Dad and I burst out laughing. ‘Wouldn’t that breach some sort of trades descriptions act?’ I suggest.
She scrunches up her nose. ‘But he does look like him,’ she protests. ‘Don’t you think? He’s the spitting image.’
Despite the fact that my dad is about as close to being George Clooney’s doppelganger as I am to Marge Simpson’s, Deb appears entirely serious.
‘I’m not that bothered anyway,’ Dad shrugs. ‘I’m happy as I am, all in all. I can’t complain.’
‘How is your dating going, Deb?’ I ask.
She sips her tea. ‘You always get highs and lows with these things, Emma. And I’ll be honest, I’ve been at no risk of vertigo for quite some time. Some men on those websites are after only one thing – and it’s not my knowledge of orthopaedic chairs.’
Dad guffaws. ‘At this rate, you and I will have dated so many of those people on Match.com there’ll only be the two of us left!’
Deb takes an awkward sip and smiles. ‘God help us!’
I get home late and, with Matt working, make do with a ready meal in front of the television, fluttering with excitement about tomorrow. I decide to get an early night and am in bed reading when my phone beeps. I pick it up and register that it’s an email – from Rob.
At the top of the email is a link. I click on it and instantly recognise the music it takes me to. It’s ‘Always On My Mind’ by Elvis. The song we danced to when he first said ‘I love you’ at his cousin’s wedding. The song is beautiful, the voice haunting, and, as the music dies, I scroll down to see four words at the bottom of the email:
I miss you, Emma
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
I don’t sleep well.
I spend the night tossing and turning, cogitating over what I should do about Rob. The thought that he’s hurting, and that I’m the cause, is unbearable. All he’s ever been is good to me.
Yet, there’s no way to resolve this issue.
The only thing that would make him happy is getting back together with me. But even if things hadn’t developed between Matt and me, no relationship guru would recommend going out with someone because you feel sorry for them.
The next morning I’m still in two minds – no, about seven minds – about how to respond. After more drafts than the Magna Carta, I compose an email. I have no idea if this is the right thing to do, but it’s the only thing I can do.
Rob, I miss you too. You’re a fantastic person. But you and I aren’t meant to be together and I haven’t changed my mind. I’m sorry. That doesn’t mean I don’t think the world of you, because I do. Take care and have a wonderful weekend. Emma x
Every word of that is true. Yet that fact – and the absence of an alternative plan – doesn’t make me feel even slightly better.
Chapter 69
I know it’s possible to look forward to something too much. I’m aware that some eagerly anticipated experiences turn out to be about as enjoyable as discovering a verruca. But not this one.
‘Have you been to the Trough of Bowland before?’ Matt asks as we dart along winding lanes with sunlight sparkling through the trees.
‘I visited it for a wedding five years ago. My friend Grace got married in a place called the Inn at Whitewell.’
‘Well, someone recommended the pub we’re heading to but I’ve no idea if it’ll be any good.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be lovely.’
He reaches over the gear stick and touches my hand, making my chest flutter. No man has ever had the capacity to do this to me. Not ever. The physical effect of Matt’s skin against mine is sometimes enough to leave me speechless.
‘Here we are,’ he says, removing his hand and changing gear as he pulls into a car park.
We’re going for our walk first, to build up an appetite for dinner, so set off over rolling fells and stunning moorland. The place is beautiful, a world away from city life, with forests, hills, rivers and stretching sky. Matt can’t resist taking photos – some of which I manage to persuade him not to include me in.
After the walk, we eat an early evening dinner in the pub then, given that it’s unseasonably mild for late autumn, head to the terrace overlooking the valley to finish our drinks.
‘So what’s left on the famous list?’ he asks.
‘Well, I’ve got the job as an interior designer. I might not be interior-designing anything, but for technical purposes, that one’s a tick. I’ve learned to play the guitar, even if my lessons came to an abrupt end.’
‘Ah. That was Rob’s job?’
I nod and decide not to say anything more about that. ‘I’ve done the polo . . . I’m growing my hair . . . the Michelin-starred restaurant . . . the snogging somebody famous—’
‘Disgraceful.’
‘Apparently I didn’t do the one-night stand – but I’ll have to learn to live with that one.’
He smirks. ‘Sorry.’
‘I also haven’t jumped out of a plane and am unlikely to do so. But that doesn’t count because I ripped it off the bottom of the list.’
‘Cheat.’
‘Nor have I slept under the stars, which, given that we’re now heading into winter, is never going to happen either.’
‘So what was the last one? I thought there were twelve.’
I gaze up at him, embarrassed.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, all right, Poirot. It was “find the man you’re going to marry”.’
His mouth twitches. ‘I see.’
‘But, obviously, that one’s been crossed off. Mentally, at least. Who needs that pressure? I’d prefer to be single than spend my life with the wrong person.’
‘Quite right. Marriage isn’t all that bad, though, you know. I largely enjoyed mine. Until it went hideously wrong, of course.’
He says this as if it’s a quip, but there’s no fooling either of us. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . That was a silly thing to say,’ he adds.
‘It’s fine,’ I reply, too brightly. As an awkward silence lingers, a malignant thought grows in my brain.
I’m not the jealous kind. I never have been. But I’m sitting here falling irrevocably in love with a man who I strongly suspect still adores his ex-wife. One question rampages through my head as I gaze at the setting sun: what am I letting myself in for?
‘So, sleeping under the stars,’ he says, and I’m glad of the change of subject. ‘What makes you sure that one’s a dead loss?’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Because it’s nearly winter and we don’t live in the Seychelles.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What does “hmm” mean?’
He turns to look at me. ‘I’ve got a bit of a surprise. But I’m not entirely sure how much you’ll like it.’
I start to feel uneasy. ‘What is it?’
‘Exactly how adventurous are you feeling, Emma?’
When I first heard the term ‘glamping’ I assumed it was something to do with parking in the wrong place – a bit like how Dad thought TOWIE was a gadget you heated up in the microwave to keep your feet warm.
Furthermore, after my experience with Rob, I vowed never to go near a tent again, glamorous or otherwise.
Matt has other ideas, despite this not being the conventional time of year for this sort of thing – a fact that makes our host at Walnut Hill Farm chuckle like he’s having his toes tickled as he shows us to our yurt.
Mercifully, our accommodation for the evening is much more than a tent; it has a wooden floor, Moroccan rugs, futon beds and a massive wood-burning stove.
‘You two are brave!’ he grins. ‘It’s safe to say you’re my last booking of the season. I just hope you’ve got something warm to wear – I’ve given you all the duvets I’ve got.’
As darkness falls over the valley, Matt and I – fully dressed in gear similar to that we wore in Iceland – cuddle up in a feather bed directly underneath a big, round skylight.
I have no idea what the temperature is outside, but I’ve never been wa
rmer. We kiss for most of the night, under a canopy of stars, and by morning one thing becomes crystal clear.
Whatever happens between Matt and me, I know one thing for certain: I’m a gonner.
Chapter 70
Although my obsession with Matt is taking my mind off minor irritations in my life, there’s only so much it can do. Because work, frankly, is getting ridiculous.
I turn up on Monday to discover that my chair has relocated to a meeting room in advance of a pitch that Dee’s giving at ten thirty. I look round the office to see if there are any spares. Every one is currently firmly occupied by the peach-perfect arses of Loop’s other employees.
‘Don’t suppose you know if there’s anywhere else I can sit?’ I ask as Dee taps away on her keyboard, like one of those creepy Victorian dolls after an Estée Lauder makeover.
‘Hmm?’ She fails to remove her eyes from the screen.
‘I just wondered . . . where do I sit?’
She frowns at her computer screen then drags her eyes to me, pursing her glacial lips. ‘I have no idea. I have other things to worry about. This pitch is worth thousands.’
‘Is there anything I can help with?’
She pulls another strange face, as if my absurd suggestion has the same effect on the lining of her nostrils as the zest of citrus fruit.
‘I don’t think so.’
I know some people spend most of their working life on their feet. If I was a trainee shoe-shop assistant, gymnastics instructor, or mortuary manager I’d have no gripes whatsoever.
But I’m not. I’m a trainee interior designer. And not only do I now have nothing to interior design, I also have nothing to put my bum on while I’m not doing it. Even when I plead to keep my seat until ten fifteen, Dee insists that the meeting-room layout can’t be disturbed. So I hover redundantly next to my desk while pondering alternatives and realise that there is but one. I head to Lulu’s office and knock.
‘Come in!’
She holds up her hands before I’ve opened my mouth. ‘I know what you’re going to say!’
I hesitate. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes! I have work for you, honestly. I’ve got a job that’s perfect for you. Tomorrow.’
‘Oh,’ I say, my spirits rising.
‘It’s a restaurant – you’ll learn lots.’
‘Oh . . . oh, that’s brilliant,’ I gush, perching on the edge of the seat opposite her. ‘Thank you, Lulu. I know I’m starting at the bottom and, seriously, I’ll do anything at all. I’m not precious. I just want to . . . you know, get going. On something. Anything.’
She smiles and links her supremely manicured hands together. ‘I know.’
‘Is there any preparation I can do? Anything at all? I could research the client, gather some background, come up with ideas . . .’
She drums her nails on a folder, then picks it up and looks at it anxiously. She starts to give it to me. She actually stretches out her arm, poised to grant me temporary possession.
I hold my breath as I reach out and am literally millimetres from it, when she swallows and snatches it back. My hand is left hovering in the air as if I’m practising moves to ‘The Robot’.
She places the folder on the desk and smiles, picking up her tea cup. ‘Not too milky this time. Okay?’
I meet Giles for lunch in Pret a Manger. Which is a phenomenon I never, ever thought I’d see. He never used to leave the office – I was convinced at one point he was living out of the filing cabinet – and here he is coming all the way to Manchester to see me.
‘How do you do this journey every day?’ he asks, downing his triple espresso as I unwrap my crayfish salad.
‘It’d be fine if the job was okay—’
‘I need to talk to you about Cally.’
‘Oh. And here was I thinking you wanted to catch up with your old friend.’
He looks at me, momentarily unsettled. ‘Yeah, that too . . . but I need your advice. Urgently.’
I can see he does too. He’s virtually twitching. There are almost sparks coming off him. ‘What is it?’
As he takes a deep breath and looks out of the window, it strikes me how well he brushes up these days. He’s wearing aftershave – a pleasant one. And, despite the metal T-shirt, the recent explosion of grooming means he looks, well, nice. ‘Am I wasting my time with her?’
I can’t resist sitting back with a little smile and crossing my arms.
‘What?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘I never thought I’d see the day you asked me for romantic advice.’
He frowns.
‘I’m simply saying,’ I continue, ‘that whenever I attempted that with you, your advice never deviated from: “He sounds like a dick. Dump him.” You never wavered. I could’ve been dating Daniel Craig and you’d have said the same.’
‘I’m sure I offered more insight than that.’
‘No. No, you didn’t.’
‘Fine. I wish I hadn’t said anything.’
‘Oh, Giles . . . I’m kidding. I’m sorry. What was the question again?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he sniffs, opening his sandwich.
‘I’ll tell you anything you need to know. I was only jok—’
‘I’m in love with her.’
I pause and look at him, realising he means it. And, although in some ways I shouldn’t be shocked after the way he’s been acting, that, I’m afraid, is exactly what I am.
Giles has got it bad. And the fact that he’s shaving regularly is but one sign.
I should be delighted for them. He and Cally are two of my best friends and, as unlikely a couple as they once seemed, the idea of them getting together makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
Only, there’s a problem. He knows it and I know it.
‘I’m worried she’s using me for sex,’ he says earnestly.
‘Oh . . .’ I try to think of a way of protesting with conviction, but fail abysmally. ‘Really?’
‘It’s obvious.’
‘Is it?’ The truth is, it couldn’t be more obvious if it was a poisonous wart at the end of his nose. ‘Some men would be happy with that set-up,’ I suggest.
He looks offended. ‘I’m not some men. And she’s not some woman. And, like I say—’
‘You’re in love, I know,’ I finish, feeling suddenly very sorry for him – and regretting my flippancy earlier.
‘She doesn’t want to do things that normal couples do. Apart from one thing’ – he raises a meaningful eyebrow – ‘and she wants to do that a lot.’
‘What sort of things did you have in mind?’
He shrugs. ‘I want to take her away for the weekend. To meet her family. I just want to be with her. All the sodding time. Do you know what that feels like, Emma?’
‘I think I might.’
‘So what do I do? I have overwhelming feelings of love and affection for this woman . . . I’d do anything for her . . . and all she wants is my—’
‘I’ve got the picture,’ I interrupt, suddenly going off my crayfish salad.
He looks out of the window despondently and I reach over and clasp his hand.
‘The difficulty is, there’s nothing you can do, Giles, not really. People feel how they feel . . . that’s that.’
‘You’re not saying I should cut my losses and stop seeing her?’ he gasps, horrified.
‘Of course not. You need to . . . play it by ear, I guess. To see if things develop, see if her feelings develop. She does really like you. At the end of the day, you’re the first man in her life for a very long time. And that counts for a lot.’
‘Hmm. But probably not enough.’
I offer to walk with Giles to the station as it’s on the way to the office and, as we leave the café, an email arrives on my phone. I can see from the catch-line that it’s from Rob – which has the sudden and profound effect of inducing a migraine.
Emma, Aunt Jemima has died and the funeral is on Wednesday. I know it’s over between us, but you got on so well w
ith her, I thought you’d like to know. I hope you’re okay.
Rob x
‘Oh no,’ I groan.
‘What is it?’ Giles asks as we continue walking.
I met Rob’s aunt Jemima a few times and she was lovely. I’m sure he’s upset, but is attending the funeral of your ex-boyfriend’s aunt the done thing? There’s no entry in Debrett’s for that one. I reread the email and decide to put it in my too-difficult box, for now at least.
‘Nothing. Hey, we haven’t had a chance to talk about work.’
‘I know, sorry. My woes have dominated proceedings,’ he says as we arrive at the station. ‘Things are pretty intense at work.’
‘More than usual?’
‘The big pitch for the renewal of our contract with Channel 6 is in just over two weeks. Nobody’s very optimistic. The whole team has been working on the proposals, with me and your replacement, Mathilda, responsible for storylines.’
‘How’s that going?’
He looks at me ominously. ‘It isn’t.’
‘Really?’
He shakes his head. ‘God knows what’s going to happen. We haven’t got a set of scripts ready. We haven’t got anything like a set of scripts ready. In all honesty, we should be doing a pilot, but nothing seems to be coming together.’
‘What’s the problem? You and I have produced scores of these over the years.’
He shrugs. ‘Maybe it’s what’s going on with Cally . . . maybe it’s Perry going into meltdown. . . . maybe it’s because I’ve given up smoking.’
‘Oh yes! Well done – what prompted that?’
‘Well, with Cally’s little boy it’s not very nice for her to have to go home smelling of smoke, is it?’
‘Oh Giles.’
‘Actually, it’s not that either. I know exactly what it is. It’s because your replacement, Emma, is the spawn of Lucifer’s loins.’
‘She can’t be that bad.’
‘She talks all day and never manages to utter a single mildly interesting thing. She has a degree in child psychology and won’t countenance anything in the script that doesn’t fit with national curriculum guidelines. I had a week of this before saying to her, “What about fun? That’s what this is supposed to be about. Is there nothing to be said for fun?”’
The Wish List Page 24