Still, I can’t deny that there’s something special about whirling through the Cheshire countryside in Matt’s BMW; about the blur of hedgerows, the scent of lavender and the bluest of skies above. Even with the baby seats in the back, it reeks of luxury – although possibly that could be the Magic Tree.
The restaurant is smaller than I’d imagined of somewhere with a Michelin star. It’s a converted white-stone cottage, and decorated inside with coir carpets, striking wallpaper and plush furniture.
‘Matt! Thank you so much for coming!’
I remember Anna from the barbecue. It’s not that I spoke to her directly, but she performed one of the more spectacular moves to escape my rounders bat – a forward-roll-type affair that, had the circumstances been different, I’d have congratulated her on wholeheartedly.
She kisses Matt on the cheek, pushing her dark wavy hair back from an elfin face. ‘It’s Emma, isn’t it? I couldn’t forget you after last week, could I?’ she giggles.
I’m immediately hit by a severe bout of motion sickness, despite standing totally still.
‘She’s just kidding,’ Matt murmurs as we’re shown to the table. ‘Honestly, Anna’s great.’
‘How do you know her?’ I ask.
‘She’s my wife’s second cousin.’
I try to think of a response to this. ‘Oh,’ I manage, failing miserably, and scan the menu instead.
He gauges my unease. ‘Don’t worry – Anna’s in touch with me more than Allison these days. Plus, she knows you and I are just friends. And even if we weren’t . . . I mean, Allison and I aren’t together any more so . . .’ For the first time, Matt looks uncomfortable.
I suddenly feel an urgent need to know more about him and his ex-wife, but say nothing.
At least, I say nothing about that. Throughout lunch, Matt and I generally talk and talk and don’t stop, covering everything from his children to my mum – and whether I should’ve included ‘Learn to bobsleigh’ on my list. Which was his idea, incidentally.
The flowing conversation may have something to do with the flowing Sancerre, of course, although I register that only well after the damage has been done.
The problem is this: the staff here are so attentive to a diner’s every need that you never have anything approaching an empty glass. You take a sip of wine, and before you’ve noticed, it’s full again. You do it again, and the same thing happens.
It’s like playing What’s the Time, Mr Wolf? – you never catch anyone moving, but there’s no doubt it’s happening, a fact confirmed when, for the first time since we got here, I spot the waiter filling up my glass – and nearly rugby tackle him.
‘No more, thanks!’ I blurt out, aware that I’m precariously close to my four-glass limit – something I can’t remember happening on a Saturday afternoon before.
Then I lean in and peer at Matt’s glass. ‘Please tell me you’ve drunk more than one glass.’
‘I’ve drunk more than one glass,’ he replies firmly.
‘Oh, thank God.’ I narrow my eyes. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, no.’ He suppresses a smile. ‘I just wanted to make you feel better.’
I take a sip of water in an attempt to dilute the liquid currently going through my renal system. ‘Well, now I’m tipsy I might as well ask you what I wasn’t going to ask you.’
‘Which is?’
I look into his eyes, suddenly serious. ‘What happened with your wife?’
He looks shocked, more than I’d expected. I instantly regret my insensitivity.
‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to—’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Matt, that was a stupid thing to—’
‘Emma. It’s fine.’
I swallow as he pauses to gather his thoughts.
‘She left me. She left me for another man.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
He looks up. ‘Me too.’ He presses his lips together, clearly not used to opening up about this. ‘She was the love of my life.’ He says this without any sense of drama; it’s simply a statement of fact. And I don’t know what to say in reply.
‘I’m trying to get over things . . . to get over her. But it’s difficult to imagine ever feeling the same way about someone.’
I note the present tense.
‘When did you split up?’
‘Six months ago, back in February. I’d suspected the affair for a while before she confessed to it. We separated almost immediately afterwards – or rather, she left. With the kids. The hardest part is that . . . she isn’t a bad person, my wife. Not at all. She just fell out of love with me.’
‘That must have been so hard. Especially with the children.’
‘I don’t think any of us imagine the fairy tale will end that way, do we? Not when we fall in love.’
I sigh. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever been in love,’ I confess.
‘Really?’
‘Maybe I’m doing Darren Jones a disservice.’
‘Who was he?’
‘We went out together in sixth form for a month. He was a teenage animal-rights enthusiast. I was besotted, for a couple of days at least.’
‘What happened?’
‘I dumped him.’
He shakes his head and suppresses a smile. ‘Callous.’
‘He never, ever removed his Parka. Never. I went round one lunchtime and caught him asleep in bed with it on.’
He laughs. ‘So nobody else has come close?’
I hesitate. ‘Somebody did come close.’
‘Recently?’
I nod. ‘He asked me to marry him.’
‘What did you say?’
I squirm. ‘I dumped him too.’
‘Oh God!’ he laughs again and, despite the fact that I generally find nothing funny about that particular situation, the sound is infectious.
I put my hands over my face. ‘I’m not a man-eater, I promise,’ I plead, shaking my head.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he grins.
For some reason, I feel the need to drag the conversation back to the question I started with.
‘So, your wife . . . or is it ex-wife?’
‘Technically, she’s still my wife. We’re not divorced yet – although proceedings have begun.’
‘Did you have a happy marriage before this other guy came along?’
He takes a sip of coffee and thinks. ‘I’d say so, overall. I can’t pretend it was perfect, obviously.’
‘Hmm.’
‘The worst thing about modern relationships is our expectations,’ he continues. ‘We expect way too much. It’s easy to have fireworks at the beginning. It’s easy to fall in love. But we have this unrealistic notion that it’ll always be like that, without hiccups or hard work.’
‘You don’t think fireworks are necessary?’
‘I don’t think love needs to race at a hundred miles an hour all the time,’ he insists. ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it being quieter and low-key. That’s what I thought I had with Allison.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’
I shrug. ‘I suppose I’m thinking about my ex-boyfriend. There weren’t fireworks every minute of the day. My heart didn’t race every time I saw him. And yet, I can’t deny I find him very attractive. I’m punching above my weight with him.’
Matt raises his eyebrows and smiles. ‘He’s a looker, then?’
‘Hell, yes!’ I admit. ‘It’s not just that, though. I love being with him. If I stand back and look at the situation, he’s everything I could want and he’d do anything for me. I miss him and spend an unnatural amount of time thinking I should get back with him.’
Matt sits back in his chair. ‘You know what I think? I think that sometimes the answer is so obvious it’s staring you in the face.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘People like that don’t come along every day, Emma. You should make the most of it when they do.’
Chapter 37
Monday is fraz
zling. I’m not sure if that’s even a word, but nobody could witness the day I’m enduring and challenge me on it.
The latest series is in the can, and in my humble opinion it’s some of the best work we’ve produced. Even Giles is excited – at least he was last week – and that never happens unless I bring in Hobnobs chocolate (the culinary equivalent of gold plating).
All that remains is for Perry to give it the nod and for us to deliver it to Channel 6. Which is fine, except for one thing.
He isn’t here.
Our esteemed leader announced on Friday that he was considering taking a ‘holistic sabbatical’ for four weeks in Austria, where he hopes to not only discover himself, but also find the next big thing in children’s programming.
He promised to return brimming with ideas – a word he virtually shrieked, as if hearing it didn’t hurt enough. I walked away from his desk wondering what I’d have to eat to induce a violent bout of food poisoning on the day he’s due back, just so I can phone in sick.
What I failed to realise – at that point – was that the semi-spiritual experience he was embarking on was due to happen now. As in right now. Tout de suite. Without him having signed off anything.
The result is a series of irate phone calls from everyone from the animators to Channel 6 themselves, who quite reasonably would like to get their hands on the programme they’ve paid for.
The only option is for Giles and me to attempt to track him down, which isn’t easy because he’s apparently switched off his phone so as not to disturb any potential epiphany.
‘This. Isn’t. My. Sodding. Job.’ Giles slams down the phone so hard it nearly cracks the handset. ‘Exactly how can tracking down our bum-wipe of a boss when he’s on holiday yodelling or praying, or whatever the hell he’s doing, be considered my job?’
I open my mouth to answer, but he beats me to it.
‘I make up stories for a living. If I’d wanted a job dealing with people I’d have become a sodding salesman.’ The word ‘people’ is pronounced as if directly interchangeable with the term ‘kitten torturers’.
‘Giles,’ I sigh, ‘I know all this. I know all this and it’s not my job either. But we have no choice. What did that woman in the spa say when you phoned her last?’
‘That he was busy having a hot-stone massage. I hope they singe his nuts.’
We finally receive a call from Perry – in response to my thirty or so messages – at ten past five. His massage has clearly had an effect similar to that of inhaling a potent strain of marijuana all day.
‘What’s all the fuss?’ Perry chortles as I grit my teeth and thank the Lord that he got through to me instead of Giles. ‘I sent you an email on Friday saying yes – to everything!’
‘It never arrived, Perry. Did you remember to press Send?’
There’s a short silence. ‘Shoot. I’m always forgetting that bit. Never mind, consider it signed off. Great work, team! Right, I’m off to Reiki. I’ve already come up with an idea you’ll adore and—’
‘Ooh, Perry – the line’s going. Bye!’ I slam down the phone.
When I leave work two hours later, I’m convinced there’s a volcanic outbreak between Giles’s ears – there’s so much steam coming out of them.
‘Giles,’ I hear myself saying, ‘I don’t mean to sound flippant or play down what a nightmare Perry can be . . . but I’m worried that you’re letting this get to you too much.’
He grunts.
‘It gets to me too but . . .’ I pause, thinking about how to handle this diplomatically. He gets there first.
‘Well, I’m afraid Perry is winding me up way too much these days.’
‘Can’t you switch off at home?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you need a hobby.’
He flashes me a look. ‘Do I look like a knitter?’
‘I suppose not.’ I turn to go to the door. ‘Bye, then.’
‘Bye,’ he says. Then, after a moment, he calls after me. ‘Emma?’
I turn back and look at him. He shrugs. ‘You know.’
I frown.
‘Thanks,’ he mumbles. ‘For giving a shit.’
Giles and I are not the only ones to have had a bad day. I phone Dad as I’m walking to my car because I know he had a date today – at the Cathedral. I was sceptical the second I heard that that was the venue. They might have a perfectly nice refectory, but can you really concentrate on whether you’ve got the hots for someone in the presence of the Lord Almighty?
‘It wasn’t a dream first date,’ he says reluctantly.
‘What was the problem?’
‘I’m going to sound uncharitable.’
‘Dad, be brutal. You have to be.’
‘She was very nice in lots of ways. Divorced. Two children. Nice. I think.’
‘Come on, now. What was wrong with her?’
He hesitates. ‘Her feet, mainly.’
‘What?’
‘We barely talked of anything else. She’s got terrible bunions; she showed them to me. And verrucas. She caught those from her grandchildren – they’d been using her bath after swimming club. And apparently she’s got awful dry skin that cracks and—’
‘Oh stop!’
‘I’d have liked just to get to know a bit more about her – from the ankle up. And I must admit all the talk about ingrowing toe-nails did put me off my cream tea.’
I get a text from Cally on the way home saying that Asha’s coming over and I should pop in if I get the chance. When I arrive, Cally looks both hyperactive and dead-dog exhausted – a combination only the working mothers of small children seem to master.
‘I can’t even offer you a glass of wine,’ she sighs, holding up one of the few things in her fridge. ‘Strawberry Nesquik, anyone?’
‘I’ll pass.’ I put an arm round her. ‘Have you been put through your paces today?’
‘I have had the day from hell. I forgot to process our managing director’s expenses, which meant his company credit card got knocked back at Manchester Airport this morning. I was stalked by an irate client over a mix-up with payments – not my fault this time. I was dragged into plotting the restructure of the entire finance department. I spilled a skinny latte on my computer keyboard. And I was almost late to pick up Zachary from nursery. Not so late, unfortunately, to avoid signing an entry in the Accident Book detailing how he developed a humungous bruise on his forehead.’
‘Aw, poor Zachary,’ I say. ‘How did he get it?’
‘By head-butting another kid.’
‘Ah.’
‘At least he’s asleep before eight thirty. Though, admittedly, that might be concussion.’
‘I don’t know how you do it sometimes, Cally,’ Asha says, flicking on the kettle to make some tea.
‘Well, he’s worth it. And so is the job – most of the time. Besides, I can live vicariously,’ she grins, holding up Riders. ‘I’m loving it. Enough to make me wish I had someone to play naked tennis with.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ I say. ‘Are you saying you’re on the lookout for someone to play naked tennis with?’
‘Oh God, no,’ Cally says, then hesitates as Asha puts a cup of tea in front of her. ‘Well . . .’
‘You’re ready to get back in the saddle!’ Asha laughs.
‘The theory and the practice are different,’ Cally replies. ‘I’m happy reading about men. How are things with you, more to the point?’
Asha looks down at her cup. ‘I’m not entirely sure how things are with me, Cally, because I haven’t seen Toby once – literally – in over two weeks.’ Her expression softens. ‘Oh, I’m being unreasonable, aren’t I? Christina’s dad’s died. There’s no way he could have left her in the light of that.’
Asha glances from one to the other of us. ‘He will do it, you know. It’s just a question of when.’
I stay at Cally’s for another half-hour, before heading home. I’m almost back when I get a text from Marianne suggesting a Skype chat.
I log on just as Brian is leaving the flat.
‘Give me a min,’ she says, standing up to kiss him briefly.
When I hear the door shut, Marianne turns to me and grins. ‘He’s off to meet a friend. They’re collaborating on a new screenplay. I’ve got a really good feeling about this one – from what I’ve read so far, it’s just fantastic. So . . . how’s it going with you? Getting any better at the guitar?’
‘My skills are a work in progress.’
She laughs. ‘Isn’t it weird seeing Rob all the time still?’
‘A bit.’
‘You’re sure he’s okay with it?’ she asks, raising an eyebrow.
I frown. ‘I don’t know what to do about Rob, Marianne.’
‘Why . . . are you thinking about getting back with him?’
‘I miss him more than I ever imagined. I think about him all the time.’
‘Do you think you would’ve split up with him if he hadn’t asked you to marry him?’
‘No,’ I say truthfully.
‘So what made you anti-marriage?’
‘I’m not anti-marriage! I’m just not ready to decide whether I want to marry someone after only a few months together.’
‘That’s not unreasonable.’
‘The other day I was talking about this issue with . . . a friend. Do you think relationships need to be passionate and all-consuming? For it to count as love, I mean?’
She thinks for a second. ‘I think they should certainly be fairly passionate and all-consuming in the beginning.’
‘Hmm. I always think about you and Johnny – the way you were in the beginning. How mad you were about each other. That’s the benchmark, surely.’
Then I look up and take in her expression.
‘Johnny and I aren’t a good example, Emma,’ she says stiffly. ‘In the beginning, it was amazing, certainly. But that elation . . . the buzz . . . it was all just hedonism. It wasn’t real. I don’t think that could last for anyone.’
The Wish List Page 13