‘Oh I see, that’s quite all right. In that case it’s over there,’ he said, turning to point towards the corner of the building, ‘just to the right of Area G, beside the First Cla—’
‘Florence!’
I turned to see Dad hurrying around the car.
‘Dad? What?’
He stopped in front of me.
‘I just wanted to say…’ then he paused.
He looked so serious that I didn’t want to scream that he had to hurry up but also, he did need to hurry up. ‘Dad, what is it?’
‘I just wanted to say that I’m sorry that I haven’t been around much for you in recent years. And all this…’ He waved a hand around him at the car and the departures area. I glanced at the man with the clipboard; he’d been straining to hear us but suddenly busied himself with a trolley.
‘All this has made me realize how little I’ve known what’s going on in your life.’
‘That’s all right, Dad,’ I said quickly, not wanting to ruin this moment by looking at my watch but, equally, feeling every second tick away.
He shook his head. ‘It’s not all right. It’s unforgiveable and I am going to be better in the future.’
‘OK, Dad, thank you, but I should go an—’
‘I want to be more involved, in all your lives,’ he said, looking back to the car where Ruby was hanging out the window and manically tapping at her watch.
‘Pick your moment, Dad,’ she shouted. ‘Go, Flo, quick.’
‘Sorry,’ Dad said, squeezing my hand. ‘But I love you very much. Now go and find that communist.’
I reached forward and hugged him, and then ran for the door, shouting ‘he’s not a communist,’ over my shoulder. I had to clutch one arm around me to stop the fleece from flapping open and any accidental flashing of breast. Didn’t have time to be arrested right now. ‘Sorry, excuse me, sorry,’ I shouted as I slid past trolleys, families and avoided a small child dragging a suitcase that looked like a tiger.
I saw him leaning on the desk with his rucksack at his feet, and my heart turned over. It was Zach. Just Zach. The same old Zach in his usual mourning outfit of black. But suddenly he meant so much more. This wasn’t just like seeing him in the shop every morning. This was bigger. So much bigger. This was everything, and as if on cue, I felt myself start to sweat. Sweat patches would definitely show up in this dress.
‘Zach!’ I said, tightening my fleece around me.
He looked up and stared for a few seconds before laughing and shaking his head. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I needed to make sure you’d had all your injections,’ I said, grinning back.
‘Actually?’
‘No! Obviously not. I wanted to come and s—’
‘What on earth are you wearing?’
I looked down at the hideous shoes and smoothed my dress with one hand. ‘Can you overlook this? Didn’t have much time.’
‘For what?’
I inhaled before the words tumbled out. ‘To get here to say I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Zach. You were right. You were right about everything and Rory’s a wanker and I didn’t realize, I just got so caught up with everything because I so wanted it. I so wanted it to be something that I didn’t realize it was the wrong thing, completely wrong.’
He frowned. ‘Hang on, slow down. What’s happened with you and Rory?’
‘Long story involving a stripper and, er, some marshmallows but basically he’s gone.’
His face briefly clouded. ‘So you’ve run straight here to me as the alternative?’
‘Yes! But no, I know that sounds bad. It’s not just because of him. It’s because it made me realize how I feel about you. That I feel more than I realized, much more, which is why I’m here now. Because I was worried that if I didn’t catch you and say all this before you left then you might end up with Shakira.’
‘Wha—’
‘Not necessarily her because she’s married, isn’t she? But someone who resembles her. And I think I would mind that a bit because, well, I like you quite a lot, I’ve realized.’
He dropped his head and shook it again while I stood and watched, paralysed with suspense. If he thought I was crazy, that was all right. I’d go home again, fetch Harry from Eugene’s and forget the past few months ever happened. I’d be sad and cry but, after a period of mourning, I’d cheer up again and devote the rest of my life to cats and books. No more boyfriends. No more trying to fall in love. It was, as I’d always suspected, too much trouble.
I totted up the floor tiles in front of the British Airways desk as I waited for Zach to answer, but was distracted by a smiley, middle-aged woman sitting behind it. She was waving her fingers at me. They were crossed.
I tried to smile back as Zach lifted his head.
‘You’re mad, you know?’
‘I do know.’
‘And demented.’
‘Yup, that too.’
‘And I will probably regret thi—’
‘Regret what?’
‘FLORENCE! Can you just listen to me?’
I nodded.
‘Come with me. Come with me to South America.’
‘What, now? Like this?’
‘Well, not exactly like that. I don’t imagine you’ve got your passport with you?’
I shook my head.
‘But come with me tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. Just come with me.’
‘What about the shop?’
‘The shop’s fine. Norris and Eugene will be fine.’
‘OK, but what about Harry?’
‘He will also be fine. Ruby can take charge.’
I wasn’t sure I liked that idea but I didn’t want to get too hung up on it. ‘OK, but what about Curtis? I’ve got the meeting next week with Jacinta and I don’t want to miss it.’
‘So go to the meeting and then come out. They have email in South America,’ said Zach, ‘and they probably even have cheese and tomato sandwiches. Which means you’re out of excuses.’
He stepped forward and reached for my hands, which was awkward because they were shrouded in fleece so I had to release them from the sleeves before he could take hold of my fingers. ‘Listen, you lunatic, why not just do it? London’s not going anywhere. What’s to lose?’
And I opened my mouth to protest again but he was right. I was out of excuses and there was nothing to lose but plenty, maybe everything, to gain. I could do something impulsive, something adventurous, and the result didn’t have to be disastrous. This trip to the airport had already proved that.
‘OK,’ I said, smiling shyly. ‘OK, I’ll come.’
‘Seriously?’ he said, his fingers tight around mine.
I nodded but my face fell again. ‘Although…’
‘Oh Jesus, what now?’
‘What injections do I need for South America?’
Three months later…
‘How many steps?’ Zach shouted, smiling from the top of the terrace.
‘Not sure,’ I said, racing to catch up. The thought of counting them hadn’t occurred to me.
‘Come on, sun’s nearly gone,’ he said, extending a hand to pull me up the last couple.
I looked out across the open rooftop. He was right. A scrap of yellow was sinking behind the city’s domes and a pink blanket had thrown itself across the sky. Beneath us, a busker’s guitar chords floated from the streets. I wanted a cold beer. After the dry cold of the south, the air in Buenos Aires was hot and damp, turning my skin sticky.
A waiter led us to a table in the corner.
‘We’re early,’ said Zach, glancing at his watch.
‘You’re nervous,’ I teased, flipping open the drinks list.
‘No, I’m not.’
But he’d replied too quickly, too defensively. ‘You are! I can’t believe it. You’re nervous.’
He’d grown a beard while we’d been on the road but I saw his mouth twitch underneath it. ‘All right,’ he said, his smile broadening, ‘maybe. But it�
��s your dad. And I know how much this means to you so…’
He trailed off and I frowned at him.
‘So it means a lot to me.’
I smiled as he ordered from the waiter. Dos birras.
It had taken a couple of weeks to extricate myself from London. First, I’d told Norris that I was leaving. ‘But temporarily, just for a few months, if you’ll have me back?’ I’d asked. We’d been sitting in his office and he’d immediately thumped his desk with his fist, sending several ketchup sachets into the air, and shouted that it was very bad timing. I replied that he was talking nonsense, the lease was sorted and that I wanted to go travelling with Zach. This had radically altered the matter. I thought Norris might cry. His face went red, he clasped me in a hug and told me to take as long as I liked.
Upstairs, Eugene agreed to take in Harry (and he’d sent me so many pictures of him since I’d had to mute his messages).
I met Jacinta, the literary agent, who told me she liked Curtis the counting caterpillar very much and, with my approval, wanted to start the hunt for an illustrator.
I went to a final NOMAD meeting and told the group I was going to South America for an extended holiday. They had various worries about this (Mary wanted to know how bad the malaria was; Lenka fretted that I’d be forced into a drug gang; Elijah warned that I’d have to eat guinea pig. Jaz had told them all to pipe down, given me a huge goodbye hug and promised to keep me updated on the George situation. Her most recent email had said she was ‘as happy as Barry’).
Mia and Ruby had helped me pack. Kind of. Mia stuffed several pairs of tiny knickers in my bag, the ones she’d been given on her hen party. ‘They’re all clean,’ she insisted, ‘sniff them if you don’t believe me.’ I’d declined this offer and taken them out, insisting that Zach had told me to pack light.
The reason for packing light became clear when we arrived in Santiago and Zach picked up a motorbike, an old Honda that looked like it had served in the war. It had been our first tense moment. How could I spend the next two months on that, clinging to Zach’s back like a baby possum? He’d promised it would be all right. And it had been. Apart from an alarming few seconds in a forest when Zach swerved to avoid an armadillo, they had been the most electrifying, affirming, worry-free months of my life.
From Santiago, we’d headed south along the Pacific coast, roaring past lakes and jewel-coloured houses. We stopped for the night wherever we felt like it. Sometimes camping, sometimes staying in a cabana when I insisted that I wanted to sleep on a proper mattress (have you ever tried to have quiet sex in a tent? It’s even less relaxing than having sex while Prue Leith’s talking on the telly).
Zach gave me surfing lessons over a few days in a small town where we bought ceviche from the fishermen every morning. He took me hiking, he took me kayaking, he made us get up early several times, promising ‘the best sunrise’ I’d ever see. They usually were. Right down in the toe of Argentina, we saw his black and white dolphins as well as a humpback whale fling himself in the air like an acrobat, not far from our boat. This made me cry.
Most nights we sat up late, the blaze of campfire on our faces, drinking red wine from paper cups while talking. We talked a lot in the evenings because during the day we spent so long riding on the bike, watching the landscape change around us. But I was grateful for this time because it allowed me to think and, gradually, to fall in love with him. It wasn’t like with Rory. There was no rush and I wasn’t worried that Zach would vanish. There were no doubts, no anxiety about my own behaviour or that I’d say something wrong. He was here in front of me, my arms around his jacket.
I felt safer on the back of that bike than anywhere I’d ever been before. Turns out, you can’t write a prescription to help you find that person, your person. You might think you want blond hair and blue eyes but it doesn’t work like that, fortunately. There’s magic in life that remains beyond our control. I thought I’d known exactly what I wanted but been proven wrong. Zach was what I needed and I felt grateful every day that I realized this before it was too late.
As the waiter put down the bottles in front of us, the last flash of sun dropped away and I looked back to him.
‘What?’ he asked, squinting at me sideways. He’d become used to a constant barrage of questions in the past two months, most often ‘What are we having for lunch?’. In Patagonia, my devotion to cheese and tomato sandwiches had been superseded by one for Argentinian hot chocolate, as thick as golden syrup. I was drinking one a day and the waist of my jeans now cut into me when I sat behind him. Well, it was either the hot chocolate or I was pregnant. Patricia would be appalled if I had a baby without being married. Apparently she was still in mourning about Mia’s wedding and, from the sound of Ruby’s emails, there was little danger of another family wedding for some time; she and Mia were out partying almost every night and the house was chock-a-block with Jeremys again.
‘Nothing,’ I replied, shaking my head and reaching for my beer. ‘Just happy.’
He smiled before his glance slid past me and his eyes widened in recognition. ‘He’s here,’ he said, pushing his chair back to stand and lift his hand in a wave.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Dad approaching, and then stood with him. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Course,’ he said, his hand dropping and reaching for mine. ‘I’ve got you.’
If you loved The Wish List, then don’t miss out on more hilarious and feel-good romcoms by Sophia Money-Coutts:
What Happens Now?
The Plus One
Acknowledgements
Stupidly, I can’t remember the name of the person I have to thank most of all for this book. The idea came about when my friend Jackie invited me to a ‘sex tech’ dinner she was hosting in London. Jackie works for a trendy tech start-up which had recently launched a range of ‘pretty’ and ‘elegant’ pastel-coloured vibrators, the sort of sculptural object that wouldn’t look out of place on a mantelpiece. Everyone going to the dinner would get given a vibrator, said Jackie. Free food and a free sex toy? I RSVP’ed immediately.
At this dinner, I sat next to a woman who told me a story which made me quite forget the vibrators. Some years before, she’d become pregnant with her boyfriend who’d upped and left halfway through her pregnancy. She was devastated: left alone, soon to have a baby and heartbroken. As a coping mechanism, she decided to write a list of what she was looking for in a man. It was a very specific list detailing physical attributes as well as character traits and his hopes for life. ‘And then I met him,’ she told me, with a shy smile. According to this woman whose name I cannot remember, a man with all the qualities on her list subsequently came into her life, took her small son on as his own and she was now grateful that her previous relationship had broken down.
Well, call me an old softie but I loved the romance of this and decided to write a story which included some sort of list. This book is the result and I am hugely grateful to both Jackie and the anonymous woman for sparking the idea.
After them, I am most thankful to the team who helped pull this book together. My agent, Becky Ritchie, continues to provide enormous support and terrific therapy. Emily Kitchin, my editor, is not only a very talented, unflappable and stupendously encouraging person, she is also incredibly cheerful on Twitter and I am a big fan of that. The whole team at HQ remain the dream to work with. On the editorial side, special thanks to Lisa Milton, Joe Thomas, Katrina Smedley, Mel Hayes and Jo Rose, who quite literally never seem to stop working. I’d also like to salute the production skills of Angie Dobbs, Halema Begum and Tom Keane and the colourful genius of Charlotte Phillips, who designed the cover *does actual salute from behind laptop*. Writing this against the backdrop of the news, as the coronavirus crisis deepens, I am in awe of the lengths everyone is going to in order that books continue to be published. Thank you.
I wrote much of this book while living in Norfolk, in a house I borrowed from the exceptionally kind de Stacpoole family. Every morning, I got up
and wrote for several hours before striding out across the marsh and beaches of the North Norfolk coast thinking about Florence, Rory and Zach. I also visited Sandringham three times while up there, so I’d like to thank the Queen for that distraction as well as for the excellent shortbread sold in the Sandringham gift shop. Well worth a trip for that alone.
Family and friends, to say ‘I’d be lost without you’ is such a cliché. It’s also not true. I’d actually be nothing without you. Particularly at low moments, on bad days and during the weeks when life can feel heavy, you are everything to me and, although I often grumble about the WhatsApp groups, I’d much rather have them than not. Thank you all.
Keep reading for an extract from the laugh-out-loud romcom from Sophia Money-Coutts, What Happens Now?
Prologue
I WASN’T SURE I had enough wee for the stick. I pressed my bladder through my jeans with my fingertips, holding the pregnancy test in the other hand. Not bursting but it would have to do. I peeled off the top of the foil packet, balanced the stick on the top of the loo roll and unzipped my flies. I sat down and reached back for the stick.
Looking down at my thighs, I realized I was sitting too far forward on the loo seat, so I shuffled my bottom backwards and widened my knees until there was enough space to reach my hand underneath me, trying to avoid grazing the loo bowl with my knuckles. Christ, this was unsanitary. There must be better ways.
I narrowed my eyes at the bath in front of me and wondered if it would be easier to step into that, crouch down and wee on the stick in the bath, letting it trickle out down the plughole. No worse than weeing in the shower, right?
I shook my head. I was in my parents’ bathroom. Couldn’t do a pregnancy test by pissing on a stick in my mum’s bath. She loved that bath. She spent hours in it wearing her frilly bath hat, shouting at Radio Norfolk.
I frowned down into the dark space between my legs again where the stick was poised in mid-air, ready for action. What a simple bit of plastic to deliver such potentially life-changing news. It was the shape of the vape my friend Clem carried round with him everywhere, loaded with lemon sherbet-flavoured liquid.
The Wish List: Escape with the most hilarious and feel-good read of 2020! Page 34