The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  He plonks himself behind his desk with Night of the Living Dead eyes. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You’re later than usual, that’s all.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Am I? Shit!’

  He fires up his computer and starts flinging bits of stationery and biscuit wrappers around the desk like Miss Piggy looking for her false eyelashes.

  I hand him a printout of the script. ‘Here.’

  ‘Oh? Oh. Thanks!’

  He’s odd at the meeting too. I can’t put my finger on why, except that he doesn’t use a single word that begins with an f, he doesn’t grunt, and he doesn’t slag off Perry – which is astonishing in the light of his latest email from Austria assuring us he’ll be home next week with ‘a raft of sensational concepts’.

  It’s more than positivity, though. Giles is also vacant. Ponderous. His mind is clearly elsewhere. Which raises one question.

  ‘Did you and Cally stay out late last night? I haven’t managed to catch up with her this morning,’ I say casually, not mentioning the fact that I’ve exchanged several texts with my best friend but failed to pin her down on what happened.

  Giles shifts in his seat. ‘Um . . . depends what you’d call late.’

  I try to think of a subtle way to quiz him without his head caving in. Before I can open my mouth, a text beeps on his phone and he dives to read it, juggling it like he’s picked something off a barbecue with his bare hands.

  His expression changes as he scans it, and that weird thing happens again – he smiles. It’s an excited, wistful, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers-type smile.

  I try not to scrutinise him too obviously as he types in a response, then deletes it and looks out of the window. Then he types in another response, deletes it, drums his fingers against the desk and looks out of the window again. It takes four goes before he’s happy enough to press Send, and for the next twenty minutes you’d think he was awaiting the results of a life-or-death blood test.

  This goes on for most of the day, interspersed with a series of unsubtle questions culminating in: ‘Does Cally like tennis? She keeps asking me if I’m any good.’

  I don’t tell him that the particular sporting event she has in mind will probably involve removing his Metallica T-shirt.

  I finally manage a conversation with Cally when I pop round the corner to the Quarter for takeaway coffees.

  ‘What happened between you and Giles?’ I ask, expecting to hear the ubiquitous speech about how sex is the last thing on her mind since she had Zachary and she can’t understand how she was ever that into it and she finds it impossible to believe she’ll ever feel an urge to indulge in anything remotely sexy again.

  ‘I’ve been at it all night!’ she announces triumphantly, as I almost drop both coffees on my shoes.

  ‘You’ve been what? Not with Giles?’

  ‘Excuse the horse pun after yesterday, but I am well and truly back in the saddle. Emma,’ she sighs, ‘I’ve come home.’

  ‘Yes . . . but with Giles?’

  She hesitates. ‘You don’t have a problem with that, do you? Oh, it’s never going to be anything serious; it’s just . . . he was there . . . I was there . . . we had a laugh . . . one thing led to another and – well, before I knew it, I was getting my second ride of the day,’ she hoots.

  ‘Of course I don’t have a problem . . . I mean, despite appearances, Giles can be incredibly lovely. He’s one of the good guys and . . . well, I know none of this is obvious, but he is a real sweetheart deep down.’

  ‘I’d honestly forgotten how much I loved it,’ she continues. ‘It was like the taste of a first cigarette after abstaining for three years – only this isn’t bad for me!’

  ‘But what do you think about Giles?’ I ask.

  ‘Hmm? Oh . . . yes, he’s nice. What was really surprising was how quickly I got back into the swing of things. You might have thought that after so long once would be enough, but oh no! There was no stopping me.’

  ‘As long as you had fun.’

  ‘I did,’ she replies.

  ‘So are you going to see him again?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? I mean, we’ve texted again today and . . . do you know, it’s weird but the issue hadn’t even crossed my mind.’

  I’m heading back into the office, attempting to hold the cardboard tray so that I can negotiate the front door, when my phone rings. I plant the tray on the wall and pull my mobile out of my bag – and my heart does a loop the loop when I see a Manchester number.

  ‘Is that Emma?’ I’d recognise the husky tones anywhere.

  ‘Yes. Is that—’

  ‘Lulu McMasters. It’s about the job I interviewed you for.’

  Chapter 47

  Handing in my notice will be weird. I don’t feel anything like as elated as I should be about leaving. Okay, Perry is a nightmare and the fundamental issue of my belief that I’m in the wrong job will never go away. Yet, as I type my leaving note, I feel tearful, and this is somebody who didn’t even cry at ET.

  I began writing something straightforward and to the point, like you’re meant to do. But it felt so cold, so unsatisfactory, to sum up my years here in three paragraphs. I felt the need to explain, to reminisce, to let Perry know what a massive part of my life this place has been, how much I’ve laughed, made friends and grown – creatively and otherwise.

  ‘Why is it you’re leaving, again?’ Marianne asks when I Skype her that night.

  I sniff. ‘Lots of reasons. It’s always been my dream to be an interior designer. It was even on the list.’

  ‘It was your dream when you were fifteen. Dreams can change. If they didn’t I’d still aspire to be Geri Halliwell.’

  ‘But if you knew what a nightmare this place is at the moment . . .’

  ‘Fair enough. If your boss is having a breakdown then I can understand why you wouldn’t want to be part of the fallout.’

  ‘It’s not quite that bad.’

  ‘You’ll miss the work, though, won’t you?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ I suddenly want to change the subject. ‘Oh, I’ve booked my birthday party. Leaf was available – they phoned today.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘So, I’ve now completed five items on the list and am working on the others. Some, at least. You don’t fancy a trip to Norway, do you?’

  ‘Sorry – we’re saving up for somewhere long haul next year. Won’t Rob go with you?’

  I squirm. ‘It’s not his idea of fun – he isn’t at all outdoorsy.’

  ‘No?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade him to come camping with me so I can fulfil the “sleep under the stars” bit but he’s having none of it. He’s only been once before – when he was a boy scout. It scarred him for life.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that these days – I’ve got tons of good equipment over at Dad’s house. You’re welcome to use it. Why don’t you organise to camp near somewhere really luxurious, so you can have a lovely dinner together first?’

  ‘Hmm, I don’t know. His views seem firmly entrenched. Besides, I think I may have missed the boat – it’s nearly October.’

  ‘The weather is meant to be gorgeous this weekend,’ she argues. ‘Oh Emma – dinner in a nice gastropub, a bit of wine and the prospect of a cuddle on a blow-up mattress . . . I’m sure he’d be persuaded.’

  I bite my lip. ‘I can only put it to him, I suppose.’

  ‘I know somewhere lovely in the Lake District, if you’re interested. This weekend will be your last chance, I reckon. And you could always surprise him.’

  Chapter 48

  ‘Come on – where are we going? I can’t bear the tension,’ Rob beams as we hurtle along the motorway in my Fiat.

  ‘Please don’t get too excited, Rob,’ I tell him. ‘You might not like it.’

  ‘Well, you’re clearly excited. And how could I not enjoy going away for a night? It’ll be a treat.’

  I grip my steering wheel and wonder when might be a good time to confess
that every available inch of my boot is crammed with camping paraphernalia, none of which I’m entirely certain how to use.

  ‘Is it Scotland?’ he blurts out gleefully, as if this joyous thought has been pinging round his brain for the last twenty minutes and only just escaped. ‘If it’s the Turnberry Resort . . . wow, Emma, I don’t know what to say,’ he continues breathlessly. ‘I’ve constantly talked about wanting to go there but I never expected you to—’

  ‘What’s the Turnberry Resort?’

  ‘A golf hotel and spa.’ He pauses and scrutinises my expression, deflating like a punctured whoopee cushion. ‘Oh. It’s not.’

  I suddenly wish I could gold-plate my response, or conjure up some tenuous similarity between the pump-up PVC mattress he’ll be sleeping on and the five-star Hungarian goose down he was obviously hoping for.

  ‘No,’ I reply eventually. ‘Seriously, Rob – this is not going to be luxurious. But I’m hoping it will be lots of fun!’ I grin.

  I glance over and note that his bottom lip is protruding slightly. ‘I’m sure once you get your head around the idea, you’ll love it,’ I add energetically. ‘This could be the start of something – we could go every weekend next summer if you like it.’

  ‘Emma . . . where are you taking me?’

  I adjust my sunglasses and pull into the services, knowing it’s the last on the M6 before we turn off. ‘Just stopping for a wee!’

  When I return to the car, he’s on the phone to someone from work and he finishes the call in such a state of agitation that his troubles dominate the conversation for the next hour. During that time, I manage to get us so comprehensively lost I almost double the journey time and inadvertently divert us into a field of leeks.

  Consequently, we arrive at Crosthwaite with only twenty minutes to spare before our early dinner – which is nothing like the cautious hour and a half I’d planned for putting up the tent.

  ‘Here we are,’ I say, failing to break this news to him as I pull into the car park of the Punch Bowl Inn.

  Marianne was right about this place: it’s a chocolate-box pub in a spectacular location – all rolling hills and rambling hedgerows – made all the more spectacular by a glorious sunset.

  He turns to look at me. ‘Emma, it’s lovely.’ Then he leans over the gear stick, grabs me by the back of the neck and kisses me theatrically on the lips, before releasing me like a disengaged sink plunger.

  ‘Um . . . I’d hoped to get here earlier so we could . . .’ I’m about to tell him about the tent, honestly I am.

  ‘What?’ he asks, wide-eyed. ‘Test-drive the bed in our room?’

  ‘Hmm,’ I mumble, looking at my watch. ‘Something like that, but I think we’d better go straight in or we might lose the table.’

  He smiles the broadest smile I’ve ever seen. ‘This is perfect, Emma. A perfect night with my perfect girl.’

  ‘Rob, I—’

  But before I can finish my sentence, he flips open the car door, bounces out and is striding to the inn, breathing in fresh air.

  He pushes open the door and turns to me. ‘Have we got time for a drink before dinner?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He gazes round as he approaches the bar. ‘This place is gorgeous.’

  He’s right. The interior is everything you could wish for from a country inn, and it’s been beautifully refurbished to blend old and new to perfection. There are log fires, luxurious rugs, quirky pictures on the walls and a wine list to die for. He orders the drinks and picks up an accommodation leaflet from a display next to the bar.

  ‘This is such a brilliant choice, Emma,’ he gushes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so excited. ‘Oh listen to this: “Each of our bedrooms is individually furnished with hand-picked throws, a flat-screen TV, a spacious bathroom with Bath House toiletries . . .” This room’s got two baths! Two. Baths. Oh God, I hope we get that one – I can just see you and me in his ’n’ her baths.’ He shakes his head and gazes into my eyes. ‘You’re amazing.’

  ‘Er . . . thanks, but—’

  He thrusts a wine glass in my hand. ‘I’d like to make a toast.’

  ‘Oh . . . would you?’ I croak.

  ‘To you, Emma. The best girlfriend any man could want.’

  It’s this that tips me over the edge – and forces me to make a decision there and then. I don’t care that the room rates start at £160 – which is £160 I haven’t got. I cannot tell Rob that my plan involved spending the night in a sleeping bag in the adjacent field when he’s expecting a room with two sodding baths.

  Once I’ve made the decision I feel a lot better for it, a million times more relaxed. All I need to do is wait for him to go to the loo so that I can go and speak to one of the staff and covertly book us in.

  There’s only one problem. A problem that becomes apparent about an hour in to the dinner. Rob’s waterworks appear to be capable of holding an amount of liquid comparable to that required to extinguish a factory fire.

  ‘How about some more wine, eh?’ I smile, topping up his glass. ‘And water. Make sure you drink plenty of water, won’t you?’

  He frowns. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well . . . we want you tipsy but not too tipsy later, don’t we, eh?’ I wink suggestively.

  He dutifully takes a mouthful of water. I top up his glass again and offer it to him. He ignores me.

  ‘The loos in here are amazing,’ I enthuse. ‘Honestly . . . they’re absolutely gorgeous. If I had my own place, that’s what I’d do with my loo. You’ve never seen anything like them. Have you tried out the boys’ yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he replies, picking at his dessert.

  ‘You should. Don’t miss out on those, whatever you do. You’d be missing a real treat.’

  He scrunches up his nose. ‘They’re that good?’

  ‘World class,’ I reply, adding a small air punch to illustrate my point. ‘Nothing less.’

  And I should know. I’ve been three times since we got here, but unfortunately, given that they’re in direct view of where we’re sitting, this hasn’t offered the opportunity for me to secretly speak to the staff yet. I decide to take matters into my own hands.

  ‘I’m going to check on the room,’ I say, pushing out my chair.

  ‘Oh . . . wait until I’m finished and we can go up together.’

  I hesitate and pull the chair in again, failing to come up with an alternative idea.

  ‘Well . . .’ I mumble, my mind whirring. ‘I just need something from the car.’

  ‘Don’t worry – I’ll get the bags once we’re finished.’

  I think of the tent in the boot. ‘No!’ I blurt out.

  He looks taken aback. ‘Emma . . . is something the matter?’

  I compose myself and dab either side of my mouth with my napkin. ‘Not at all. I’m having a lovely time. Are you?’

  ‘Fantastic. I can’t wait to get into that room,’ he adds, sliding his hand across the table and running it up my arm. ‘I might just go to the loo here first.’

  ‘Excellent!’ I squeal.

  Unnerved, he pushes back his chair and heads to the toilet. I know I’ve got seconds. Minutes at the most. I leap up and virtually rugby tackle a passing waiter who is taking soup to two elderly ladies at a table by the window.

  ‘I need a room,’ I say urgently.

  He looks at me, so shocked I’m half-convinced I inadvertently announced I needed to empty my bowels.

  ‘Now,’ I add. ‘Right now.’

  He places the soup on the table and the two ladies glare at me, clearly imagining I’m running a by-the-hour type of service similar to the one that Julia Roberts ran in Pretty Woman.

  ‘Er . . . I’ll be right with you,’ he replies. ‘Or, if you’re in a rush, I think someone’s at reception now.’

  I nod like a maniac. ‘Thanks. Thank you. You’re a truly great man.’

  I head to the front desk and am greeted by a smiley grey-haired receptionist. ‘Hello,’ I say breathlessly. ‘I
’d like a room for tonight, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, we’re fully booked this evening,’ he replies. ‘I might have something available mid-week, if that’s any good?’

  My jaw plummets to the desk. ‘Are you serious?’

  He pauses nervously, trying to decide if this is a trick question. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Panic races through me as I lean across the desk. ‘I’ll pay you anything,’ I hiss. ‘Anything you like.’

  He frowns, backing away. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. There are only seven rooms and they’re all taken.’

  I’m assaulted by a blitzkrieg of hysteria. ‘Can’t you tell someone there’s been a mix-up? I’ll pay double!’

  ‘I’m sorry, there’s really nothing I can do,’ he says apologetically.

  ‘Please!’ I whine. I’m preparing to fall to my knees and beg for mercy, when I realise someone is behind me. I spin round and come face to face with Rob. I gulp, turn back to the gentleman at the counter and muster up the most severe expression I’m capable of – part Lady Macbeth, part Incredible Hulk. ‘Well, honestly!’ I huff furiously. ‘I won’t be coming here again, that’s for sure!’

  The poor gentleman looks bewildered.

  ‘Rob – we’re leaving!’ I announce, spinning on my heels and grabbing him by the elbow as I drag him to the door.

  ‘Why?’ he asks, perplexed.

  I shove him out of the front door, close it behind us and make sure we’re out of earshot.

  ‘You won’t believe it but they haven’t got a room for us!’ I say, waving my arms about as if I’m conducting La Traviata.

  ‘You’re kidding? And you made a reservation?’

  ‘Of course I made a reservation!’ I laugh, marching to the car.

  ‘Shouldn’t we pay for the dinner?’ he asks, scuttling behind.

  ‘Oh God!’ I reply, freezing in my tracks. I spin round again and march back to the pub. ‘Wait here. Don’t move. Please.’

  I skulk back in, apologising profusely to the gent on reception, and then I have to endure the torture of waiting at the desk for the card machine to work, in the knowledge that half the restaurant is hoping somebody will call the police to evict me.