“For a failure like me whose recent self-centred mantra seems to be ‘I wish…’ well, The Little Green Book of Wishes is the perfect bedtime read!”
They settled into their respective cubby holes, swiftly typing in their passwords to restart their time recording clocks—every single minute had to be accounted for at Baringer & Co. Deb bent over to rifle through her cluttered bottom drawer, favouring Rebecca with a full display of her impressive cleavage.
“Right, here’s the token. Fifty pounds? Will that be enough? Buy the ‘Wishes’ book and bring it in next Monday. The only condition attached to my generous gift to you is that you agree to me and Nath dipping into its confetti of wishes and not to duck out when we throw them in your direction!
“List making is banned,” Deb went on. “It’ll be just a random selection from each section! There will be no ultimate goal, only to have fun. Each challenge will be marked out of ten. We’ll transform you from a fragile failure to a sparkling success.” Deborah grinned with a wicked glint in her eye.
Ah! What had she done?
CHAPTER SIX
“Come here, Max. What about this set of Horrid Henry books for Ptolemy?” Rebecca suggested as she and Max browsed the brightly coloured, crammed shelves in the local bookshop. “Is Horrid Henry cool? Look, Horrid Henry Meets the Queen, Horrid Henry’s Birthday Party, Horrid Henry Tricks the Tooth Fairy.”
“No, Mum. Ptolemy only wants Thomas the Tank Engine books,” Max said, dragging Rebecca by the hand to where his trained eye had located the books of his idol. “These are the best books ever! Can I have one, too?”
Rebecca crouched down to Max’s eye level and flicked through the book he had selected, watching his cute, eager expression as he agitated at her side.
“Please, Mum, please? Percy’s my absolute favourite. But Henry and Gordon are Ptolemy’s favourite.”
She checked the price on the back of the chosen, must-have book—two pounds ninety nine.
“Yes, love, you can have this one. What about a box set of ten different engine stories for Ptolemy?” Would that be adequate compensation, she wondered, for the party bag containing a coveted video game and a Harrods teddy bear? Twenty five pounds? Should she select some sweets, too? Or was sugar a banned substance?
She popped the set of books under her arm and grabbed Max’s hand. “Can we just have a look at the books for Mummy, please? I’ve seen a special little green book. Can you help me find it with your sharp eyes?”
“Wow, like a treasure hunt, you mean?”
“Yes, come on.”
They weaved their way up and down the bibliographic labyrinths in their quest for the hidden treasure. At last, Rebecca spotted its bright emerald spine. Only one left on the shelf. She experienced an inexplicable stab of relief and then joy.
“The Little Green Book of Wishes. Over here, Max!”
“I’ll help you pull it out, Mum. Oh, there’s no pictures inside. Are you sure this is the right one?” Max crinkled his nose in puzzlement.
“Well, that doesn’t matter, sweetheart. I love it! Look.” She flipped through a few pages for Max. “It’s got lots of suggestions for wishes we can try out together. There’s even a special section called ‘Wishes with Children.’ How about we create our own gooey, coloured play dough and design a model for Granddad’s mantelpiece? Want to have a go at that?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“And what about we have a go at producing these fabulous musical maracas, or this cardboard kaleidoscope and daub them with bright paints?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“It’s a deal. Come on then, let’s pay the lady.”
She produced the book token and handed it to the bored, unresponsive teenager behind the cash desk at Charlie’s, silently launching a prayer of thanks in Deb’s direction for her act of generosity which had produced so much excitement for Max and herself, even to the extent of allowing Max to attend Ptolemy’s much-anticipated pirate party.
“When can we go to the party, Mum? Is it nearly time?”
“Not yet, sweetie. Let’s go grab some orange juice and a cookie. I’ll wrap the Thomas and his Friends books and you can write the birthday card for Ptolemy. We’ll transform you into a pirate in the restroom before we go. Then off we sail to the pirate bash.”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
Oh, for the boundless energy of a four year old! But Max’s enthusiasm rubbed off on Rebecca as they plopped down into a huge, overstuffed leather sofa at the coffee shop next to the bookshop. Dividing an orange juice and a packet of shortbread between them, they poured over the trials and tribulations of Thomas and his right-hand engine, Percy, while Max snuggled into the crock of her arm.
“Don’t forget we’re travelling up to visit Granddad straight after the party, Max. Do you promise to be a good boy in the car? I know it’s a long way, love, but Auntie Claudia’ll be waiting for us when we arrive and you’ll be sharing a room with Harry on the Thomas blow-up bed! He’ll be fast asleep when we arrive, but you can play with him in the morning when you both wake up.”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
Bless him. I love him so much, thought Rebecca, as she slowly turned the colourful pages, her heart swelling at his simple joy as each new picture of Thomas, Percy, Gordon, or Henry was revealed, the anticipation of his friend’s pirate party lighting up his face. Children never saw beyond the immediate. If it was her, she’d be complaining like mad about being strapped in the car for a three-hundred-mile journey that could take six or seven hours depending on such unpredictables as the weather and the traffic.
I desperately want a better life for him, she reproached herself. He needs to spend more quality time with his only parent. Rebecca had noticed he hadn’t once chewed at his sleeve that morning, barely able to contain his happiness and excitement, full of bounce. She hoped his arch-enemy, Stanley, wasn’t going to be at the party to spoil his glow.
I need to get out more too. Deb’s right. Move on with my life, meet new people, if not for my own sake then for Max’s. I’d be happy never to date again, but I realise I have to escape the rut I’ve carved for my non-existent love life. It was so much easier not to bother. But how was she going to meet anyone? When did she have the time to meet anyone? Where would she go to meet someone?
Leaving Max to peruse his book, she located her own choice from the toast-coloured hessian bag. She stroked its cover. Emerald green was her favourite colour—was that a positive sign? Just the title promised so much. It could have been written especially for her, a confirmed wish-list addict. Would its message of ‘ditch the list’ deliver the catalyst for more focus in her life where the obsessive list making had failed? How could the performance of random acts, undertaken purely for themselves, win over a life plan of structure and a clear focus on the achievement of goals? Reluctantly however, she had to admit that her obsession with lists had delivered her nothing but abject failure when she undertook an honest dissection of every area of her current life.
She parted the tightly packed pages at random, the sharp crack of the spine and the fresh new book aroma she loved permeating her nose. It wouldn’t just be a lucky dip barrel for herself, but one Max could be part of, too.
The book was divided into five main sections. In addition to the ‘Wishes with Children’ she’d seen earlier, her eyes were drawn to the section entitled ‘Wishes With Your Partner’. The bold heading was followed by five sub-sections, the first of which caught her scouring eye—‘Meeting’. Perfect choice for every single mother’s lucky dip wish! The narrative included a star rating system to warn of the ease or difficulty in achieving each wish. Three stars! Well, the author had not promised or guaranteed any of the inclusions would be a doddle to fulfill.
She skimmed the page of advice. There is no way I can do any of that. Mmm? No, I’m not confident. No, I never initiate a conversation, especially with strangers, and no way is my body language interesting and receptive. My use of eye contact is usually minimal and I have
no attractive qualities or self-esteem to display to a possible subject. Wow, and this is only three stars out of a possible five! It should be five!
But there was one thing in the advice section she could do, rarely undertaken these days though. ‘Light up your face with a smile!’ Right, this book cost me—sorry, Deb—ten pounds and I owe it to her to give it a go.
“Come on, Max, sweetheart. Let’s get you ready for the party.”
“Yeh!”
Max’s short legs, now encased in the obligatory red and white stripped uniform of any self-respecting, fashion-conscious pirate, took a flying leap from the deep recesses of the leather sofa as Rebecca finished shoving his clothes into her trusty black satchel. She gathered their bags, plastered a smile onto her pale apricot lips, and swerved it towards an unsuspecting bearded guy reading The Daily Telegraph by the exit.
He stared at her for a frozen moment, a fleeting flash of fear darting through his hazel eyes, and then he buried his head back into the quivering travel section.
Well, that didn’t go too well—but early days. Would she have more success with what Deb and Nathan selected for her on Monday?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stuffed full of birthday cake and e-numbers, Max bounded out of the Viceroy’s suite of the Grosvenor Hotel having proclaimed to have had ‘the best day of his whole life.’ He clutched his pirate booty party bag, the size and weight of a small briefcase, to his chest with his plump little hands, excitement and exhaustion battling for victory.
“Can I open it now, Mum?” asked Max, trying to peer inside the sealed bag.
“Just wait ’til we get you to the car, eh? Then you can empty it out and not lose anything or get it wet.” She and Max sprinted into the ceaseless drizzle to where she had abandoned the car to a parking meter at enormous cost.
Securing her dripping russet locks behind her ears, she bundled him into the booster seat in the back of her ancient silver Mégane, taking extra care to ensure he was securely fastened in for the long, tortuous drive to Northumberland. She prayed he wouldn’t throw up after all that party food he’d devoured and the violent shaking when he’d followed the snaking conga around the hotel’s corridors. The thought of the sweet aroma of vomit wafting in the car for the next seven hours didn’t bear thinking about.
She’d trekked to the North East so many times in the last six months that she was acquainted with every bathroom stop between London and Newcastle intimately. She planned to break the journey at Donington Park Services to change Max into his pjs and hoped he’d sleep the rest of the way.
“Are you excited about seeing Auntie Claudia and Uncle Paul? Rowan, Harry, and Daisy will be fast asleep by the time we arrive, but you’ll see them at breakfast.”
“Okay, Mum. I love Harry, he’s so cool!”
Harry was Claudia’s middle child and only son. Now five, he attended the local primary school which Max thought was awesome. Rebecca could already see that he would grow into a very handsome young man, reflecting his father’s Italian heritage—tall, olive-skinned, mischievous dark eyes.
All three of Claudia and Paul’s children were delightful, well-mannered, well-brought up. No angst in their family, just plenty of mutual love and affection, time for fun and games, but with an expectation of respect for each other and the world.
Rebecca loved the time she spent with her oldest friend. She and Max were always made to feel part of their extended family whenever they visited—much more frequently at the moment since her father had had his stroke.
The clouds spilled their contents, inundating the motorways with treacherous driving conditions and slowing their progress on the long journey, causing them to arrive even later than expected. When they did pull up at the cheery crimson door of the huge Victorian stone semi, Claudia was waiting anxiously at the bay window. She rushed out to help with their bags and to carry a snoozing Max upstairs, depositing him on the blow-up sleeping bag on Harry’s action-figure-inspired bedroom floor.
Despite the late hour, Claudia looked fabulous. Regardless of the fact she had three young, lively children and a husband with a stressful career, her long mahogany hair hung sleek and glossy like wet tar, her straight-as-a-die long fringe skimming her kind, chocolate-brown eyes. Even at eleven o’clock at night, her full lips wore a bright scarlet cupid’s bow, a stark contrast to her porcelain skin. She hugged Rebecca warmly, emitting the faint cotton-wool smell of baby talc.
The pair had been best friends since middle school, maintaining their affection even after Rebecca had disappeared to chase the bright lights and toxic fumes of London. Rebecca knew who had made the better choice.
“Leave the bags and come sit in the kitchen. The aga is still warm.”
The fragrant aroma of garlic wafted through the cluttered farmhouse-style kitchen. No sleek, minimalistic lines here. Rebecca’s stomach growled loudly as she perched at the scrubbed pine table, covered in the remaining debris of the family’s supper, and she realised she’d eaten nothing since the corner of chocolate birthday cake she’d shared with Max at the motorway service station.
“I’ll just pop up to the bathroom. I feel so grimy.” She checked on Max, blissfully asleep in his blow-up bed, performing a stranglehold on his beige, curly-furred teddy bear, Ptolemy’s party-bag gift.
Rebecca returned to the kitchen, slumping down at the scrubbed table, as Paul produced a goldfish bowl sized glass of rich red Merlot—her favourite.
“Mmm, I needed that.” She smacked her lips, savouring its velvety smoothness as the nectar slid down her throat, spreading its rejuvenating warmth around her jangling veins. “Thanks for doing this, Claudia, I really appreciate it.”
Claudia dished up a large helping of homemade lasagne, pushing a pink-spotted cream bowl filled with watercress salad toward her.
Claudia’s kitchen was cosy, no other word for it. The room embraced her, cocooned her from all outside anxieties. When the kids were around, it was the hub of the home, the engine house, noisy, chaotic, but still exuded warmth and security. It was Rebecca’s favourite place in the world at that moment in her life and she truly hoped she would be able to recreate this ambience in her own kitchen one day, maybe at Rosemary Cottage.
No, that wasn’t a dream she could allow herself to place on ‘Rebecca’s wish list’.
“Don’t keep thanking us, Becky. You and Max will always be welcome here. That’s what friends are for.” She plonked into the wooden chair opposite Rebecca, sipping her own, smaller glass of Merlot.
“You look exhausted. Eat up and then get some rest. I’ve made up the sofa in the lounge for you. Beware though, Rowan, Harry, and Daisy know you’re coming, so be prepared to be bounced awake!”
Rebecca savoured every mouthful of the delicious pasta—there was never homemade cuisine in the Mathews’ household—and drained the last drop of wine from her vase-like glass. Like Max, she was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
* * *
“Auntie Becky, Auntie Becky. Wake up, wake up. We’ve got a pet rabbit. Come and see him!”
Yanking her fluffy white robe across her body, she was dragged outside to meet Mopsy, the black-and-white dwarf rabbit. Max, still in his pjs, hung back slightly, clinging to Rebecca’s sleeve, his fear of all creatures great and small postponing his introduction to ‘Magpie Mopsy’, as Paul had christened her, in deference to his favourite football team.
Harry, his dark, spiky hair in tufts, having met no comb since his pillow, liberated the squirming rabbit from her hutch, offering her for Max to stroke.
“She won’t bite you,” Rowan reassured a wide-eyed, hesitant Max. At eight, she was a miniature version of Claudia—delicate features, huge chocolate-brown eyes, poker-straight, chestnut hair, a little shorter than Claudia’s mane but with the same full fringe skimming her long eyelashes. Like her mother, she was blessed with a sweet-tempered nature and the uncanny ability to accommodate a nervous disposition, soothe frayed nerves, and encourage confidence.
Rowan
calmly stroked Mopsy’s silky fur, smiling encouragingly at Max. Glancing up nervously at Rebecca, Max reached out the full length of his arm and ran the tip of his index finger down Mopsy’s quivering spine.
“She’s so smooth and soft,” whispered Max, his eyes wide.
Claudia wandered out with two mugs of steaming brew into the toy-strewn, child-friendly garden, complete with cornflower blue and clotted cream wooden playhouse-cum-storage shed, adorned with daisy-sprigged, pastel bunting, flapping in the gentle April breeze. Thank goodness, the rain had taken a day off.
“You get off to visit George, Becky. Paul and I’ll take the kids swimming. Harry can do a whole length in the big pool now, can’t you, pet?” She gently patted down his messy tufts as Max moved to a full hand stroke of Mopsy’s velvety coat. “He wants to show off to Max.”
“Thanks, Claudia. How is Dad?”
“I called in on Friday with Daisy after Mister Jingle Jangle. George loves Daisy. Well, they all do at St Oswald’s Lodge. He’s frail, but his mind’s bright as a button. Try not to worry, Becky, you’re doing all you can. It’s hard being so far away.”
“I should be here for him, Claudia. Should visit every day. After Mum died I only managed once a month, if that—Bradley hated the journey—until he had his stroke before Christmas. With everything that’s happened, I feel so responsible.”
“I know you do.” She laid her arm across Rebecca’s thin shoulders. “But you must stop punishing yourself about the money. It doesn’t help anyone.”
“But it’s my fault he’s in St Oswald’s Lodge. He should be with us, or in the lap of luxury at Morningside Towers, living out his twilight years with an onsite cinema, a swimming pool, and a spa, for goodness sake! Even a chiropodist and a hairdresser visit weekly. I wanted that for him, Claudie. He’s worked hard all his life and he deserves it.”
The Wish List Addiction Page 4