The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  Stealthily, I make my way to the three-foot wall that separates the houses. I put down the crate, then jump over, dart underneath Rita’s old kitchen window and creep to the back. The bin is outside his patio door. It’s unmistakably mine – I’d recognise the angle of the Bank Holiday Collection sticker anywhere.

  I silently begin dragging it to its rightful home, wincing as it creaks. When I reach the three-foot wall again, I have a choice. I can either take it all the way to the front of the house and pull it up the driveway in full view of . . . anyone. Or I can try to get it over the wall quickly.

  Speed is the only option.

  I attempt to heave it over the wall, contorting myself into a variety of positions that culminate in one that makes me resemble a constipated sumo wrestler. It’s when I’m convinced this ungainly squat will allow me to pull the bin over on my back, that I am interrupted.

  ‘Need a hand?’

  The bin slips from my grasp and I fall to my knees – arse in the air, pyjama bottoms shredded and a hideous sense of dread running through me.

  It is not even seven thirty. I seriously hope today gets better.

  Chapter 23

  He recognises me the instant I stand and look him defiantly in the eye.

  It’s the only option. Trying to make my getaway is pointless. I’m going to have to face the man I shagged and ran from. With that horrible fact emblazoned on my brain I decide the only tactic is to do as Scooby Doo would do: create a diversion.

  ‘This wheelie bin belongs to me.’

  ‘Does it? Sorry – it must have been the—’

  ‘Having to search for it at this time on a Sunday morning isn’t my idea of fun.’ Even as I’m saying it, my reaction feels over the top. I sound like a lunatic. But I don’t care. Because the more I keep talking, the more he’ll be prevented from raising our liaison, email exchange, or the fact that I’ve been caught breaking and entering his patio.

  ‘I’m sure. But you see—’

  ‘I don’t mean to be petty,’ I continue, contrary to evidence, ‘but you have misappropriated my property.’

  He frowns, focusing on my pursed lips and the hands I appear to have placed on my hips as if I’m about to start doing ‘The Time Warp’. It’s then that I notice the smell again. The irresistible, delicious scent literally oozing from this man. I take a step back from him.

  ‘I think you’ll find it belongs to the council,’ he replies calmly. His lip twitches and I can’t work out if he’s about to burst out laughing or tell me off. I am now crimson. Even my ears are blushing.

  ‘And the council have assigned this wheelie bin to my flat.’

  He looks over my shoulder to the overflowing crate of wine bottles. ‘Heavy night?’

  I don’t rise to the bait. ‘I should stress that, had you wanted to borrow the wheelie bin, or even deposit your own recyclable goods in there, I’d have had no problem at all if you’d asked.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘As it is, not only have you removed my wheelie bin, you’ve also filled it with non-recyclable items.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Which means that if it’d gone out on a Tuesday, the bin men would’ve put a big sticker on it, announcing to the world that I was the sort of woman who placed non-recyclable items in a bin designed solely for recyclable ones. And I am not that irresponsible.’

  He stands staring, as if waiting for me to finish. Which I wish I’d done after the first sentence.

  ‘That’s all,’ I conclude.

  ‘Thank you. Well, first of all, I apologise that your wheelie bin ended up in my garden – it must have been a removal man, because it wasn’t me. But I’m genuinely sorry for the inconvenience. Second, may I say that of all the welcomes I’ve received since moving in – the cards, the friendly hellos, the bottles of wine – yours is, without doubt, the most . . . memorable. And I say that as someone who received four jars of satsuma jam.’

  I open my mouth to speak, but he gets there before me.

  ‘As for you being reckless, irresponsible or anything remotely negative, I would never be so presumptuous about someone I hardly know.’ He holds my gaze meaningfully at the last words.

  ‘Good.’

  He looks at me again and an awkward silence hovers in the air.

  I go to turn away, when he says something that makes my stomach flip over. ‘You know we spent the night together, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I hiss. ‘I also know you have children and are married and—’

  ‘Separated.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m separated. My wife and I aren’t together.’

  I straighten my back. ‘I see.’ This does alter things – and I’m relieved. But not enough to make me proud of having a one-night stand with my new neighbour. ‘Fine. Good. But I’d still rather you didn’t mention . . . you know, to anyone.’

  ‘“You know”?’

  I narrow my eyes and focus on him so hard I could be about to fire lasers from them. ‘You . Know,’ I repeat, then spin on my heels and march away, dragging my wheelie bin back to its rightful home.

  Chapter 24

  I’m almost overjoyed to get to work on Monday morning. ‘Almost’ because, while I’m sick of hiding in my flat and relieved to escape from it, being at Little Blue Bus Productions today only underlines my growing suspicion of one thing: I really should get out of this job.

  The irony is that Giles and I have a brilliant morning.

  We’ve finished the script on a new series and had a meeting with the animators, who were effervescing with enthusiasm as they started sketching out ideas. As Giles and I stood over the shoulder of one, James, we smiled at each other like proud, but dysfunctional, parents.

  We achieved loads, were bursting with ideas and laughed so much – about everything from Giles’s comedy coffee spill when Denise from accounts walked in, to the slip of James’s pencil that left a Bingbah looking like the bastard love child of a My Little Pony and Chewbacca from Star Wars.

  It was one of those mornings that reminded me why I’ve loved this job for so many years – the creativity, the buzz, the energy you get from talented people doing what they do best.

  Then I got back to my desk.

  Perry had embarked on an emailing frenzy, something that sends ripples of terror round the office each time it happens.

  He goes underground for weeks, resulting in urgent and repeated requests going totally unanswered. Then you’ll log on and suddenly nineteen of the buggers will be sitting there in bold type, sprinkled with random punctuation marks – Perry’s approach to exclamation marks can be compared only with that of a toddler with a tub of hundreds of thousands.

  The first in my inbox is a response to an email I sent in December 2010 asking if it’d be possible to leave early on Friday for a dental appointment.

  Course, no problem Emma! Not dentures, is it?!!!!! ;-) !!! :-/

  The second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh take me to the present day, authorising payments for stationery that’s been long recycled, holidays from which my tan faded months ago – and issuing feedback on scripts that have not just been produced in the interim, but have also been aired, watched by millions, and are now repeated on Boomerang.

  The rest consist of a variety of increasingly certifiable suggestions for changes to a script that he’d signed off weeks ago and on which the animators are well advanced. One of them includes the suggestion that we kill off several Bingbahs in a variety of unpleasant ways – a concept apparently inspired by a leaflet entitled Telling Your Child About Bereavement that he read in his GP surgery on Thursday.

  When I get home, I feel a weird mixture of emotions. A deep concern that with no alternative openings in the interior-design industry, I’m destined to spend my life in the asylum that is Little Blue Bus Productions.

  A fear that, even if my ‘dream job’ did leap up and bite me on the nose, nothing would ever compare to the incredible buzz that we once experienced every minut
e of the day, the taste of which I could clearly recall today.

  And a sadness that, with Perry at the helm, those days are unlikely to return.

  Chapter 25

  I see Matt Taylor three times over the course of the week and, on every occasion, I wish I owned one of Harry Potter’s invisibility cloaks.

  The first is on the way to work on Tuesday, when he’s walking down the steps of Rita’s flat and gives a little wave I can’t help but interpret as sarcastic. I pretend not to notice, feigning concentration as I press random buttons on my satnav, despite the journey to work being one I’ve now completed approximately two-and-a-half thousand times.

  The second is on Thursday, on my return from a dispiriting guitar lesson at Rob’s during which I tortured myself about him no longer being my boyfriend, and tortured him with my musical skills. Despite my efforts, I am reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I have all the melodic flair of Jedward.

  There’s no avoiding Matt this time and he actually says hello. I say hello back. It’s all perfectly civil and grown-up – but I’d still rather it wasn’t happening.

  The third is this morning, Saturday, just after Asha has phoned to say she can’t make it out tonight as Toby is whisking her off to the Lake District for two nights – a big thing given that they never usually get to spend that sort of time together. I step out of the car and then bump into Stacey, who regales me with every tiny detail she’s uncovered about Matt’s life, including his impending divorce, three children, super-duper jet-setting job as a top photographer and the fact that he wears Vera Wang aftershave, which she’s identified with the detection skills of a Customs and Excise sniffer dog.

  I say nothing, refusing to be impressed, as his car pulls into the drive and I make my excuses.

  I’m inside my flat before the need to engage in conversation arises, and I watch from the kitchen window as Matt lifts out his little boy from the seat in the back of the car and the other two follow. The two bigger boys are play-fighting, while the little one is giggling as his father tickles him. He finally puts him on the ground, grinning as he follows them all to the garden behind the house.

  ‘Do you think it still counts as a one-night stand, given that I keep bumping into this man?’ I ask Cally that night. We’re at a Comedy Club and I’ve taken the opportunity to put this to her while my sister is at the bar.

  ‘If you slept with him, then . . . why not? It’d be churlish otherwise—’

  ‘Yes! My guitar lessons are going brilliantly, thanks!’ I hoot, changing the subject as Marianne returns.

  The Comedy Club is in the basement of a trendy converted warehouse in the Albert Dock and, having attended before, this time I’ve chosen the table with absolute precision. On my last visit – with Rob – I made the error of sitting within picking-on distance of the stage and was subjected to a barrage of repartee that culminated in the compere speculating on what our children would look like (Gonzo from The Muppet Show). Personally, I felt we’d got off lightly, but I could tell that Rob was a little upset. I don’t know why that thought makes me feel a swell of affection for him, but it does.

  ‘When do we get to hear your new-found musical genius?’ asks Marianne.

  ‘My birthday party. I’m still gripping to the probably misplaced hope that my talent will be unleashed when Rob lets me play something more ambitious.’

  ‘I thought you said you’d progressed to something more complicated?’ Marianne replies.

  ‘Yes. “Jingle Bells”.’

  ‘Ahh, Zachary’s favourite.’ Cally grins. ‘Hey – I’ve got to show you this.’

  She reaches into her bag for her phone and plays a video shot in her kitchen today – of Zachary singing the Black Eyed Peas’ ‘I Gotta Feeling’. It is undeniably hilarious and he’s very cute – a description that only ever seems clear to me when he’s at a safe distance. I look up at Marianne and can’t help noticing she looks more subdued than I’d expect.

  I’ve had a feeling for a couple of years that my sister’s getting broody. It happens to me too every so often – though it usually passes, a bit like wind. Marianne has always been a more obvious candidate for motherhood than me – she’s a natural with stuff like that.

  Although, try as I might, I just can’t imagine her new boyfriend as the father of her child.

  ‘Brian really wanted to come with me this weekend, but his mum’s not been very well,’ she tells me during the interval. We’re in one of those trendy unisex loos, something I’ve never approved of. It’s fine if you’ve only got to wash your hands and apply lipstick. But it’s very difficult to sustain a healthy degree of mystique when members of the opposite sex witness you buying Tampax or applying concealer to unsightly zits.

  ‘Really? Is it anything serious?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh I don’t think so, but she’s old and he worries about her. He’s such a caring person – honestly, he always puts others before himself. Which is one of the reasons I love him. That and the fact that he makes me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s great, Emma. He really is.’

  I can’t help but smile. There’s no doubt about it, Brian – as unlikely a love interest as he is for Marianne – is clearly making her very happy. I don’t quite get it – but I can’t argue with it.

  We’re about to head back, when she freezes.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I frown.

  She nods and gestures to the other side of the room, where a figure is drying his hands as women sashay past, desperate for his attention.

  And it’s no wonder why.

  Johnny is the best-looking man in the place; he radiates charisma without even saying anything.

  ‘Bloody hell . . . I haven’t seen Johnny for ages. Are you going to go over and say hi?’ I ask.

  ‘I suppose I’d better.’ But Marianne doesn’t move.

  ‘Come on, then,’ I insist, dragging her by the arm.

  He is overwhelmingly pleased to see us.

  ‘Emma!’ He sweeps me up in a rib-shattering hug. ‘Wow! You look amazing! How are things?’

  ‘Um . . . great,’ I reply, slightly taken aback at this deluge of enthusiasm. Johnny and I have always got on well, but you’d think I’d told him I’d won the lottery and was giving the proceeds to his St Tropez yacht fund. ‘Are you back for the weekend?’

  ‘Yep! Here to see my folks. I’m home a few times a year still. Just on my way out of here, actually. To think, I might never have seen you!’ He claps his hands gleefully, then takes a deep breath and turns to my sister. ‘Marianne!’ He laughs as he leans in and kisses her on the cheek, squeezing her into him. She shifts away awkwardly.

  ‘I need to get to the bar before it shuts for the next act,’ I announce, deciding to leave them to it. ‘It’s my round.’

  Then I slip off, leaving my sister – clearly torn between unease and elation – with her ex-boyfriend.

  When I return to the table, I’m spilling over with the news. ‘Marianne’s talking to him now,’ I tell Cally.

  Her eyes widen. ‘Is he coming over?’

  ‘No, he’s on his way out. He was a bit drunk. He clearly still adores her, you know.’

  She takes a sip of her drink. ‘Hey, did I tell you I’ve started reading Riders again?’ I’d rather still discuss my sister’s love life – but am aware that it’s probably not as interesting to everyone else.

  ‘Is it as good as it was when we were fifteen?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s great. Can see exactly what we saw in it.’

  ‘It was called sex, wasn’t it?’ quips Marianne, sitting down again.

  ‘That was quick. So how was he?’ I ask.

  She shrugs and glances at Cally. ‘Completely off his head.’

  ‘He was drunk, no doubt about that,’ I concede.

  The next performance is about to start, when someone pulls up a chair next to me.

  ‘Thought I’d join you after all,’ says Asha sheepishly.

  ‘What happened to the Lake District?’ I whisper
as the lights dim.

  She shakes her head, clearly upset. ‘Domestic emergency. It’s not a big deal. It’s just one of those things.’

  ‘Asha, it is a big deal,’ Cally insists. ‘I’m worried about you.’

  Asha doesn’t know how to respond. And before she can, her phone rings and she picks it up to look at the number.

  ‘It’s the man himself,’ she tells us, hitting the Answer button. ‘Yes?’

  Her voice is slightly cold and it sounds alien coming from Asha. She says nothing, simply listens as he talks, frowning every so often. Eventually, she takes a deep breath.

  ‘Toby,’ she whispers, her voice heavy with hurt and anger. ‘I understand why you don’t want to leave your family in the lurch, I really do. I understand how painful the prospect of leaving must be. But I can’t go on like this. I can’t be a mistress for the rest of my life. I cannot be a mistress, full stop.’

  Cally leans over and clutches her hand.

  Asha swallows. ‘It’s this simple: if you’re a single man, I will be with you. If you remain married, if you don’t do anything . . . then I can’t. I can’t be a part of this any longer.’

  He says something to her and she ends the call with tears in her eyes. ‘I need a drink.’

  Chapter 26

  Asha insists we stay for the final act, determined to take her mind off things. It turns out to be a good decision. The comedienne is brilliant, although whether the male section of the audience found her graphic description of bikini waxing as enjoyable as us is questionable.

  ‘Do we always think the last act is the best because we’re usually drunk by then?’ Marianne muses.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Cally replies. ‘Hic!’

  There’s no doubt that most people in the room are better-lubricated now than at the start of the night. And none more so than those in the VIP section of the bar on the other side of the room; they’ve been whooping and hollering as if emulating the mating call of migrating swans.