It’s Thursday evening after work and I’d popped into Boots to buy some cotton-wool balls when I noticed one of those electronic weighing machines. Impulsively I decided to weigh myself. Which is why I’m now staring at the digital display in astonishment.
No, that can’t be right. I peer closer, forehead furrowing. I’ve lost five pounds? For the past couple of months I’ve been trying vaguely to shift the weight I put on at Christmas. I’ve been jogging – twice – I’ve bought a yoga video that I’ve got every intention of watching, and I’ve been sacrificing my breakfast pain au chocolat from the French pâtisserie on the corner for All Bran, which tastes like cardboard. It’s hardly a major lifestyle change but now suddently – poof – those few pounds have gone. It’s amazing. Unbelievable. Weird.
Puzzled, I prod my stomach. I don’t feel any thinner. But it’s difficult to tell and, admittedly, I have been under a lot of financial pressure recently. Isn’t that when you lose weight? Doesn’t stress gobble up calories, a bit like Pacman in those old computer games?
I take the computerised ticket, step off the scales and walk to the cash register. For once there’s no queue and, feeling a little ping of pleasure, I plop my cotton-wool balls on the counter. Yep, that must be it. I knew there’d be a sensible explanation. I mean, it’s not as if weight can disappear magically overnight, is it?
Beaming at the sales assistant, I pull my purse out of my pocket. The lucky heather drops out. How did that get there? I’m sure I left it at home.
‘That’ll be one pound twenty-five,’ prompts the assistant.
‘Oh, yeah . . . Sorry.’ Stuffing the heather back into my pocket I happily count out my change. Whatever the explanation for my weight loss, I get my wish: no more All Bran.
Leaving Boots in a cheerful mood, I cross the main road and walk quickly through Notting Hill. I’m meeting my brother Ed at the Wolsey Castle, a gastro-type pub just round the corner, and as usual I’m late. I speed up. Ed’s a real stickler for time-keeping and I don’t want one of his lectures before I’ve even had the chance to order a gin and tonic. Though to be honest, I’m anticipating a lecture. He called me yesterday and said he wanted to ‘talk about something’, which, translated into Ed-speak, means give me a talking to, his favourite starting-point being, ‘Why haven’t you got a pension plan yet?’ which probably gives you some idea about Ed.
But when I turn the corner into a street lined with shops and restaurants, I catch sight of something that stops me dead in my tracks. Pink, satin and with an adorable peep-toe: they are the most gorgeous pair of shoes I’ve ever seen, just sitting there in a window display, waiting for me to walk past.
I step back to see the name of the store – Sigerson Morrison. My heart soars. I adore this shop: it’s always chock full of the most exquisite shoes. Which are completely out of your price range, Heather, pipes up a stern little voice inside me. I feel a tug of disappointment. But, still, there’s no harm in looking. I lean closer. Which is when I see the sign. ‘75% OFF’.
My stomach somersaults. I’m not a shopaholic, although, yes, I sometimes get a physical urge to dive into the changing rooms at H&M with armfuls of clothes. And, yes, I often don’t need to buy anything, putting it on hold is enough. It’s the sense of ownership, the comfort of knowing that it’s yours if you want it – without the commitment. I guess it’s a bit like getting engaged.
But shoes are different. Shoes are my weakness. Clothes can make your bum look big, your boobs look small, your belly stick out, but a good pair of shoes always looks great, regardless of whether or not you’ve just eaten half a packet of chocolate digestives. However, there’s a hitch – all of this doesn’t come cheap. As Lionel says, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.
But there are sales, whispers the voice inside my head. Seventy-five-per-cent-off sales.
I look at the time on my mobile. I’m already late. Ed will be waiting. I hesitate, then reach for the handle on the red Perspex door. Oh, what the hell? I’ll only be five minutes.
Inside, it’s bedlam. A scrum of women are jostling for sizes, scrabbling around on their hands and knees, snatching, grabbing, pushing, shoving. Dozens of discarded flesh-coloured pop socks lie underfoot, empty boxes are scattered randomly with their paper, harassed assistants flit between women vying for the mirrors, huffing and muttering under their breath as they’re forced to wait for their turn.
Crikey! Women are so ruthless. Men might kill for their country, but a woman will kill for a pair of turquoise stilettos with a bejewelled ankle strap.
Squashing myself between the racks of shoes, I begin the hunt for those gorgeous pink satin stilettos in my size. When I finally reach the shelf marked ‘Size 5’, though, I see it’s empty but for a lime-green Mary-Jane that won’t go with anything. I feel a kick of disappointment. Especially since, over to my left, the shelf marked ‘Size 7’ contains a dozen pairs of the pink satin peep-toes. I pick one up, wondering if I could make it fit with an inner-sole, or maybe a couple . . .
‘Can I help you, madam?’
An assistant has swooped down on me. She’s one of the haughty types you get in designer shops who look you up and down and make you want to buy something, just to prove you can. Which, it suddenly occurs to me, is probably their sales tactic.
‘Erm, no,’ I reply, and glance down to see that not only am I cradling the shoe in the crook of my arm, but I’m also stroking it. ‘I was just . . . er . . . looking.’
‘Fabulous, aren’t they?’ she says conspiratorially, in a hushed voice. ‘And seventy-five per cent off.’ She rolls her eyes as if she can’t quite believe it.
‘Oh, er, yes . . . fabulous,’ I agree. The shoe has now become The Shoe, the definitive shoe, the most gorgeous, beautiful, perfect shoe you’ve ever seen in your life.
‘Would you like me to bring you the other one so you can try them both?’
I put the shoe back on the wire shelf and smile regretfully. ‘I’m afraid you don’t have my size.’
‘And that would be?’
As with most sales assistants on commission, she isn’t giving up easily. But even she can’t perform miracles, I think resignedly. ‘Five.’
It’s instantaneous. No sooner have I uttered the fateful number than her face crumples and her commission-hungry eyes go dull. ‘Oh dear, that’s our most popular size.’
‘Never mind.’ I shrug nonchalantly. ‘It always happens.’
‘But have you seen these adorable boots? We have these in a five . . .’ She picks up a grotty pair of pirate boots from three seasons ago and dangles them in front of me hopefully. ‘Um, no, thanks,’ I say, insulted, and turn to walk out of the shop. Oh, well, it’s only a pair of shoes, Heather. Reaching the door I try ignoring the window display, but at the last moment I can’t help giving it one last glance and sighing wistfully.
I wish they had a pair in my size.
‘Excuse me, madam.’
I spin round. It’s the same assistant, but now her face is flushed with excitement. ‘You’re in luck. I found the very last pair. They’d been put in the wrong box.’ From behind her back she produces the shoes, thrusts them at me and gasps triumphantly, ‘Size five!’
‘Oh, wow . . .’ I splutter. I can’t believe it.
But even on sale you still can’t afford them, whispers that voice.
I feel a crush of disappointment. It’s true. My credit card’s been cut up and I’ve only got twenty-five pounds in cash. Damnit, I wish they were cheaper.
I’m about to give them back when I become aware of her talking in the background,
‘. . . but I’m afraid there’s a tiny mark on the heel, nothing anyone would notice and, rest assured, you won’t see it when you’re wearing them. Of course we’ll discount them further . . . Another fifty per cent off from the sale price.’
Hang on a minute. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? ‘You mean they’re only . . .’
‘Twenty-four ninety-nine,’ she announces breathlessly.
A few minutes later I’m standing at the cash register, watching as she wraps them in tissue paper, and overhear someone whispering, ‘Oooh, the lucky thing, really wanted the shoes . . .’ and feel a burst of pleasure as the assistant hands me a pink bag the size of a billboard.
‘And a penny,’ she trills, holding out my change.
But I’m already half-way out of the shop. And as I walk on to the street, the huge bag swinging jauntily on my shoulder and a huge smile plastered over my face, I almost have to pinch myself. I’m not superstitious, but I’m beginning to think that heather really is lucky.
Chapter Twelve
‘Woooooaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh.’
Pushing open the door of the Wolsey Castle I’m greeted by a roar of testosterone. Talk about going from one extreme to another, I muse, remembering the frenzy of oestrogen I’ve just left behind in Sigerson Morrison.
I duck inside, under a builder’s armpit, and head through the fog of cigarette smoke towards the bar. The place is jam-packed with men, drinks in hand, jaws open, eyes glued to the portable TV fastened to the wall in the corner. I tut loudly. Of course. I might have guessed. Football.
‘Thought as much.’
I turn to see Ed looming down on me, all six foot five of him. Having come straight from work he’s in his uniform of grey suit with pleated trousers, white shirt with button-down collars, and brown lace-up brogues. Actually, he wears that at weekends too.
‘Shopping again?’ Raising his thick, dark eyebrows he studies me disapprovingly, squashing my feelings of superiority. That’s the problem with my brother. He likes to spoil your fun.
‘Lovely to see you too.’ I give him a hug.
‘And you.’ He kisses me formally on both cheeks. ‘So, what did you buy?’
I swear, he’s like a dog with a bone.
‘Oh, this?’ I say lightly, raising one shoulder and looking at the bag as if I’ve only just noticed it’s there. Come on, think, Heather. I rack my brains for a feasible excuse. It’s either that or a lecture on saving for the future. Honestly, my brother should have been a bank manager, not an orthodontist. ‘It’s a present,’ I gasp, and I feel a rush of triumph. Brilliant, Heather.
‘For whom?’
Now, I don’t know if he’s just trying to catch me out or if he’s genuinely interested but, knowing my brother, I’ll go with option one.
‘Erm . . .’ I root around in my mental address book for someone suitable. Hmm, no birthdays, no anniversaries, but there is . . . ‘Rosemary.’
‘Really?’ Ed is suitably impressed. ‘That’s rather nice of you, little sis.’
I smile uncomfortably. ‘Well, it’s only a little something,’ I say, knowing full well I’m digging a hole for myself and wondering how I’m going to get out of it.
‘I’m glad you two are finally getting on better,’ he continues, folding his arms and gazing at me with brotherly approval. Ed has a completely different relationship with Rosemary from the one she and I share. Partly because he’s a successful orthodontist with his own business in Harley Street, which endears him to Rosemary’s snobbery, and partly because he’s always so busy with work that he rarely travels to Bath, and she refuses to come to London – ‘filthy, overcrowded place’ – so he never has to spend any time with her.
‘I know Lionel will be pleased,’ says Ed, and I feel a stab of guilt. The last thing I want to do is hurt my father.
‘Yeah, I went up to Bath last weekend. He was on fine form,’ I skirt round the issue and hope he won’t notice.
‘I don’t suppose he’s started his diet yet, has he?’
‘What do you think?’ I’m glad that I’m not the only one on the receiving end of Ed’s sermons. Lionel is always being nagged about losing weight but, of course, he never listens.
Frowning, Ed shakes his head. ‘He needs to consider cutting back on his saturated fat and going on a healthy-eating plan. I’m serious, sis.’ He looks at me as if, for some bizarre reason, I should think he wasn’t. When isn’t Ed serious? ‘With all the dairy products and red meat he gets through, his cholesterol must be through the roof.’
‘So, how’s Lou?’ I change the subject to his wife. Lou is six months pregnant and really cool. On the outside she’s a nursery-school teacher who wears bubblegum pink Birkenstocks and can recite Harry Potter from memory, but on the inside she’s a reformed Goth who still has her nose pierced and loves horror movies. How my brother managed to persuade this bright, funny woman to marry him, I have no idea.
‘Well, the sickness is finally over, thank goodness, but now Boris is kicking her black and blue,’ he says gloomily.
‘You mean you know it’s going to be a boy?’ I say excitedly. Then add, ‘and you’re going to call him Boris?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not,’ he snaps. ‘We want the baby’s sex to be a surprise, but Lou insists on calling it Boris – after Boris Karloff who played Frankenstein,’ he explains, then sighs. ‘Apparently all expectant mothers give their unborn babies a nickname, which, quite frankly, is as bad as people naming their car . . .’
Honestly, I love my brother, but sometimes I want to shoot him: he’s so bloody grumpy. I know that secretly he’s thrilled about the baby, but he’ll never admit it. He just loves to moan.
‘Drink?’ I say brightly, hoping to cheer him up with the lure of a G and T.
‘Huh, if you’re lucky,’ he grumbles, handing me a tenner. ‘I’ve been trying to catch the barman’s attention for the last twenty minutes.’
Like I was saying, a cheerful soul, my brother.
Despairing of him, I turn to the bar – I see what he means. It’s at least five men deep, all holding out empty pint glasses in one hand and notes in the other. At this rate it’s going to take for ever. Glumly I join the back of the queue.
After a moment a man behind me taps me on the shoulder. ‘Are you being served?’ he asks hopefully, waggling his empty glass at me.
‘I wish,’ I sigh, shaking my head.
And then the oddest thing happens.
In the middle of ringing up a round of drinks the barman turns and stares right at me. Not at the half-dozen men jostling in front of me, but right at me. I meet his gaze and go all goosepimply. Which is weird: he’s balding, overweight and fifty if he’s a day. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, what would you like?’ he says.
‘Erm . . .’ I smile uncertainly. ‘Two G and Ts with ice and lemon. Please,’ I add. I can’t believe my luck.
‘Coming right up,’ winks the barman and, grabbing two glasses, he turns to the optics.
A few minutes later when I return to Ed he’s engrossed in the football match, along with every other male in the pub.
‘Crikey, that was quick,’ he comments approvingly, taking his glass without removing his eyes from the screen.
‘You’ll never guess what happened,’ I hiss. ‘I was served before anyone else.’
‘The female touch, hey?’ He sips his drink and continues to stare contentedly at the TV.
‘No, it wasn’t like that, it was really strange.’
‘What do you mean, strange?’ Scowling as the crowd shuffles to accommodate a new influx of people, he clutches his drink to his chest to avoid spilling it. ‘Bloody hell, it’s bedlam in here.’
I feel an elbow in my shoulder, and gasp sympathetically, ‘I know. I wish there was somewhere to sit down.’
No sooner have the words left my mouth than the couple next to me start to put on their coats. No, surely not. I watch in astonishment as the woman drains the last of her wine and reapplies her lipgloss, while the man tucks his cigarettes into his top pocket. They can’t be leaving. Can they?
‘We’re going – would you like these seats?’ The man has turned to me. Not to Ed, but to me.
Suddenly I’m all light-headed.
‘Er, yes, thanks.’ I smile gratefully and glance at Ed, who’s astounded. He claims one of the empty stools hurriedly then hitches up his suit trousers to get comfortable
. ‘What a stroke of luck.’
Wordlessly I slide myself on to the seat. My mind is whirling. All those niggly doubts about superstition and luck magnify as one episode after another unravels like frames on a reel of film: the empty seat on the train, no queue at Starbucks, the packet of razor blades, the parking space, Gabe replying to my small ad in Loot . . . The images begin to muddle, thrown out of sequence, big things, little things . . . Driving back from Bath and there being no traffic, hanging my coat on an empty peg at work, finding my perfect pair of shoes in my size. And then discovering they were even further reduced. Getting served at the bar, being able to sit down . . . Faster and faster, everything blurs together until I can’t stop myself blurting, ‘Actually, no, it’s not.’ My heart is thumping like a piston. ‘It’s more than luck.’
I wait for him to say something, but Ed stares at me in confusion. ‘I’m sorry, Heather, you’ve lost me,’ he says eventually. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
I hesitate. Because that’s the problem. I’m not really sure what I’m talking about. Chewing my lip, I try anyway. ‘Ed, if I tell you something, promise you won’t laugh?’
‘Ah, now that’s easy,’ he quips wryly. ‘I have no sense of humour, remember?’ He’s referring to something I said to him in an argument years ago, which he’s never forgotten.
‘Well, maybe this is just me being daft but—’ I stop and exhale sharply. ‘No, forget it, I’m being crazy.’
‘My little sister? Crazy?’ His eyes return to the football.
I hesitate. He’s going to think I’m an idiot. But he thinks I’m an idiot anyway. ‘Well, you see, the thing is . . .’ I take a deep breath. Oh, sod it! Just say it, Heather. ‘Everything I wish for seems to come true,’ I say loudly.
But not loudly enough: my words are swallowed in another roar from the crowd that swells upwards in an arc, like a boomerang of yells, whistles and grunts, then crashes down in a groan of disappointment.
Be Careful What You Wish For Page 9