‘You were scared?’ I repeat in disbelief.
‘Well, yeah,’ he says, amazed, apparently, that I could challenge such a statement. ‘Whenever we saw each other you ignored me – I got the impression you weren’t interested . . .’
Close your mouth, Heather.
‘. . . but yesterday when I saw you in Mrs Patel’s, I just thought, What the hell. Ask her out, James – she can only say no.’
I don’t believe I’m hearing this. It must be a dream and I’m going to wake up, like Bobby Ewing in the shower.
‘Sorry, am I freaking you out telling you all this?’
‘No, no . . .’ Yes. Yes.
‘I just wanted to tell you how I feel.’
By now the cab has dropped us off at the top of our street and we’re walking along the pavement together, ducking under low-hanging branches. ‘I’ve never been into playing games,’ James confesses quietly. ‘I’m not interested in all those rules about waiting three days before calling. If you like someone, why can’t you call straight away? Why can’t you be honest and say how you feel?’
I look at him suspiciously and am just at the point of thinking that all this seems too good to be true when he does something completely unexpected. He holds my hand. In public. Without being asked. Now, this might not sound like much to most people, but to me it’s a minor miracle. I’m used to men who grumble about PDA (public displays of affection) and hold my hand stiffly under duress for five minutes, then pretend they have to scratch their nose or something in order to let go. But not James. He squeezes his fingers tightly round mine as if he never wants to let go.
‘Well, here we are.’ I stop outside my flat reluctantly. It’s in darkness. Gabe must still be out, I think, as James wraps his arms round my waist and pulls me towards him, saying, ‘I’ve had a wonderful evening.’
Bathed in the golden light from the streetlamp, I feel a warm, happy glow. ‘Me too,’ I murmur, gazing into his dark eyes.
‘And I was wondering . . .’
‘Yes?’ I wait expectantly. Although my dating experience is limited, I do know this is the part where he comes in for coffee. And I do know that ‘coffee’ is a euphemism for all kinds of things. None of which have anything remotely to do with Nescafé.
‘Can I see you again?’
Having been debating how far I should go (kissing is fine for the first date, but if he wants to stay the night I have to be firm and say no) I hadn’t anticipated this question. ‘Oh . . . yes . . . of course,’ I reply, feeling a surge of delight – but disappointed that this is where our date ends.
‘What about the cinema tomorrow night?’ he suggests.
I consider pretending I’ve got to check my diary first, not because I might be doing something (I know I’m not) but out of habit. And then I remember: James doesn’t play games so I don’t have to either. ‘Sure.’ I smile. Wow, it’s so refreshing to meet a man who’s not trying to play it cool. And what a relief. Now I won’t have to occupy the next few days with the will-he-won’t-he-call-me scenario.
‘How about I pick you up around seven? We can go for a drink beforehand.’
‘Great.’
Smiling sexily, he leans closer. ‘Goodnight, Heather.’
So this is it. The kiss. I feel a delicious fizz of anticipation. I’ve been wanting to kiss James from the moment I first laid eyes on him. Closing my eyes, I lift my face towards his expectantly.
So I’m unprepared when I feel his lips brush my cheek and he says, ‘Thanks for a lovely evening.’
My eyes snap open. Is that it? I give it a few moments, half expecting a follow-up, but when there’s no sequel I say briskly, ‘Right. Goodnight, James,’ in the hope he won’t notice my embarrassment. ‘See you tomorrow.’
He waits dutifully until I find my keys and let myself in, then walks across the street to his own flat.
In my hallway I watch his retreating figure, listening to the sharp click of his heels against the Tarmac, thinking about our date and how James is everything I’ve always wished for in a man – handsome, kind and a real gentleman, not one of those guys who are just interested in getting you into bed. And I’m not disappointed that he didn’t want to come in for coffee. Or try to kiss me. It means he wants to get to know me as a person first.
Distracted by a loud miaowing, I look down to see Billy Smith appearing from the shadows. No, I’m not disappointed at all. And scooping up my cat I nuzzle his soft orange fur, then close the door behind me.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Wow, this place is so quaint.’
It’s Sunday morning and Gabe and I are having breakfast at a busy pavement café in Hampstead. Despite the bright sunshine a chilly breeze is ruffling the stack of half-read papers. Pulling my cardigan tightly round me, I laugh, ‘You sound like such a tourist.’
‘That’s because I am a tourist,’ he smiles, putting down his knife and fork and taking a slurp of cappuccino. I follow his gaze past the Tudor-style pub, with its ye-olde-English sign, the traditional red phone box on the corner, the narrow cobbled street lined on either side with neat Victorian houses, and out towards the Heath. I must admit, it’s so picture-postcard pretty it’s like a set from a Richard Curtis film.
‘So, is that a park?’
‘No, it’s Hampstead Heath. It’s very famous.’
‘Why’s it famous? What do you do there?’
Actually that’s a good question. ‘Oh, you know,’ I say vaguely, ‘you go for walks, fly kites . . .’
‘Fly kites?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I nod, amused by his expression.
‘You Brits and your weird traditions.’
‘What weird traditions?’
He rolls his eyes as if there are too many to mention. ‘Well, for a start, driving on the left.’
‘Driving on the left’s not weird. You’re weird for driving on the right.’
‘Along with the rest of the world,’ he points out.
‘What about Australia?’ I argue. ‘Or India or New Zealand or . . .’ Actually, now I come to think about it, I can’t think of anywhere else. ‘. . . loads of other places,’ I mutter weakly, as he looks at me, eyebrows raised.
‘And then there’s going to the loo,’ he persists. ‘Your bars – sorry, I mean pubs – are filled with guys and there’s barely a woman in sight. Strangers tell you it’s gonna be a lovely day when it’s raining and freezing cold in the middle of July . . .’
He has a point there.
‘Queuing!’
‘It’s polite,’ I say defensively.
‘It’s nuts,’ he retorts. ‘You stand in line and if someone walks straight to the front no one says anything.’ Shaking his head, he picks up his knife and prods at his food. ‘And as for your love of these funny beans in ketchup . . .’
Until now I’ve taken it all pretty much on the chin, but now he’s gone too far. ‘Heinz baked beans?’ I say defensively. ‘You don’t like them?’
‘Are you kidding me?’ He snorts and pulls a face.
On impulse I lean across the table, scoop up a forkful from his plate and stuff them into my mouth. ‘Mmmm,’ I moan, doing my impression of Sally faking orgasm in When Harry Met Sally. ‘Mmmmmm.’
‘Oh, and one last thing.’
‘What?’
‘The British women – or should I say birds?’
‘What about them?’
He picks up a section of the newspaper and disappears behind it. ‘Crazy. All of ’em.’
It has to be one of the most amazing things about life that within a couple of weeks you can go from not knowing a person even exists to sharing your home, the TV remote and the Sunday papers with them. Gabe and I are like an old married couple – him with the sports section, me with the Style magazine – who would have thought it?
It’s amazing for anyone, but for me especially, as I’m very protective of my Sunday-morning ritual. There’s nothing I love more than sitting in a café, reading the Style magazine over a plate of flu
ffy, yellow scrambled eggs and – unlike most people, who see it as a couple activity – I love to do it alone.
OK, maybe I’m weird, but it’s a thing of mine. I love the fact that I don’t have to fight over sections of the paper, or read one that’s already been creased. I love being able to spread out on the table without worrying that the Travel section might end up in someone else’s fried mushrooms. And more than anything, I love not being distracted by conversation, that I can sit in perfect silence, happily engrossed in whatever article takes my fancy. It’s one of the few pleasures in life.
But on this particular Sunday morning I bumped into Gabe in the kitchen, pacing around in his Tibetan slipper-socks somewhat at a loss. And felt guilty. There he was, a stranger in a foreign country, and I hadn’t once offered to show him the neighbourhood. OK, so it’s not as if he doesn’t know anyone. He has an uncle here – but, as Ed always says, relatives are like Christmas: they should only come once a year.
So, I made the ultimate sacrifice and invited him for breakfast.
Finishing my scrambled eggs I watch Gabe stroking his whiskery chin absentmindedly as he studies the sport. Eventually he sits back and puts down the paper. ‘So,’ he says, ‘you haven’t mentioned how your date went last night.’
I blush, I don’t know why.
‘That good, huh?’ He laughs.
‘Yeah, I guess you could say that.’ Unexpectedly self-conscious, I look down at my plate and begin to sweep the crumbs into a little pile with my fork. ‘Anyway, how did you know my date was last night?’ I ask casually.
‘I’m psychic.’
‘You are?’ I ask, then realise that of course he isn’t, he’s trying to be funny.
‘No, not really. I was in my room and heard him come pick you up.’
‘Oh . . . right.’
‘Eight o’clock on the dot.’
I smile bashfully. ‘Well, it’s rude to keep a lady waiting.’
‘That’s what Mia’s always telling me, but I have a mental block when it comes to the time. I’m always late.’
At the mention of his girlfriend, I smile sympathetically. ‘You must really miss her.’
‘Yeah.’
He doesn’t elaborate and I get the vague sense that he doesn’t want to talk about it. So, of course, I blunder on: ‘How’s her movie going?’ I ask, which is really code for ‘What’s going on with you two?’
‘OK.’ He shrugs, and then, running his fingertips along his burgeoning moustache, adds, ‘At least, I think so.’
Like I thought. Something’s definitely up.
‘I haven’t spoken to her in a while. It’s difficult for her to call from the set.’ He scrapes the cappuccino foam from round his cup and licks it off the spoon. ‘And the time difference doesn’t help.’
He’s obviously making excuses for her, I decide, feeling suddenly protective of him and disliking Mia, with her swingy hair and perfect teeth. ‘Long-distance relationships, hey?’ I say.
He nods, then changes the subject. ‘So, you like this new guy? What did you say his name was?’
‘I didn’t.’ I smile. ‘It’s James. And, yeah, I like him.’
I catch myself. That, Heather Hamilton, has to be the understatement of the year. ‘The funny thing is, apparently he’s been wanting to ask me out for ages but thought I wasn’t interested.’
‘When are you seeing him again?’
‘Tonight,’ I reply casually, taking a sip of my latte.
At least, I try to say it casually, but Gabe sees right through me. ‘Two nights in a row?’ He nudges me under the table with a knee.
‘I know,’ I admit, trying to suppress my excitement. James is so gorgeous I’m scared of jinxing things by getting too carried away.
Gabe, however, has no such worries.
‘Wow,’ he drawls. ‘Has he got the hots for you, girlfriend.’ Grinning, he bites into his toast and chews with his mouth open. A habit that in anyone else would be revolting but in Gabe is somehow endearing.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that . . .’ I say modestly, but Gabe stops me.
‘Heather, listen to me.’ Pausing to noisily suck up the remnants of his orange juice through a straw, he eyes me seriously. ‘You’ve liked this guy for ages, and after what you told me he said last night it’s pretty obvious he’s liked you for ages – so where’s the problem?’
‘OK, OK, you’re right. There isn’t a problem . . . that’s the problem.’
Gabe looks at me with amusement, ‘Are you sure you’re not Jewish?’
I have to say, that when Gabe isn’t in stand-up comedy mode, he can be rather funny and I’m swatting him playfully with the Style section when someone bangs into the back of my chair, knocking my coffee, which slops into my lap. ‘Hey! Can’t you watch where you’re going?’ I yelp as I jump back in my seat.
‘Sorreee!’ There’s a chorus of yelling from a crowd of boys as they rush past down the high street.
‘You OK?’ Gabe asks, passing me a napkin.
‘Fine.’ I begin to blot my lap.
‘The youth of today, huh?’
There’s a pause as I continue rubbing at my clothes, and Gabe digs into the paper, pulls out the magazine and flicks straight to the back. The actions of a seasoned horoscope reader. ‘Shall I read you your horoscope?’ he asks brightly.
‘Oh, those things are a load of nonsense,’ I say dismissively, and put the soggy napkin on the table.
‘OK, suit yourself.’ Gabe shrugs and begins to read to himself.
For a moment I sit there, watching him absorbed in Jonathan Cainer, but then I’m curious. I crick my neck and try to read upside-down. I wonder if mine will say anything about new relationships. Damn it’s useless. I can’t see a bloody thing. ‘Oh, go on, then,’ I say, as if he’s been twisting my arm for the past ten minutes. ‘I’m Pisces,’ I add, after a beat.
‘Pisces, huh?’ Gabe raises his eyebrows, as if this means something significant, but I resist asking. After all, it’s nonsense, right?
‘“With all your planets aligning this is an important time for Pisceans in the areas of your career, family and love. Major changes will be happening. You’re on a winning streak, so watch out for a sudden windfall.”’ He looks up. ‘Wow! Sounds like you’re going to win the lottery.’
‘Me? I never win anything,’ I laugh, then suddenly remember my lottery ticket. My heart starts to beat very, very quickly. ‘Quick, Gabe, pass me the papers. I want to see something.’
‘Don’t you want to hear the rest of your stars?’
‘In a sec.’ I fumble with the different sections until I find the one I need, and start flicking through it. No, not there . . . My eyes scan the pages. Then I see them: last night’s lottery numbers.
I zoom in for a close-up.
They look familiar.
I take a moment to remember to breathe. 30 my age; 14, my address; 6, number of years I’ve been working at Together Forever. Cautiously I edge my eyes along the page: 27, Mum’s birthday was 27 April . . . I try to remember the last two numbers I chose hastily at random. I’m pretty sure one was 13 . . . Bloody hell! Sure enough, it’s there in black and white. My stomach flips, half excitement, half terror. Now for the last one. It’s 41 – did I pick 41? I rack my brains. Come on, Heather, think, think—
‘Heather?’
I jump. I’d forgotten about Gabe.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Fine . . .’ I’m trying to calm my jittery nerves.
Oh, my God, I think I’ve won the lottery.
‘That’s a very serious look you’ve got on your face,’ he says, peering at me as if I’m an exhibit in a museum.
‘Really?’ Unscrewing my forehead, I force a smile.
And it’s a rollover week.
‘You don’t look too good. You’ve gone pale.’
‘Honestly, it’s nothing.’
I’m going to be a millionaire.
‘Maybe we should go home. I’ll get the check
.’ He beckons the waiter.
‘Wait a mo. I just want to check my lottery ticket.’
‘So, horoscopes are a pile of nonsense, are they?’ he laughs, waving his arm in the air.
I reach feverishly for my bag. Wow, can you imagine how exciting it’s going to be? What everyone’s going to say? Though perhaps I should be anonymous, refuse the publicity – I don’t want loads of begging letters and people trying to kidnap me for a huge ransom.
Er, hang on a minute. I run my hand along the back of my chair, feeling for the leather strap. A tiny flame of panic ignites in me and I glance over my shoulder to where I’d slung my bag earlier.
It’s not there.
‘It’s been stolen,’ I whisper, almost frozen with shock.
‘’Scuse me?’ I hear Gabe’s voice but it doesn’t register.
‘It’s gone.’ As the reality kicks in, I jump up in horror, eyes darting under the table, around the side of the chair, along the pavement.
‘Hey, what’s up?’
‘My bag!’ I wail desperately, wondering how on earth it had happened. Then I remember the gang of boys banging into my chair. Realisation dawns as anger surfaces. With them and myself. Jesus, Heather, it’s the oldest trick in the book. ‘Those kids must have stolen it,’ I jabber wildly, still looking up and down the pavement as if a brown leather bag from Nine West is going to jump out from behind a chair leg. ‘I’ve been robbed.’
‘Oh, Jeez.’ Gabe stands up and begins to look with me. ‘Was everything in it?’
I feel tears prickling. ‘My phone, house keys, wallet . . .’
‘Did you have a lot of cash?’
Even under the circumstances, the idea that I might have lots of cash in my wallet is vaguely amusing. ‘Not much, maybe a tenner,’ I murmur, and slump back into my chair. ‘But that’s not important.’
‘Hey, I know, it’s the sentimental stuff.’
‘No, it’s not that . . .’ I begin to sniff, then stop. I can’t tell him about the significance of the lottery ticket, can I? It would mean launching into the whole story about the gypsy, the lucky heather and how all my wishes have been coming true. He’ll think he’s sharing a flat with a fruit loop.
Be Careful What You Wish For Page 14