chosen her outfit it was time for her to move across the room and open the curtains. She pulled them back, securing them on their ties and letting the sun flood into the small bedroom, highlighting the dancing dust motes in the air and bouncing off the dressing table mirror, leaving squares of light on the cream walls. She made the double bed, tucking in the patterned bedspread and plumping the pillows.

  Sitting at the dressing room table in her dusty pink towel she couldn’t help sigh at the sight in front of her. Sometimes on Thursdays she hoped to see a younger, smoother-skinned version of herself sitting there but she knew she was just being silly.

  You’re being silly, she chastised, knowing talking out loud to oneself was probably one of the first signs of madness. A silly old woman. Then she poked her tongue out at her reflection, making herself giggle. Reaching for her face cream, she began the weekly ritual. Powders, brushes, eyeshadow, concealer, pale pink lipstick. She took her time, relishing every stage, watching the potions and lotions transform her usual look into something a little more appropriate for Thursday.

  As she carefully lined her lips with a soft pale liner, she thought of the television programmes she had recorded or watched that week. She had selected a couple she knew he might have seen too: he had a fascination with the Second World War and Channel 4 had aired an excellent documentary about Operation Mincemeat. She probed her own thoughts: had she enjoyed the documentary? Had it kept her attention? She looked forward to asking him his opinion. Then there was the Sunday night period drama they both enjoyed – the last episode had ended on something of a cliffhanger and she was keen to hear his prediction about what might happen this week. He was always rather good at it. She enjoyed watching his face, animated, as he constructed the possible outcome. He had such imagination.

  Then there was her book. He had recommended it a few Thursdays ago and she was almost at the end. She wished there were slightly fewer lengthy descriptive passages – were there really that many ways to describe the weather? Still, she was interested
to ask him his thoughts on the reveal in the middle – she hadn’t seen it coming and wondered if he had been as surprised as her. She imagined not, she had always been terribly thick when it came to anything like that. Her ex-partner had called her ‘too trusting’, just one of his many complaints.

  With a last flick of mascara, she was finished, tilting her head from side to side to check for powder clumps or streaks from the foundation. Then she began on her hair, picking up the very expensive hairdryer she had been persuaded to buy after a visit to the salon earlier in the year. She tried to copy the method used by her lovely regular hairdresser Mandy, lifting the separate chunks of damp hair at the back and firing the hot air at the roots for a little lift. Her silvery-grey bob started to become smoother as she worked around her head, taking care, enjoying spending time on it. With a spritz of perfume on her wrists and neck, she was ready. She had become Thursday Maria – the best of the Marias!

  It was now she had another cup of coffee – decaf though, she didn’t want to be jittery when they ordered the tea. She would have to leave soon. Pulling on the clothes she had selected, careful not to get make-up on the collar of her jumper, she gave herself one last appraising glance. She looked confident, happy, and the silver of the jumper, the slick of mascara made her eyes twinkle that little bit bluer. Or was it the thought of the afternoon ahead?

  Maria liked to walk to the café, happy that the sun was shining, peeking intermittently out behind puffs of white cloud. With the slight chill in the air, she was glad to be wearing her light pink coat. He had once said that it had reminded him of candy floss, a wistful expression on his face as he spoke about the fairs he had visited with his father as a boy. She liked looking like candy floss.

  The side streets in Brighton were busy with people moving, distracted with their everyday activities. Two screeching seagulls swooped overhead, no doubt heading to the beach less than a mile away, but a lifetime of distance for Maria. She hadn’t been to the pebbled beach for years, wouldn’t go. She stared up as one stretched out his wings, seeming to hover on the breeze before diving out of sight. The smell of petrol and the sea filled her nostrils: as the sound of bicycle bells, idling cars and chatter jangled in her ears. She was glad to arrive outside the café, push the door and hear the familiar tinkle of the bell that always made her heart skip.

  Glancing quickly around the room she realised she was early this week and felt a small smile spreading in anticipation. The waitress nodded in recognition and Maria quickly nodded back. The table along the furthest wall, their table, was empty: the surface recently wiped down, a single red carnation in a small vase in the centre, two chairs opposite each other. She would take the seat facing the door and spend the next few minutes guessing what he might be wearing. Was it cold enough for the thin green scarf that made his eyes even deeper? Would he be wearing a shirt and a coat or a shirt under a jumper? Would he have combed his hair carefully to the left, the still-damp hair a hint that he had showered recently? Silly thoughts, but ones that made her move quickly and lightly to the table, remove her coat and place it on the back of the chair.

  The waitress, Amrit, approached. She’d been working here for more than a year now. She was a saxophonist in a jazz band – he had asked her that once. Maria felt her eyes dart away as Amrit approached, always less confident when he wasn’t sat opposite her, ready to make strangers feel at ease.

  ‘Hello, I thought you might be along.’ The small blue jewel in her nose flashed as she smiled at Maria. ‘Do you want anything different today?’ She held a small white pad in her hand and had a pencil stuck in her dark brown hair, which was tied back and streaked with strands of hot pink.

  ‘I’d love a slice of the marble cake, two forks please and a pot of tea: just English Breakfast, nothing fancy.’

  ‘Your turn this week then?’ She smiled again, not writing anything on the pad.

  When Maria didn’t reply, simply offering a small nod, the waitress gave a slight wave. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

  Maria looked around the small space, at the faded red gingham tablecloths, the scuffed skirting boards, the walls punctured with old holes from where pictures had once hung: so tired but so familiar. She couldn’t think of a place that made her feel more content.

  The bell on the café door jingled and Maria looked up expectantly, her eyes already widening, her throat clearing ready to say hello. A young woman pushed inside with a pram and Maria felt a flicker of disappointment. She folded one hand over the other on the table, realising as she did so that she had forgotten to paint her nails the usual colour, a pinky-grey like the inside of an oyster shell, good for distracting from liver spots and lines. Silly old woman, she thought again but still she removed her hands from the top of the table.

  Amrit returned with a tray, a pot of tea and a large slice of marble cake, along with a small side plate – an extra thought – and Maria was grateful to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, watching the waitress unload the items.

  ‘Not at all. You were lucky too, this was the last slice. Good job you only ever order one to share, I suppose.’

  Maria felt tongue-tied in the usual way, biting on her bottom lip. ‘Thank you,’ she repeated, aware she sounded like a broken record. Amrit had a hundred other far more interesting customers to serve though, she mustn’t keep her.

  ‘You just shout if I can get you anything else. Chef’s just started making chocolate peppermint slices and they are incredible. Better than se— well, they’re just really delicious,’ Amrit said, tugging at her collar.

  Maria felt a giggle escape and swallowed it down quickly, adding, ‘Just this for now but thank you.’

  She normally waited for Albie to pour the tea and slice into the cake but as the time wore on, Maria couldn’t let the pot sit there much longer: it would get cold. She could ask for a refill perhaps. She glanced at her small, round watch and frowned. It wasn’t like Albie to be this late.

  She reached for the teapot and placed the strainer over her cup, the liquid a little darker perhaps than she liked. Next, she picked up her fork, her hand hovering over the marble cake. She placed it down again, took a sip of her tea.

  More people left and arrived through the café doors, bell tinkling, and she could see the waitress glancing across at her at intermittent moments. Feeling self-conscious, she pretended to be enormously interested in the pictures on the walls. They were painted by a local artist, small red stickers below them showed a price. Albie painted. Nothing was ever ‘orange’, ‘red’ or ‘blue’ when he looked at them: the salt shaker was ‘burnt umber’, the tablecloth ‘scarlet’, her eyes were ‘cerulean blue’. She wished she had the courage to ask him to show her his paintings, the question often on the tip of her tongue.

  She couldn’t help looking at her watch. A half an hour had passed and Maria picked up the fork again, carefully cutting the slice of cake in two with the edge. A small seed of worry planted itself as she placed the first morsel in her mouth. It didn’t taste quite the same: perhaps a little dry today, not so sweet. She took another sip of her tea, long past hot. She wondered where he had got to.

  Time went on and Maria had stopped looking up every time the bell rang out. She had finished her half of the cake, topped up her tea, drank it, the taste tangy and wrong as she wondered for the hundredth time where he had got to.

  She glanced at the door, the bottom of the glass steamed up, the net curtains drawn back on both sides. The letters on the outside were reversed from her angle, spelling out ‘S N O C A E D’. People moved past in the street beyond, fast blurs. No one with neatly combed-down grey hair, no one holding a rolled-up newspaper, no one wearing a green scarf.

  She felt something tighten in her stomach, her muscles clenching. Had he forgotten? It seemed hardly likely, he was normally prompt and had kept their arrangement religiously for the last four years. Had he been deterred by some crisis in his life? She cast her mind back over the nuggets she had gleaned from their previous conve
rsations, realising as she did that he rarely spoke of family members or the private details of his life. Had he fallen on his way here? Become waylaid by some drama?

  She realised she had no way of contacting him. All she could do was wait at this table, alone.

  She felt the eyes of the waitress on her as she sat there. If only she had brought her book, she could stay longer then, without looking preposterous. She should leave. But something stopped her getting up, some fear held her to her seat. She realised she didn’t care if she looked silly. She stared at his half of the cake, her half sitting solidly in her stomach, weighing her down, her mouth dry as she imagined swallowing more.

  The baby in the pram had been lifted out and had now started wailing. The woman was jiggling him up and down and patting him but the noise was getting inside Maria’s head, making the room a little fuzzy. Someone dropped something in the kitchen behind her, a clang of saucepans on a hard floor, and she started in her seat. She felt a creeping sense that something wasn’t right.

  She sat frozen, repeatedly placing one hand over the other, an old habit she had started doing years ago, after everything had changed. She needed to get up and visit the Ladies’ room but she didn’t want to leave the table. What if he turned up now and assumed she’d left?