‘But what about Lady Charlotte’s wedding?’ I urge.
‘What about it?’ He pulls a face. ‘I can find someone to give me a hand. After all, it’s only a wedding.’
I smile gratefully. Brian’s such a superstar. ‘I can’t let you down at such short notice. Not after all this preparation. Maybe I can explain to them,’ I suggest. ‘I mean, I should really give you a month’s notice.’ Now it’s actually happening, I discover I’m not so desperate to leave after all.
‘Heather, please. What’s all this notice bollocks? I know I’m your boss . . .’ he looks at me kindly ‘. . . but I’m your friend first and foremost. Take the rest of the week off. Have a few days’ holiday. Believe me, you’ll be thankful for it once you start working for a newspaper.’ He smiles at his memories.
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’ I say doubtfully.
‘Listen, I’ve had my career. Now it’s your turn. Go and be a photographer for the Sunday Herald. Go and take some amazing shots that don’t involve confetti.’ He clicks his tongue. ‘Bloody hell, girl, sod Bridezilla. This is your wish come true.’
He’s right. This is my wish come true. But as I glance around the office of Together Forever, the familiar walls filled with framed photos of newlyweds, the Charles and Di wedding clock, a black-and-white picture of Brian in his heyday, it occurs to me that I’ve been so busy wishing I could move on in my career that I’ve never stopped to appreciate this place.
‘Now I know most people get a gold watch when they leave a job . . .’
I zone back in to see Brian opening a drawer in his desk: ‘Isn’t that when you retire?’ I say.
But Brian’s in mid-flow. ‘. . . but I thought you might prefer this.’ He holds out a CD.
‘What is it?’ I say. And then I realise.
‘A little memento,’ he says quietly.
I turn the plastic case in my hand. ‘Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the Opera.’ Tears prickle.
‘It’s my autographed copy,’ he adds, the pride audible in his voice as he points at the felt-tip scribble: Michael Crawford.
I’m touched. I know how much it means to him. ‘I’ll treasure it,’ I say, and kiss his cheek.
‘I should bloody well hope so. I stood in the rain for two hours to get it.’ His voice is thick with emotion.
‘Well, I’ll start packing my things.’ I force a smile.
‘Rightly-ho.’ Brian picks up the paper and pretends to read it.
A lump forms in my throat and I walk into the little back room. This isn’t how I imagined it would be. Blinking back tears, I tug open a drawer. It’s filled with my stuff, and as I grab a bin-liner and begin to clear it out, I can’t help wondering; if this is something I’ve wished for my whole life, why do I feel so bloody miserable?
Chapter Thirty-eight
At six o’clock Brian and I say our final goodbyes, both of us hiding behind brave faces as we crack feeble jokes and promise to keep in touch. Then it’s time for me to go home. I’ve spent the afternoon gathering up everything I’ve accumulated these past six years and filled two large carrier-bags, but when he offers me a lift I fib and say I’m fine, they’re actually quite light and I’m meeting Jess for a drink to celebrate.
None of which is true.
Struggling out of the tube station, the bags clanking against my shins and leaving little red marks, which I just know are going to turn into big purple bruises, I begin traipsing down the high street towards my flat. It’s rush-hour and, as usual, it’s swarming with noise and activity, exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke, but I barely notice it. Snippets of my conversation with Yvonne, flashbacks of Brian’s reaction, stills from the interview with Victor Maxfield, a jumble of memories from six years at Together Forever – they’re all edited into a montage that’s spooling round and round in my mind.
I’ve heard about people going into shock after an accident or other traumatic experience, but after they’ve been offered their dream job? I’m pondering this when I notice I’ve reached the corner of my street and catch sight of a slouching figure in the window of Mrs Patel’s. It’s me.
I stop dead in the middle of the pavement. Honestly, Heather, what’s wrong with you? Take that sorry expression off your face. Anyone would think you’d just lost your job. You should be over the moon. You should be rushing home to ring Lionel and Ed and break the fantastic news. You should be celebrating with champagne and getting merrily plastered and telling everyone how much you love them in a very slurred voice.
Well, OK, maybe not that bit.
I throw back my shoulders and smile unnaturally, like you do when you’re being photographed and it’s taking too long. C’mon, Heather. Just think. No more sniggering at parties when someone asks you what you do. No more comparing yourself to all your peers on Friends Reunited and feeling like a big, fat failure. No more looking down the lens and wishing you were photographing something other than a rosy-cheeked bride in butterscotch satin. This is it! You’ve done it! You’re a success!
Looking past the pyramid of Batchelor’s Cup-a-soups on special offer in the window, I stare hard at my reflection. Funny, but I always thought a success would look different somehow.
When I arrive at the flat, I dump my bags in the kitchen and decide to celebrate my good news by unhooking the phone from its cradle and start dialling. For the next half an hour I yabber away excitedly about my new job to Lionel, Jess’s voicemail, and Lou, as I discover Ed’s in Las Vegas at an orthodontists’ convention, which ‘is the best place for him as all we do when he’s at home is row about football,’ she huffs angrily. And then, once I’ve rung everyone, been congratulated and told to ‘have a drink on me’, I hang up and stare blankly round the kitchen.
OK, now what?
Drumming my fingers on the table I glance at the clock on the microwave: 19.03. Hmm, I wonder where Gabe is. At the thought of him I feel a tingle of excitement. I can’t call him as he doesn’t have a mobile, but I can’t wait to share my news. He’s going to be so excited – after all, it was his idea.
I tug open the fridge and peer inside. The bottle of champagne I bought when Gabe first moved in is still chilling, just waiting for a special occasion. And now I’ve got one. Excitedly I clasp my fingers round its gold tinfoil neck, set it down carefully on the table and grab two champagne flutes.
My mouth waters. The Moët’s ice cold. Condensation clings frostily to the dark glass and for a moment I stand there, staring at it, as if I was eyeing someone up in a bar. No, Heather, I tell myself sternly. You have to wait for Gabe.
I glance at the clock again: 19.07. He’ll be home in a minute. I set about distracting myself: feeding Billy Smith, giving the hob a once-over, rearranging the fridge magnets.
Perhaps one little glass won’t hurt.
Heather. Nobody drinks champagne by themselves. You have to drink it with someone. Idly I pick up a satsuma and peel it, concentrating on stripping the stringy threads of pith off each segment, before savouring the little bursts of sweet juice as I pop them into my mouth one by one.
Which takes up about three minutes.
Not even just one teensy-weensy drop?
I eyeball the Moët lustfully. I can feel my resolve weakening. After all, why shouldn’t I drink champagne alone? Why should society dictate that it’s a couple activity? I grab the bottle and rip off the tinfoil. Anyway, it’s not like I’m going to drink the whole bottle. I just want a taste. Squeezing the cork with my thumb, it explodes with a loud pop, and grabbing my glass I hold it underneath to catch the froth of amber liquid.
Three glasses later, I’m tipsy. Duetting with Michael Crawford, I pirouette round the kitchen in my satin stilettos, flinging out my arms and closing my eyes as we reach the crescendo. I feel exhilarated. Alive. So happy I’m going to burst. I take in a deep lungful of air, throw back my head and really go for it. You know, I have to say I think I’ve got a really good voice. I’m a natural. I should have been on the stage. With a bit of training, I’
d make a great dancer. I mean, look at Catherine Zeta-Jones. All it takes is practice and a pair of fishnets. And I’d end up with amazing thighs from all that high kicking.
Just like this . . . Champagne slops over the edge of my glass as I thrust my leg into the air – Tad-daah! My stiletto heel skids on the wet lino and I land with a crash on my bottom. Ouch. Well, obviously I’d need to practise a bit.
Dragging myself shakily to my feet, I limp to a stool and pour myself another glass of champagne. Wincing, I sip it medicinally. Fuck, I could murder a cigarette. I consider running to the corner shop for a packet of Marlboro Lights, but my ankle gives a painful twinge. Oh, well, scrap that idea. I take a consolatory swig of champagne.
But it’s no good.
I really wish I had a cigarette.
Then I remember. Gabe smokes.
Joyfully, I limp into the hallway and head for his room. I’m sure he won’t mind, smoker in need and all that. I go to push open the door when something in the nook under the stairs catches my attention. It’s the little green light on the answering-machine, tucked away behind a vase of wilting red roses. It’s blinking to tell me I’ve got a message. What with everything going on, I forgot to check it when I came in.
Hobbling over I glance at the display. Three messages. I press the play and wait expectantly. It beeps. ‘Hello, don’t hang up. This is IPC Finance and we can save you thousands on your mortgage . . .’ I hit delete impatiently and the machine beeps to signal the next. ‘Hey, honey, it’s me and I’m lying by the pool . . .’
Jess! Cheered, I listen to her nattering on about how she’s having a good time in Cape Town and how she’s decided to lay off men for a while. I can hear her puffing away at a cigarette, which reminds me of my craving. I push open Gabe’s door.
‘. . . so I thought to myself, You know what Jess? If it happens it happens . . .’
I can hear her chattering away in the background an I scan the room for the familiar sight of a red and white packet. My eyes come to rest on the bookshelf in the corner. Aha. Triumphantly I pounce on twenty Marlboros and pull out a cigarette.
‘. . . because you’re right, better to have loved and lost than—Beeeeep.’
The answering-machine cuts her off in mid-sentence. Trust Jess, I don’t think she’s ever left a succinct message. Unlike the owner of the next voice, which sounds short and efficient, as if they’re in a hurry.
‘Hi, Gabe . . .’
I feel a ping of disappointment. Damnit, I was hoping it was going to be Gabe.
‘It’s your uncle . . .’
Huh, so this is the uncle he’s always talking about. I help myself to a lighter and turn to leave. I should’ve known. He’s got an American accent, but it’s much milder than Gabe’s. In fact, it’s really funny but he sounds just like . . .
‘. . . Victor,’ says the voice on the telephone.
Maxfield, finishes the voice inside my head.
I freeze. Victor Maxfield is Gabe’s uncle? My flatmate is the nephew of my new boss? For an instant I’m numb. Then, like a ten-tonne truck, it hits me.
That’s why I got the job.
The message keeps playing, something about changing the restaurant they were meeting in tonight, but I’m no longer listening as my mind’s gone into freefall. That’s why Gabe suggested applying to the Sunday Herald. That’s how come I got the interview. That’s why after six years of getting absolutely nowhere . . . Suddenly I feel sick. I clamp my hand across my mouth and sink to my knees.
Fuck.
‘Hey, where are you?’
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting on the rug, deafened by the sounds of my dreams crashing around me, when I hear the voice. Dazed, I look up and focus on the figure in front of me. It’s Gabe. Standing in the doorway in his motorcycle jacket, he’s staring at me in confusion.
And, staring right back at him, I feel my shock and hurt mutate into anger.
‘You bastard.’
Chapter Thirty-nine
Gabe pales. ‘What’s going on?’ he whispers, his eyes searching mine.
‘You know exactly what’s going on,’ I sneer, hauling myself off the carpet. Everything is piecing together like some hideous, hideous jigsaw puzzle: Gabe dictating my application, his unerring optimism, Victor Maxfield’s enthusiasm . . . A flashback of me in his office, showing him photographs, the feeling of pride when he complimented me on them. ‘God, I’m such a fucking idiot.’ I can’t remember ever feeling so angry.
‘Hey c’mon, calm down . . .’ he begins placatingly.
‘Calm down?’ I know I’m shouting, but I can’t stop. The alcohol is pumping through my veins, mixed with adrenaline and fury. It’s a lethal combination. ‘How dare you tell me to calm down, after everything you’ve done?’
‘Done? What have I done?’ he stares at me in bewilderment. Scraping his fingers through his hair, he waits for me to say something. Until gasping with impatience, he turns and drops his helmet on his bed. ‘For Chrissakes,’ he mutters, taking off his glasses wearily and pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I walk in here and the first thing you do is call me a bastard, and you’re not even going to explain why.’
‘Victor Maxfield,’ I say simply.
I see his back stiffen, a slight hesitation. Then he looks at me brazenly. ‘What about him?’ He shrugs, but there’s no mistaking the guilt in his eyes.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ I snap.
‘When have I ever lied?’
From the rug I glare up at him, hostility oozing from my pores. ‘He’s your uncle, Gabe,’ I say flatly. My words strike him like an archer’s arrow, and I see the flash of understanding in his eyes. ‘I heard his message on the machine about the restaurant. The game’s up,’ I quip cuttingly.
‘It was never a game—’ he protests, steadfastness crumbling.
‘Oh, yeah?’ I interrupt. ‘Pretending to come up with the idea, faking surprise when I got an interview. You should be the actor, not Mia.’ All that champagne has magnified my emotions and loosened my tongue. I’m ripe for a huge row.
But Gabe’s refusing to give me one. Jaw clenched, he’s staring into the middle distance, shaking his head, as if determined not to believe what he’s hearing.
‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ I press, infuriated by his silence.
He turns away from the window to me. ‘Look, I can see why you’d be a little annoyed but you’re making too big a deal out of this.’ He tries to smile, but suddenly I feel as if I’m just one big joke to him.
‘Stop patronising me!’ I yell, as tears of frustration squeeze out of the corners of my eyes. I blink them back determinedly. ‘How dare you say I’m making a big deal out of this? It is a fucking big deal to me.’
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ he tries again quietly.
‘Says who? You? Just who the fuck do you think you are? What do you think gives you the right to play God with my life? Don’t you understand? This was my big dream.’
‘And I know that,’ protests Gabe, suddenly vehement. ‘That’s why I did it. I knew it was what you’d always wanted.’
‘But not like this,’ I wail. ‘Don’t you understand? I wanted to get it on my own merit. I wanted Victor Maxfield to give me this job because he thinks I’m a great photographer—’
‘But you are a great photographer!’
There’s a pause.
‘I didn’t want you to find out,’ he says quietly.
‘Why? Because I’d react like this?’ My voice is thick with anger. What was I thinking? How could I have believed I got the job on my own talents?
‘No,’ Gabe is saying evenly, and I can see he’s struggling to remain calm. ‘Because you’ve got real talent, Heather. You’ve shown me your stuff and you just needed a break . . . like we all need breaks,’ he falters, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down furiously. ‘And that day when you said it was your childhood dream to work at the Sunday Hearld, and my uncle’s the editor, it was such a coincidence. I mean, what are t
he chances of that happening?’ For a moment his eyes seem filled with wonderment. ‘It was like fate.’
‘Fate?’ My voice comes out all high-pitched. ‘It’s not fate. It’s cheating.’
Gabe turns ashen.
‘You even dictated that stupid letter,’ I continue. ‘Was this one of your jokes?’ Even as I’m saying it I know I’m being cruel but I don’t care. ‘Because if it is it’s not fucking funny.’
Gabe’s expression hardens and I feel a sudden shift.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be, would it?’ Bitterness is audible in his voice. ‘Because I’m not funny, am I? What was it you said on the beach? My jokes are crap. I’m a crap comedian.’
I flinch. Did I really say that? It sounds so harsh. ‘No I didn’t say it like that—’
He cuts me off. ‘Yes, you did. So now who’s the fucking liar, Heather?’
I’m shocked into silence. All the colour has drained from Gabe’s face but for two red blotches high on his cheeks. ‘And, yes, you’re right, I’m going to go up to Edinburgh and probably die a fucking death up there.’
Like a river that’s burst its banks, the argument has changed direction and is rushing furiously out of control.
‘That’s not true, I . . .’
But Gabe’s not listening to me and all at once I feel dizzy and sick. How did we get here? Heart thumping, I look fearfully at Gabe. His blue eyes are hard and angry and I want more than anything to make it stop. To rewind. To go back to how we were before.
‘You’re not the only one with dreams, Heather,’ he says, tugging me back into what we’ve become.
‘I know that,’ I whisper. Oh, God, this is awful. Why did I have to hear that message? Why did I drink all that stupid champagne? A wave of nausea hits me and I steel myself.
‘I should go.’
I look up. Gabe’s face is grim. My chest tightens. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll pack my stuff.’ His eyes are filled with hurt. ‘I was leaving next weekend anyway.’
I hesitate for a second. I know that if I apologise right now I can probably persuade him to stay, that if he leaves I’m going to regret it for ever, that if I don’t say something within the next breath Gabe is going to walk out of my life and I’ll never see him again.
Be Careful What You Wish For Page 28