The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  My eyes haven’t even adjusted to the sunlight before I’m flung into the batting area, barely having time to slip off my heels. ‘We’re relying on you,’ Cally grins as I take the bat.

  Matt is bowling. His mum is on first base. A teenage girl in vintage cut-offs is in second. And Matt’s friend Richard is on third, putting on the worst display of nonchalance I’ve ever seen. Kids of all ages are dotted around the garden, their mildly tanked-up parents eager to join in.

  Suddenly, I’m determined to show everyone what I’ve got.

  I’m transported back to 1995 and I’m facing St Hardknocks School (or something) in the rounders finals – the day I smacked the ball so far across the field I almost tripped over my Green Flash trainers in shock.

  My eyes focus and Matt grins as he steps back, swings his arm and releases the ball.

  It’s as it is hurtling towards me that a piercing alarm registers in my brain, alerting me to an issue with my grip. Or lack of it.

  My still-damp hands might now be delightfully scented with Lime Basil and Mandarin, but the hand cream with which they’re smothered has the lubricating qualities of WD40.

  The implications of this become apparent when the ball is a metre away, and, by then, instinct has taken over. The only option is to go for it. With legs astride, I swing hard and fast, the thrill of potential victory running up and down my spine.

  I’m convinced this will be a four baser. My aim is impeccable . . . my stance is faultless . . . and as the ball makes contact with the end of my bat, everything is perfect.

  Except for one thing.

  I can see the bat slip from my fingers before I feel it, then I watch it hurtling out of my hand and spinning erratically through the air like a shot-down helicopter.

  The normally innocuous two-foot piece of solid wood becomes a lethal weapon, soaring towards the horizon as small children wail, elderly ladies hobble for cover and the barbecue chefs dive away from their sausages.

  The fact that it clouts nobody on the head is a miracle for which I will remain grateful for all eternity.

  But I get off far from scot-free, as is clear from the devastating smash of the kitchen window, its thunderous reverberation across the garden and, judging by the shock on everyone’s faces, the near-cardiac arrest of all those over the age of thirty-five.

  The glass shatters like we’re in a scene from Die Hard, each tiny piece raining down onto the patio. It never seems to stop. It simply continues falling like coins in a Las Vegas slot machine until, finally, eventually, there’s nothing left of the window except one or two jagged edges that hang precariously over the potted gerberas.

  The silence that follows is so deafening I think my ears are bleeding. Slowly, incredulously, each guest turns to me, open-jawed.

  Cally raises her eyebrows. ‘Maybe someone else should go next.’

  Chapter 34

  ‘Emma, please.’ Matt looks at me sternly as I throw an empty Fruit Shoot bottle in the recycling bin. ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’

  I wipe my hands on my jeans. Ah, yes, my jeans. I have never felt so glad to be in them. ‘I know, but I really am so—’

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘But I’m—’ He throws me a warning look and I back down until the pressure becomes too much. ‘I’m sorry!’

  He shakes his head. ‘It is not an issue. It was an accident. I’d intended to replace the window anyway.’

  ‘Why do I not believe you?’

  ‘You must be a cynic.’

  It is nearly midnight, the final guests left half an hour ago, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d never believe there’d been a huge party here today, particularly one involving the damage I generated.

  Six hours ago this was a scene of chaos, especially with adults trying to keep small children away while the same-day glazier (whose bill I’ve insisted comes to me) got to work.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ Matt tells me. ‘I’m fine clearing up by myself.’

  Paranoia prickles through me. ‘Would you rather I left?’

  He prises the recycling bin from me. ‘I’d rather you sat down and had a beer. Or at least a cup of tea.’

  Matt returns five minutes later with two steaming mugs and, after placing them on the cast-iron table, he brings over five tea lights. My shoulders are warm with sunburn, although when darkness fell the temperature dropped. I take a sip of tea and a welcome flood of heat sweeps through me.

  ‘So which exotic location will you be flying to next?’ I ask.

  ‘My favourite – the Greek Islands. I go tomorrow night. It’s only for four days.’

  ‘And this is work?’

  As he laughs, my eyes are momentarily drawn to his Adam’s apple. ‘There are some people who’d like the idea of making up children’s stories all day, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve never claimed mine was real work,’ I say dismissively. ‘Although – and you’ll think I’m a diva for saying this – it can be harder than it looks.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. I’ve got a friend who tried to write children’s books and got nowhere. Turns out that getting into the mind of a three-year-old can be tricky. You must have a gift.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I don’t entirely understand it myself. It was never my dream job, put it that way.’

  He looks surprised. ‘What’s your dream job?’

  ‘I wanted to be an interior designer when I was younger. I’ve always loved beautiful homes, unusual ones, something with character and personality. I approve of yours.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ He’s pretending to be flippant but it’s obvious he’s pleased. ‘So what stopped you?’

  I shrug. ‘I stumbled into kids’ TV. Which nobody does, by the way – jobs like mine are stupidly competitive. While I was at university doing my history degree, I had arranged to do my work placement at an interior-design agency in Manchester, but it fell through at the last minute. My dad’s neighbour was the brother of someone who worked at Little Blue Bus Productions, and he got me in to spend two weeks with the scriptwriters. To my surprise, I loved it. And, not to sound immodest, I turned out to be good at it. So I never left. It’s easy to stay in a job when that happens, isn’t it?’

  ‘You could leave if you wanted to.’

  ‘I have no experience in interior design and couldn’t get a job unless I started at the bottom.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like it would pay well.’

  ‘Quite. Only, I’m thirty soon and part of me thinks it’s now or never.’

  ‘A watershed year.’

  I nod. ‘It’s made me think hard about my life, my achievements and, well, what I want to have done by thirty.’

  ‘When’s your birthday?’

  ‘Twenty-second of December.’

  ‘Plenty of time,’ he grins.

  ‘You haven’t seen my list.’

  ‘What list’s that?’

  I look at my mug and wonder why I blurted that out. I think about offering to go and make more tea as a diversion, but something stops me.

  ‘It all started fifteen years ago . . .’

  I spill the beans about the list, my ambitions, and why – fifteen years later – I felt compelled to take notice of it. Part of me is embarrassed. Except, the way he’s listening . . . well, it makes me want to tell all. Almost all.

  ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ he says when I conclude. ‘Honestly, I do. Everyone feels the same when they turn thirty, though. I don’t think you should worry about that.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘Ah, well, do me a favour and tell me your thirties are so much better than your twenties and that I’ll love it. That’d be some consolation for getting older.’ I grin.

  He looks at his empty mug. ‘Actually, my thirties haven’t been great. But I’m not holding it against the decade. It was . . . circumstances, that’s all.’ He shifts in his seat, keen to change the subject. ‘Hang on a minut
e, what’s on your list again?’

  I reel them off.

  ‘You said there were twelve.’

  ‘Oh . . . did I?’

  ‘You listed only eleven.’

  ‘Who are you – Poirot?’

  He grins. ‘Come on, what’s number twelve?’

  ‘It’s one I . . . it wasn’t a good idea,’ I bluster. ‘No offence, but . . . it’s not really me, that kind of thing. I’m not that sort of girl and—’

  ‘You’ve already done it?’

  ‘Hmm . . . yes.’ I’m trying to think of a plausible non-X-rated alternative, but my mind is blank.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he says, amused. ‘It’s obviously something racy if you say you’re not that sort of girl. I’ve got it! You streaked at a sporting event?’

  ‘God, no! With my cellulite?’

  ‘You had webcam sex?’

  ‘No!’ I shriek.

  ‘You did burlesque?’

  I tut and shake my head.

  ‘You posed topless in a lads’ mag?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘As if they’d have me.’

  ‘I’m sure they’d be delighted. Come on, don’t be shy. I’m very non-judgemental.’

  ‘Clearly,’ I say, my mouth engaging before my brain again.

  He frowns.

  I decide there’s only one way to deal with this, painful as it is. ‘It was . . . the one-night stand.’

  He says nothing.

  ‘I’m partly telling you this because I want you to know that I’ve honestly never done that before. When I said I’m not that sort of girl, I meant it. And, whatever it was like – and I genuinely have no idea – I regretted it instantly. Not because I’m sure you weren’t very competent,’ I add reassuringly. He doesn’t seem that reassured. ‘It’s just . . . all these “achievements” were meant to make me feel good about myself. They were meant to make me braver. Which is a noble cause, isn’t it, only—’

  ‘Emma,’ he interrupts.

  I sigh, having run out of things to say. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you think you and I had a one-night stand?’

  I swallow. ‘Didn’t we?’

  ‘I don’t know the dictionary definition, but I’m sure you have to have sex for it to constitute that.’

  ‘You mean . . . we never . . .’

  ‘No.’

  I look away, my mind whirring with relief, gratitude, and a dozen questions followed by the sudden realisation that I said something in our Facebook exchange that I need to clear up immediately.

  ‘I haven’t got an STD!’ I blurt out. ‘And I’ve never had one!’

  He looks taken aback. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I know it might have sounded like I had one, but I didn’t. I have firm medical proof that I didn’t.’

  ‘You really don’t have to explain. These things happen.’

  ‘But not to me! Honestly, Matt, I’m one hundred per cent . . . healthy. In that department.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  I sigh. ‘Are you finding this funny?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he claims, failing to suppress a smile.

  ‘Now you mention it, I didn’t feel like we’d done anything,’ I continue. ‘Problem was, there was physical evidence to the contrary.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘My knickers weren’t where they were supposed to be.’

  ‘I know.’

  My mouth drops. ‘So how . . .’

  ‘Emma,’ he begins coolly, ‘you put on a bit of a . . . performance when you got to my flat. I tried to stop you, but you were determined and—’

  ‘What sort of performance?’ I croak.

  ‘It began with the in-flight demonstration. Then it progressed to . . .’

  ‘What?’ I ask grimly.

  He suppresses another smile. ‘It’s a shame burlesque wasn’t on your list. You could’ve ticked off another one.’

  Chapter 35

  I see Matt the following afternoon while I’m washing dishes in the kitchen. Only, it’s not just him I see.

  A huge white Audi pulls up in front of the flat and the driver – an exceptionally good-looking man with a slender build and dark hair, leans over to kiss the female passenger. And I mean kiss. He can hardly bear to let her go, doing so eventually when she steps out, the engine still running.

  I recognise her from Facebook, but in the flesh – even from a distance – Matt’s wife is more attractive: a goddess in skinny jeans and cowboy boots, with glossy auburn hair in a high ponytail.

  She waits uncomfortably by the door after ringing the bell, her demeanour changing only when it opens and her three children rush out. Matt follows, kissing each goodbye, before they leap into the car and drive away. He stands for a second, gazing after them with hard eyes, before returning to the house and slamming the door.

  Part of me is glad he won’t be around for a few days.

  He found the whole burlesque thing hilarious, but I’m afraid I’m struggling to do so. I laughed, of course, in the absence of a convenient spaceship to beam me to an adjacent galaxy.

  I thought I’d hidden my mortification well, until he paused and said, suddenly serious: ‘Emma, it’s fine. We all do daft things every so often. And I got you into bed before I saw anything. Honestly, I didn’t even peek.’

  At that point, I suppressed the urge to wail as if alerting the neighbourhood to an air raid – and simply made my excuses and left.

  For four days afterwards I feel, for the first time since he moved in, that I can relax in my own home – an issue I’m pondering on Wednesday, the day before he’s due back, as I’m driving home from work.

  The beep of my phone alerts me to an email and I pull in and check it, my heart fluttering with hope that it’s from Rob.

  We’ve exchanged a few texts this week. Polite ones, sweet – but noticeably unflirtatious and largely dominated by guitar practice updates. I’m still struggling to gauge what’s going through his mind – or indeed my own mind.

  The email is from mattdwtaylor@hotmail.co.uk and is sent from his phone.

  Given that my revelations meant you had to strike the one-night stand off your list, could I help with another? My friend Anna – whom you met at the barbecue – owns a restaurant in Cheshire. It has a Michelin star. They have a three-month waiting list but she’s invited me over at the weekend to sample the new menu. Would you like to come?

  I gasp audibly. Is he inviting me on a date? Because I don’t want to go on a date with Matt, for a multitude of reasons. He’s attractive, I can’t deny it, but there’s no way I’m leaping into something with my feelings about Rob still far from clear – and especially not with my neighbour.

  I decide to play it cool, essential in the light of the revelations about my burlesque performance – even if I am sure I looked more like John Cleese than Dita Von Teese.

  I set about composing a response that sounds casual – something that looks like I’ve hit the Reply button without giving it a second thought. I complete nine drafts before it’s right.

  Sure, that’d be great – where and when?

  Okay, it’s not Tolstoy, but it’s important to get these things right. I tell myself that if he’s talking about Saturday night then that has serious implications. Saturday night means a date. I couldn’t even consider that. His response doesn’t arrive until the following morning.

  Saturday lunchtime okay? About 12.30?

  A flicker of disappointment runs through me and I tell myself not to be ridiculous. I grab my work jacket and briefly scan my wardrobe for an outfit suitable for my non-date. One thing I am sure of is that it isn’t going to involve floaty dresses.

  Chapter 36

  Despite this being a non-date, despite the fact that my brain is still tangled with thoughts of Rob, despite the fact that I’ve spent a week partly dreading seeing my neighbour, I feel odd on Saturday morning.

  I can’t eat – and that never happens.

  Even when I had severe gastroenteritis after eating dodgy chicken liver
pâté at my cousin Tara’s wedding, I soldiered on heroically and managed a banana muffin and latte from Starbucks the next day.

  I potter round the flat doing my usual Saturday morning chores – hoovering the lounge and waxing my bikini line (not simultaneously). In the meantime, I am trying to work out whether the loss of appetite is because I read Heat last night and noted that my thighs are at least two and a half times the size of Paris Hilton’s.

  Then I realise they always have been – and am forced to ask: am I nervous?

  I push the thought out of my mind as a text arrives from Rob.

  No problem about moving your guitar lesson to tomorrow. I’m free all day, so whenever you like. Have you been practising ‘Mary had a Little Lamb’? xxxxxxxx

  Of course! xx

  It’s a lie.

  Matt knocks on my door at twelve thirty and my heart is racing as I open it. The phenomenon is instantly exacerbated when I see what he’s wearing: a black shirt. I should stress that this does not beat the Sexiest Shirt Known To Man. Nothing beats that. But it’s rolled up his arms to display the outline of toned biceps and undone at the top to reveal a tanned, muscular chest, and a terrible thought hits me: Emma Reiss, do you want this to be a date?

  I dig my nails into my hands. Of course I don’t.

  ‘It obviously didn’t rain in the Greek Islands.’

  He grins and moves aside as I step out. ‘Not much.’

  Whenever a man challenges my love of shoes, I throw one word right back at them. Cars. I don’t get men and their attitude to cars. I don’t get it at all.

  As anyone with half a brain knows, a car is a large metal object that gets you from A to B. It is not a piece of art, or a fine wine and, patently, it is not a beautifully crafted Louboutin (which, for the record, costs approximately one per cent of a Skoda).

  I would rather watch facial hair grow than Top Gear.

  Consequently, most of the cars I’ve owned have been little flashier than a large baked bean can on wheels. The two-door Fiat I drive now is as extravagant as it gets. And I’d be the first to admit I don’t treat it with the respect it deserves: something has to physically drop off for me to even consider acting on a light on the dashboard.