The Wish List (13 page)

I have a terrible suspicion that between the ears of each and every one of them there is little to speak of, but that doesn’t matter. After half an hour of being dared, goaded and –
finally – accused of being a Grade A wimp if I don’t give this a go, I’ve agreed to take the challenge.

I’m determined that, by the time I’m thirty, nobody will be able to accuse me of being a wimp. An appalling guitar player maybe, but not a wimp.

So I straighten my back and attempt to walk brazenly into the VIP section, confident that if I look the part, nobody will challenge me.

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ asks a security guard.

I open my mouth, trying to think of an answer – but someone gets there first.

‘She’s with me.’

He is, without question, one of the best-known characters in
Hilly Oaks
. I can’t deny it; this guy is famous, close to a household name. And from the way he ushers me past the
security guard and invites me to sit next to him, every indication is that he’d be prepared to snog me.

The problem is, when my fifteen-year-old self signed up to that list, I had someone in mind other than Bruce McNulty – who plays the
father
of one of the main characters.

He’s wearing a toupeé that looks like something six greyhounds would chase round a racetrack. He’s as old as Jagger but doesn’t move like him, not unless the Stones
frontman ever finds himself recovering from a hip replacement. And while none of this would disqualify him from being either famous or a potential snogee, I’m not sure I can go through with
this without bringing up my dinner. I grin, hold up my hand and wave like a maniac, despite him being a foot away.

‘
Hi!
’

‘Enjoy the show?’ He licks his lips and smiles, revealing dental work that outshines the disco ball.

‘Yup! You?’

‘Great.’

I try to think of something else to say, but it’s torturous. I glance at my friends, noting that they’re in fits of hysteria, on the verge of bursting vital organs.

I turn back to my suitor. ‘So . . . you’re in
Hilly Oaks
.’

‘That’s right.’ He knocks back a bright blue cocktail that looks as though it’s been scooped up from the shallow end of a swimming pool. ‘Watch it?’

The answer is no, never have, never will, not unless I lose several billion brain cells in a terrible accident with a disorientated asteroid. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘It appears so. I hate to get straight to the point, but would you like to get outta here?’

My overwhelming desire is to run, run a thousand million miles – but I need to take decisive action.

‘I’ll be honest, I’m not sure. I wouldn’t mind a snog, though.’

He looks at me, undecided about whether he’s shocked to the core or totally dispirited by the fact that I’m only prepared to invest my lips in any amorous action.

I take a fortifying slug of wine, glance at my friends – who are clearly determined not to believe I can do this – and smile. ‘Oh go on, pucker up.’

I lean in, close my eyes and press my lips hard against his before the antiseptic effect of the wine wears off. For the sake of doing things properly, I stick out my tongue – withdrawing
it sharply – then I pull away and straighten up.

‘Thanks very much!’

Then I leap up and march away in the direction of my friends, each of whom is strangely incapable of removing her chin from the floor.

I’m not nearly as hungover as a woman who snogged Bruce McNulty the night before should be.

I’m up far too early the following morning – at ten – after a text arrives from Rob.

I would love to arrange to meet Rob today, but daren’t go ahead – that would be a mixed message too far and I’m already uneasy about the guitar lessons. I groan and scrub my
mouth with the back of my hand for the sixtieth time in twelve hours – the comparison with my ex-boyfriend’s beautiful, luscious lips does Bruce McNulty’s horrible mush no
favours.

An hour later, I’m on my way to meeting Asha for brunch at a café on Allerton Road when Marianne phones – before she heads back to Edinburgh – to tell me about
Dad’s date. Apparently, they had lots in common. She is attractive, funny and loves
Midsomer Murders
as much as he does. Sadly, she’s getting back with her ex-husband and
moving to Weston-super-Mare. I feel suddenly very sorry for him – until Marianne tells me he’s got another date on Wednesday.

I arrive at the café at the same time as Asha and we find a seat by the window.

‘How are you, sweetheart? Have you spoken to Toby again?’

‘Sorry you had to hear all that last night. Things are just . . . tricky.’

‘What did he say?’

‘We’ve had a chat this morning on the phone. He’s mortified about letting me down. It’s a long, convoluted story, but the upshot is, he’s desperately
sorry.’

I frown. She’s nothing like as defiant as she was last night. ‘So you’ve made friends?’ I ask.

She’s unable to meet my eyes. ‘I meant what I said to Toby last night, Emma. When I said it can’t go on.’

‘What does that mean?’ I ask.

She looks at me with an expression that betrays a million emotions: happiness, fear, guilt – and endless others in between.

‘It means he’s finally doing it. He’s going to leave his wife.’

Matt Taylor has proved impossible to evade, even with my sophisticated avoidance tactics – including parking on the far side of the drive, ducking behind the bush by the
porch and only emerging from the passenger door of my car.

I have resisted the temptation to purchase a balaclava, break in via one of the flats at the back of the main house and – an idea brilliant in its simplicity – never, ever return
home.

But this time, carrying enough heavy bags of shopping to tear a ligament in my neck, my guard is down.

‘Emma!’

One handle of the heaviest bag slips from my hand – and out rolls one of my purchases. Not any purchase, mind you. Not the sophisticated, flavoured olive oil. Not the inoffensive
cauliflower or bunch of coriander.

No, this is a two-pack of Odor-Eaters, the one I bought because it was on special offer. And, okay, because my trainers whiff a bit – a fact I’d really rather keep to myself. I
freeze, drawing breath like the turbine on a Dyson, and think fast – before wellying the pack into the bushes with a kick Pele would be proud of.

Only, instead of landing conveniently underneath the foliage, as I’d hoped, the pack wedges itself on top, giving the appearance that it sprouted from there. With no time to stop, I
increase my pace, pumping my legs hard and fast to get to the steps before he catches up. But he’s quicker than me – significantly – even with a small child on his back.

‘Emma,’ he repeats, as I slow down, blowing a sweaty clump of hair off my face. ‘Anyone would think you were avoiding me.’

I look up and he smiles. Only, it’s not a nice smile. Not a ‘lovely weather isn’t it?’ type smile. This is an unashamedly cocky smile, one that says: ‘Yup, you and
I have done the biz . . . walked the walk . . . reached parts no other neighbours have . . .’

‘I can’t imagine why you’d think that,’ I say coolly.

A ripple flickers across his forehead as if interpreting this response, then he turns round, momentarily distracted.

‘Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but Joshua
really
wanted to meet you. He absolutely insisted.’

He crouches down to allow the little boy to jump off his back as I wonder why on earth he’d want to meet me.

‘Are you the Bingbahs’ mummy?’ he asks, giving me my answer.

Matt smiles. ‘Stacey told us you worked on that show. Obviously, in conjunction with your career as an air hostess.’

I cringe. ‘Oh . . . dear.’

He laughs. ‘Well, I personally think
Bingbah
is more impressive. It’s Joshua’s favourite programme.’

‘But I don’t like the squirrels,’ he adds. He’s incredibly sweet-looking, with huge eyes, soft blond hair and an impossibly cute gap between his teeth.

‘No, they’re not nice, are they?’ I agree.

‘Where do they live?’ he asks.

I could respond with: ‘In my head, until a sociopathic heavy-metal fan and I turn them into a television programme.’ But I don’t. ‘Bibblybobbly.’

‘Is that a real place?’ he asks sceptically.

‘Of course. I visit every day.’

His mouth opens wide and he looks at me as if not only am I the luckiest woman in the world, but also he has a million more questions, to which I probably don’t have the answer.

‘Ollie! Jack!’ Matt calls over to the two other boys – but they’re too busy sword-fighting with large bits of foliage. ‘Sorry,’ he says, turning back to me.
‘Those two clearly have far more important matters to attend to.’

‘Oh, that’s okay,’ I reply. ‘I’d hate to interrupt.’

Matt smiles. ‘Well, that’s Ollie, anyway – he’s seven. And Jack, who’s five.’

Joshua suddenly steps forward and holds up his hand like kids used to do when playing cowboys and Indians in the days before political correctness.

‘Erm . . .’ I lower my voice an octave and hold up a hand opposite his. ‘
How!
’

Matt suppresses a laugh. ‘He wants you to give him a high five.’

‘Oh.’ I was obviously being optimistic when I thought it was impossible to feel any more stupid in this man’s presence. ‘I see. Um . . . right.’

I hold up my hand again and he slaps it so hard I wince.

‘Gently,’ Matt says, holding Joshua’s hand. ‘Like Daddy showed you.’

‘Sorry,’ he says sheepishly.

‘So what does the Bingbahs’ mummy do at weekends?’ Matt asks.

‘Oh . . . depends,’ I say casually, feeling myself redden. My discomfort is because the question
sounds
like a prelude to him asking me out, a prospect that makes my heart
race, and not in a good way. I don’t want strange men, neighbours or otherwise, asking me out – even if I have danced the sideways lambada with them. I want
Rob
asking me out.
Even though I wouldn’t say yes. Maybe.

‘Well, what are you doing
next
weekend?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘If you’re free, I’m having a few people over for a house-warming. I’m going to have a barbecue in the communal garden, a bit of bubbly, that sort of thing. You’d
be very welcome. It starts at two.’

‘I’ll see what I’m up to.’ I shrug so awkwardly I nearly dislocate my shoulder. ‘So, Stacey said you’re a photographer. Is it landscape photography you
specialise in?’

‘Mainly, but I do all sorts. My main clients are travel companies – I take photos for brochures and magazines.’

‘Wow.’

‘It’s fun. I’ve worked everywhere from Sydney to South Africa, but these days I get withdrawal symptoms if I’m away from the boys for more than a few days.’

‘You don’t ever go to Norway, do you? I’ve got a budget of about three hundred quid and absolutely need to see the Northern Lights this year – so if you know anywhere
insanely cheap, I’d be grateful for the tip.’

He laughs. ‘I’ve never done Norway, although I’ve photographed the Northern Lights in Iceland a few times. Sadly, I don’t think you’d get out of Liverpool Airport
for three hundred quid.’

I become aware that Joshua looks bored.

‘Joshua, do you like your daddy’s new flat?’ I ask.

‘Hmm . . . not really.’

Matt looks concerned. ‘Why not, sweetheart? We’re going to get your room sorted next weekend so it’ll feel more like home.’

He looks up. ‘I liked it better when we all lived at Mummy’s house.’

Matt bends down and squeezes him tightly. I suddenly feel as if I shouldn’t be here. ‘So did I, Josh. So did I.’

Friday night and another of my friends has hit the Big 3-Oh.

‘Do you feel different?’ I ask Asha.

‘Yes. I feel drunk. Very drunk.’

Asha spent ages deliberating on what to do for her thirtieth and considered everything from paintballing to skiing at one of those indoor slopes. Given that I never mastered a snowplough turn
that didn’t look like I was squatting over a bidet, I’m happy with the alternative – a table for ten in the Malmaison hotel on the waterfront.

I love this place. It’s glitzy and Gothic, with opulent velvets in the bar and a dramatic centrepiece flame in the lobby. It is also the place where Rob and I spent our first naughty
weekend.

Actually, it wasn’t quite a weekend – it was one night, a Sunday, because it was on offer. And it wasn’t that naughty, as both of us were streaming with cold. Snotty snogging
is nothing like as enjoyable as the conventional kind, but we managed to have a good time somehow.

Tonight, our group is all girls: Asha’s neighbours, work colleagues and old school friends – including Cally and me. Some of us have never met before, although it hasn’t taken
long for everyone to mingle, judging by the fine detail with which Cally’s now regaling some of them about chapter forty-six in
Riders
.

‘You’re entitled to be drunk, Asha,’ I decide, shortly after our main courses arrive. ‘It’s not every day a girl says hello to a new decade.’

‘This is true,’ she replies. ‘But in answer to your question, I do feel a little different. I’m looking forward to my thirties. They’re going to be good, I know
it.’

I grin. ‘Why so optimistic, as a matter of interest?’

She thinks for a second. ‘Because I know more than I did when I was twenty – but still not enough to spoil my fun in trying to find out the rest.’

I laugh and it strikes me how much more than me Asha has achieved in her twenties.

‘Besides,’ she continues, ‘all that pressure on women to look eternally youthful doesn’t wash with me. I won’t be sitting here in another decade comparing Botox
with you, Emma – I promise you that.’

‘I’ll have to talk to Cally about it, then.’

She shakes her head, laughing.

‘How long till your birthday now?’ she asks.