The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  He hesitates. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  He leans over to pick up his mobile, fumbling with it furiously to find the clock. ‘I hate this phone.’

  ‘When’s yours ready?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  The mere mention of that day sends a wave of misery through me.

  ‘What time will you have to set off?’

  ‘Late afternoon is about the latest I’ll get away with, if I’m to catch the ferry.’

  I suddenly bitterly regret the fact that I persuaded him it was okay to miss my party. I swallow and look at him, overwhelmed with emotion.

  ‘I love you, Matt.’

  His face crumples with pain as he closes his eyes and shakes his head, clutching my hand. ‘We’ve both got to snap out of this, Emma. It’s no good . . .’ He kisses me on the head and sniffs. ‘Are you excited about your birthday?’ he asks, changing the subject.

  ‘I suppose so. Part of me doesn’t feel grown-up enough to be thirty.’

  ‘You’ve done virtually everything on your list, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve knocked off most of it. Although the skydiving eluded me. And the one-night stand.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about those.’

  ‘And . . . there was that other one. About finding love. Finding the man I’m going to marry.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  I rest my head on his shoulder and gaze at the wall, contemplating a hideous but all-too-pertinent question: will it be another thirty years before I feel anything like this about someone again?

  Chapter 91

  Friday is an odd day. The whole company is aware that this is when the Channel 6 announcement is due, but only the two Perrys and I know the verdict already. It feels like waiting for the firing squad when everyone else is poised with party poppers and champagne.

  Giles – who’s blissfully ignorant of what I know – is tense but optimistic, a state it’s so unbearable to be around that I suggest a trip to the pub at lunchtime.

  I rarely do this – daytime drinking and I generally don’t mix. After even just half a pint of lager, I return to my desk unable to focus on the screen and proceed to write scripts that are comparable to some of Hunter S. Thompson’s work when he was riddled with psychedelic drugs (and are inevitably destroyed the following morning).

  We go to a bar round the corner from work, so Giles can buy me a pre-birthday drink. It isn’t entirely the merry experience it sounds.

  ‘God, I hope we get this contract,’ he sighs, glugging Guinness like a man who’s trekked across the Sahara and is so dehydrated he can’t see straight. ‘I don’t know why – I have a good feeling about this.’

  ‘Do you?’ I whimper.

  ‘Yep. And I tell you: I need some good news at the moment.’

  ‘Oh. Why?’

  He shrugs. ‘This situation with Cally has been getting to me lately. And you know me; I never usually look on anything other than the bright side of life.’

  I take a sip of my drink to prevent myself from commenting.

  ‘Maybe this is what being in our thirties is going to be like,’ he proffers. ‘Maybe we just have to get used to this sort of shit.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know . . . relationship woes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s you I feel sorry for,’ he continues generously. ‘I’ve got it bad enough with Cally. You on the other hand are going into your thirties and the one bloke you’ve ever felt anything for is emigrating. You must feel like crap. A great big bag of crap. A great big bag of crap that’s been thrown into a hand blender, turned on high, and liquidised into an even crappier bag of crap. You must wish—’

  ‘—that you’d shut up.’

  He pauses, shocked – and I suddenly feel the need to get some things off my chest.

  ‘You know what, Giles? You’re right. Things haven’t turned out perfectly, for you or me. And they might continue not to for the foreseeable. Maybe we won’t get the Channel 6 contract’ – he frowns defensively – ‘but we’ll find new jobs. I’m sure of it. We’re bloody good at what we do and we’re survivors.’

  He straightens his back, liking this description.

  ‘As for Cally . . . and Matt . . . and love . . .’ I swallow. ‘Things might not have worked out as we’d hoped. But, Giles, you and I need to hold onto this thought: we had something special. We felt something that not everybody feels.’

  He closes his mouth.

  ‘And, okay . . . so Cally isn’t in love with you. Does that mean you wish you’d never met her? If you’d never met her you’d never have felt the pleasure and pain and sheer intensity that love means.’

  He says nothing, just nods.

  ‘I’d gone through thirty years of my life and never felt anything like I’ve felt with Matt. And yes, I’m going to lose him,’ I say, my voice breaking. ‘Frankly, that thought is killing me. But at least I had it. At least I felt it. My thirty-year wait has been worth every minute. Even knowing it’s going to end.’

  He goes to speak, but I interrupt him again. ‘I read a quote once, Giles: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” That’s how I’m going to look at this.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  I squirm. ‘Dr Seuss. It was on someone’s fridge.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to, though . . . does it?’ Giles points out. ‘You could always . . .’

  ‘The goatherder option,’ I mutter, staring through the window.

  ‘What?’ He scrunches up his nose.

  ‘You mean I should go with him, don’t you? To France?’

  He hesitates. ‘How remote is it, exactly?’

  ‘I’m starting to think that maybe I should find out.’

  By the time I’ve walked back to the office I’ve replayed my Little Bo Peep dream so many times, it’s involved six outfit changes – like I’m Lady Gaga on tour – none of which sets off the pigtails any better. As we walk into reception, Perry bursts out of his office like a man looking for two buckets of water after his feet have caught fire.

  ‘Emma! Get in here . . . Quickly!’

  I enter his office and Giles follows, uninvited but unapologetic, as Perry leaps into the seat behind his desk.

  ‘I need you both to tell me I’m not having some sort of . . . trip! I took one too many of my beta blockers on top of three Lemsips this morning and have felt a bit iffy since then.’

  I perch on a chair in front of his desk. ‘Is this about the decision?’

  ‘Yes! It’s an email. The email. From Mark McNally.’

  He starts blathering away – that’s the only term – reading bits and pieces of the email, until Giles and I walk round his desk and read it ourselves.

  ‘Blah, blah,’ Giles begins. ‘“You’ll recall that I mentioned our requirements went above and beyond another series of Bingbah.”’

  We all look at each other. ‘That wasn’t quite what he said,’ Perry says, scrunching up his nose.

  Giles continues: ‘“The team would like you to work up a proposal based on the brief ideas you mentioned about the talking garden implements. In the meantime, I would like to confirm officially that Channel 6 will be commissioning the next series of Bingbah and add how delighted we are to be working with you and your team again.”

  ‘Wait – it goes on,’ Giles says. ‘“May I add that the decision to promote Emma Reiss to Creative Director on the show was inspired – and I have no doubt will ensure that the next series of Bingbah is the best yet.”’

  Perry looks at Giles, then at me. ‘We did it! We plonking well did it!’

  He starts leaping up down – literally – undertaking one grand jeté after another, before almost pirouetting out of the window.

  Giles and I burst into laughter. ‘You did it, Perry. You deserve this. You were great at the pitch.’ I turn to Giles. ‘I told you he was great.’

  Giles is shaking his head, grinning as he leans in to sh
ake our boss’s hand. ‘Perry, mate, well done.’

  Perry shakes his head and pauses, leaping to his computer again. ‘I couldn’t have done it without . . .’ Then he rereads the email, his face contorting with incredulity. ‘They liked my idea.’

  ‘I know.’ I grin, slightly taken aback myself. We’ve spent so long being bombarded with Perry’s crap ideas that when he finally came up with a good one I barely noticed.

  ‘Emma, Giles,’ he says triumphantly, ‘the next series is going to be amazing. Nothing less. And with Emma as creative director, this company is once again going to be right where it should be: at the very top.’

  I laugh nervously. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’d manage it whether I was creative director or not.’

  Perry shakes his head, grinning as he throws his arms round me. ‘We need you, Emma. I need you. Giles needs you. The whole company needs you. I’m going to make you never want to leave.’

  Chapter 92

  It’s my last night with Matt and neither of us can bear spending the evening surrounded by boxes in his flat, so we simply get a takeaway and eat it in my living room, which is even more crowded since I put up the Christmas tree.

  ‘How are the kids feeling about moving?’ I ask.

  ‘Distinctly unhappy, Josh in particular. But glad I’m going with them. At least I can keep an eye on things.’

  ‘Oh bugger!’ I gasp, poised with a forkful of Chinese food. ‘I forgot I’m meant to be on a diet.’

  Matt scrunches up his nose. ‘Why are you on a diet? You’re perfect.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so, you poor deluded fool,’ I reply, rolling my eyes. ‘Unfortunately, the size ten dress I’ve got for tomorrow night indicates the opposite.’

  He puts down his fork and leans over to kiss me on the cheek, before looking down, embarrassed.

  ‘What was that for?’ I ask.

  ‘Being you.’ He shakes his head. ‘God, that’s corny,’ he laughs.

  I swallow and force myself not to well up again. I fail totally. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I don’t want to ruin our last night together.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ he says decisively. ‘I think we should make tonight a little pre-birthday celebration. A celebration of what we had. You and me.’

  I nod, as tears slip down my face. He squeezes my hand, then picks up his wine glass.

  ‘Here’s to you and me, Emma. It was brilliant. Almost.’

  I’m crying now, I just can’t help it, but manage to lift up my glass and ping it against his, before collapsing in a weeping heap.

  ‘Come on, now,’ he whispers, pulling me into him and stroking my head. ‘None of this can be helped, can it?’

  I look up. ‘I could—’ I’m about to tell him again that I’ll come with him, when he puts his finger to my mouth and shakes his head.

  I realise that I need to pull myself together. This is so much worse for him. He’s the one having to move to a different country. He’s the one whose kids will be living with a man who’s a complete bastard. The fact that I’m not going with him is probably neither here nor there.

  It doesn’t stop me thinking one thing, though. One thing that keeps me awake all through the night, long after the clock clicks on midnight and I officially turn thirty.

  This hurts like hell.

  Chapter 93

  Am I supposed to feel different? More grown-up? More responsible? More comfortable in my skin? That’s what the celebs say when they hit thirty, isn’t it? As if skin becomes something to compare with a nice pair of Hush Puppies.

  Still, I understand the sentiment and I’m determined to embrace it. I’m going to be a fabulous thirty-something – a Cameron Diaz-style thirty-something, with glowy skin, young admirers and, courtesy of the diet I’m certain I’ll feel motivated to embark on now I’m older and wiser, a stomach you could dry your laundry on.

  I wake up before Matt and pad to the bathroom, trying to convince myself that – no matter what’s happening in my love life – this is the start of a new era.

  For lots of reasons, I should be optimistic. My job is amazing, something it’s taken a raft of experimentation and trauma to recognise. I have a wonderful family and friends. I’m generally happy, generally fulfilled. And the fact that I’ve done all bar a couple of the things on my list is something I feel good about, thanks very much.

  So I’m not going to be negative today, no matter what my instinct tells me. I’ve done all my crying; I will weep no longer. Instead, I will look on the bright side – at how much I’ve achieved, how much I’ve lived and how much the last six months has changed me for the better.

  Besides, one thing’s for sure – at least I’m not fifteen again.

  I flush the toilet and go to the sink to wash my hands, and as I look in the mirror I am confronted by a zit the size of Mount Olympus.

  Chapter 94

  Matt and I spend the day together and it’s lovely. He finished packing yesterday and although there are loose ends to deal with, the morning is largely for the two of us.

  We eat lunch in Lark Lane then wrap up and stroll to the Palm House, arm in arm, to listen to the carol singers. To passers-by, we’d look like a couple with a lifetime ahead of us. We are anything but.

  We’ve promised to stay in touch, but we both know that the only sensible way to deal with this situation is to get on with our lives. It’s a thought that rips me in two and for that reason I don’t even think about it, not today. I simply enjoy my birthday.

  ‘Would you like your present?’ Matt asks as shards of winter sunlight ripple through the glass.

  ‘Oh . . . I thought you’d forgotten!’ I jest.

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Yes, because you’ve hardly mentioned this birthday since I met you . . .’

  I nudge him in the ribs as he produces an instantly recognisable turquoise bag – from Tiffany’s. I unwrap it carefully, my heart pounding as I gently pull each white ribbon, before I remove the lid and have to stop myself from gasping.

  It’s a bracelet, the most exquisite bracelet I’ve seen in my life – a string of tiny silver beads with a single heart-shaped charm.

  ‘Matt, it’s absolutely beautiful.’

  ‘Really?’ he asks, and I realise he’s been nervous about his choice.

  ‘Seriously. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Well, that’s your first present. The second you can’t open until a month today.’ He removes an envelope from his coat pocket and hands it to me.

  I frown. ‘Why? My birthday’s today.’

  ‘That’s the deal. Promise me.’

  ‘Okay! Fine! You didn’t need to get me two, though.’

  ‘I wanted to.’

  Then he reaches out to hold my face in his hands, and as he leans in to kiss me my mind flashes back to the very first time this happened.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, pulling away. ‘No tears. It’s your birthday.’

  I smile as he stands and takes me by the hand towards the car, to face the inevitable.

  I see the children only briefly to say goodbye, when Allison stops at the house with them to pick up something of Joshua’s that he wants for the ferry. I’m glad she did as I’d bought them all a variety of books and stickers for their journey, a small selection to add to the Christmas presents I’ll be sending along with Matt.

  ‘Are you all excited about your trip?’ I ask as I peer at them in her people carrier.

  Jack frowns and crosses his arms. ‘No. It’s rubbish. I don’t want to go to France. I’m fed up.’

  Which just about sums up the situation, really.

  Matt and I go our separate ways at two thirty, like we’d agreed, before he locks up his flat and drives south to the ferry.

  Our final kiss is on his gravel driveway and it feels like a fitting end: in front of the house that holds so many memories created in such a short space of time.

  I give it everything I’ve got not to cry.

  I want him to remember me as the woman he shared si
x months of fun with, not some puffy-faced wreck.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, as he pulls me into him, a move that leaves me assaulted by thoughts that are so horrific I lose the ability to speak.

  This is the last time I will feel my cheek against his neck.

  The last time his lips will melt into mine.

  The last time I will hear him say my name.

  The last time I will feel those hands in mine.

  The last time . . .

  ‘You’d better go,’ I tell him, unable to bear it.

  He nods. Then he backs away, and I watch him go into the house and close the door behind him. For the last time.

  I look into the sky and feel the strength leave my body.

  I’m thirty years old today.

  It’s the most perfect and the most awful birthday of my life.

  Chapter 95

  Dad offers to give me a lift to the party and arrives while I’m in sweat pants and a hoodie, putting the finishing touches to my make-up.

  I’ve been doing so while carefully avoiding the opportunity to look out of the window to see if Matt’s car has disappeared.

  ‘Happy birthday!’ Dad staggers in carrying such a mountain of presents it looks as though he’s stood at the end of the Generation Game conveyor belt and wrapped everything that came off it.

  He struggles past and I go to shut the door. I hesitate with my hand on the latch, and the temptation to pop out to examine Matt’s drive is too much. The car has gone.

  ‘I might have gone a bit overboard!’ Dad shouts from the living room.

  I shut the door, composing myself, before joining him.

  ‘I’ve kept all the receipts if you want to take anything back,’ he says, thrusting a parcel at me. ‘Although Deb helped me pick some out and she’s snazzier than me, as you know.’

  I tear off the paper until the first gift is revealed.

  ‘It’s a pogo stick,’ Dad announces. ‘They’re making a comeback. You can burn over a thousand calories a minute apparently.’