The Wish List (12 page)

The first in my inbox is a response to an email I sent in December 2010 asking if it’d be possible to leave early on Friday for a dental appointment.

The second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh take me to the present day, authorising payments for stationery that’s been long recycled, holidays from which my tan faded months ago
– and issuing feedback on scripts that have not just been produced in the interim, but have also been aired, watched by millions, and are now repeated on Boomerang.

The rest consist of a variety of increasingly certifiable suggestions for changes to a script that he’d signed off weeks ago and on which the animators are well advanced. One of them
includes the suggestion that we kill off several Bingbahs in a variety of unpleasant ways – a concept apparently inspired by a leaflet entitled
Telling Your Child About Bereavement
that he read in his GP surgery on Thursday.

When I get home, I feel a weird mixture of emotions. A deep concern that with no alternative openings in the interior-design industry, I’m destined to spend my life in the asylum that is
Little Blue Bus Productions.

A fear that, even if my ‘dream job’ did leap up and bite me on the nose, nothing would ever compare to the incredible buzz that we once experienced every minute of the day, the taste
of which I could clearly recall today.

And a sadness that, with Perry at the helm, those days are unlikely to return.

I see Matt Taylor three times over the course of the week and, on every occasion, I wish I owned one of Harry Potter’s invisibility cloaks.

The first is on the way to work on Tuesday, when he’s walking down the steps of Rita’s flat and gives a little wave I can’t help but interpret as sarcastic. I pretend not to
notice, feigning concentration as I press random buttons on my satnav, despite the journey to work being one I’ve now completed approximately two-and-a-half thousand times.

The second is on Thursday, on my return from a dispiriting guitar lesson at Rob’s during which I tortured myself about him no longer being my boyfriend, and tortured
him
with my
musical skills. Despite my efforts, I am reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I have all the melodic flair of Jedward.

There’s no avoiding Matt this time and he actually says hello. I say hello back. It’s all perfectly civil and grown-up – but I’d still rather it wasn’t
happening.

The third is this morning, Saturday, just after Asha has phoned to say she can’t make it out tonight as Toby is whisking her off to the Lake District for two nights – a big thing
given that they never usually get to spend that sort of time together. I step out of the car and then bump into Stacey, who regales me with every tiny detail she’s uncovered about
Matt’s life, including his impending divorce, three children, super-duper jet-setting job as a top photographer and the fact that he wears Vera Wang aftershave, which she’s identified
with the detection skills of a Customs and Excise sniffer dog.

I say nothing, refusing to be impressed, as his car pulls into the drive and I make my excuses.

I’m inside my flat before the need to engage in conversation arises, and I watch from the kitchen window as Matt lifts out his little boy from the seat in the back of the car and the other
two follow. The two bigger boys are play-fighting, while the little one is giggling as his father tickles him. He finally puts him on the ground, grinning as he follows them all to the garden
behind the house.

‘Do you think it still counts as a one-night stand, given that I keep bumping into this man?’ I ask Cally that night. We’re at a Comedy Club and I’ve
taken the opportunity to put this to her while my sister is at the bar.

‘
If
you slept with him, then . . . why not? It’d be churlish otherwise—’

‘
Yes!
My guitar lessons are going
brilliantly
, thanks!’ I hoot, changing the subject as Marianne returns.

The Comedy Club is in the basement of a trendy converted warehouse in the Albert Dock and, having attended before, this time I’ve chosen the table with absolute precision. On my last visit
– with Rob – I made the error of sitting within picking-on distance of the stage and was subjected to a barrage of repartee that culminated in the compere speculating on what our
children would look like (Gonzo from
The Muppet Show
). Personally, I felt we’d got off lightly, but I could tell that Rob was a little upset. I don’t know why that thought
makes me feel a swell of affection for him, but it does.

‘When do we get to hear your new-found musical genius?’ asks Marianne.

‘My birthday party. I’m still gripping to the probably misplaced hope that my talent will be unleashed when Rob lets me play something more ambitious.’

‘I thought you said you’d progressed to something more complicated?’ Marianne replies.

‘Yes. “Jingle Bells”.’

‘Ahh, Zachary’s favourite.’ Cally grins. ‘Hey – I’ve got to show you this.’

She reaches into her bag for her phone and plays a video shot in her kitchen today – of Zachary singing the Black Eyed Peas’ ‘I Gotta Feeling’. It is undeniably hilarious
and he’s very cute – a description that only ever seems clear to me when he’s at a safe distance. I look up at Marianne and can’t help noticing she looks more subdued than
I’d expect.

I’ve had a feeling for a couple of years that my sister’s getting broody. It happens to me too every so often – though it usually passes, a bit like wind. Marianne has always
been a more obvious candidate for motherhood than me – she’s a natural with stuff like that.

Although, try as I might, I just can’t imagine her new boyfriend as the father of her child.

‘Brian really wanted to come with me this weekend, but his mum’s not been very well,’ she tells me during the interval. We’re in one of those trendy unisex loos,
something I’ve never approved of. It’s fine if you’ve only got to wash your hands and apply lipstick. But it’s very difficult to sustain a healthy degree of mystique when
members of the opposite sex witness you buying Tampax or applying concealer to unsightly zits.

‘Really? Is it anything serious?’ I ask.

‘Oh I don’t think so, but she’s old and he worries about her. He’s such a caring person – honestly, he always puts others before himself. Which is one of the
reasons I love him. That and the fact that he makes me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s great, Emma. He really is.’

I can’t help but smile. There’s no doubt about it, Brian – as unlikely a love interest as he is for Marianne – is clearly making her very happy. I don’t quite
get
it – but I can’t argue with it.

We’re about to head back, when she freezes.

‘Are you okay?’ I frown.

She nods and gestures to the other side of the room, where a figure is drying his hands as women sashay past, desperate for his attention.

And it’s no wonder why.

Johnny is the best-looking man in the place; he radiates charisma without even saying anything.

‘Bloody hell . . . I haven’t seen Johnny for ages. Are you going to go over and say hi?’ I ask.

‘I suppose I’d better.’ But Marianne doesn’t move.

‘Come on, then,’ I insist, dragging her by the arm.

He is overwhelmingly pleased to see us.

‘Emma!’ He sweeps me up in a rib-shattering hug. ‘Wow! You look amazing! How are things?’

‘Um . . . great,’ I reply, slightly taken aback at this deluge of enthusiasm. Johnny and I have always got on well, but you’d think I’d told him I’d won the lottery
and was giving the proceeds to his St Tropez yacht fund. ‘Are you back for the weekend?’

‘Yep! Here to see my folks. I’m home a few times a year still. Just on my way out of here, actually. To think, I might never have seen you!’ He claps his hands gleefully, then
takes a deep breath and turns to my sister. ‘Marianne!’ He laughs as he leans in and kisses her on the cheek, squeezing her into him. She shifts away awkwardly.

‘I need to get to the bar before it shuts for the next act,’ I announce, deciding to leave them to it. ‘It’s my round.’

Then I slip off, leaving my sister – clearly torn between unease and elation – with her ex-boyfriend.

When I return to the table, I’m spilling over with the news. ‘Marianne’s talking to him now,’ I tell Cally.

Her eyes widen. ‘Is he coming over?’

‘No, he’s on his way out. He was a bit drunk. He clearly still adores her, you know.’

She takes a sip of her drink. ‘Hey, did I tell you I’ve started reading
Riders
again?’ I’d rather still discuss my sister’s love life – but am aware
that it’s probably not as interesting to everyone else.

‘Is it as good as it was when we were fifteen?’ I ask.

‘It’s
great
. Can see exactly what we saw in it.’

‘It was called sex, wasn’t it?’ quips Marianne, sitting down again.

‘That was quick. So how was he?’ I ask.

She shrugs and glances at Cally. ‘Completely off his head.’

‘He
was
drunk, no doubt about that,’ I concede.

The next performance is about to start, when someone pulls up a chair next to me.

‘Thought I’d join you after all,’ says Asha sheepishly.

‘What happened to the Lake District?’ I whisper as the lights dim.

She shakes her head, clearly upset. ‘Domestic emergency. It’s not a big deal. It’s just one of those things.’

‘Asha, it
is
a big deal,’ Cally insists. ‘I’m
worried
about you.’

Asha doesn’t know how to respond. And before she can, her phone rings and she picks it up to look at the number.

‘It’s the man himself,’ she tells us, hitting the Answer button. ‘Yes?’

Her voice is slightly cold and it sounds alien coming from Asha. She says nothing, simply listens as he talks, frowning every so often. Eventually, she takes a deep breath.

‘Toby,’ she whispers, her voice heavy with hurt and anger. ‘I understand why you don’t want to leave your family in the lurch, I really do. I understand how painful the
prospect of leaving must be. But I can’t go on like this. I can’t be a
mistress
for the rest of my life. I cannot be a
mistress
, full stop.’

Cally leans over and clutches her hand.

Asha swallows. ‘It’s this simple: if you’re a single man, I will be with you. If you remain married, if you don’t
do
anything . . . then I can’t. I
can’t be a part of this any longer.’

He says something to her and she ends the call with tears in her eyes. ‘I need a drink.’

Asha insists we stay for the final act, determined to take her mind off things. It turns out to be a good decision. The comedienne is brilliant, although whether the male
section of the audience found her graphic description of bikini waxing as enjoyable as us is questionable.

‘Do we always think the last act is the best because we’re usually drunk by then?’ Marianne muses.

‘Absolutely not,’ Cally replies. ‘Hic!’

There’s no doubt that most people in the room are better-lubricated now than at the start of the night. And none more so than those in the VIP section of the bar on the other side of the
room; they’ve been whooping and hollering as if emulating the mating call of migrating swans.

It’s been the source of some consternation over the years that, despite the fact that I ‘work in television,
don’t-cha-know
’, entry to VIP areas of bars and
restaurants eludes me. The only ones I’ve been in are in London, where I was hanging on Marianne’s coat tails.

‘Is there anyone famous over there?’ Asha asks, screwing up her nose.

‘The actors on that soap – you know . . .
Hilly Oaks
,’ Marianne informs her. ‘I went to a couple of events with one or two, back in the day.’

‘Hey, Emma,’ Cally says with a worrying twinkle in her eye, ‘wasn’t one of your challenges to
snog somebody famous
?’

‘I decided against that one,’ I reply, before she gets any ideas.

‘Why, because you’re so brilliant at the guitar?’ Marianne asks.

‘Because the only one I’ve achieved wholeheartedly so far is the—’

‘One-night stand. Yes, I know,’ Marianne says, pursing her lips.

‘Well, I’m determined that the next thing I do will be something worthwhile. Noble. Not
snog somebody famous
,’ I scoff.

‘We’ll twist your arm,’ Cally grins.

‘You won’t.’

‘Bet we will,’ Asha adds, managing a smile for the first time.

I throw her an indignant look. ‘You
won’t
.’

‘Have another drink,’ Cally says, topping up my glass.

I sit up straight. ‘My sister wouldn’t allow it.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ she shrugs, clearly enjoying this. ‘It’s not the same as sleeping with someone, and for a woman who’s done that much . . .’ I
open my mouth in horror – she obviously thinks this is a half-arsed way of proving her original point. ‘How about we agree to a peck on the lips?’

I cross my arms. ‘I am absolutely, one hundred per cent not going to be persuaded.’

‘I thought you wanted to be braver?’ says Cally. ‘Come on, Emma – where’s your backbone?’

I have no idea whether this gentle but persistent winding up is because (a) they’re drunk; (b) it’s entertaining; or (c) both. But there’s only one thing more irritating than
my friends doing it. The fact that it works.

Every cast member of
Hilly Oaks
is gorgeous. You’re not allowed to appear in it if you’ve had even a tickle with the ugly stick. There’s the tall,
dark one with the unbeatable six-pack. The tall, fair one with the to-die-for bum. The tall, redhead with the granite-toned upper arms. And that’s just the women.

The men are perfection personified: six foot two inches (on average) of delectability. Although it isn’t a particularly edgy look – if they were five-and-a-half feet shorter,
they’d be driving round in a pink jeep keeping Barbie company.