The Bucket List to Mend a Broken Heart

by Anna Bell

  I’m rattling this off whilst I bring up the timetable for Portsmouth to London.

  ‘I think the first train’s at five, isn’t it?’ says Ben.

  ‘Um, four thirty. Gets us in at six thirty. Which means we wouldn’t make the seven, so we’d have to go at eight, which is a bit more expensive and doesn’t get us in until eleven thirty. Is that going to be a bit late to do the sights?’

  ‘Probably. What about if we stayed over in London the night before so we could get the early one?’

  There’s no way I can afford to pay for Ben’s Eurostar ticket and a hotel in London the night before – not with the prices they charge.

  ‘We could stay with my sister Jill and her boyfriend. They live in Islington,’ I say.

  ‘Would they mind?’

  ‘Don’t think so. They usually use mine as a base before they go to the Isle of Wight Festival. Theirs isn’t the world’s biggest flat, but they’ve got a couple of couches that we could crash on.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  I pick up my phone and bang her a quick text to double-check.

  ‘Now for the return we can get the last train at nine o’clock. That gets us back into London at half past ten, so we should make the last train back to Pompey.’

  ‘Great.’

  I sigh. ‘Do you think it’s a bit much? I mean, it’s going to be one hell of a long day.’

  ‘But that’s the fun of the challenge, isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Come on, Abi, it’ll be an easy one to tick off.’

  My phone buzzes and I’ve got my reply from Jill with a yes to letting us crash.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got a bed for the night before. So shall I book it?’

  ‘Do it!’

  I select the trains and hit continue – booking it before I can change my mind.

  ‘Done,’ I say, hitting return on the final screen. The booking reference comes up and a wave of excitement passes over me.

  I know it’s not really a holiday and it’s not going to be relaxing, but anywhere you need to take a passport to get in brings out the inner child in me.

  A little part of me wishes that it was Joseph and me going on the Eurostar together for a romantic trip. I could see us now having a cheeky bottle of champers on the train to start the trip off.

  We’d stroll hand in hand along the Seine and eat our body weight in crêpes. Then he’d lean over and shower me with kisses before getting down on one knee and bringing out a tiny ring box . . . I almost shout I do out loud before I realise that I’m lost in a ridiculous fantasy.

  Thinking of Joseph reminds me that I still need to post the pictures of our cycle ride on Facebook.

  ‘Ben,’ I say, using a voice that my dad always calls my little-girl voice. It’s reserved for when I’m feeling a bit pathetic and need someone to do something for me.

  ‘Abi,’ he says in a low voice.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d get my camera out of my bag, would you?’

  He shakes his head at me. ‘You know you’ll never be able to move if you don’t get up soon.’

  ‘I know, but it hurts so bad.’

  Ben stands up. ‘This is the last time I’m getting up. So is there anything else you need?’

  ‘The lead to plug it into my laptop – it’s in that dresser over there. And maybe some chocolate,’ I say eyeing up the big bag of Maltesers on the side that has appeared, presumably from Ben.

  Ben hands me my camera and crouches down to peer into the dresser.

  ‘Whereabouts is the lead?’

  ‘I don’t know, somewhere in there – have a poke about,’ I say, knowing I should get off my lazy bum and try and help him rather than letting him sort through my mess. It’s where I stash things when I want the place to look tidy, and it’s in desperate need of being cleared out.

  It suddenly dawns on me what I’ve put in there recently. I jump off the sofa, hoping to wrestle him out of the cupboard before he comes across the stash of sexy lingerie that Joseph bought me.

  ‘You’re a secretly messy person, aren’t you?’ says Ben, pulling out a random DVD and an old digital camera.

  ‘I’ll take those,’ I say, peering into the dresser by his side, but as I go to throw them back in, I disturb the pile of underwear and it comes tumbling out on to the floor.

  It’s a jumble of lace and silk and I recoil in horror, but amazingly Ben hasn’t noticed. He’s still focused on his mission of finding the wire. I desperately want to get him out the way without drawing attention to what’s on the floor.

  ‘I’d forgotten how messy it is in there. I’ll have a look instead,’ I say, pushing him out the way a little more forcefully than I’d planned, and he lands on his bum right next to the underwear.

  He lunges for it in a way that scares me, but then I see what he’s spotted.

  ‘Is this the wire we’re looking for?’

  He’s holding the camera wire that is indeed the one we’re after, only it’s hanging through a faux-leather basque.

  I try and snatch it away, but Ben lifts up the basque, and I see it dawn on him what he’s holding.

  ‘Oh, that’s, um, interesting, is that . . .?’ His cheeks are colouring and he’s looking a bit perplexed.

  I take the basque off him and Ben, still clutching the wire, tries to pull it out of the fabric. Only it’s stuck.

  ‘Lift it up a little,’ says Ben.

  I want to shove it under my jumper, but I do as I’m told. I lift the basque in front of my face, hoping it will hide my embarrassment.

  ‘OK, it seems to be stuck here in this hole. What the hell is this hole?’ he says, looking at me with confusion.

  I lift it to the side to see what he’s talking about.

  ‘It’s a peephole,’ I say in almost a whisper.

  ‘A peephole?’

  He’s squinting in a bemused fashion. I get the impression that Ben doesn’t have the same taste in lingerie as Joseph.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Ben tilts his head to one side trying to work out exactly what he’s looking at and quickly tugs at the lead before standing up.

  Oh, dear. I’m going to have to spell it out for him.

  ‘It’s for the . . . um, nipples to show through,’ I say, my voice squeaking.

  His eyes widen and I quickly scrunch the basque up.

  ‘Right . . . um . . .’ he says, coughing and standing up quite abruptly. ‘So, chocolate then.’

  He turns and walks straight into the fridge.

  ‘Who put that there?’

  His cheeks are the reddest I’ve ever seen. They’re practically the same colour as beetroot.

  ‘You all right?’ I ask as Ben drops the bag of Maltesers on the floor. I shove the basque back in the dresser and watch the newly clumsy Ben navigating his way back to the sofa.

  ‘Uh-huh, fine. It’s just I never pictured you as being the kind of girl to wear stuff like that.’

  ‘What, you’ve never imagined me in sexy underwear? I’m heartbroken,’ I say, knowing I’m being mean, but I’ve never seen the usually cool-as-a-cucumber Ben so flustered. It’s actually nice to see him looking uncomfortable for a change.

  ‘Oh, God. That came out really wrong. I just meant that it’s always the ones you’d least expect.’

  ‘How about we open the chocolate,’ I say, standing up. As much as I’m enjoying seeing Ben squirm, I’m very aware that we’re still discussing my underwear.

  ‘What a great idea,’ he says, retrieving the packet off the floor and sitting back down on the sofa. I sit next to him and plug the offending lead into my camera and connect it to my laptop.

  ‘How good are you at blowing?’ asks Ben.

  My mouth falls open, before I hastily snap it shut. Just because I own kinky underwear does not mean to say I’m that kind of girl.

  I turn to him about to give him a piece of my mind when I see that he’s blowing a Malteser a few centimetres in the air.

 
‘How do you do that?’ I say in shock as I try and get my mind out of the gutter. In all my Malteser-eating years I’ve never seen anything like that.

  Ben laughs and the chocolate falls. He catches it on his chin and puts it back on his lips before blowing again.

  I can’t resist trying to do the same, only my Malteser isn’t going anywhere.

  ‘It’s not working,’ I say, keeping my head tilted because now that I’ve moved it, it’s as stiff as a board, just like every other part of my body. That sudden run off the sofa to dive for the underwear did not do me any favours.

  ‘You’ve got to pout more, really push your lips together,’ says Ben, demonstrating again before letting the Malteser drop and swallowing it.

  I better perfect this before Ben eats all of the chocolate.

  I try again, this time pouting like Victoria Beckham and blowing as hard as I can. But nothing. I truly am a failure. I can’t even blow a light chocolate a millimetre into the air. I’d be at this all night if my neck wasn’t so bloody sore.

  Ben blows his next one really high as if to rub in the fact that I’m so inept.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve never done this.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to eat a Malteser normally again now.’

  I yank my neck forward using my hand for support and see that the photos have loaded on the computer.

  ‘Oh, my, I look so rough.’

  There on the screen is me in all my hungover glory. I’ve got bags under my eyes the size of Tote bags and I look as green as the witch in Wicked.

  ‘I think that was just after breakfast,’ says Ben.

  I can see that he’s trying hard not to laugh.

  I squint my way through the next few photos. I’m going to be struggling to find the perfect Facebook photo. One that might make Joseph jealous, rather than thankful that he dodged a bullet dating someone that looked like they were an extra from The Walking Dead.

  ‘What’s that one?’ I say stopping the flicking and going back. There’s a photo that I took. I’m not known for my great photography skills, but I’d been trying to get the famous Needles and Lighthouse into the shot. But what I seem to have captured in the bottom left-hand corner is Ben having a sneaky wee.

  ‘Are you doing what I think you’re doing?’

  ‘Is that some sort of panoramic picture? I thought you were well occupied and would never notice.’

  ‘That’s one for Facebook then,’ I say, rubbing my hands together like it’s some sort of master criminal plan.

  ‘You can’t. I’m friends with my nan on Facebook – she’d never forgive me.’

  ‘You’re friends with your nan?’

  The shock is clearly evident in my voice as Ben gives me a look.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like I’m eighteen any more and getting wasted all the time. There’s not a lot to hide in my life.’

  I would never even entertain the thought of being Facebook friends with my nan. Even if she did know what the Internet was. I won’t even accept my mum’s Facebook request.

  ‘It’s not like I have anything to hide,’ I say, thinking my life is pretty dull in comparison to some of my Facebook friends. ‘But I feel like it’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed.’

  Ben shrugs. ‘Most of my posts are bike-related so it probably sends my nan off to sleep anyway.’

  ‘And everyone else,’ I say laughing.

  ‘Oi. I thought I’d converted you to the lycra life.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound dodgy in the slightest.’

  ‘We all know you’ve got a dirty mind now that I’ve seen your taste in underwear.’

  I cringe. He’s never going to let me live that down. First Sian, now Ben. Perhaps I should get rid of that underwear, or at least hide it better.

  ‘You have converted me in the sense that the bike might not live out the rest of its life chained to my balcony railings. I may actually use it again.’

  ‘Then my work here is done, Daniel-San.’

  ‘And without any need to use wax.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t got round to talking about how cyclists wax their leg hair off,’ says Ben, totally deadpan. ‘I can’t believe you got my Karate Kid reference.’

  ‘I can’t believe you just told me you wax your legs,’ I say, wrinkling my nose. ‘How do women cope with that? The pressure for the woman to keep her legs stubble-free, you wouldn’t want your man with less stubble than you.’

  Ben lifts up his leg and rolls up his trouser leg.

  ‘Look, hair. Gone are my racing days when I used to remove it.’

  For some reason I stroke his leg hair as if to check that it’s real, before I realise that that’s totally weird. There have been a lot of boundaries overstepped tonight.

  I quickly remove my hand and go back to the photos.

  ‘What about this one?’ I say, changing the subject as quickly as possible so that we don’t dwell on the stroking incident.

  ‘What for?’ asks Ben.

  ‘For the Facebook post. I thought perhaps this one, and maybe the one of the Needles – the one that doesn’t feature the peeing – and one of me at the finish.’

  ‘They’re as good as any of them.’

  I login to Facebook and I see my notification tab is red. I click on it and my stomach instantly flips. One new notification from Joseph Small. My fingers begin to shake as I double click on it. The photo that Sian took last night of Marcus, Bianca and me at the festival comes up and there is a grand total of fifteen likes. I hover over the list of names, and there amongst them is Joseph’s.

  He’s seen the photo.

  He’s liked the photo.

  Bloody hell.

  My heart’s racing and I’m having difficulty breathing. I try and tell myself that it’s just a like. Yesterday I liked that my old school friend Becky had granola and berries for breakfast. It doesn’t mean anything.

  It’s not a declaration of love, but I can’t help the corners of my mouth creeping into a smile. It’s confirmation that he’s actually looked at one of my photos. He’s seen me out socialising.

  And, unlike today’s photos, I don’t look too bad. I’m ignoring my glassy-eyed stare and smudged mascara, but my cleavage looks amazing – that’s all he’ll notice, right? It’s screaming at him to look at what he’s missing. And he’s bloody seen it! And liked it!

  ‘Everything OK?’ asks Ben.

  I’d forgotten he was here. I’m so lost in my Facebook bubble where Joseph liking the photo is as good as a step away from him proposing marriage.

  ‘More than OK. Look, Joseph liked my photo,’ I say, grinning like I’ve got a coat hanger jammed down my throat.

  ‘That’s, um, great,’ says Ben.

  He doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s great. He clearly doesn’t understand the significance of a like and its relation to the impending rekindling of romance. Or maybe his cynical heart is prohibiting excitement.

  I get to work uploading the photos from today’s trip, hoping that now I’m on Joseph’s radar he’ll be wowed by my cycling feat.

  The music of the Antiques Roadshow fills the air and Ben stands up.

  ‘Right, then, I think I’m going to head off.’

  ‘What, now?’ I say, barely taking my eyes off the screen.

  ‘Yep. I’m beat.’

  ‘Oh, really? I thought we were going to watch The Blacklist?’

  ‘Yeah, but I think the early start has caught up with me. Another time,’ he says, slipping his backpack over his shoulder and unlocking my back door.

  He’s practically out of the door before I can put my laptop down and prise myself off the sofa.

  ‘Thanks for everything, Ben,’ I say, leaning on the door for balance as he walks down the stairs into my garden.

  ‘That’s OK, I had a great time,’ he says, without looking back.

  He unlocks his bike and I can’t help thinking that something’s changed. Where’s the easy-going Malteser-blowing Ben
that was here half an hour ago?

  ‘See you later,’ he says, wheeling his bike out of the gate.

  ‘See you,’ I repeat, waving to him as he leaves. He’s already swung his leg over his bike and ridden out into the alley.

  I hear a ping and know instantly it’s a Facebook notification. I manage to forget about my aching limbs and rush over to the laptop as quickly as they’ll allow me.

  It’s a comment from Sian.

  ‘I can’t believe you did that after last night! Well done you! I still feel rough.’

  I bet she does – she had loads more cider than me.

  I wonder if Joseph’s seen my new photos yet. He’s not on Facebook 24/7 like Sian seems to be, but you never know. I could have posted at the exact same time that he was on.

  A ripple of excitement passes over me. He could be looking at the photos right now. I put the laptop back on the table and let my imagination run wild.

  I might not be able to move properly, but this plan to get Joseph back just might be working after all. And right now that kernel of hope is enough to make me want to finish the rest of the list as quickly as I can.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Three weeks and three days until D-Day. Three days since Joseph liked my photo at the festival, but no more likes or comments since.

  ‘I think they’re going to look fantastic,’ says Linz as we walk back into the office.

  I’m designing exhibition panels for a local museum and we’ve just come back from a client meeting there. I’d taken Linz along at Rick’s insistence, but for once I didn’t mind. Unlike our time at the printer, she stayed in the background and seemed to actually understand her role as a shadow.

  ‘Thanks. I’m really pleased that they liked the designs.’

  ‘How could they not,’ says Linz, trowelling it on thick.

  It’s a bit unnerving because she’s done nothing but compliment me all day. She hasn’t tried to suggest any improvements or cast her young, fresh eye on anything, and it feels a little unnatural.

  It pains me to say, but I’m actually finding her quite likeable today.

  ‘Hi, ladies,’ says Fran, as I get back to my desk.

  ‘Hey, Fran, all right?’ I say.