The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  I don’t question the plausibility of this statistic.

  I wouldn’t describe the pogo stick as the highlight of my gifts, but it’s fair to say that it’s a mixed bunch. Still, the T-shirt Deb chose is really nice, and I’m sure I’ll find some use for the ‘Slanket’ – a fleece blanket with sleeves – which is so huge I’m convinced it only needs its own bathroom and it could accommodate a family of five.

  ‘You didn’t need to get all this, but thank you, it’s all lovely.’ I give him a massive hug. ‘Right – I’m just going to get my dress on and we can go whenever you’re ready.’

  ‘Er . . . Emma.’

  ‘Yes?’

  He hesitates. ‘There’s something else. I need to pop to the car.’

  He disappears while I put the gifts in my bedroom and I return to find him sitting on the sofa holding a small cardboard box. I say a fleeting prayer that he hasn’t bought me a guinea pig.

  But when I sit next to him I realise that it’s a box full of envelopes. Tons of them.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘They’re for you, sweetheart. They’re from your mother.’

  There’s a letter for every birthday between the age of seven and thirty – and dozens more, apparently, going right up to the age of a hundred, if you can believe that.

  ‘Your mum said that if you made it past then, the last thing you’d need was her wittering to keep you going,’ Dad smiles.

  ‘But . . . why are you giving them to me only now?’

  Dad looks at his hands and shakes his head. ‘Your mum wrote letters for both you and Marianne – there is another set for your sister too. The year after she died, I gave Marianne the first one. Emma, she was devastated – unbelievably upset. I couldn’t bear it. It was all just too traumatic. So I packed away both sets of letters and promised myself that only when the time was right would I get them out again. But, it never did seem right. Until now.’

  ‘Oh Dad.’ I clutch the letters, mesmerised by the handwriting.

  He smiles. ‘It was when we had the chat about how you wished you knew more about her . . . well, it became obvious that I’d made the wrong decision all those years ago. I’m sorry, Emma.’

  I squeeze his hand. ‘I’m just glad you didn’t throw them away.’

  ‘Oh heck, no! And there’s more where they came from!’

  I run my fingers over the faded envelopes. ‘I want to read them all. Every one. Right now.’

  Dad looks at his watch.

  ‘Your party starts in forty-five minutes. Why don’t you start by opening the one she intended for today?’

  I feel my breath quicken as I flick through the envelopes and find the one marked: ‘For Emma, on your thirtieth birthday.’

  My heart is racing as I pick it up, imagining my own mum sealing this envelope with her hands so many years ago.

  I prise it open and slip out the letter. It’s still crisp, a single page of my mother’s beautiful cursive writing, in indigo fountain-pen ink.

  To my darling Emma

  I begin by reading out loud so Dad can hear too, but after a sentence that becomes impossible. I simply want to read. To hear the message my mum sent to me for this very day, today. As I scan the words, the soft tones of her voice come back to me, as if she’s sitting here.

  It’s supposed to be hard for a mother to imagine what her little girl will grow up to be like. But somehow I’m finding it easy. The six-year-old Emma I knew was bright, beautiful, loving, smart, sensible and full of spirit. It’s impossible to imagine a thirty-year-old Emma who isn’t the same.

  Thirty is a funny year, isn’t it? I can imagine exactly what you’re thinking, if you’re anything like me when I said goodbye to my twenties: Oh God . . . I’ve got to grow up now! I’ve got to be responsible and careful and all those things you’re meant to be when you hit this milestone.

  Well, here’s my advice to you, my darling daughter: don’t grow up. Be fearless. I never had the chance to experience my thirties, but I have a feeling about you, Emma, call it intuition. This is your time to shine.

  By now you’ve learned how strong you are, how much you’re capable of. Grasp that knowledge with both hands and run with it. Take risks. Have fun. And – if you’re fortunate enough to have met someone – love him. With every bone in your body, if he’s the right one for you.

  You’ve had these letters every year now, but, given that it’s a special birthday, I thought I ought to mark this one as such, at least in a small way. So please find enclosed my gift to you, darling girl: the thing you loved so much when you were small. I hope it’s been worth the wait.

  Happy birthday, Emma.

  Until next year,

  Your loving Mum

  xxxx

  With trembling hands, I put down the letter and look in the envelope again. At the bottom is a small, folded piece of tissue paper. I take it out and unwrap it, even though I’ve guessed exactly what’s inside. The second I see my mother’s diamond necklace – the one in that picture I love so much – tears spill down my face, and I pick it up and clasp it tightly.

  It’s the best birthday present I could ever have wanted.

  Chapter 96

  After a week of lacklustre dieting, there’s plenty more room in the dress than when I tried it on. By which I mean approximately half a millimetre, possibly less. Still, there’s no way I’m ticking off all those things on my list and failing on this one – technically the most straightforward.

  ‘I think I may be pushing my luck,’ I mumble to Asha, examining my creaking zip. I have come to the conclusion that if it survives the night under such colossal pressure, Karen Millen should consider a side line in the production of mountaineering clips.

  We’re in the Ladies in Leaf before everyone arrives. And I mean everyone. The fifty-odd people I know and love best are coming – university friends, work colleagues, favourite relatives. Which means Perry will be rubbing shoulders with the likes of Aunt Sheila and Uncle Dave, producing a social mix that couldn’t be more eclectic if the staff of Kerrang! gatecrashed the Vogue Christmas party.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ Asha reassures me, topping up her mascara. ‘Besides, the tailored look is in this season, isn’t it?’

  ‘This isn’t tailored, Asha. This risks puncturing my vital organs.’

  She smiles softly, but her eyes betray how sad she really is. Yet, despite Toby’s persistent phone calls, she’s stuck to her guns – and is determined to never see him again.

  ‘How are you doing, sweetheart?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m doing fine. Yesterday was a challenge, I must admit.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She puts her mascara back in her bag and takes a deep breath. ‘Christina is pregnant.’

  ‘Oh Asha.’ I don’t know what else to say.

  ‘Quite an achievement considering that, allegedly, they weren’t having sex, don’t you think? I only know because he emailed me a long letter saying he’d finally got the message. He admitted defeat, and said he understood why I didn’t want anything to do with him any longer. The bit about the new baby was almost a postscript.’

  I sigh and lean in to hug her.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’m thirty years old. I’m a grown woman. Worse things happen, eh?’

  ‘You’ll find someone, Asha, I know you will.’

  She smiles. ‘It’s odd, but part of me feels almost relieved, believe it or not. As well as feeling completely and utterly shit, obviously. But I’ve got my friends. I’ve got my family. And I’ve finally got my self-respect – which is something I haven’t been acquainted with for a long time.’

  ‘I’m proud of you, Asha.’

  ‘The feeling’s mutual. Happy birthday, lovely!’ She smiles again, squeezing my arm. ‘You’d better get out there before your guests arrive.’

  By nine thirty the place is packed. I feel like I’m at my own wedding; the only thing missing is a groom – and, given the events of the last six months, it seems unlike
ly there’ll ever be one.

  ‘Emma. . . . Emma . . . Emma!’

  I glance down and Zachary is standing next to me, tugging my skirt. ‘Here’s your present. It’s a book called Riders.’

  I bend down and take it from him as Cally appears behind him. ‘Sweetheart, it was meant to be a surprise.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I insist. ‘Thank you so much, Zachary.’

  He leans in and gives me a hug, squeezing me as tightly as his podgy arms can manage, before darting away again to ‘fix’ a speaker by thumping it with his plastic hammer.

  I can’t help smiling.

  ‘I really hope you don’t mind me bringing him,’ Cally says. ‘Mum’s away this weekend so I had no childcare.’

  ‘It’s lovely to see him here. Besides, I’ve seen him dance to the Black Eyed Peas and I’ll need someone to deflect attention from Dad. Besides . . . he’s a lot mellower these days, isn’t he?’

  She shrugs. ‘Well, all two-year-olds go through a bit of a wild patch, but yes, he’s changed. As have you,’ she smiles.

  ‘Drinks, ladies.’ Giles appears and presents us both with a gin and tonic, clinking his glass against mine. ‘Happy birthday again, Em. You deserve a fantastic one.’

  ‘Oops . . . Zachary!’ Cally shrieks as he begins scaling sofas. ‘Spiderman was on this afternoon and . . . Zachary!’ She thrusts her drink in my hand with her usual lightning reflexes and goes to rein him in. Except someone beats her to it. Before anybody can argue, Giles is on the other side of the room, coaxing the little boy down. He instantly captures his attention, presumably with one of his jokes about flatulence, underpants or burping – these, he assured me the other day, were the only things anyone who wished to bond with a small male child needed to remember.

  ‘Is this the first time they’ve met?’

  Cally nods. ‘I introduced them today.’

  ‘They seem to be getting on well,’ I point out, as Giles launches into a coin trick that has the little boy enthralled.

  ‘Yeah. Don’t they?’ she grins. ‘They’ve talked a lot about farting, admittedly, but I can’t complain about that. So, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Happy that I’ve ticked off so many things on my list. Happy to be surrounded by most of the people I love. Happy about the letter from my mum,’ I add, touching my necklace.

  ‘But sad about Matt?’

  I nod, feeling my throat tighten. ‘You know, Mum said something in her letter about being fearless. About loving with every bone in my body.’

  She frowns.

  ‘Cally . . . I need to do something about this.’

  There’s an urgency in my voice as adrenalin rushes through me. ‘I need to do something big.’

  She looks alarmed. ‘You don’t mean go after him? To France?’

  The hint of a thought that’s been gathering pace for days explodes in my brain and is suddenly perfectly clear, perfectly lucid. ‘Is that so crazy, when you’re in love with someone? I need to be with this man, Cally. It’s as simple as that.’

  She shakes her head, clearly unconvinced, but before I can argue there’s a tap on my shoulder and it’s James, the animator at work. I’m swept up in a bustle of chatting, drinks, gift-giving. Yet my mind is firmly on one thing. And what’s going on around me only confirms it.

  This should be the night of my life. But something’s missing. Something is on his way to France right this minute. And I should be with him.

  ‘Emma.’

  I recognise the voice before I spin round and set eyes on Rob. He’s wearing a checked shirt, slim jeans and has left a trail of my younger cousins swooning in his path. ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ he says awkwardly.

  I smile, at first leaning in to kiss him, then deciding to turn it into a hug. ‘Rob, it’s so lovely to see you.’

  He smiles shyly. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘I am,’ I shrug. ‘Being thirty isn’t bad, after all.’

  ‘So have you given up on the guitar?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m a natural. What do you think?’

  He laughs. ‘You just didn’t practise enough. I may have a new student, by the way. I spoke to Asha earlier – did you know she’s thinking of taking it up?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he grins. ‘She’s nice, Asha, isn’t she?’

  I smile, as an idea infiltrates my head. ‘She is, Rob. She really is.’

  Marianne has never looked so beautiful – or happy. My sister is dressed in a simple, floral, River Island dress but it’s enough to dazzle everyone in her path – including Brian.

  ‘We meet at last!’ I go to kiss him, but he nearly sweeps me off my feet with a hug instead. I hadn’t appreciated, from our brief online conversations, how tall he is – at least six foot three – with an athletic physique and a smile that is warm, genuine. Unlike the last time I saw him, he’s dressed impeccably and has lost the woolly mammoth look from his chin.

  ‘I know I wasn’t meant to be here tonight – but they agreed to let me have the day off from work and I couldn’t think of a better way of celebrating.’

  ‘You’re celebrating?’ I ask.

  ‘Brian’s script has been bought by a production company,’ Marianne says, clearly bursting with pride.

  ‘You’re kidding me? That’s unbelievable! Do you know how hard that is? Of course you do . . .’

  He laughs. ‘Well, there’s a long way to go before I collect my Bafta, but it’s all going in the right direction.’

  I glance at Marianne, at her beaming smile. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I can see it is.’

  It’s ten thirty when Dad makes his big speech and I’m not nearly drunk enough. It’s not that he says anything awful – although I could have done without the reference to the school nativity play when I was so stage struck I vomited into the manger.

  ‘Many of you know that Emma’s been learning the guitar. She’s been very secretive, but that’s all going to change,’ he beams, as I shift anxiously from foot to foot. ‘She told me ages ago that one of the songs she’s learned – the one she’ll be playing tonight – is one of her favourite songs by the Lone Roses.’

  My throat suddenly feels in urgent need of hydration. And while I vaguely remember my ambition to play something by the Stone Roses tonight, that was during the blissfully ignorant first stage of my lessons – before I worked out that my musical capabilities stretched only to shattering ear drums.

  ‘Come on, birthday girl, don’t be shy!’ grins Dad – as Deb hands him my guitar. I don’t move anything but my head – and that I really move, shaking it from side to side, my eyes wide with blood-curdling terror.

  ‘Emma! Come on now!’

  Cally – one of the select few who’ve heard my guitar playing – winces as if someone’s squirted petrol in her eye.

  But with the rest – the poor, ignorant rest – cheering, I can do little except move reluctantly to the stage and start to negotiate the steps, a manoeuvre which, courtesy of my dress, gives the impression that I’ve been recently mummified.

  ‘Um . . . thanks, Dad,’ I mumble as he hands me the guitar and shoves me in front of the microphone. ‘At least I’m among friends.’

  Everyone laughs riotously, as if I’m joking. Which of course I am. A little. There’s something about being on stage, having an audience, that gives my confidence a slight boost. I mean, I know I’m no Susanna Hoffs but I’m not that bad. Not really.

  ‘Here we are,’ says Dad eagerly, thrusting a stand in front of me, complete with my guitar book.

  It’s open at the song I was determined to play: ‘I Am the Resurrection’. The opening chords are strumming through my mind as the crowd looks on expectantly.

  I close my eyes and breathe in the atmosphere, electricity buzzing through my veins. I suddenly know I don’t need the sheet music – no more than John Squire needed it when he stood before thirty thousand enraptured fans at Spike Island.

  So I step away from it and gaze at the audience, anti
cipating the performance of my life. Then I strum. And I sing. And they recognise the lyrics instantly . . .

  ‘Kum-ba-ya, my lord . . . kum-ba-yaaahhhh. . . .’

  Half an hour later, the dance floor is so packed you’d think it was at the centre of a magnetic field. Giles is teaching Zachary ‘The Time Warp’ as Cally giggles uncontrollably. Brian is swinging Marianne round like he’s trying to start a fire with the soles of her shoes. And Deb is giving Dad detailed instructions on how to master the pelvic thrust without risking trauma to his dodgy hip.

  The party is roaring, everyone is having a blast, and I feel a swell of gratitude to be surrounded by friends and family like these. The cast of people that make up my life; the people I love.

  I untangle myself from Uncle Trevor – assuring him Aunt June would be a better partner for his Dirty Dancing routine – and stand breathlessly at the bar as the room throbs with noise. As music rushes through me, I reach up and touch Mum’s necklace, twirling the tiny diamond between my fingertips. My future – my choice – is the only thing on my mind.

  France is wrong for me in every way. I have no job there. I’ll have severe difficulty in ever getting one, given that I’d be living in the middle of the countryside. None of my friends and family are there. And that’s before we get onto the fact that the only French I can remember from school is: ‘J’ai douze ans’ – which became defunct in 1994. Moving there would be the biggest risk of my life – and, I’ll be honest, it’s one of which I can see only one benefit: Matt’s there. And that’s why it’s so completely right. Being with him is the only thing that counts.

  I put down my drink and rush to the cloakroom to find my phone. Only, as I pull it out and glance at the screen, I freeze.

  There are four missed calls, all made in the last hour. All from Matt. I weave through guests in the main room and head outside to get a signal so that I can phone him.

  It’s freezing, yet I’m red hot, my breath swirling in the darkness as I frantically dial his number. I get an engaged tone the first time, then the second. I’m about to repeat the exercise when footsteps distract me.