The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She pulled a face like I’d started picking my nose and flicking it at the wall in the shape of a swastika. She banged on about how learning was fun – and if kids wanted to have fun they shouldn’t be in front of the television.’

  ‘She might grow on you.’

  ‘Yes, like scabies. Anyway, she’s the least of my work worries. I can’t see Perry winning this pitch to Channel 6 on the basis of what he’s got to show them. It’s not that people aren’t putting in the work – it’s just not being pulled together. It’s a mess.’

  I frown. ‘What’s the company going to do if its one and only TV programme no longer has a channel that wants to air it?’

  He looks me in the eyes. ‘I think we both know the answer to that one.’

  Chapter 71

  The singing of hymns can be a depressingly lacklustre affair. The composer of ‘O Lord My God, When I in Awesome Wonder’ may have imagined a soul-stirring delivery, but the reality is often far feebler, an unconvincing cacophony of tuneless, grating tonsils.

  As I stand at the front of St Mary’s Church, I’m aware of the wobbly off-key drone, and I fully admit my part in producing it. I’m aware of it, but that’s not what I’m concentrating on. It’s difficult to concentrate on anything with Rob standing next to me and taking an entirely different approach from the rest of us.

  Clearly, these are not the circumstances in which to give any form of critical appraisal of someone’s vocal techniques, particularly since I’m not exactly Leona Lewis myself. But Rob’s projection is so loud and enthusiastic you’d think he was attempting to make contact with someone in the afterlife using the power of song alone.

  ‘HOW GREAT THOU ARRRRRRRT! HOW GREAT . . . THOU ART!’

  If you turned the volume down on today’s proceedings, you’d never guess he was making such a racket. He sings straight backed, open jawed, head swaying at the emotional bits.

  When the song is over I rub my ear to attempt to delay the onset of tinnitus and sit down as the vicar invites Rob’s uncle to the lectern for the eulogy.

  Rob looks down at the floor and I feel a swell of affection for him. I reach over and squeeze his hand and he turns to me and sniffs gratefully.

  ‘Mummy . . .’ says the five-year-old boy behind us. ‘This is boring. When does the fun bit start?’

  I’d hoped to not make it to the ‘fun bit’, assuming that Aunt Jemima’s wake was what the little boy was referring to.

  But as Rob and I leave the church I get swept up in a tidal wave of relatives, friends, family . . . the cast of people to whom, in the eight months we were together, he was always so proud to introduce me.

  ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,’ he tells me, gazing into my eyes. ‘I’m just so glad you came at all.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ I say awkwardly, wondering how I’ve managed to make this sound like a Christmas party.

  ‘Emma, love! It’s been ages,’ says Rob’s mum, touching me on the arm. ‘I can’t wait to have a good chinwag.’

  It becomes very difficult to duck out and, as the only alternative is getting on the train to Manchester to go to work, staying at a funeral becomes an oddly attractive proposition.

  So I go to the wake and it’s that strange combination of merry reminiscing, heartbreaking sorrow, and unnatural amounts of Victoria sponge and brandy.

  It becomes apparent early on that Rob hasn’t told any of his relatives that we’re no longer together.

  For some reason this doesn’t surprise me, but I don’t embarrass him by challenging anyone about it. Besides, I feel weirdly comfortable going along with the lie. Because I miss his family. I miss being a part of them, and Rob clearly misses me being there too.

  We leave together and he walks me to the car park as leaves gently weave through a pink sky. When we reach my car, we gaze at each other, trying to work out the appropriate thing to do.

  ‘I’m really grateful you came,’ he says.

  I look down at my shoes, because I’m worried that if I look into his eyes they’ll be full of hurt. ‘I know,’ I whisper.

  Only, when I look up, they’re not full of hurt. They look green and lovely and it strikes me for the umpteenth time what a beautiful person Rob is, inside and out. He smiles. ‘I’ll never forget you, you know.’

  And suddenly the statement scares me. ‘Why would you have to forget me? We’re going to stay friends, aren’t we?’

  He swallows. ‘I don’t know, Emma.’

  I search his face, waiting for an explanation. Because I don’t want Rob not to be in my life. I really don’t. If today has underlined one thing, it’s that.

  He reaches over and holds my hand. ‘You know I’d have you back in an instant. You know what I feel about you. But I know it’s not going to happen. And . . . today just reminded me how much I miss having you as my girlfriend. This might sound selfish or silly or, well . . . I don’t know what. But I’m not sure I can be just friends.’

  ‘But it was you who wanted that,’ I protest weakly. ‘You’ll come to my birthday party, won’t you? I’d love you to be there. It’s at Leaf on my birthday itself. The twenty-second of December. Please come.’

  He looks down. ‘I think we need to say our goodbyes.’

  I know I have to get out of here. I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cold cheek, leaving a salty tear on his skin.

  Then I get into the car and drive away, glancing in the mirror to see him touching his face. I turn on the radio, seeking distraction, and the song playing is ‘Jar of Hearts’ by Christina Perri.

  ‘Who do you think you are . . . running round leaving scars . . . tearing love apart.’

  As I pull up at the traffic lights it strikes me as a very good question.

  Who do I think I am?

  Chapter 72

  There’s a thing I’ve noticed about being around children. No matter what’s going on in your life – good or bad – they have an undeniable ability to take your mind off everything. And, after today’s funeral, the distraction of a trip to the cinema is very welcome. Even if, in the event, Joshua falls asleep, Jack goes to the loo six times and Ollie spends much of the film complaining that he wanted to see Resident Evil instead.

  Afterwards, I suggest a bite to eat – insisting that it’ll be my treat, even though I know I’ll have to arm-wrestle Matt for the bill until my face is the shade of a ripe Victoria plum. We end up in a pizza place and the kids are in a giddy mood. It’s as if the dark, quiet conditions in the cinema have propagated their energy levels, which have now rocketed to a state of hyperactivity and giggles. There is no naughtiness, just excitement. Okay, possibly overexcitement.

  Ollie’s knife and fork are play-fighting while he provides commentary in an impressive array of voices, while poor Josh’s three-year-old body is doubled up with laughter at Jack’s jokes.

  It’s only when Josh has lost the ability to speak for giggling that I register disquiet on a table adjacent to ours. The couple, in their late fifties, are simmering with disapproval, clearly having hoped that their consumption of a Pizza Margherita in a self-declared family-friendly restaurant would be as serene a dining experience as they’d have in Claridge’s.

  I glance up just as the woman mutters ‘Terrible!’ at her husband. Matt notices too – and tells the boys to quieten down. Which they do. At least, they try to.

  Unfortunately, not being androids, they don’t come with an ‘off’ switch. Which means that over the next hour, every time one of them dares to laugh, the tutting and head-shaking at the adjacent table gets worse. It’s deliberate, it’s obvious – and it’s oppressive.

  ‘Should we say something?’ I whisper to Matt, halfway through. ‘The boys aren’t even doing anything wrong!’

  Matt shakes his head. ‘Just ignore them. Don’t let it get to you. The kids haven’t even noticed.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. You couldn’t not.’

  By the time the bi
ll arrives, Matt has won the battle to pay and I’ve offered to watch the kids while he pops to the Gents.

  While he’s gone, the woman’s furious complaining reaches a whole new level. ‘Well, thank God they’re going,’ she says loudly, her scrunched-up face like mouldy suet.

  I take a deep breath and remember what Matt said, determined to concentrate on the people that matter: the boys. So I laugh at Jack’s joke. And I tell Ollie his picture is lovely. It’s only when little Josh gets carried away and asks Jack to show him how to make his armpit fart that I forget myself and laugh too – frankly, it’s impossible not to.

  ‘Shhhhh! Bloody animals!’

  Indignation bubbles up inside me. Even in the days when I was terrified of children, I’d never have felt like that, let alone acted on it in such an obnoxious way.

  When Matt returns, we gather our belongings to leave. Matt is clearly less bothered about the situation than I am, but all I can think about is how a lovely dinner – the one I’d suggested – has been dominated by someone with about as much charm as a picked scab.

  I know I’m too much of a wimp to challenge her. So I follow the gang, pretending to ignore her – until she spits out two words after us. ‘Good. Riddance.’

  As the boys scuttle ahead with Matt, I realise my feet have stopped walking. Instead, I spin round and seem to be marching up to her.

  ‘Hello,’ I say politely. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been offended by the children, but this is a family-friendly restaurant. They really weren’t doing anything wrong; they weren’t behaving badly. They were just having a nice time.’

  She blushes furiously, her head clearly spinning with comeback lines, arguments, philosophical posturing – until she settles on but three words. ‘Just piss off.’

  I’ll admit, I’m genuinely taken aback by this. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Piss. Off,’ she hisses.

  ‘Not again, Eileen,’ her husband whispers, looking as though he’d like to crawl under the table and die.

  I decide this really isn’t worth the battle. ‘Sure. I’ll do that,’ I shrug, calmly walking away. Then I hesitate, turn round and address her again. ‘Just one last thing.’

  I shove my hand under my T-shirt and, recalling the exact technique I used at the age of nine, conjure up the most spectacular armpit fart I possibly can – a loud, resonant and realistic one, the sort that makes heroes of schoolgirls. The woman’s eyes look as though they’re about to pop out and become a pizza topping.

  ‘Enjoy your meal,’ I add sweetly, spinning on my heel and going to join the boys, who look as if they may just explode with pride.

  ‘Sorry if I was a bad influence,’ I tell Matt after they’ve gone to bed. ‘She deserved it, though.’

  ‘I can’t deny that. Or that the boys think you’re the most wonderful woman they’ve ever met.’

  I grin. ‘Really?’

  He smirks. ‘Really. But please don’t get any ideas. Promise me you won’t be going round armed with a whoopee cushion and water pistol, ready to employ them on anyone who annoys you.’

  ‘Now you’re putting ideas in my head.’

  He laughs and glances down at his phone distractedly.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘It’s playing up, that’s all,’ he says, shoving it decisively into his back pocket and putting his arms round me instead.

  Every kiss between Matt and me seems to get better – just when I think I can’t desire him any more, my longing reaches the next level. We slip onto the sofa and the fact that we can’t make love because the children are in the house only makes our desire more all-consuming.

  I can feel how hard he is, how much he wants me. And as he runs his hands across my buttocks and his mouth explores mine, I’ve never wanted anyone more in my life.

  I leave the house at ten thirty with a whirlwind of lust gathering in my stomach, one that leaves me tossing and turning all night, and continues the next day all through work, going to the supermarket, and a call from Marianne telling me that Brian can’t make it to my birthday party.

  At just after eight, my doorbell rings and it’s Matt again. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since I saw him. Neither of us needs to say anything. We simply stumble backwards into my flat and are quickly naked, wrapped round each other and likely to stay that way for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 73

  It’s only on the train, as I’m reliving the more glorious parts of the previous night, that I start to get a gnawing feeling; my stomach feels like I’ve eaten too many Easter eggs, but without any of the actual fun.

  As I gaze through the window watching the world pass by, the occasional thing that Matt said or did starts to sit uneasily with me. He didn’t seem himself.

  I take out my phone to text him, but stop myself. Don’t start looking needy, Emma, for God’s sake. He hasn’t put a foot wrong. So don’t text him. Under any circumstances.

  I take out my phone and compose a message.

  Hey – how are things? What are you up to tonight? xxx

  The problem with situations like these is that something that shouldn’t be an issue becomes one. Before, I never thought twice if it’d been three hours since he texted; now, I’m consumed with the issue all morning.

  Still, today, for only the second time since I started at Loop, I have something to do. It might be no more than holding Lulu’s pencil case while she swans around looking important, but it is at least something. And I am determined to be the best damn pencil-case holder in the north of England.

  It has got to the stage when I will do anything to try to persuade Lulu to give me some responsibility and see my potential. So, while I’m conscious not to be too pushy, I’ve been researching restaurants in the same target market as the one we’ve been commissioned by, the Quay, and have a notebook bursting with ideas as we drive there in her white Mercedes.

  ‘Lulu, may I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course, what is it?’

  ‘Would it be okay if I played a slightly more active role in today’s proceedings?’

  Her pale-grey leather gloves squeak as she grips the steering wheel silently, not removing her eyes from the road. ‘In what way, Emma?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got lots of ideas for this place.’

  ‘You haven’t even seen it yet,’ she smiles icily.

  ‘I know, but I’ve researched other venues, plus I read an interview with the managing director of the company in which he talked about his favourite restaurants around the world. He mentioned Gastro Park in Sydney . . . Capizzi in New York. I’ve got printouts of their interiors and thought—’

  ‘We don’t copy!’ she trills. ‘At Loop we never copy! We are originals.’

  ‘Of course. I thought it could help, that’s all.’

  She purses her lips as I return the copies to my file and look out of the window.

  ‘Oh all right!’ she blurts out. ‘Add some thoughts, but for God’s sake not too many. No offence, but we’re charging this lot top dollar for me. The boss. They’ve turned to us relatively late because the company they were using let them down. So we have to be good. If they think they’re being fobbed off with a trainee, it won’t do.’

  ‘I understand,’ I reply, too overwhelmed with gratitude to care that my effort would represent a ‘fobbing off’.

  She sighs. ‘By all means, if you come up with something brilliant, go for it. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Absolutely fine. No problem at all.’ Then she glances at me uneasily, as if gazing upon an unexploded Molotov cocktail.

  David H. Jones is sophisticated, successful and – although I’d guess in his mid-fifties – he remains very good-looking.

  I know from reading up on him that Jones is known for a number of things: a superhuman ability to turn around failing businesses, a nose for an opportunity and (this one I’ve worked out without any reading material) the capacity to make Lulu almost wet her knickers on sight.

  ‘It’s such an honour to finally meet you, Mr Jo
nes!’ she blathers, half giggly schoolgirl, half Playboy bunny. ‘Your reputation precedes you! I can’t thank you enough for giving us this opportunity! I’m absolutely certain you’ll be confident you’ve made the right choice.’

  He smiles, clearly taken aback at the way Lulu is gushing.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure too. I’ve heard good things about Loop.’

  ‘Have you?’ she replies orgasmically. ‘Oh . . . wow! Well, that is good to know. Gosh!’

  Then the three of us stand awkwardly in the entrance of what will soon be a restaurant, and a silence descends.

  ‘So, where do we start?’ He claps his hands together.

  ‘Of course!’ Lulu starts rifling through her files, thrusting her pencil case at me. ‘Perhaps you could show us round first?’

  I do a double take as she does this funny curtsey-type thing, like one of the toddler bridesmaids at a royal wedding.

  ‘Sure. Follow me.’

  He takes us into the lobby first and there’s no doubt it’s going to be impressive. At the moment, though, it’s little more than an empty shell, one in which builders are hammering away and electricians twiddling with things (as you can see, I’m already learning the technical jargon).

  Lulu does not stop talking . . . actually, that’s not the right word. Wittering is more like it. Yet, strangely, she’s so nervous, she’s not just failing to say anything that sounds impressive, she’s failing to make sense. She simply flits from corner to corner, talking utter, unremitting, bollocks.

  The unfortunate effect of this is that, while David H. Jones is as cool as a cucumber ice-pop, Lulu’s mood is rubbing off on me. And, having had a head full of ideas on the way here, all I can do is scurry behind, nodding and murmuring my agreement of what, frankly, he’d achieve with more success from a trip to MFI. I’ve also dropped the pencil case twice, so I’m becoming convinced that I’m not even worthy of that job.

  ‘Where were you thinking of taking inspiration from?’ David H. Jones asks coolly.