The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  ‘I am excited, Dad, honestly. And it’s so good of you to pay for this. You really don’t have to.’

  ‘All I ask is that you have fantastic time.’

  ‘I will,’ I promise, determined not to let him down – even if this suddenly feels like the worst birthday of my life.

  Every moment Matt and I spend together now is a moment to savour. Every small thing we do – from going to the park with the children, to cooking dinner – is precious. Because the moment I hit thirty, he’ll be gone.

  ‘Any more dating news, by the way?’ I ask.

  Dad rolls his eyes. ‘I’m giving up.’

  ‘Oh.’ I feel surprisingly disappointed. ‘Have you met someone else who was no good?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. She looked like Jerry Hall.’

  ‘So what was the problem?’

  ‘I don’t look like Mick Jagger.’

  Chapter 80

  The night before my return to Little Blue Bus Productions, I have a dream about walking in there.

  My reception is comparable to that of the Duke of Wellington when he came back from Waterloo – all back-slapping, cheering and cries of how much I’ve been missed. I pull into the car park with ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’ on the radio, then push through the door to be greeted by Carolyn, the receptionist.

  ‘Morning, Em!’

  ‘Morning!’ I grin. ‘God, it’s nice to be back.’

  ‘Ooh, I’m just back from Turkey myself – we must have been on our hols at the same time. Been anywhere nice?’

  Giles is already in the office when I open the door and head to my old desk – Mathilda apparently decided to take advantage of another free desk last week, a move Giles is both baffled and delighted by. As creative director, I’ll apparently get a new one, although it won’t be ready for a while. Not that I care – because I’m astonished to see that the office has been spruced up. It’s been decorated and cleaned. It actually smells of Cif, that joyful whiff of chemicals that’s been absent for so very long.

  ‘You won’t believe what that imbecile’s done to my script.’

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘He wants me to rework it. I’ve already told him I’ve reworked it. How many times can you rework something? If I rework it any more it’ll go up in smoke.’

  He throws an espresso down his neck and I silently switch on my computer.

  ‘And another thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  He smiles. ‘I’m so glad you’re back.’

  In some ways, work is a blessed relief from my personal life over the next couple of days. It’s still pandemonium, of course – a frenzy of stress, turmoil and creative wrangles capable of resulting in GBH charges.

  Despite this, working at Little Blue Bus is more enjoyable than I ever remembered. It’s as if the sheer joy of the job has returned tenfold – and is every bit as exhilarating as in the early days. Despite Giles’s warning, I even got on with Mathilda, before she went off sick with stress and handed in her notice.

  I can’t deny I’m feeling the pressure too. As creative director, the buck stops with me. I’ve never even had a buck before. This is the most scared I’ve been since a power cut during The Woman In Black, when I screamed like I was undergoing open-heart surgery with Germolene as the anaesthetic.

  Yet, I love it. I love it so much that I have to remind myself how serious our situation is. If we don’t win the pitch next week, I and everyone else could be out of here faster than we can pocket our P45s and ask directions to the Job Centre.

  Of course, the one issue that’s constantly at the back of my mind – the thing from which I need a distraction – is Matt.

  Every moment of my spare time is spent with him and even when he’s doing something as mundane as watering the plants on his kitchen windowsill, I can barely keep my hands off him. Not in a sexual way, you understand. Well, okay, sometimes in a sexual way. The point is, for the first time in my life I find myself constantly needing to kiss someone’s skin, or feel his hand clutching mine, or stroke his cheek or ear or . . . just about everywhere, if I’m honest. It’s as if my hands have a life of their own and are making the most of every inch of him before they’re unable to touch him again.

  On Sunday afternoon, he is packing all his worldly goods into the boxes from which they came less than six months ago. I spend the morning helping, but when Marianne – who’s home for the weekend – phones to ask me to the cinema with the girls that afternoon, Matt insists that I leave the dirty work to him. Clearly, he wants to save my poor, reddened eyes from further torture.

  Woolton Picture House is tucked away in a side street of what is unquestionably Liverpool’s prettiest village – a conservation area of beautifully preserved terraces, with a Victorian swimming pool and lovely old-fashioned pubs.

  I’ve loved coming to this cinema ever since Dad brought Marianne and me to see a rerun of the Wizard of Oz when we were little. It’s how cinemas used to be – an art deco palace complete with retro music at the start and an ice-cream lady in the interval (yes, there’s one of those too).

  We’re here for one of their classic film afternoons, even though I’m not normally an enthusiast – anything pre-Dirty Dancing leaves me a little cold. However, my sister’s suggestion, Hitchcock’s 1940s version of Rebecca, is brilliant. It’s one of the most chilling and compelling movies I’ve seen.

  Afterwards, we drive to a pub next to the river to grab a quick drink before heading home.

  ‘That was an exceptionally good way to spend a Sunday afternoon,’ says Asha as we step out of the car.

  ‘Wasn’t Olivier something special?’ agrees Marianne. ‘They don’t make stars like they used to.’

  ‘People might say that about Justin Bieber one day,’ I reply, only, as I turn to Asha, I realise I’ve lost her. I mean, really lost her. She dropped back several steps ago and is frozen to the spot, gazing at the opposite side of the large car park.

  ‘What is it, Asha?’ asks Cally, at which point Asha ducks behind a car, as if instigating the first game of cat and mouse we’ve played since the days when we wore gingham every day. ‘Get down,’ she hisses.

  We all look at each other, bemused, before crouching behind her.

  ‘Look,’ she says in a choked whisper.

  I peep round the car and focus on what’s caught her attention.

  It’s Toby. And he’s not alone. The love of Asha’s life has a little boy on his shoulders. Next to him is a woman I recognise as his wife, Christina, holding hands with a small girl. They’re a bundle of giggles, chatter, swinging hands – like real-life Boden models, a deliriously gorgeous representation of family life.

  It’s a vision that’s so far removed from the description of domestic misery Asha has described it’s almost impossible to believe these are the same people.

  ‘Shit,’ mutters Cally.

  I turn to look at Asha and it’s immediately apparent that this image isn’t one she expected either. Her face has turned an insipid shade, the sort of tone no skin should have while its owner is still breathing.

  Asha can’t bring herself to speak – and I’m pondering what I can say to break the silence when Toby lifts the boy down from his shoulders and places his arm round his wife, stroking her belly and smiling tenderly as she says something.

  He takes out his keys and unlocks the car, kissing her on the lips then gathering up the children and piling them into the back. They are gone before Asha has caught her breath.

  It’s a snapshot, of course. It’s feasible that we’ve caught them at an exceptional moment. They could have just won the lottery and put down a deposit on a starter villa in St Lucia for all we know. It doesn’t matter. This fleeting moment has smashed into a million pieces the picture Toby painted Asha; the one she painted us.

  ‘Oh Asha,’ Cally says, placing her hand on our friend’s shoulder. Asha’s face is a picture of dejection, her eyes dull with confusion and unfolding realisation. ‘Sweetheart, you always knew he
had a family,’ she adds softly.

  She nods, fixing her gaze on the middle distance, her jaw clenched.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marianne adds.

  I put my arm round her, her hunched shoulders trembling under my touch as she covers her face with her hands. It’s a terrible sight. My beautiful, brave friend – former teen peace activist and the tough-as-nails linchpin of a centre that’s helped thousands of women – reduced to this.

  It’s obvious none of us know quite what to say or do, not yet. We all know it’ll be the start of an evening of tears and consolation, one that’ll involve wine, recriminations and enough slagging off to leave Toby’s ears in flames.

  But, for now, it’s hard to know what to say.

  ‘Asha, I’m so sor—’

  Before my words have escaped, something changes. Her back straightens. She fills her lungs with cold sea air, wipes salty tears from her cheeks and turns to us with burning eyes.

  ‘So am I. Truly.’

  She opens her bag and produces a mobile phone, the one Toby bought her. Sniffing back tears, she sets about composing a text with shaking hands as she marches to the railings of the promenade, wind whipping back her tears. Cally and I follow and reach her side as she presses Send.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Cally asks.

  Asha looks at the phone and nods, her expression giving away nothing. Then she leans back with her arm stretched out behind her, in the stance of the teenage athlete she once was. When she lets go of the mobile, it hurtles through the air like a torpedo – until it crashes into the water and sinks, gone for ever.

  ‘What did your text say?’ I ask.

  She replies through quivering lips. ‘“It’s over.”’

  And, for the first time, I’m actually convinced it is.

  Chapter 81

  ‘I really feel for Asha,’ says Cally, slumping on her kitchen chair. Asha insisted on being alone for a little while. So Marianne and I dropped her off at home before driving over to Cally’s place to say hello to Cally’s mum, who’d taken Zachary for a pizza while we were out. Now that she’s left – and Zachary’s in bed – one subject dominates the conversation. ‘I know I’ve given her a hard time about Toby, but today was awful.’

  ‘I think she needed to see that, horrendous as it was,’ Marianne points outs.

  ‘And at least she’s done the right thing,’ I add. ‘I think he’s out of her life now – his poor wife doesn’t have that luxury.’

  Marianne pushes out her chair and stands up. ‘Cally, can I use your loo?’

  ‘Of course. You know where it is.’

  As Marianne disappears upstairs, I take the opportunity to bring up a subject that’s been on my mind since the start of the week. ‘I saw Pete again.’

  Cally freezes. ‘You didn’t say anything, did you?’

  ‘Of course not. I suppose . . . I wondered if you’d put any more thought into it?’

  She gets up and goes to fill the kettle. ‘Em, can we drop this? It’s more complicated than you think.’

  I look at my hands. ‘Obviously, it’s your call. You’re probably right. But I need to tell you, Cally, that I was with Dad the other day, talking about my mum. There are a million things I want to know about her that I can’t know because she’s gone. Tiny things, from the perfume she wore to whether she liked Gone with the Wind. The idea that Zachary’s not going to know about his own father when potentially he could—’

  I hear a rustle and realise Marianne is at the door. I stop talking instantly, looking as guilty as if I were a vegetarian clutching a bacon roll at two in the morning, and glance at Cally, expecting her to change the subject. She simply stares at Marianne.

  ‘Shall I tell her?’ Cally asks my sister.

  ‘Tell me what?’ I look between the two of them.

  Marianne sits down and nods. Cally joins her. And it’s patently obvious that they both know something I don’t.

  ‘Zachary’s father, Emma . . . it’s not Pete,’ Cally tells me.

  I frown. ‘So who is it?’

  She takes a deep breath and her jaw tenses as she looks at Marianne. ‘It’s Johnny.’

  I’d always considered myself a good judge of character. Now I’m starting to think my people radar is about as effective as candyfloss toothpaste.

  I glance at Marianne incredulously. ‘Johnny cheated? With Cally?’ I turn to Cally furiously.

  ‘I didn’t cheat,’ she protests as I feel rising indignation on Marianne’s behalf. ‘It wasn’t like that. It was—’

  ‘She didn’t,’ Marianne interrupts. ‘Zachary was conceived while Johnny and I weren’t together. That three months we had apart in the summer of 2009.’

  ‘I’m not proud of it, Emma, believe me,’ Cally protests, rubbing her head. ‘It happened when I bumped into Johnny one Friday night in Liverpool while I was out with work. He was home for the weekend and we stumbled across each other in a bar in Slater Street. I was drunk. And I convinced myself it was okay because he and Marianne had split up a couple of months earlier. I didn’t know they were going to get back together.’

  I say nothing, but feel anger rising inside me. The fact that Marianne and Johnny had technically broken up might be a relevant factor – but doesn’t let Cally off the hook entirely as far as I’m concerned.

  ‘You must’ve known there was a chance they’d get back together,’ I point out. Cally drops her eyes.

  ‘Don’t give her a hard time, Emma,’ Marianne tells me. ‘She and I went through all this twelve months ago. I don’t feel resentful, I promise you.’

  ‘What happened twelve months ago?’ I ask.

  Marianne takes a deep breath. ‘That was when I found out.’

  ‘Before then I’d told no one who Zachary’s father was,’ Cally tells me. ‘There were two reasons for that. The first was because Johnny convinced me not to. He wanted nothing to do with our baby from the beginning, particularly given that he and Marianne had just got back together when I found out I was pregnant. The second was precisely because they were a couple again. As much as I thought Johnny was a tosser for wanting nothing to do with me or the baby, I didn’t want to ruin things for Marianne.’

  ‘What happened last December?’ I repeat.

  Cally looks at her hands. ‘As time went on, I made several attempts to contact Johnny, to change his mind about seeing Zachary – about even recognising his existence. He ignored them all. Then, in the run-up to Christmas, I started to feel a real sense of injustice. It wasn’t even about any maintenance I was entitled to – which I’ve never had. But Zachary did exist, whether Johnny liked it or not.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I thought if I could go and speak to him face to face, it would help. I took the day off work while Zachary was at nursery and got the train to London, to his flat. I had no idea if he’d be in or not. It turned out he was in.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Cally looks at my sister.

  ‘I walked in on a blazing row,’ Marianne says. ‘As the story unfolded, the Johnny standing before me just became horrible, a bully – someone who wanted nothing to do with his own child. I was in shock, of course. But it was more than the revelations. I was looking at this man and I realised I didn’t love him any more. I didn’t even like him. I hadn’t liked him for a long time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Johnny wasn’t the dream boy you thought he was, Emma,’ Marianne tells me. ‘At least not by the end. I’ve never said anything because, frankly, I was no dream girl either. All those parties . . . the decadence . . . there was a dark side to it.’

  I frown. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Johnny was . . . is being destroyed by cocaine. He’s a mess. He’s totally dependent and is spending a fortune. If I’m entirely honest, there was one time when I could see myself going the same way.’

  My jaw drops.

  ‘It was Johnny who introduced me to it. His circle of friends became my circle of friends. Except they we
ren’t real friends. It was amazing fun to begin with. There’s nothing like your first experience of coke. And that’s the problem. It’s never as good after that, so you take more.’

  She swallows. ‘That time we split up – the summer of 2009 – was after I’d collapsed one day and been rushed to hospital. Emma, I felt like I was lucky to be alive. Unfortunately, Johnny didn’t even come to collect me. He was out with his friends and I virtually crawled home to recuperate. That was when I dumped him – the first time. I still loved him, but I also hated him. It was then that Cally met him and—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Marianne,’ Cally whispers, lowering her eyes.

  ‘You didn’t know we were going to get back together,’ Marianne reassures her. ‘I never should have. And after we did, it never worked – I refused to touch any drugs after what had happened. Johnny, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough. We’d become different people.’

  ‘But why did the fact that Johnny is Zachary’s dad remain secret after last Christmas? Once Marianne knew, why couldn’t everyone know?’

  ‘That was Cally’s choice,’ Marianne replies, looking at her.

  Cally suddenly looks like every ounce of energy has drained from her body. ‘I have no idea whether I’ve done the right thing. I have no idea whether I’m still doing the right thing. And maybe things will change in the future. But I thought this: do I want my son growing up knowing that there’s a father out there who’s actively chosen to have nothing to do with him? Or is it better to think his dad is someone we could simply never track down?’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘I may change my mind as time goes on, I don’t know,’ Cally continues. ‘But, after Marianne left him, Johnny’s attitude was almost worse. It was like he blamed Zachary for it. As far as he’s concerned, he wishes that Zachary had never been born.’ Tears swim in her eyes as she looks up at me and I reach over and clutch her hand. ‘And I don’t want my baby boy growing up knowing that. I really don’t.’