The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  ‘She’s agreed to keep it a secret? From her friend?’

  ‘For now – until she decides what to do. She says it’s for Christina’s sake and not his. And she’ll only do it if he gets rid of me, instantly. Which of course he won’t do – although he’s not going to tell Tara that, obviously.’

  I hold her hand as she fights back emotion. ‘On the plus side, maybe this will bring matters to a head. Clearly, this won’t happen for a little while, so the dust can settle after Christina’s dad’s death. It’s just impossible at the moment.’

  A waiter arrives with our lunch and places it in front of us. And suddenly I’m glad of an excuse not to respond.

  Chapter 51

  ‘A new job. That’s a huge one to cross off your list – you must be thrilled,’ says Matt, crossing his legs as he slouches on my living-room sofa with a cup of coffee.

  ‘Yep.’

  He frowns, taking in my expression. ‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you?’

  ‘God, no! The job looks amazing. Did you look at the company’s website?’

  ‘I did. And you’re right – it looks great. I’m sure you’ll settle in immediately. It’s really exciting. And there’s no doubt you’ve got a knack for interior design. I love the way you’ve got this place.’

  ‘Well . . . I try,’ I reply, mock-smug.

  He laughs. ‘I’m serious. Everything from the furniture to the pictures on the mantelpiece looks great.’

  ‘Technically, I’ve probably got too many – but I love the pictures of us all before my mum died.’

  He stands and walks to the mantelpiece, picking up a photo of my mum on the beach in Wales with Marianne and me when we were tiny. I’m wearing the gaudiest swimming costume in the world and my fringe looks as though it’s been cut by someone midway through a game of pin the tail on the donkey.

  ‘She was beautiful,’ he says.

  ‘She was, wasn’t she?’

  ‘What was she like?’

  I shake my head. ‘I wish I could tell you. It breaks my heart sometimes. This woman who made me, gave birth to me, loved me . . . I hardly remember a thing.’

  ‘You must talk to your dad about her.’

  ‘Yes, sometimes. It’s not the same, though.’ I’m suddenly keen to get off the subject – so I sit on the sofa and take a sip of my drink. ‘So who’s going to make my coffee for me with you out in bloody Iceland for a full week next month?’

  He grins. ‘Oh, come on, haven’t you picked up anything yet? I thought the master taught you well?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Yoda. I had a go the other day and it tasted like liquidised rabbit droppings.’

  He laughs.

  ‘I am so jealous, by the way,’ I tell him.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘What do you mean, of what? I mean of your trip to Iceland. I mean of you seeing the Northern Lights. I mean . . . the fact that you are living one of my dreams and are totally blasé about the whole thing.’

  ‘Why have you never been?’

  I sigh. ‘I’ve never really had the money. My budget for the list stretched to just under £600. With the polo and other bits and bobs, it’s disappearing fast – and what’s left isn’t enough to fund a holiday. Plus, it’s not Rob’s sort of thing.’

  Now that my boyfriend is speaking to me again, it’s obvious that anything less than a beautiful plush hotel is simply not worth suggesting.

  ‘Well, you should go one day. You’d love it.’

  ‘I know,’ I say glumly.

  ‘Honestly, it’d be right up your street.’

  ‘I know,’ I add.

  ‘You’ve got unbelievable countryside, amazing natural beauty. You can go snowmobiling, ride in jeeps . . .’

  ‘Boys’ stuff,’ I say dismissively.

  ‘. . . and then there’s the unbeatable nightlife of Reykjavik, some beautiful hotels and restaurants . . .’

  ‘Now you’re talking my language.’

  We both laugh. Then he pauses and looks at me. And, in a heartbeat, says a sentence that I’m convinced I mishear: ‘Come with me.’

  I carry on laughing. And laughing. Then I stop and realise he’s serious.

  ‘Matt, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not? I’ve already got a hotel room. You can have the other twin bed.’ I try not to blush. ‘All you’d have to do is get the flights and some spending money. Admittedly, it’s not the cheapest place, but you could come just for a day or two.’

  ‘Matt, honestly, I’d love to but I couldn’t.’

  ‘You’ve got time off before you start the new job, haven’t you? Oh go on, it’d be fantastic. I’ll be working most of the time, but you could come with me and—’

  ‘Matt!’ I snap, stopping him short. He suddenly looks embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry . . . I just thought . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘Silly of me.’

  ‘No, no it wasn’t,’ I insist. ‘It’s lovely of you to offer. Seriously, I’d love to go . . .’

  ‘So what’s stopping you?’

  There is no way I could go on holiday with another man when I already have a boyfriend who loves me and is prepared to forgive me over the tent business. That would make me a hideous and horrible human being . . . and I am certain that is a category into which I do not fall. I hope not, anyway.

  ‘It’s just a bad time – I’ve got loads on and . . .’ My voice trails off.

  ‘No worries,’ he shrugs, sipping his coffee. Then he smiles. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  Unfortunately, I think I probably do.

  Chapter 52

  My final three weeks at work are a flurry of deadlines, panic – and Perry flapping around so much I’m convinced that if he stands too near the window he might actually take flight, like a crazed version of Icarus just before his wings melted.

  We’re preparing to go to broadcast at the moment, so it’s a tense and busy time, so much so that I barely get time to dwell on the fact that soon I’ll no longer be doing this.

  I’m so busy I hardly see or talk to anyone outside work except to know that Dad goes on two more (crap) dates, Cally and Giles seem to be stealing plenty of moments together and Toby swears to Asha on his life that she’ll be put out of her misery soon.

  On Friday, everyone at the office spills into the pub round the corner, unconcerned that I never even had time to organise a proper leaving do. It turns out to be one of those spontaneous nights that simply wouldn’t be as good if it’d been planned. Everyone’s been so high on adrenalin for the last week that they proceed to let their hair down so comprehensively, it’s simply impossible not to enjoy it.

  Of course, it helps that Perry is splashing the cash, buying bottle after bottle of champagne and demanding to know who wants to come dancing. We end up at the Krazy House, a dusk-till-dawn club full of students, blokes who look like WWE wrestlers . . . and Perry. Whose pogoing causes quite a stir.

  I slip away before most of the others have left, unable to face the tearful farewells, and bump into Giles on the way out – he’s apparently on his way to Cally’s. Given that the time is 12.45 – when Zachary will have been tucked up in bed for at least a few hours – it has ‘booty call’ written all over it. Giles insists she has a plumbing emergency.

  ‘Have fun with your pipes, then,’ I say, hopping into a taxi.

  I wake earlier than I’d hoped the next morning, my thoughts dominated by the idea of an entire week ahead with nothing to fill it. Actually, that’s not strictly true. I’m having a double guitar lesson this week with Rob, who’s concerned about my inability to progress from page four of Guitar for the Terminally Hopeless. I pad through to the kitchen and rewrite the mental list of things I’ve been meaning to do when the opportunity arises. Clean the windows. Sort out my sock drawer. Speak to a pension adviser. I couldn’t be facing a less exciting week off if I’d volunteered to count the gravel on the drive.

  I go to open the fridge to get out some milk and spot my list, realising I h
aven’t yet crossed out ‘Gain job as internationally renowned Interior Designer’. The ‘internationally renowned’ bit might have eluded me, but I think I can count this as a moral victory.

  The thought that I’ll be in a new job in just over a week sends a rush of exhilaration through me. I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

  You’re doing the right thing, Emma. You’re definitely doing the right thing.

  When I open my eyes I look at the list – and at what I’ve done so far. I’m not doing too badly – even if ‘sleep under the stars’ and ‘have a one-night stand’ never materialised. And I’ve at least got a clear idea about how to achieve most by 22 December.

  I haven’t started the diet yet, of course – it’s only the start of November and I don’t want to begin too early and risk putting all the weight back on again. I’m planning on a last-minute cabbage soup diet, which is apparently one hundred per cent effective, but does make your bowels feel like they’ve been attached to a centrifugal air compressor.

  The only truly troublesome items now are visiting the Northern Lights and finding the man I’m going to marry, but I discounted the latter on day one anyway.

  A car boot slams outside and I glance through the window to see Matt about to get into his car. He pauses and waves. I wave back. As he drives away, my mind starts imagining what it’d be like to sit on a plane next to him, to fly off to an adventure that involves seeing the Northern Lights.

  I shake my head. Get a grip, Emma. Get a bloody grip.

  Chapter 53

  The following Wednesday, something happens in front of One Born Every Minute. I’ve never seen it before, even though Asha never misses an episode and has been trying to persuade me to watch it for weeks.

  We’ve been sitting on Rob’s sofa in front of it for forty-six minutes and I can’t deny it’s more than averagely gripping – even if it’s had a similar psychological effect on me as The Human Centipede would have on my grandma.

  The main protagonist is a woman in her thirties who was clear from the beginning, when she unpacked her bag of candles and whale music CDs, that she wanted absolutely no drugs. She’s midway through having her epidural now. Ten minutes later, as the baby wriggles into the world and the camera focuses on his lovely, squished-up face, I can’t help but smile.

  I regret it instantly.

  Because a second later I realise that Rob is looking at me. With intent. His glistening eyes travel my face, interpreting my expression. And I know, I just know, what he’s thinking. I am suddenly near-telepathic, such is the clarity and volume with which his thoughts are transmitted.

  That could be us one day, Emma.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  He frowns. ‘No what? I didn’t say anything!’

  I slink down into the sofa. ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  Rob cuddles up, his big arms round my waist, and I’m almost startled by how physically beautiful he is. From the flawless, tanned skin on his arms, to the immaculate features of his devastatingly handsome face. I’m very lucky, in so many ways.

  Yet, as we slouch here, flicking through the channels, something nags at me. Am I making too much of the camping trip, a disaster I not only should have predicted but which was caused entirely by me? I knew Rob hated that sort of thing – and the fact he’s no good in a crisis hardly makes him a bad person.

  But does it underline a fundamental incompatibility between us, the one that made me split up with him in the first place? Oh . . . I don’t know!

  ‘Is everything all right?’ He kisses me on the cheek.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I reply, forcing a smile.

  ‘You’re sure you’re okay with me going away this weekend? I’d much rather be with you than on a stag weekend but he’s my cousin and—’

  ‘Rob, it’s fine,’ I interrupt. ‘Of course I don’t mind you going away. And you’ll love Barcelona. It’s a great city.’

  He tightens his arms round me and the squeeze feels good. The thought of splitting up with him again makes my stomach knot. And yet, here I am on a normal week night . . . feeling wrong. Uneasy.

  ‘Sure you don’t want a drink?’ he asks, getting up for a beer.

  ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  Rob and I have hardly said six sentences to each other in the hour since the programme finished. We’ve sat here – cuddling, admittedly – but singularly failing to find something interesting enough to bother mentioning. I’m twenty-nine years old and behaving with this man as if we’ve been together for fifty years.

  ‘Does it bother you that we sometimes have long breaks in conversation?’ I ask when he returns, flipping open his beer bottle.

  ‘Not really,’ he shrugs. ‘That’s normal for couples, isn’t it?’

  And it strikes me that even if that might be what some couples do, it’s not what I want to do.

  If I wanted to sit here in silence I’d do it by myself. The confusion and contradictions bombarding my brain suddenly overwhelm me. I feel a momentous urge to escape the claustrophobia of this room, and I don’t just mean to empty my bladder.

  I slink down as Rob shudders with laughter at something on TV, and I gaze out of the window, feeling my heart race.

  How bad am I exactly – for doing what I’m about to do?

  I have a feeling I already know the answer to that one.

  Chapter 54

  It’s been a few months since I was on a plane and the experience does little to quell my unease.

  ‘You know it’s compulsory to have a G&T on Icelandair flights?’ Matt tells me.

  I look round. ‘Nobody else is having one,’ I point out.

  ‘They must be waiting for us to kick off proceedings,’ he smiles, ordering the drinks from the stewardess. She’s superhumanly attractive, with a curtain of pale satin hair and ethereal skin – like a Cliniqued version of Galadriel from The Lord of the Rings.

  ‘I’m really glad you decided to come, Emma,’ Matt says. ‘It’s my mission to ensure you don’t regret this.’

  We clink glasses and I look out of the window into a cloudless sky, pondering how impossible that mission is.

  I already regret this. I regretted it the second I hit the button to pay for the flight. And I regretted it doubly – triply – during the ominous pause on the phone after I told Rob where I was going while he was away in Barcelona.

  I assured him that there was nothing going on between Matt and me, that we were just good friends and that the only reason I was going was that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fulfil a dream I’ve had since I was a teenager. He told me he understood. He sounded like somebody was holding a corkscrew against his balls at the time.

  Which only makes me feel worse. It would’ve been so much easier if he’d flown into an unreasonable jealous rage. As it is, he simply slipped into a reasonable sulk, one I feel so guilty about I actually considered calling the whole thing off even as I was going through Passport Control.

  On the plus side, I’m literally here for just two nights. Fifty-one hours, to be precise. That’s not much, is it? Particularly since Rob’s in Barcelona. It’s not as if I’ve left him at home by himself.

  I might have got away without even mentioning it. Which clearly wasn’t an option. Because that would have led to me feeling even more of a bitch than I already feel.

  It’s a bone-chilling minus two degrees Celsius when we step out of the airport and join a queue for the Flybus. ‘I’ll be glad to get into the warmth of the hotel,’ I say, clapping my gloves together.

  ‘Actually, we’re having a stop-off,’ he tells me, as the bus draws up.

  I frown. ‘What sort of stop-off?’

  He grins. ‘I hope you brought your swimsuit.’

  The only Blue Lagoon with which I’d been familiar was the one in that racy Brooke Shields film from the early eighties. I’ve never watched the whole thing; I simply landed on it while channel hopping when I was about thirteen. Dad was in the room and I can remember little except making a sharp exit for a fictitious w
ee at the bit where they get fruity under the coconut palms. In those days (and still now, for that matter), I’d have preferred a masked gunman to burst into the living room than be confronted by the sight of a stray televisual nipple in the presence of my father. What I do recall is that the film was set in the South Pacific, which, despite my minimal geographical expertise, I’m pretty sure is hotter than here.

  Matt’s suggestion, therefore – that we go frolicking in swimwear outdoors – must be a joke. I’d need de-icer to peel off my bikini afterwards. Yet he seems one hundred per cent serious.

  ‘Exactly how many drinks did you have on that plane?’ I mutter as I follow him to the entrance of what looks like a very posh spa.

  ‘See you in there,’ he grins, heading into the men’s changing rooms.

  As I pull on my bikini, I get a pang of self-consciousness about the idea of Matt seeing me in a state of undress, especially since I haven’t had a chance to fake-tan my legs.

  That thought is obliterated entirely by another priority when I step outdoors: I can hardly catch my breath it’s so cold. The chill is penetrating; my bones are virtually rigid from it. I only realise I’m not moving – frozen into inaction – when Matt grabs me by the hand and we run to the water, skipping down the steps and giggling as we sink in.

  As my body submerges into the silky warmth, it’s like entering the hottest, most exquisite bath of my life. I close my eyes, breathe in the clean air and feel a sense of pure, instantaneous relaxation.

  ‘What do you think?’ Matt asks.

  I open my eyes and take in my dazzling surroundings properly for the first time. Encircled by snow-capped volcanic rocks, we’re in a huge pool of steaming water that is totally opaque and the sort of colour you’d get if you mixed Horlicks with Blue Curaçao.

  ‘It’s . . . indescribable,’ I laugh, shaking my head. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘The lagoon stays at an almost constant thirty-nine degrees,’ Matt tells me. He’s on his back, floating about three feet away from me, as water laps over his torso.