The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Rob,’ Matt offers.

  Rob stiffens.

  ‘All good, of course.’

  Rob shifts onto the other foot.

  ‘Emma tells me you can speak Cantonese,’ Matt adds, and I try to stop myself from visibly wincing.

  ‘I know about three sentences,’ Rob mumbles. Now I wonder if I need to explain the fact that I wasn’t trying to make him sound more impressive than he is. Honestly. ‘My old girlfriend was Chinese,’ he explains.

  I have no idea why the reference to the old girlfriend is yet another little pancake to throw into this frying pan of awkwardness, but it is. We all bite our lips.

  ‘So . . . what do you think of Emma’s list?’ Matt asks. I hold my breath.

  He’s saying it to change the subject and, in the words of my dad, he means well. It should be a welcome relief, a light-hearted diversion in a conversation that’s already stuttering so badly it needs therapy.

  Should is the operative word.

  ‘What list?’ He scrunches up his nose as Matt glances anxiously at the fridge – where the list was once displayed, until I hid it in the kitchen drawer precisely to avoid alerting my boyfriend to it.

  The reason for the move – its two slightly risqué entries – clearly hasn’t occurred to Matt. Perhaps he thinks Rob wouldn’t care about those items, or perhaps he assumes that I’ve already given Rob the full details, or at least the edited highlights. The reality is that I haven’t given him the highlights, lowlights or any lights.

  ‘Oh . . . it’s not a big deal,’ I mutter. ‘I was actually going to mention it this week. Just a daft thing that I’m doing. With the girls.’

  ‘What daft thing?’ Rob asks flatly.

  I take a deep breath. Matt is looking at me stiffly, wide-eyed, as if trying to convey the words ‘Whoops, sorry!’ telepathically.

  ‘Well, when the girls and I were teenagers we drew up this list of things that we wanted to do by the time we hit thirty. I found it a couple of months ago. So I decided that it was a good idea to give some of them a go, given that I’m thirty this year.’ Why do I sound so guilty? ‘So that’s what I’m doing.’

  He nods. ‘What’s on the list?’

  My mind is suddenly blank and the only things I can think of are the one-night stand and the snogging.

  ‘Polo!’ Matt blurts out.

  Rob frowns.

  ‘That’s it!’ I add, as if I’ve discovered the theory of relativity. ‘I’m going to learn to play polo. You can come, if you like. Oh, and the guitar . . . learning the guitar is one of them too. So you see – you’ve been helping me already. Thanks!’ He looks entirely unmoved.

  Matt makes his excuses and leaves shortly after that. And, call me inhospitable, but I’m glad to see him go.

  Chapter 41

  When I was at school, my careers advisor was fond of saying, ‘Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.’ So, having spent most of last week and all last night researching everything that’s hip, happening and hot in the world of interior design, I couldn’t feel more clued up if I was Jasper Conran himself.

  While my mental preparation is second to none, the same cannot be said of my physical state. I wake on Friday morning – the day of the interview – with a zit on my forehead that I’m convinced is visible from the International Space Station.

  I spend most of the morning employing a combination of attack techniques, with the aid of an elaborate, quasi-pharmaceutical list of preparations – everything from tea tree oil to toothpaste.

  I am, of course, totally determined not to do the one thing I’m desperate to do – but that all the books tell you never to do. Squeeze it. Listen to the beauty editor of any magazine and you’d be convinced there’s only one certain consequence of squeezing a spot: your head will cave in. So, obviously, it is a no-no. For about three-and-a-half minutes.

  The zero efficacy of the tea tree/Colgate combo means that, before I can even think about what I’m doing, I’m poised with a piece of loo roll on either side, assaulting the offending carbuncle until my eyes water. All of which does precisely nothing but make my horrendous red protrusion even more horrendous, red and protruding.

  I won’t bore you with the other minor disasters that the morning throws at me, except to say that they involve two pairs of laddered tights, a splattering of jam on my dress and, courtesy of having to run for the Manchester train, blisters on each little toe that could double for airbags on a Land Rover Discovery.

  By the time I arrive at the office of Loop Interior Design, I’m feeling far from calm and collected.

  Still, as I press the buzzer and am led into the entrance of the chic King Street office block, I take a deep breath, check for stray mascara in the lift mirror and compose myself. Then I check for anything stuck in my teeth. Or more jam stains. Or splits in the skirt of my dress, ladders in tights, bird poo in my hair or any other stray miscellany that might scupper my success.

  It is just when I’ve decided to pull out my neckline and have a subtle sniff to make certain my Sure is firing on all cylinders that I glance up and realise that the door is open and that I’ve been enthusiastically inhaling my armpit in full view of someone.

  ‘You must be Emma,’ the woman says, shaking my hand as I step out. She’s in her mid-fifties and dressed impeccably. I note a chic silver bob, smooth, papery skin and an elegant smile. She speaks with the tone of a voiceover artist for a luxury brand of chocolate: refined, deep. ‘I’m Lulu McMasters. Come on in.’

  The office of Loop is as you’d expect from an interior-design company: glorious. There’s no other word for it. It’s airy and beautiful, with soft grey sofas, white floors, splashes of colour on Moorish jacquard cushions and – I physically gasp when I see this – a harp. This office has a genuine real-life harp right there in the corner. I couldn’t be more impressed if Enya herself was sitting at it, giving us a turn.

  ‘Like it?’ Lulu grins, clearly proud. And why wouldn’t she be? I’d run to work every day if I were employed here.

  ‘It’s gorgeous. Exactly the sort of thing I love,’ I say, wondering if this counts as arse-licking, given that it’s actually true. There are five work stations in the office, only one of which is currently occupied, by an ice-cool blonde who appears to have survived on no-bread cucumber sandwiches for most of her life.

  We end up in Lulu’s office and I’m invited to take a seat on the other side of an imposing desk.

  She flicks through my C V, and glances up. ‘I’m glad you like what we’ve done in here. Although we’re in the middle of a rebranding so I’ll probably update the office area too.’ Frankly, the office area couldn’t look more updated if it’d been painted yesterday. ‘Ooh. Let me show you the new logo designs.’

  With a modest smile, she removes a folder from her bottom drawer. ‘Have a look at how it compares with the old one,’ she says, placing the two logos next to each other. ‘I was never happy with that. It’s just not right, is it? My old partner chose it and we never got on. It was a mistake going along with him, to be honest.’

  She pushes the two logos in front of me.

  ‘Oh, it’s stunning!’ I gush. ‘This new one fulfils everything you’re trying to achieve. It’s contemporary but traditional, it’s chic, it’s sophisticated. I love the sage colour on the company name, the way the L curls round. It’s a million times better than the old one. I mean, gosh . . . I don’t know what your partner was thinking but you’re so right. It doesn’t work at all, does it? Not at all. You were totally right going for this new one.’

  She stares at me and then glances at the logo I have in my hand. If I’d gushed any more over it, I’d be in a big pool on the carpet.

  ‘That’s the old one,’ she says flatly.

  And I sink back in my seat, wondering if she’d consider a bribe.

  Chapter 42

  I’m all for the idea of being happy and contented when you’re single. But there are some unquestionable benefits of having a boyfr
iend, one of which I am experiencing this Saturday night.

  ‘This is so romantic,’ I tell Rob, as we gaze over the city lights from Panoramic, the UK’s highest restaurant. ‘Thank you so much for booking it.’

  He grins. ‘I’m glad you like it. You deserve it.’

  I don’t argue with him. Not because I think I do deserve it, but because it’ll just prompt another wave of him telling me how wonderful I am and me objecting because this perfect vision of Emma that Rob believes in is a long way from the real me.

  I’ve started doing the odd thing in front of him lately to remind him that I am not the princess he thinks I am. I filed my feet with a pumice stone in his presence, inspired by my dad’s awful date and certain that bits of flaky foot skin are a reality check par excellence. It had no effect.

  Cally suggested I fart in front of him while we’re watching telly, but I’m reserving that one in case things get really bad and it looks like he’s in danger of proposing again.

  ‘Well, I want to pay for this tonight,’ I tell him.

  ‘No way!’ he laughs.

  ‘I’m serious, Rob. I do. I want you to know how much I’m enjoying being back together.’

  He shakes his head. ‘That’s all I need to know. Now, what are you going for?’

  I opt for the fish dish, kidding myself that it’s the healthy option, before taking enough bread to spark a gluten overdose and smothering it in butter. The evening is lovely. We eat, we drink Prosecco, we hold hands – and basically all is as it should be when a girl’s on a romantic night out with her boyfriend.

  Then things go awry.

  ‘So you know my list,’ I say, as we’re finishing the main course. ‘I thought it’d be nice if you could maybe help me out on one of the other items. Apart from the guitar, that is.’

  Rob hesitates and puts down his knife and fork. ‘Was there a reason you didn’t tell me about the list?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought it was a big deal.’

  ‘What else is on it?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll show you it, if you like,’ I say, making a mental note to edit it first. ‘But it’s stuff like go and see the Northern Lights, jump out of a plane, that kind of thing. Oh, and win a job as an interior designer – although I’m pretty sure I’ve got a long way to go before that happens.’

  ‘You never know about the interview – I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.’

  ‘Some of it was okay,’ I concede. ‘Some of it I was pleased with. And she really liked the room design I’d done for my application. I don’t fancy my chances after my beautifully tactful assessment of the new branding, though.’

  He frowns. ‘So . . . the list.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s nothing weird on it, is there?’

  I stiffen. ‘Like join a cult? No.’

  He isn’t reassured by the joke. ‘There is, isn’t there?’

  I shake my head. And keep shaking it. Over and over again. Then I stop and cave into pressure. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, come on, what is it? It can’t be that bad.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to think it’s really bad, then.’

  ‘It’s not really bad.’

  ‘It must be.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ I hiss.

  He pauses and thinks, before leaning over the table. ‘Have you experimented with a same-sex liaison? You know, done a Katy Perry – kissed a girl?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘No.’

  He looks terribly disappointed. Then he folds his arms and glares at me. The list has obviously become a bigger issue in Rob’s mind than it’s worthy of being. Whether that’s due to the fact that Matt knew about it when he didn’t – or simply that his mind is running wild with what the ‘weird’ bits are – I don’t know. Either way, I don’t like the way he says the next sentence.

  ‘Emma, I need to know what’s on that list.’

  I breathe out defiantly. ‘Have a one-night stand,’ I say, with a shrug.

  His mouth drops open. ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I say – and despite the fact that it’s the truth I still blush.

  ‘What else? Come on, the dodgy ones, please.’

  I purse my lips and look out of the window. ‘Snog somebody famous.’

  He sniffs. ‘I know you wouldn’t have done that.’

  Now my mouth drops open. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘How would you get to snog somebody famous? It’s not as though you spend every night at the Ivy.’

  I cross my arms. ‘I might surprise you on that one.’ He looks shocked. ‘But in this particular case, I’m not going to,’ I add hastily.

  ‘Any more?’

  ‘It’s just stuff like jump out of a plane—’

  ‘You’ll never do that either.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You were nearly hysterical on half the rides at Alton Towers. You’re scared of spiders. You even said that when you were in Edinburgh you weren’t keen on those fish things that eat your feet.’

  ‘Okay!’

  ‘Any more weird ones?’

  ‘They’re all totally above board, I promise you,’ I tell him. ‘Come on, are you up for it?’

  ‘Up for what?’

  ‘The next thing on my list – polo. I’m taking a taster lesson.’

  He sips his Prosecco. ‘I’ll sit that one out, Em, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say.

  ‘Fine,’ he replies.

  We stare at each other for a while, wondering how the evening has taken this turn.

  ‘Look, let’s get onto something a little less controversial, shall we?’ He reaches over to touch my hand. The movement of his fingertips warms my skin and makes me smile.

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Chapter 43

  The impending polo lesson is exactly what I need to take my mind off my less than perfect performance at the job interview. And because I’m now so convinced I can’t go through with the skydiving, I cut it off the bottom of the list and stuff it down my waste disposal unit.

  With Rob refusing to even consider joining me for the polo, I’d assumed it would be just me and Cally, whose mum has offered to babysit. Until, that is, my doorbell rings the weekend before we’re due to go – as I’m midway through dyeing my eyebrows and have two large brown caterpillars crawling across my forehead.

  I hesitate, but decide eyebrow-dyeing is not a good reason to turn someone away, so instead answer the door holding my hand to my head, as if swooning in an amateur dramatic society’s production of Pride and Prejudice.

  ‘I’ve brought you this,’ Matt grins, thrusting something into my free hand. It’s a bag of posh-looking coffee.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, unsure whether or not to invite him in.

  ‘Is now not a good time?’

  I hesitate, before opening the door. ‘It’s fine, come in.’ I direct him to the kitchen while I dive into the bathroom to rinse off the dye, about six minutes after I was supposed to, then emerge looking like Bert from Sesame Street.

  I don’t know how we get onto the subject of my polo lesson, in between Ollie’s piano lessons, the fact that Joshua has suddenly started wetting the bed, my interview – which I still haven’t heard about – and Stacey’s satsuma jam (which just keeps coming, according to Matt). But I do know that his reaction was startlingly similar to Cally’s.

  ‘Polo? Hey, I’ll come with you!’ he announces, as if Christmas Day is happening twice this year. ‘If you want, that is.’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply, even though my first thought is that if Rob finds out, it’d be a disaster. ‘It’s not like it’s a date or anything.’

  He scrunches up his nose, and I pray for a giant golden eagle to swoop down, grab me by the shoulders and whisk me off somewhere a long, long way away. Of course it’s not like it’s a bloody date, you idiot! He clearly never
thought that for a second.

  ‘Have you ever played polo before?’ I ask, leaping at the chance to change the subject.

  ‘No, but I love the idea of it. I can ride – just about – but that’s it.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Are we talking Cheltenham Gold Cup contender or Blackpool donkey aficionado?’

  He laughs. ‘Somewhere in between.’

  ‘Hmm. Me too. Although it’s closer to the latter, so you’re no doubt going to see me make a complete buffoon of myself.’

  ‘You? Surely not.’

  I decide to ignore him.

  In some ways it isn’t a surprise that Matt is up for something like this. It’s definitely not a surprise that Cally is, although for different reasons. Unless her instruction is personally delivered by a bona fide Rupert Campbell-Black lookalike, complete with rakish smile, plummy vowels and possibly a whip, she’ll be distinctly disappointed.

  What is a surprise is how our little trio of novice polo players becomes a quartet. Actually, surprise isn’t the word. I could not be more shocked if I stuck three fingers in an electric socket and sneezed on them.

  ‘Polo? Oh, it’s been years,’ says Giles casually, while we’re midway through conjuring up a script about a storm in Bibblybobbly that makes the Bingbahs’ marshmallows explode.

  I narrow my eyes, wondering if I’ve heard right. ‘What’s been years?’

  He scratches his beard and goes to take another Hobnob, before realising that the pack’s empty. ‘It’s been years since I played.’

  I am momentarily silenced by these words, for Giles does not and never has looked like my idea of a polo player.

  Today he’s wearing his over-washed black Metallica T-shirt, the one he interchanges with his over-washed Judas Priest, Motorhead and Black Sabbath T-shirts. The fact that his style bible is non-existent is but one issue, however; for Giles’s physique is a long way from that of Prince Harry. He’s a behemoth of a man, a big, hairy, muscular chunk of human being which, with my admittedly limited expertise, strikes me as rather different from that on show at the average Cartier polo event.