The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  ‘I don’t care what they’re doing now,’ Matt says, standing firm. ‘Guillaume shouted at him in the supermarket – and, more importantly, he hit him.’

  Allison sighs and looks at me like I’m terminally befuddled. ‘There’s no way that would’ve happened, Matt. It’s been a misunderstanding. Joshua was simply told off after he tried to steal something – I heard about this ten minutes ago.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do that,’ Matt insists.

  ‘Actually, he did it at nursery the other day too,’ Allison replies, entirely satisfied with the explanation. ‘I told Guillaume to make sure he chastised him if he did it again.’

  ‘Daddy!’ At that moment Jack comes running towards us and hurls himself into Matt’s arms.

  ‘Can I come in and see Joshua, please?’ Matt asks, squeezing Jack back.

  Allison hesitates. ‘Fine. Come and say hello, but then you need to leave. I don’t want them overexcited before bed.’

  As Matt and I enter the kitchen a flicker of unease crosses Guillaume’s face, but disintegrates instantly. ‘Hello again,’ he says coolly.

  ‘Hello,’ I reply, feeling my heart race.

  ‘Guillaume, there’s been a misunderstanding about what happened in the supermarket,’ Allison begins, matter-of-factly. ‘There is some suggestion that you hit Joshua.’

  Guillaume stands up next to Allison and pulls an expression as if this is as fanciful as something I’d written for Bingbah. ‘He was throwing a tantrum so I held his arm. For his own safety.’ He puts his arm round Allison’s waist affectionately and squeezes her into him.

  ‘That isn’t how I remember it,’ I reply, glancing at Joshua, who’s playing with the dice with such intensity it’s clear he wishes this isn’t happening.

  Allison pulls away from Guillaume and walks up to Joshua, crouching next to him. ‘Sweetheart, when you were in the supermarket . . . you know Guillaume only told you off because you were naughty, don’t you?’

  The little boy glances at Guillaume, clearly terrified.

  ‘When grown-ups are looking after you, if you don’t do as you’re asked, you’re told off,’ she continues. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  Joshua looks down and nods.

  ‘He swore at him,’ Matt says, pure hatred oozing from every pore as he looks at Guillaume.

  ‘No,’ replies Guillaume calmly. ‘You misheard me. I told him off, that’s all.’

  ‘I heard and saw the whole thing clearly,’ I say, as sweat pricks on my brow.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Allison interrupts furiously, before levelling her voice. She takes Joshua’s little hands in hers. ‘Darling, you can tell Mummy.’

  She kisses him on the head and brushes hair away from his face, gazing at him in such a way that it’s obvious Matt is right. She loves these children, more than anything. She looks up at Guillaume and gestures for him to leave the room. He leaves, closing the door behind him.

  Allison sits next to Joshua and pulls him onto her knee. ‘Tell Mummy. Did Guillaume hit you?’

  Joshua swallows hard and looks at the door. He glances briefly at me, then focuses on his hands again.

  ‘No,’ he whispers.

  Chapter 86

  There’s nothing more to do but leave. Only, leaving isn’t that smooth an operation. Allison and Matt’s bickering begins in the hallway, spills onto the drive and continues as he marches to the car, trying to end the conversation before things get out of hand.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at, Matt,’ she hisses, pulling the door behind her. ‘I thought we’d agreed to do this amicably. How is this helping?’

  He tries to stay calm. ‘Allison, Joshua is terrified of Guillaume. That’s why he said it never happened.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘How could he have been terrified when Guillaume was in the other room?’

  ‘What does that matter? He still knows he’s going to have to live with the guy.’

  ‘We’re not living together,’ she corrects him. ‘Not yet.’

  Matt tries to collect himself. ‘Please. Just promise me you won’t leave any of the kids alone with him again. Come on, humour me.’

  She breathes out. ‘Fine. Okay.’

  He hesitates and closes his eyes, clearly trying to think of a diplomatic way of addressing what’s really on his mind. He fails. ‘Look, about moving to France . . .’

  ‘That’s what this is about, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. Well, maybe. Obviously, I’m worried sick about you moving to another country with a bloke who hit my youngest son—’

  ‘We have established that he didn’t do anything other than chastise him!’ she leaps in, speaking through gritted teeth.

  I can’t listen any longer without interrupting. ‘I’m afraid he did.’

  She throws me a filthy look. Then she turns to Matt again. ‘You know me. Those children are my world. I’d never do anything to put them in a situation that endangered or upset them. And I’m totally confident that this isn’t one.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Unfortunately, I’m not.’

  Uttering this sentence is like lighting a touch paper. ‘I know what this is all about, Matt, let’s not keep pretending,’ Allison explodes.

  ‘What is it all about?’

  ‘It’s about you trying to stop me from going to France. It’s about you trying to prove that Guillaume isn’t the man for me. It’s about the reconciliation you’re still determined to get. Matt!’ she says, grabbing both of his arms and glaring in his eyes. ‘It. Isn’t. Going. To. Happen.’

  I look at my shoes. Suddenly, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere else to look. Partly because all three of us know she’s right.

  He doesn’t want her to go to France. He doesn’t want her to be with Guillaume. And, most importantly, this man whom I adore so pointlessly always made clear who he really wants to be with. Allison.

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  I look up as she lets go of his arms.

  ‘Oh, come on, you spent months after I left trying to persuade me to return. All you’ve done is tell me you still love me.’

  Matt replies calmly, ‘Things have changed, Allison. Yes, I wanted you back at first. I never wanted you to tear our family apart – and certainly not because you’d met another man. I was in love with you. There’s no doubt about it . . .’

  The sky swims in and out of my vision as I wish I wasn’t here to hear this. I can’t bear to hear this.

  ‘. . . but I’m not any more. Not even a tiny bit.’

  She takes a step back, as if she’s been punched in the stomach.

  ‘There’s no turning back time – even if that’s what I wanted,’ he says. ‘Which I don’t. All I want now is for you and me to be friends. To bring up our children as best we can.’

  Allison is almost speechless. ‘So . . . so your feelings have done a complete about-turn? You feel nothing for me? Am I supposed to believe that?’

  ‘We had some wonderful times, Allison. But they’re over.’

  ‘You feel nothing?’ she repeats furiously.

  ‘I’m not in love with you, Allison. I’m in love with somebody else.’

  He glances at me briefly, then looks back at her. Allison glares at me.

  ‘I don’t want us to fight,’ he continues.

  She sniffs and crosses her arms. Then she shakes her head. ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘I’m going to go.’ He opens the car door. ‘Just watch out for the kids for me, won’t you?’

  She wrinkles her nose and her eyes fill with tears. ‘Of course I will. You know I will.’

  He gets into the car. And as we drive home through floodlight streets I wonder what it’ll take for my head to stop spinning.

  Chapter 87

  Matt can’t relax when he gets home; he paces up and down the living room as he talks.

  ‘The one consolation is that I think she’ll stay true to her word and not leave him alone with them. I know she’s acting like she believes he’s Walt Disney
and Pa Walton all rolled into one, but hopefully we’ve put some doubt in her mind, enough to keep her alert to any repeats of tonight. At least in the near future.’ He frowns and slumps on his sofa. ‘If this is a long-term thing, though . . . I can’t bear the idea of my children being around him. He sounds like a psychopath.’

  I sit down and put my arm round him, feeling the tension in his shoulders.

  ‘I’ve never liked him,’ he mutters through gritted teeth.

  ‘That’s understandable. He ran off with your wife.’

  He stops and looks at me, his face softening.

  ‘There are some things I should probably say to you, Emma.’

  ‘You don’t have to . . . I understand why you said what you said. You needed to demolish Allison’s argument.’

  He hesitates and looks at his hands, the sinews in his neck tensing as he reaches for mine. ‘It wasn’t to win an argument. I meant it.’

  My heart is hammering so fast it’s almost all I can hear. Almost. Because as the next words slip off his tongue, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘I love you, Emma.’ My heart erupts with a thousand emotions, the sheer joy and pain of the situation nearly unbearable. ‘I’m totally in love with you. Every bone in my body feels it.’ He glances away furiously. ‘And now I’ve got to leave you and move to another bloody country.’

  All rational argument leaves my brain and I squeeze his hands as tears prick my eyes. ‘Matt, I love you too. And . . . sod it.’

  ‘What?’

  I sniff back tears determinedly. ‘I don’t care what people say about long-distance relationships. We can make it work, don’t you think? Or . . . I’ll move to France.’

  He gazes at me, his eyes full of hope. ‘Do you want to move to France?’

  I open my mouth to respond, but words escape me as the implications of the suggestion dawn on me.

  I am a scriptwriter for children’s television. As the interior-design fiasco proved, this is what I do, it is the only thing I’m qualified to do, and it is the only thing I can do.

  Even if I could speak French, there are no jobs for kids’ TV scriptwriters in the deeply rural part of the country where Matt is going. When I Googled the region last week I discovered it’s so far in the middle of nowhere they could’ve set Return of the Jedi there.

  Despite all this, I can think of nothing else to say, except: ‘I want to be with you.’

  His eyes are full of sorrow as he leans in to kiss me, aware as he is of the impracticality of the suggestion. We both know that this isn’t the answer. So what the hell is?

  Chapter 88

  I know you’re supposed to make ‘lifestyle changes’ these days rather than go on crash diets, but I’m too fond of the part of my life that involves Chunky KitKats to relinquish those for long. I’d prefer a short period of intensive, focused dieting to achieve the item on my list that says: ‘Fit perfectly into a size ten dress.’

  Of course, when I told myself to do this six months ago, I probably had in mind that my ‘short period’ would be longer than seven days. Still, I like a challenge. And this is one.

  ‘Have you tried the Fast Slim diet?’ Cally asks on the phone on Saturday morning. ‘It works. You feel ready to collapse from malnutrition and your stomach grumbles like it’s auditioning for The Voice. But it does work.’

  ‘Even I’m capable of sticking to a diet for seven days,’ I reply confidently. Although, as I say it, it strikes me that there’s only one guaranteed way of boosting my will-power enough to tick this one off – and that’s to actually buy a size ten dress for the party.

  That way, unless I stick to my guns – and celery – I will have simply nothing to wear. I know my wardrobe is groaning with the weight of worn-once items, but there’s no way I can stoop to wearing those on my thirtieth.

  I head to the city centre at lunchtime and know ‘the’ dress the second I set eyes on it. It’s in Karen Millen. It’s a size ten. It’s also three times my budget, but given that it’ll be a decade before I have another birthday this big, what does that matter?

  The nice shop assistant shows me into a cubicle and I try on the dress. Which makes the exercise sound simple and straightforward, doesn’t it?

  It’s neither.

  Passers-by would be forgiven for thinking that Houdini was locked in a straitjacket and chains behind the curtain, such is the variety of elaborate contortions needed for me to squeeze into the dress. Pulling up the zip is a quasi-gymnastic experience, leaving me red-faced, sweaty and panting like a hyena that’s been locked in a car on a hot day.

  Finally, I straighten up, tensing my stomach muscles, and fling back the curtain. I make my way to the mirror, an exercise so badly hampered by the tightness of the skirt that anyone watching would think I’d suffered a major trampolining injury and had only recently come out of traction.

  ‘Would you like some heels?’ suggests the assistant, producing a beautiful pair of emerald stilettos.

  I take them from her and look at them. Then I look at my feet. I contemplate the logistics required to make my upper body descend sufficiently low to bring the two into contact – and just thinking about it makes my eyes become bloodshot.

  I lean a degree to one side and lower the shoes as far as I can to the floor, which proves to be not very far. So I drop them, thinking I’ll simply manoeuvre them into place with my toes, then slip them on.

  Sadly, the heel of one lands directly on my little toe, which achieves the same effect as the techniques employed by Vlad the Impaler in the fifteenth century, and leaves me hopping about while wondering whether the toe might regain any feeling before the end of the year.

  I chase the other shoe round in circles, attempting to get it on my foot solely with the aid of my big toe. The mesmerised assistant finally steps in, kneels on the floor and bulldozes it onto my size six foot in a way that makes me think she was taught by an ugly sister.

  ‘It’s . . . definitely you,’ she smiles hesitantly. The ‘definitely’ isn’t as definite as I’d have liked. ‘Have you thought about . . . a twelve?’

  I glare at her – and she instantly realises her error.

  ‘Not because I’m saying you necessarily need it,’ she adds hastily. ‘I thought it could be an option. Some people like a size bigger, just to leave them . . . the option.’

  The option of what – I can’t help but think. Eating loads of cakes?

  ‘I know it’s a bit of a squeeze, but I’m sure it’ll be fine by the party.’

  ‘Oh, you’re on a diet?’ she asks, relieved.

  ‘Not yet, but I will be.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she smiles, returning with me to the cubicle. ‘So when’s your party?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  She freezes. ‘Next Saturday?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply defiantly.

  She opens her mouth, but manages to say nothing, clearly thinking that the only way my wish will be granted is via a violent bout of dysentery.

  Chapter 89

  On Monday afternoon, I’m called into Perry Jnr’s office, where he and his father are looking very worried indeed.

  ‘It’s all over, Emma,’ says Perry Jnr, leaping from his desk to gaze dramatically out of the window.

  ‘I thought we weren’t due to find out until the end of the week?’ I ask.

  ‘We weren’t,’ he replies, his lip wobbling like a school-canteen blancmange. ‘But I’ve had an email.’

  I glance at Perry Snr and suddenly become convinced that this is more than the usual theatricals from his son.

  ‘Come and sit down, Emma,’ he says solemnly. ‘We’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell the rest of the staff. Nothing’s official yet.’

  Perry Jnr sniffs back tears. ‘I emailed Mark McNally – twice – to ask if they were close to making a decision. I know I shouldn’t have done, but not knowing was torture! I couldn’t sleep! My Night Nurse was powerless. I found myself up at three a.m. watching the subtitled version of something called Lo
ose Women,’ he says, with wide-eyed air quotes. ‘This is the sort of hell I’ve been going through, Emma.’

  Perry Snr looks away, clearly believing this move to have been as well-judged as packing an inflatable doll in your honeymoon suitcase.

  Perry Jnr continues, ‘He replied to say that the decision-making process was ongoing, but that an announcement would be made on Friday and he’ll write then officially. He added . . . well, let me read it to you.’

  He opens up his email and begins quoting: ‘“Off the record, however, I can say, in strict confidence, that it was felt that your proposals for the next series on the Bingbahs may not be enough for our requirements.”’

  ‘Oh no,’ I reply under my breath.

  He swallows and looks at his father, then back at me. ‘We’re stuffed, Emma. Comprehensively stuffed.’

  Chapter 90

  Maybe losing the Channel 6 contract was meant to happen.

  Unemployment is the one thing that frees me up to go and live in France with Matt. I have a dream to that effect on Monday night – one in which I move to rural France, certain that I’m doing the right thing.

  In the event, the only gainful employment I can find is as a goatherd, a job that involves skipping over hills dressed as Little Bo Peep, complete with gravity-defying pigtails and freckles the size of Cadbury’s chocolate buttons.

  I wake up at the moment I realise I’ve managed to lose every one of my charges – and acquired several hundred mutant frogs in their place.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Matt whispers into my hair, stroking my arm. ‘You sounded like you were having a funny dream.’

  ‘Was I ribbiting?’

  He laughs gently. ‘I don’t think so.’

  I curl into his chest. ‘Sorry if I woke you.’

  ‘You didn’t. I couldn’t sleep.’

  I kiss him on his lips, glad that the dim light hides the glistening of tears in my eyes. ‘You’ve got a lot on your mind, I’ll bet.’